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“So what if you’ve become a Buddha? That circlet has always stayed on your head.”
The monkey chuckles low and glares at Erlang, looking every bit the wild animal he will always be.
“Keep your dog eyes wide open. I’ll rip it off for you to see!”
Erlang doesn’t believe him. He’s heard many boastful claims made in the heat of battle, none ever followed through. This one won’t be an exception. And time only proves him right.
He remembers it well, the day Wukong dies, there is not a single gray cloud to speak of. The sun shines bright, glowing through gaps of the sky. The Heavens celebrate the death of a monster.
“One of the simians on that demon mountain has grown a striking resemblance to that heretic!”
“What heretic?” Erlang laughs. “Wukong?”
“Who else?” Nezha shudders. “My father told me that some gossip within the court speaks of forming a contingency plan. I hope for his sake the plan is never needed, lest he loses the rest of his hair from stress!”
Erlang hums. “How has your father been lately, anyhow?”
“We’re doing better now, he doesn’t have to use the pagoda as much.”
Erlang doesn’t point out how the pagoda doesn’t have to be used at all anymore, how there is a deliberate choice being made in all this. He’s tired of preaching it, and he knows Nezha is tired of hearing it.
It’s hard to teach a canary to fly from a cage it was born in.
“Sun Wukong’s doppelgänger died. The warrior the court sent to follow him witnessed it. I guess it was nothing to worry about after all.”
Erlang sighs, “I guess so.”
“Any new happenings?”
Nezha shrugs. “Another look alike.”
“Again? This must be… what, the fifth time?”
“Within just a decade,” Nezha nods. “Not that they do much, but the whole court holds their breath whenever they appear!”
Erlang chuckles into his cup of tea. “Silly bastards.”
“Though they’re starting to lower their guards now. It seems the look-alikes don’t do much other than mess around a bit in the mortal realm and die an anticlimactic death.”
“Curious.”
“Say, other than me, are there any of the Celestial Court you’d meet with?”
“No.”
“No wonder! This prolonged absence is unusual, even for you,” Nezha eyes him, scrutinizing. “They’re getting antsy. You know you’re on a watchlist, right?”
“Watch all they want, I have nothing to hide,” Erlang lies naturally, tapping the table so Nezha doesn’t overfill his cup.
“You must visit the Heavenly Palace occasionally, ease their hearts, lest trouble comes knocking on your doors—wherever you live now.”
“Rest easy. If I sincerely wished to not be found, they’d never find me,” Erlang says, sipping his tea.
Nezha slaps the cup out of his hand.
It shatters and explodes into ceramic pieces, tea leaves drifting in a blood pool of fragrance on the floor.
“What are you—”
“I knew it! You’re not Erlang, at least not the real one.”
Erlang splutters. “What nonsense! On what basis do you make these claims?”
“Your Eye of Heaven is fake! You didn’t see the glamor I casted on your drink. This isn’t tea, it’s actually piss!”
Erlang hacks into his sleeve, cursing between coughs. “You foul brat, have you considered that I didn’t check my drink because I trust you?”
Nezha howls with laughter, rolling on the ground. Both of them try their best to catch their breaths for different reasons.
“I was only joking,” Nezha wipes a stray tear from his reddened cheeks. “It’s real tea. But you confirmed my suspicions by not revealing my lie with your third eye.” He dodges a cushion thrown his way. “You seem like Erlang at least, though you must be no more than a clone, for your Eye of Heaven cannot be wielded.”
Erlang wipes his lips. “You played me!”
“And you lied to me. How long have you been meeting me with a clone?”
Erlang rubs his throat, voice a little raspy from the coughing fit. “Though I withheld the truth from you, know that my genuine intentions to meet with you isn’t a lie. I meant no disrespect, I’m just unable to step away from where I’m situated.”
Nezha pouts. “Are you even living on Mount Mei anymore?”
Erlang shows a small grin. “Of course. Where else could I be?”
Neither dead nor truly alive, a dreamer left behind,
One step missed, cost half a lifetime.
— Non-Void Journal
Nezha is right. After so many decades of ignoring small tasks, Erlang finally gives and sends a clone out of the mural painting, afraid the court would investigate his absence lest he shows his face occasionally.
This happens to be one of those occasionals. Perhaps this is fate. Erlang first meets him in spring.
He hears of a disturbance coming through this marsh and is here to investigate. Whatever the disturbance is, it’s been depleting the local guaias in, 'yaoguai'. demon. 'yao' or 'guai' on its own is referring to that population. This should be a good thing, but the court is ever so paranoid. Anything unknown, uncontrollable, is a threat, no matter its intent.
He’s walking on a terribly misty path when he’s suddenly attacked, his only warning being the sharp sound of slicing air. It’s the only warning he needs as he sidesteps the hit coming from behind him.
A crude wooden staff slams into the ground next to him. Erlang spares it one amused glance before unsheathing his spear.
He blocks the next swift hit, expecting to shatter the wood into splinters but he only manages to push it back.
The assailant jumps back, twisting impressively nimbly for their build. The mist is blown away by their motions. It parts a blurry tunnel between them, like wiping a streak across a fogged up mirror.
Erlang blinks many times before he finally convinces himself he’s not seeing a mirage. The mist brushes the monkey yao’s face, molding a rather ghostly impression. It’s terrible just how similar they look. Erlang’s breath quickens, as if their brief confrontation was enough to tire him.
The Destined One stares back, seeming somewhat bored but unblinking. Oh, what striking resemblance. Although the different attitude he conducts himself with makes him rather uncanny.
“I’ve never seen one in person before,” Erlang says in awe. “Theyreferring to erlang's other sworn brothers, who show up throughout the game to aid the destined one at erlang's request were right, you’re almost identical.”
The Destined One is silent.
“What’s your name?” Erlang asks, more so for conversation than anything else. He won’t commit this one’s name to memory before a new one replaces him, he’s sure.
Yet the Destined One remains silent.
“Mute?”
…
Erlang scoffs. “Well, it’s a nice change of pace, I suppose. Come here, nameless one,” he beckons him closer, and to his further amusement, the monkey listens.
“Fool,” he delivers a slap to the side of his head. “You’ve ought to have more alertness than that if you want to make it far.”
The Destined One responds instantly, twisting out his staff with the hand that is hidden behind him and smacks Erlang’s spear to the ground.
Feeling only a little embarrassed for not foreseeing this, the spear flies back into Erlang’s hand as he gives a curt nod. “Not bad. Hopefully you’ll last a bit longer than your predecessors.”
The Destined One doesn’t entertain him with a reaction. Just swings his staff back behind himself and continues down the road, concluding that Erlang holds no malicious intent and serves no threat.
Erlang rubs his spear in contemplation. What a change of pace indeed.
He spends more time as his clone than he originally planned, spying on the Destined One and indulging his curiosities. Erlang doesn’t learn much for his efforts, since there’s not much for him to learn.
The Destined One is not quiet. Quiet suggests that there exists something in the first place.
He’s more like the absence of sound, absence of anything alive or capable of breath. The only noise he makes mimics animalistic grunts and chirps, but other than, he is silent.
Erlang’s third eye widens slightly before blinking and going lax again, trying to activate on instinct and accomplishing nothing. Even without the Eye of Heaven, he can tell this monkey is empty like a husk siphoned of its soul, moving on instincts.
He looks like Sun Wukong, walks like Sun Wukong, fights like Sun Wukong, but he is not.
He breathes differently, steady and controlled. He stands differently, not reserved but not obnoxiously prideful like that infuriating heretic .
Most of all, he looks at Erlang differently. His eyes show no recognition when they meet his. There’s no excitement, frustration, hatred, or ecstasy in his gaze. Does he know he’s looking at the man who killed his king?
An ugly beast snarls in Erlang’s stomach. He hopes he knows, or that he’ll find out. He hopes he’ll hate him for it, even, anything to vanquish that unfamiliar apathy in his eyes. It’s wrong, uncanny.
Sun Wukong was many things—terrible things and wonderful things—but he wasn’t apathy. Looking at the Destined One doesn’t feel like looking at a real person. He feels more like a mocking impersonation borne of the dark recesses of Erlang’s mind, where nothing but Wukong’s shell remains intact.
Long unchallenged, I stood alone. Now a rival emerges, my equal shown.
— Tri-Point Double-Edged Spear
The first time he meets Wukong is on the battlefield.
The memory of those days sears a deep grave in his mind, like a vulgar secret. He barely spoke with him for the entire ordeal, but Erlang feels that he understands him more deeply than anyone else.
They didn’t speak with their tongues, no, but the swings of their weapons, eyes piercing, their bodies twisting around each other, exchanging blows after blows after blows, matching their breathing, their hearts beating in tandem to the rhythm of war drums—that was a language in and of itself. Nobody has ever spoken his language before.
Erlang remembers it all, every second of it. He replays their fight in his head over and over like rubbing well worn prayer beads, the memory of it smooths and softens until all he recalls of the day is Sun Wukong’s body under his spear and the exhilarating pounding in his chest. He forgets the anger and the fatigue and the post-incident incident. He’s reminded the second time they meet.
Which is centuries later.
Time moves differently for different people. His immortal lifespan taught him this, yet Erlang still can’t help but feel surprised when he’s being looked at with such intense anger and bitterness that only fresh hurt can rouse. Perhaps Sun Wukong has been rolling the memories of those days in his head over and over, too, just different parts of it. Like dragging a knife across newly formed scabs.
“You bastard! How dare you show your face to me after what you’ve done? Do you’ve any idea how much grief I held within me while I spent days digging graves, after your men razed my home to charcoal?”
Erlang allows the sword to stay pointed at his neck, he knows he can redirect it if needed. “I had little choice. Anyone else the court sent would’ve done worse. You wouldn’t even have a mountain to return to if I didn’t receive the task.”
“Am I supposed to thank you?”
Erlang lifts an eyebrow. Yes. Maybe. Ungrateful wretch.
He keeps these thoughts unspoken and sighs. “No, I ask for nothing of the sort.”
The Howling Celestial Dog is still quietly snarling, spit dripping, but sticks close to him, unmoving until further instruction. Erlang shushes it, “Down, Xiaotianno this isnt mk from lego monkie kid. it just happens to be the same pinyin as the howling celestial dog's title in chinese.” And it sits on its haunches obediently.
Sun Wukong narrows his eyes at the dog, and then at him, before dropping the sword. “You’re lucky I’m abstaining from murder. You’re not worth a lecture or punishment from my Master.”
Erlang rubs his neck, where the bloody nick is rapidly sealing over with new skin.
He starts slowly, “My mother was killed by the Celestial Court.”
Wukong raises an eyebrow. “And now you’re part of the same court of which that killed her.”
Erlang frowns. “I mean that I understand your pain, which is why I took the task and spared as many as I was able. Not out of pity, only empathy.”
The hostility radiating from Wukong is scalding still, but a clear line of tension through his body shows mindful restraint and consideration.
“Leave for today, I’ve yet to recover from my anger.”
“Would your murderous rage abate for seeing me another day, then?”
Wukong spares a strained laugh. “We’ll see. Only fate can decide. But don’t return to my mountain unless I say so, your presence is sorely unwelcomed here.”
The third time they meet is much sooner than the gap between the first two, and so is the fourth, and every subsequent time after that. Sun Wukong never formally forgives him for the massacre, now that Erlang thinks about it, but their friendship develops unimpeded and grows around it. It is layers upon layers of unspoken truths they live over top of, like new lands formed from centuries of wind and flood.
“…All those golden Buddhas never brought them any favor. It is plain there is no such thing as karma.”
— Yellow-Robed Squire Journal
“Yaba.”哑巴=yaba, meaning 'mute' in chinese
The Destined One doesn’t budge. Shows no displeasure, annoyance or offense at the nickname. Nothing. Like a corpse. The dry air tastes like sand in Erlang’s mouth, making his lips twist in distaste.
“Yaba, stop playing dead.”
Finally, the Destined One shifts, pulling out an arrow lodged into his robes. A foul smell wafts from it. The red drip of liquid iron coating its point tells Erlang it broke skin, and he leans further down to try and catch sight of the wound. His shadow stretches over the lax body leaning on a rock, shielding him from the blistering desert sun.
In the past, he wouldn’t even blink at Sun Wukong’s head rolling to the floor—knowing he’d be up and hopping around within seconds like a drunk acrobatic dancer—let alone at a petty arrow in his chest. But it's not the past, and this isn’t Wukong. So he leans in close but not touching, just close enough to see an almost pin-prick sized bloody concave through the ripped hole of his clothes.
It seems like something a yaoguai can survive—and that’s the extent of care Erlang spares before he leans back and clicks his tongue.
“Yaba, your feeble efforts can only take you so far. How will you ever survive your journey like this? Here you are, struggling with just one arrow in your chest. There are plenty more waiting for you where that came from.”
He’s turning to leave, back to the mural painting to replenish his energy, when the Destined One grabs the hem of his trousers. He gestures to himself, chapped lips opening and closing, tongueless mouth struggling with words that won’t sound.
Erlang scans him with his eyes and picks up the arrow to inspect. The foul smell. The monkey’s exhaustion. It clicks in his head.
“Poison. You can’t even withstand this little amount of poison,” he snaps the blasted thing and tosses it to the side. “No wonder we keep running through Destined Ones. Even my dog could endure better than you. How could any of you stand up to a fraction of Sun Wukong’s legacy?”
He keeps tugging at Erlang’s clothes, somehow pulling him closer despite the relaxant and whatever else running through his bloodstream.
“You want me to help?”
No reply, not even a nod or blink. The Destined One’s dazed eyes are looking past him, at the horizon, but his hands keep tugging. Insistent and crawling ever higher.
Erlang considers this. How could any of them prove they’re worthy if he has to swoop in and save them? Are they all this weak, or does this one just have bad luck? Erlang can always stick around and wait for the next one to find out.
“What does it matter to me if you die? Another will replace you soon enough.”
A more violent tug pulls at his waist. He looks down to see his water gourd missing from his belt, and half of it is gone by the time he looks up. The Destined One has ripped a hole in his robes, leaning to the side and letting fresh water run through his wound, washing away any leftover poison on the surface. He drinks the rest, then unhooks his own gourd and tosses both back to him.
They’re empty. Erlang’s eye twitches and he mutters, “I’m not your waterboy.” But he starts looking for the closest stream anyways—only because the audacity reminds him of Wukong, and he’s feeling a little sentimental today.
He returns to find the Destined One lying in the same spot, heartbeats evened out. He rests just enough to catch his breath, then stands and marches on. One destination, one goal, one purpose in mind. Erlang follows disguised as a bird, deciding to delay his clone’s return once again.
Erlang groans, “Will you just shut up?”
The Destined One gives him a blank look.
“I know I’ve said you’re off puttingly quiet, but that wasn’t an invitation for you to increase these obnoxiously sharp,” he gestures, “Sharp noises! You’re noisy, that’s what you are.”
The monkey’s eyebrows furrow and Erlang almost laughs. He’s more emotive than he thought. The Destined One gives him a glare before looking away, focusing back on the fire. He is noticeably much more quiet, no longer letting little chirps and shrieks escape when oil bubbles jump too close. He fumbles with a snapped branch, trying to mix the thickening medicinal brew with little success.
Erlang sighs. “Give me that.” He walks over and tries to take the makeshift spatula. But the Destined One’s grip doesn’t lighten.
Erlang clicks his tongue. “I said hand it over.”
But he gets no reaction. In fact, the monkey is so unmoved that his eyes are practically boring holes through the furnace. His forehead is wrinkled, his jaw set. There is an obvious grouch to his expression, and Erlang’s eyes widen in surprise.
“Are you cross with me?”
The Destined One’s hand freezes for a second and continues stirring almost immediately, but the stilted movements says enough. Erlang does laugh this time.
“I guess you’re not just some empty thing after all.”
He leans down so the Destined One can’t avoid his eyes. “So which is it that upset you? Calling you noisy, or calling you mute?”
The Destined One doesn’t react at all, looking all downcast and pitiful. Erlang frowns. A bit of guilt inks its way into his heart.
“I’m sorry,” He speaks gently, like a troubled man coaxing his ill-tempered wife. Except he’s not just any man and there’s no wife to speak of. “Here, let me help you?”
The Destined One huffs but hands over the branch. Erlang takes it and tries to summon his inhuman strength to whip the medicine, only for the branch to snap and tumble into the brew. He quickly loses his composure and starts cussing. “Just what in hell have you added to this thing? It’s thicker than stone!”
The Destined One laughs shrill and sharp, but Erlang doesn’t chide him for it.
“Shall we sip blood, or tea?”
— Whiteclad Noble Journal
Back then, Erlang will try to catch Wukong’s attention with the grace of an infant’s temper tantrum. His heartbeat picks up, his hands start shaking whenever he catches sight of him in passing, as if his body remembers and is preparing itself for a fight. A real fight. Something to make him feel alive again—to remember just a little bit what it might’ve been like to be mortal and fearful.
“Look what the dog dragged in.”
The Great Sage scoffs, instantly rising to the bait like a rabbit to thorned brambles. “So says the dog.”
The celestial attendant leading him nervously glances between Wukong and the approaching figures, stepping back when Erlang’s group reaches them.
“Watch it, simian,” he slaps his back. “The Heavenly Court demands much more orderly conduct than what you’re used to at home.”
“You’re funny, brotherno not biological brothers silly! sworn brothers. hopefully you know what that entails but in case you dont, check google,” Wukong shoves his hand away with a bit too much aggression to be purely lighthearted. “What does the Heavenly Court have to do with me?”
The Howling Celestial Dog growls and Erlang covers its eyes, pushing it back by its snarling face. He gives a thoughtful hum, as if remembering something, as if he didn’t send his brothers to spy on the end of the pilgrims’ journey for the better half of last month. “Right. What is it now–the Victory Fighter Buddha?”
Wukong chuckles and gives another shove at his shoulder. “It’s Victorious Fighting Buddha, you ass.”
Erlang laughs in turn. “Now that’s really funny. Would that make me the Victorious Fighting Buddha’s Victor?”
Wukong blinks a couple times before it registers in his head. “Ah, you’re terrible! I thought we agreed it was a tie.”
“I recall no such agreement. I only remember one of us leaving that fight tied up and restrained.”
“That’s fair,” Wukong nods grudgingly. “Indeed, that’s fair, but my heart feels wronged nonetheless. Perhaps the tides would’ve turned in my favor had your brothers not stepped in.”
Yes. Yes, finally.
The excitement is barely containable now. Erlang restrains the urge to even squirm or fidget, instead just opting to clench his fist. “Well there’s just one way to find out, isn’t there?”
Wukong raises an eyebrow.
“Pardon me, Sacred Divinity, the Great Sage’s presence is requested—”
“Tell them he got delayed on the road,” Erlang says without looking away. There’s a hint of amusement in Wukong’s eyes, but he has yet to disagree. No push back. Did the pilgrimage tame him too much?
The attendant concedes immediately, lowering at the waist, “Yes of course.”
“Chang Haoone of erlang's sworn brothers, shows up as the whiteclad noble in game, would you tell His Majesty that I won’t make it for tea?”
The snake yaoguai bows his head, “Yes, elder brother.”
“Hold on,” Wukong laughs. There it is. “I haven’t agreed to anything just yet.”
Erlang’s hand feels itchy. He wonders if the excitement and anticipation is plain in his eyes.
“Afraid?”
Wukong stops laughing.
They’re on the military training grounds soon after. It’s been cleared of soldiers, standing on the sidelines with their eyes affixed on the two domineering figures.
They don’t bother counting down. Wukong grins and jerks his chin up provocatively. Erlang cocks an eyebrow, unimpressed. In a flash of light, he’s right in front of Wukong, leg kicking into his vambrace.
“Going for the head,” Wukong laughs, as if he wasn’t about to get his skull caved in. “Not holding back, brother?”
Erlang drops his leg, jumping back before Wukong can get a hit in. “Should I?”
“Please, no need to spare me any consideration.”
“If you say so.”
They transform a few times, only small animals. A hornet and a mantis, a weasel and a pallas cat, a hound and a wolf, nothing bigger than a tiger. They’re hampering the true extent of their capabilities to not lay waste to the immediate area. Even then, their breaths still come in pants and exhilarated laughter.
When Wukong flies too close to the walls, where the soldiers freeze in fear, Erlang grips his collar and flings him back. And when his skin buzzes with energy, bubbling and trying to distend into something bigger, Wukong strikes him in the face to ground him.
He swings right back, slamming him to the floor. Erlang’s on him before he can get up, knee in his stomach to keep him down just a little longer. Wukong clutches the sides of his head, not struggling, but Erlang takes no chances, lifting him by the edge of his chest armor and readying his fist for another blow.
He drops him to dodge the incoming staff, aimed straight for his face.
Erlang rolls to the side and stands, glaring incredulously. He takes a few seconds to calm his breathing.
“Cheater. No weapons allowed!”
“Well, now, ‘cheater’s a bit too harsh,” Wukong flips onto his feet, dropping the immobilizing-headache act. “I plucked this from my ear, you see, so it’s practically an extension of myself! A byproduct from my body, if you think about it.”
Somehow, Erlang can’t find it in himself to be upset. He shakes his head with a scoff. “Fine. Keep your golden toy. I can beat you just the same.”
Wukong laughs, spinning his staff. “Fine,” he points it at him. “Let’s test that claim.”
The wicked stride with fearless ease,
While the kind are burdened, never at peace.
— Circus Monkey Journal
Erlang had been mortal once. There might’ve been the short sightedness, the whimsical joy, or the ever present fear of death in him back then, but he doesn’t quite remember.
And corpses. He’s seen a few. Usually fresh ones, with their blood still wet on his spear. Frozen ones aren’t as common a sight.
Erlang inspects the ice sculptures. They’re rigid and haunted. Their jaws hang agape, thin lines carved around their mouth to compensate for the size. Wind whistles through the gaps like distant screams carried over from Diyu. He wonders if he’d ever make such an unsightly expression in such an instance, or if he’d go stiff with a calm smile on his face. Like those reverent statues in his temples. But frost nips his fingers like shy suggestions, and the freezing cold is only ever a mild discomfort for him.
The muffled clashing of metal, wood, and leathery winter armor finally dies. Erlang walks back to check on the Destined One.
It looks to be business as usual. Barren landscape, only gore leftover. The Destined One stands in the middle of it. The sun sits past him, carving away the edges of his form like it’s eating his body.
“Yaba.”
The Destined One lifts his head slow, like it’s too heavy for his neck.
There’s red, red, red on his chin and his lips.
Erlang’s breathing gets shaky. He forgets how easily they could die, he doesn’t fight them often. The court only summons him as a last ditch effort for high risk threats, not mortals who keel over in one hit.
He briskly walks to his side, not too fast to seem worried, and from up close he can see the shaking. Shivering. From blood loss?
“You-you careless monkey, you. Do you have bandages left? Water?”
The Destined One turns away from him. Erlang grabs his wrist before he can get far and he immediately starts struggling in his grip. Erlang slaps his other hand away from prying and grabs him by the front of his robes.
“Don’t walk away from me.”
The Destined One squirms. Erlang sees clearly, through the swirling mists of their hot breaths, the wince on his face. He looks down, the blood on his hand shocking him into letting go.
There’s more on the yao’s robes. Flowing from his chest. Is there an open wound there? The blade on Erlang’s back sings in recognition.
The Destined One rubs away the blood, showing no puncture hole through the tainted fabric. Erlang takes a deeper breath.
“So you’re not even scratched. What are you looking all tired for?”
The Destined One trudges into the emptied cave. There’s still a fire inside, made by one of the lesser yaoguais who lived here just moments ago. Most of the wood is eaten up but it’s still so small and hungry. The Destined One tosses his staff and supplies to the ground and leans in close to the dying fire.
“Good luck trying to keep that one alive. It’ll be difficult to find any dry wood in this weather.”
But the Destined One doesn’t try. He lays down on his side and curls around the fire, content to soak up the last of its warmth. Erlang scoffs.
“You mortals are so shortsighted.” He moves to leave.
He instinctively swipes his spear at the tug on his sleeve, stopping just short of a furred cheek. The blade is paid no mind as he’s dragged down by the arm.
“What are you doing?”
The Destined One crawls over Erlang, his shadow eclipsing him, like a beast trying to swallow him whole. His arms and legs snake around him, and it’s like Erlang’s paralyzed. Iron-scented fur rubs his neck as a head settles on his shoulder.
“What are you doing,” he says again, more pitched and frantic this time. The snow does nothing to discourage Erlang’s body from heating up, out of his control, and it only makes the Destined One fidget closer.
Nothing else is done.
There’s a wild drum in Erlang’s chest. The Destined One must be deaf to it, otherwise he wouldn’t have fallen asleep so fast. But Erlang hears it clearly and it keeps him awake for the rest of the night.
“Yaba, take this. A gift.”
The Destined One catches the book. The frosted pages crinkle dangerously under his fingers, brittle, as he flips open the frozen cover.
“A language of hands,” Erlang explains impatiently. “I’d say we need a better form of communication, other than one-sided conversations that entails me dancing around like a circus monkey. Certainly you can do this?”
Labels are noted down next to illustrated hand gestures, going on for tens of pages. Mostly one word descriptions, like “fire”, “rush”, “retreat”. There are also ones marked with phrases, and the Destined One furrows his eyebrows at them.
Erlang catches the slight change in expression and clicks his tongue. “Can’t write, and now you can’t even parse longer sentences. What were they teaching you on that damned mountain?”
The Destined One narrows his eyes at him before he starts flicking his hand in sharp movements. It takes Erlang a moment to realize he’s trying out one of the gestures from the book. A clenching motion made at the side of the head—according to the book—but the Destined One clenches his fist closer to his lips. It’s “cease”, “cease”, “cease”, over and over again.
Erlang raises an eyebrow. He has an inkling, but asks to make sure, “Cease what?”
The Destined One thrusts a finger at Erlang’s mouth.
He barks a laugh, “You know what, Yaba? That’s fair, that’s quite fair enough.”
They sit in front of the book for the rest of the day. They flip through and memorize as many applicable and relevant words as they can, before they have to make a fire for the night and the pages melt and ruin beyond salvation.
They get pretty far, but the Destined One’s favorite is still that clenching motion he first used.
To his eyes, fair faces hold no charm, mere dust and earth they seem.
— See No Evil Headgear
Parties are always a nightmare. Loud buzzing animals in man’s skin, draped in gaudy clothes and stinking of oily food and alcohol, each one thinking higher of themselves than the next, all crammed into the tall walls of the palace banquet hall—it makes Erlang sick. He’s always hated it, even since his first one an eternity ago, celebrating the promotion of his own career.
Having a friend makes it more tolerable. It feels less suffocating when the two sages’ combined presence wards off any silver tongued opportunists from accosting him for the entire night. But Wukong’s not here this time. For whatever godforsaken reason. Probably at that stupid mountain again.
“Sacred Divinity.”
“Not interested.”
The fair maiden pouts, but leaves nonetheless, her sisters comforting her. Erlang continues drinking alone. Usually he’d put on an act—actually, usually he wouldn’t even be here. But if he was, he’d put on an act, to not seem completely off-putting. He doesn’t feel like it tonight.
“Sacred Divinity.”
“I already said—“ he pauses when he turns around. “Sorry. Your little boy voice made me think you were a lady.”
Nezha gawks in offense and kicks him for it.
“What are you being all mopey for? You're sullying the celebration.”
“What will one sad face do to diminish his Majesty’s light?” Erlang scoffs. “He has plenty of small-minded worshippers to go around. He doesn’t need another voice whispering blessings in his pretty little ear.”
Nezha laughs with an aborted, choking sound. He coughs into his fist. “Don’t say that. What if you’re heard?”
“So what if I am? What would he do? Disown me?”
Nezha doesn’t laugh at all this time. “Is this about the Great Sage? Life’s too depressing without your personal circus monkey hopping around to entertain you?”
“ Circus monkey - no, this isn’t about the Great Sage. Don’t be ridiculous.”
Nezha shrugs, hands casually playing with the wine cup. “Your moping says otherwise. You don’t mope when the Great Sage is present. Instead you have a scowl, like this.” He pulls a fierce face, wrinkled and intense like the ones he wears in battle.
“How is that better than if I mope—don’t. Give me that,” Erlang yanks the wine cup back before the child god can take a sip. “Can’t a man just stew in his own thoughts in peace? Go now, leave me be.”
Nezha glances around them. The partygoers are seemingly chattering away but he can see the occasional subtle look thrown their way, though none seem interested in doing anything more than just looking. “If you insist.” And he leaves Erlang to it.
…
The jostling movement shakes Erlang awake, just enough to hear the odd ends of a conversation.
“—glaring at the Emperor the whole time. Unbelievable! It’s like he was wishing him death on his birthday! His Majesty lets him get away with too much.”
“Sacred Divinity my ass. He gets called for something only every other century.”
“Somebody ought to take him down a peg—”
His consciousness fades at the first sign of a headache, opting to sleep it all away instead.
…
“Heavenly pigs. You’ve stepped on the wrong mountain today.”
He hears some screaming and loud banging. Is the party still going? How noisy.
…
Erlang blinks awake. Even the soft candlelight feels too sharp in his eyes. He squeezes them shut and rubs his face with a groan.
“Oh, you’re awake.”
Erlang looks to the voice, coming from his feet, and promptly kicks away. He backs against the headboard, tearing the blanket up over his chest, his heart beating wildly from within it.
“You–What–What are you doing?”
“Reclothing you,” Wukong raises an eyebrow. “What do you think I’m doing?”
“Recloth–I was nude?”
Wukong cackles at the look on Erlang’s face. “Practically. Just your undergarments were left and it was wet from the river, so it wasn’t doing much for coverage.”
“Why the hell would I have been in the river?”
Wukong shrugs. “Heavenly wine’s no joke, you ought to be more careful, brother.”
Erlang rubs his face harder. The candlelight has little wax left, flickering desperately in its dying moments and the flickering makes his head hurt. He sighs, begrudgingly accepting the cup of water offered. The cool soothes his throat and makes his voice less scratchy.
“Thank you, Great Sage. I apologize for my impropriety.”
“Don’t fret,” Wukong prods him with his elbow. “What’s some care between brothers?”
Erlang purses his lips. “Yes, you’re right. Thank you, brother.”
They fall into silence. There are cicadas outside the window, singing some tunes that Erlang can’t hear. He wonders if Wukong can find the beauty in shrill insect cries, or if that’s too whimsical, even for a naturalist.
“Why,” Erlang clears his throat. “Why weren’t you there?”
“Hm, well ,” Wukong stretches the word, shifting his hands up and down as if measuring invisible weights. He drops the act and gives Erlang an unimpressed look, as if he’s pointing out the obvious. “We both know how the court thinks of me. I didn’t get an invitation.”
“That’s never stopped you before,” Erlang says, pointing out the real obvious here.
“You’re right,” Wukong rubs his chin. “Did you want me to be there?”
Erlang blinks. The question catches him off guard, just a little bit. Of all the calculations he does in his head—playing mind games to find the optimal times to stick to Wukong in the middle of banquets to preserve his liveliness, planning his days in the court to naturally bump into him just for a light conversation to refresh his spirit—it has never occurred to him that he’s allowed to simply ask. Each party is a guessing game on whether or not Wukong would be there, and Erlang has long since resigned himself to such a fate, still showing up more than he would’ve if there isn’t the prospect of the Great Sage attending.
His fingers curl in the quilt . He hesitates and stares at Wukong’s face, as if, maybe, he’s just joking. Testing his attachment.
“Perhaps, it would be nice,” he says slowly, carefully watching for the slightest change in expression. “That you attended. We don’t often get chances to meet.”
Wukong pulls a wide grin, just as he feared, and pats Erlang’s arm. “Aww, you missed me that much, Little Sagejttw reference, where erlang calls himself little sage to mock wukong naming himself great sage equal to heaven? You know, you can always invite me over when you’re lonely,” he teases.
Erlang regrets saying anything, but he doesn’t feel nearly as upset or affronted as he expects.
“Just be there next time. It’s less stifling with a personal circus monkey to be entertained by.”
Wukong salutes, “Yes sir!”
In locust form, my words lack weight; I need a better presence to lend me authority.
— Locust Antennae Mask
They bunker down in the middle of a desolate courtyard, making fire with hay and dried wood from the fallen houses. Erlang fidgets with his spear as he stares at nothing, thinking. A hand on his shoulder sways him out of his thoughts.
“Here,” the Destined One gestures, a signal they’ve come to understand as a greeting.
“Yes, hello. You’ve returned.”
The Destined One shrugs off his sling, splaying out bunches of pilfered dried herbs and vegetation. They’ve discovered early on his aversion to meat, which he’s previously mistaken for mysterious chronic stomach pains until Erlang pointed out a potential source. Another echo of Wukong.
Erlang watches silently as the Destined One cooks and eats, picking out the little motions for traces, anything.
“I wonder…” he starts, making the Destined One look up midbite. “Now that you’ve obtained more curios, do you have any of his memories? Do you know if he… ah, nevermind.”
The Destined One tilts his head, signing, “?”
“No, nevermind I said.”
The Destined One starts chewing again, slowly, before shrugging and bringing his full attention back to his food.
Breeze brushes through mountain planes, much like a mother’s hands smoothening her child’s unruly hair. It tickles past Erlang, lifting wisps of strands from his eyes. Her fingers are frigid, sending shivers down his back. He looks at the temple sitting on the horizon, darkened by its own shadow. The faint silver moonlight shines behind it.
A few squeaks come from behind him. The Destined One is in the process of righting himself when Erlang looks back. His knee pads are muddied and stained with grass, but he pays them no mind as he walks over with a handful of wildflowers.
“What are those for?”
The Destined One’s expression is blank and focused on remembering the hand signals. It’s difficult to parse his emotions. “Medicine,” he finally indicates.
Erlang tilts his head slightly, lifting a brow. “Do you even know what they are?”
A shrug. “Intel,” he signs.
“Intel… that guidebook you found on herbs?” Erlang scoffs. “I highly doubt they’d note anything of substance concerning flower species from other regions.”
“Cease, cease.”
Erlang sighs, shifting the conversation before he gets a headache again, “Let’s reach that temple for shelter. Its walls shall shield us enough for now.”
He starts a brisk pace, clinking armor rushing to keep up behind him. There are a few oil lamps scattered on the cracked steps of the temple. The Destined One snaps his fingers a few times before managing to spark alight a wick.
“Oh please, don’t overexert yourself with that now.”
He receives a pointed glare at the flame stick in his hand and Erlang feels only an inkling of shame from his hypocrisy.
“This is different, I’m weakened! But you, this is the extent of your capabilities. We are not the same,” he insists, heading within the temple. The stone lions seem to glimmer as he passes the threshold. “Couldn’t even light a campfire… hah.”
The Destined One growls, motioning a one-hand word, “Attack.” But he does it with both hands, bumping them into each other.
“My mistake, Great Sage. We can’t spar with my powers constrained like this. You wouldn’t beat a sickly man, would you?”
A finger jabs at Erlang. “Recovery. Then,” the finger swings between them. “Attack.”
Erlang smirks. “You have a gentleman’s honor, Yaba. I’m swooning.” A stale piece of bread is thrown at him and he catches it before it hits him in the face.
The Destined One digs out a book from his burlap sack and sprawls on the temple grounds, closing himself off from further conversations.
Erlang wanders the temple, one of the oil lamps in hand. It’s not huge, but the light only reaches a bit beyond his feet. He raises his arm to shine it upon a few unfamiliar paintings and effigies of the local small gods, decorating the walls.
They’re caked in dust and cobwebs, with dead leaves blown in from the broken windows. The incense holders sit empty on small altars. Nothing but cold, cold ash remains scattered on what might’ve once been bright-red tablecloth.
Looking at the abandoned shrines, there’s an apathetic indifference in Erlang’s chest where pity might’ve been. That’s simply how it is. One day, perhaps, the Sacred Divinity would be prayed to for the last time. Perhaps he’d also be remembered only by the crumbling ceramic tiles of a lost temple, sitting within the dead heart of a silent, forsaken city.
He’s about to move on to the next wall when a loud trill pulls his attention.
The Destined One lifts his book with a terribly smug grin. A remarkably accurate depiction of the flower he picked sits on the pages, almost mockingly accurate.
Erlang grinds his teeth. “Ah. The lucky god smiles upon you.”
“Wind blows west,” the Destined One motions.
Erlang pauses before nodding in realization—the seedlings were carried across regions by the wind. He should’ve known this already, but his secular human life of farming is so far behind him. Any intuitional knowledge has long been traded for battle instincts.
“Debrief?” the Destined One signs, raising an eyebrow to make it a question or request.
“What’s this? You want me to read it to you?” Erlang coos, a hand on his hip. “You need a bedtime story, Yaba?”
The Destined One scowls and throws up a rude gesture, not anything from the code book they studied, but Erlang still understands the meaning well.
“What a thankless wretch,” he sighs, “You’re lucky I’m a gracious one.”
Erlang motions for him to come over. Just flexing the little bit of power he has over him, when he’s been doing nothing but losing control for the past however long his clone’s been out. The Destined One scowls but complies nonetheless, scrambling to carry the book, the flowers, and another oil lamp.
He stops mid-step, staring past Erlang. The book and the flowers drop to the floor but, thankfully, not the lamp. Erlang turns and lifts his light.
This altar is bigger than the others, not by a lot, but enough to be of significance for this small village. But it’s in a far worse state. Not only is it eaten away by age, parts of the altar’s red cloth is slashed into ribbons, like a tiger’s nails shredding through viscera. Singes dot the fabric, knocked over plates and incense holders sink their moldy stains into the faded pigment.
There is only one painting hanging over it, long and grand with its lower half torn as if the tiger wasn’t able to reach any higher. Sun Wukong’s face is still visible, coming out from above the ripped silk.
“Bring it down,” his voice comes out weak. “Please.”
The Destined One shifts uncomfortably, a look of apprehension on his face.
“It’s fine,” Erlang begs. “Nobody will miss it anyway.”
The Destined One slowly sets down his oil lamp and hops onto the edge of the table, scaling a support beam to reach the top. The armor tapping against wood is terribly loud in the stale air. The painting is unhooked with a swift flick of his fingers. He drops down to catch it before it can hit the floor.
He gazes softly at the silk canvas in his arms, studying what’s supposed to be an impression of his own face. The softness turns to empathetic grief when he looks up and offers the painting over. Erlang wonders what his expression could possibly be, for the Destined One to look so sorry.
He holds his stare, a challenge, just long enough for a questioning chirp to leave the Destined One’s throat. He drops his eyes and takes the painting.
“Thank you,” raspy, like he hasn’t drank any water for days. He hasn’t, but such needs usually don't pertain to him. Even dead, Wukong always has some way to make him feel the worldly, exhilarating transience of a mortal. He sinks to his knees, spreading out the painting so it sits across his lap and spills to the floor.
He’s not sure whether his finger pads or the unpreserved silk is rougher as he runs them across Wukong’s face. It’s not as horrid as some of the other depictions he’s seen, but Erlang still finds it rather unpleasant. The circlet is painted. It holds the pilgrim tight, the ends of it meeting in the middle of Wukong’s forehead and curling up like perpetually scowling brows.
Erlang jerks his head up, to which the Destined One jolts at the sudden movement of, and studies carefully. Perhaps the uncanny discomfort of the lookalike wasn’t just from the different demeanor. Perhaps it was the missing circlet. Wukong’s face looks oddly naked without it.
“I wonder… What you have been calling me in your head.”
He looks through the gaps of his hair, at the ghost standing there. “My name is Erlang. Have you heard of me?”
The Destined One rubs his arm, unease in his shoulders. He shakes his head.
“That’s fine. Now you have,” Erlang says. “And you shall remember it well. Just as I’ve always remembered his.”
A stale piece of bread is left on an offering plate, freshly plucked wildflowers strewn across rotten fabric, with two more sticks of incense than all the other altars. Strands of smoke drift, entangling with the dusty, quiet air of the temple. The painting is missing, but there’s not enough worshippers coming through for that to matter. Nothing matters.
His form defies the winter’s snow, a sacred being of light.
— Erlang, the Sacred Divinity Journal
“This statue of you is terribly inaccurate. They lost your signature scowl!” Indeed, this sculpture is round-faced and calm, a benevolent smile carved into its face.
Erlang’s scowl deepens as Wukong rubs a finger right under his third eye, between his brows.
“They forgot this chasm here! It’s a defining feature, I’d say!”
His hand is swatted away.
“Focus, Great Sage.”
“Ah, of course of course,” Wukong bounces on the balls of his feet, stretching his arms over his head. “Focus. On the task at hand. Which is…?”
Erlang raises an arched brow. “The scroll—“
“The scroll! Of course. Now, where could they have hidden that thing?”
A while later when they’re leaving the temple, the recovered scroll secured within Erlang’s robes, he stops in the middle of the road to give Wukong a knowing glare.
“What is that you hold within your pouch?”
“Nothing. Nothing of importance.” Then he squints. “Wait, how can you tell?”
Erlang sighs, shaking his head. “The nature of a yaoguai never changes, no matter what fancy title they hide behind.”
“Hey! I don’t usually steal, this is a special circumstance!”
“So you did take something.”
Wukong covers his lips with a hand, which stretches into a sheepish grin. “Clever as ever, Little Sage.”
“What would your Master say?”
“Low blow, Little Sage.”
“Alright, hand it over.”
Wukong pouts as he opens his deceivingly small coin pouch, lifting a miniature full-body statue out. It stands innocently on its stone podium, cheeks fat and plump with its ever so benevolent grin.
Erlang snaps, “You stole from my altar?”
“You have so many, what’s the harm?” Wukong hugs the statue to his chest, looking too aggrieved for a petty thief. “It’s a good sculpture.”
Erlang’s heartbeat speeds up—probably from anger.
“You…!”
He deftly calms his breathing, untightening his fists. Losing one’s temper with Wukong will always be a futile and pointless struggle.
Erlang turns on his heel and starts walking at a brisk pace. “Do what you want. I suppose it’s only natural for the envious to steal from the plentiful.”
“What? I have my own statues too,” Wukong keeps up as he stuffs the statue back. “And altars!”
“Little shrines in dusty corners don’t count.”
“Yes, they do!”
By nature’s flow, I turn to stone each day.
— Lang-Baw-Baw Journal
When a corpse yao pierces his abdomen, the wound doesn’t seal up instantly. His fugacious vigor won’t last long—this false shell is walking on borrowed time. Erlang can feel his real body beckoning for its return.
“Forget it, it won’t help me.”
The bowl clatters to the ground and bitter medicine sprays on their clothes. Erlang has half a mind to apologize but it lodges in his throat, a coughing fit coming out instead. He sinks into the raggedy straw padding on the floor, a pathetic visage of the Sacred Divinity.
“Recovery.”
“I know,” he lays his arm over his eyes, blocking out feeble light from the cinders around them. “But as I’ve said, mortal medicine will do nothing for me.”
The Destined One grunts, restless and helpless.
“Don’t waste your prayers on me. I’ll be fine once I return to my true form. I just… I’d like to see your journey to the end, if possible.”
To the end. Whether he completes his task or he dies. Either way, Erlang’s isolation will come to an end, too. His motivation has been driven to the ground, didn’t realize how worn he was until he slowed down to breathe. He won’t wait for the next one. His heart can’t stand it.
“Did I ever tell you, you resemble your dead King? There might be some differences, but I don’t remember anymore. Your face has replaced his in my mind,” Erlang admits. “When I think of him, I don’t see him. I see you, with different colored tone of hair and a troublesome smile.”
The Destined One sits quiet. Erlang can’t bring himself to lift his arm and look him in the eyes. His face is hot from fever and his body aches. He can’t run from it. He mustn’t run from this pain. He lies in it, even though it would be easy to let go, and breathes with it. If he runs away, he would just return to the infallible walls of his immortal body. The pain anchors him here, not flying off somewhere into the future like he’s on a mission, where everything’s different yet nothing changes.
After centuries, he thinks he might finally understand Wukong’s soul a little bit.
Down here, the evidence of time is everywhere. It only makes Wukong’s absence more obvious. He wonders what he would think about his torn paintings in the temples, of the flower seeds traveling across regions.
“If this body doesn’t make it, I won’t send another clone to look for you. I don’t want to find a corpse,” he says bluntly. “I’ll wait for you just a bit longer, only you. Not another Destined One. But if you die, then die quietly. I don’t want to see it.”
He lifts his arm when no sound follows. Even through the fever and the hazy heat blurring his eyes, his heart twists at the Destined One’s expression.
“I’m not trying to be cruel. It’s not as though I want you to fail.”
“Cease.”
“When this body dies,”
“Cease.”
“And you meet the real me,”
“Cease.”
“I wonder if you’d notice anything different.”
The Destined One drops his hand.
“If I never told you. If I just- walked off and this body crumbled out of your sight, would you have gone on ignorant, not knowing that you’ve been traveling with a husk this entire time? And then, when you meet the real one,” Erlang coughs and blood seeps through the shoddy bandages. He looks more human now than ever, he bets. “I wonder if you’ll feel the same queer unfamiliar-familiarity I did, when I first laid eyes upon you. And, I wonder, what I’d finally see with the Eye of Heaven.”
Where now is that pious soul who melted your metal, or the smith who cast it to form you?
— Iron Tough Set Armor
He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he wakes up in a pavilion. Nezha?
Wow. You look horrid.
Erlang laughs, sitting up and righting himself. I’m sorry I missed our meeting this year.
No matter. What’s one absence amongst half a thousand of your presences? I’ll forgive you for this.
Are you doing well?
Guess.
Forget I asked then.
Nezha whines, It’s unfair, you don’t tell me anything. You never confide in me.
Erlang hums, looking at the empty cups between them. The pavilion itself is familiar, their usual spot, but there’s nothing outside of it. A great expanse of white. Would this be what after life looks like? Or just a passing fever dream? He entertains it anyway.
Do you… like this life?
Nezha plays with his empty teacup, acting right for the most part but also off, like he’s referencing from a memory. It’s fine.
Living lavishly above men, as a god, of course it’s certainly fine, Erlang chuckles. But would you have lived differently if you could?
I don’t know, I’ve never considered it. I’ve never been given a choice.
Imagine, for a moment, you have. Would you like to live as a mortal? Would you choose to be fleeting?
I don’t know about being mortal but, he plays with the golden rings around his neck, as if they’re nothing but jewelry. Perhaps, I’d like to experience the life of a wild bird.
Birds don’t live long, Erlang points out. Quite mortal, if you ask me.
I’m not talking about the lifespan! It’s about the- the! Forget it.
The freedom?
Nezha’s face tints, a bit embarrassed. Yeah.
You’d be playing dangerously, brother. You say you’d like to experience it but once you do, it’ll forever tempt you like a fox spirit. It’ll be hard to go back.
Nezha rolls his eyes. Shut up. What about you?
Erlang thinks about it for a moment. I’d like to be a forest.
Yet that Yaoguai king showed not a hint of fear.
— Bull King Set Armor
—the day Wukong dies, there is not a single gray cloud to speak of. The sun shines bright, glowing through gaps of the sky. The Heavens celebrate the death of a monster.
Erlang picks up a piece from the blood pool, rolling it around in his palm carelessly. There’s no corpse to speak of, as all yaoguais are in death. Dust in the wind, singing particles to be swept away into meaningless nothingness.
Distantly, there’s a feeling of envy. Wukong will get to rest, reprieved for however long he stays dead, but Erlang will keep walking and make the long trek back. Back to that opulent paradise, beautiful and empty like a cheap artifact painted gold, coating a thick layer on rotting wood.
Wukong is split into tangible relics, passed out for safekeeping. Eyes for the bear, ears for the rat, the false Buddha gets the nose, the tongue for the Daoist, and the Bull King can have his body.
Hardly a body. It’s only a shell. Less than a corpse.
Erlang steals a piece for himself, not held within his hand, but hidden somewhere nobody would ever think to search. Less tangible than the others. Then he makes the long trek back.
Wukong was right, it is much too bright up here.
Gift giving isn’t common between them. Well, not to say that they never gift anything, but when they do, it’s usually weapons or artifacts framed as a favor. Anything else would be toeing the line of something more intimate, and they’re not like that. The painting is an exception, in the sense that Erlang didn’t paint it with intimate intentions.
It’s not like Wukong likes it anyway.
He grimaces when he first sees it, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes like he’s trying to decipher a cryptic message written in a dead language. “What is this?”
“Painting. I thought you should have it.”
“Yeah I see that it’s a painting. But what is it?”
Erlang’s eyebrow twitches but he keeps his expression carefully neutral. “It’s of you. I painted it of you.”
A brief quiet.
Then Wukong breaks out into wild laughter, startling the Howling Celestial Dog from its sleep. “That’s me?” He could barely speak between gasps. “Oh wow, Little Sage, you’re too good to me.”
“Shut it! Shut your mouth!” Erlang’s face burns and he wrangles the scroll back, folding it into his sleeve.
“Wait, no!” Wukong grabs his arm and Erlang’s hands stop immediately, like a paralysis spell casted upon him. “I’m only joking, elder brother. Let me see it again. Please?”
Erlang chews his lip but unscrolls it anyway. Wukong stares at it, his straight face trembling before his mouth cracks into a grin. Laughter rings through the room once again.
Erlang scowls, “Silence, or I’ll silence you myself!” It’s an empty threat at most.
“Oh- oh heavens! I can’t breathe!”
“I’ll admit it, fine, I’m a fighter, not much of an artist,” Erlang says through gritted teeth.
“If that’s how I’ve been drawn, it’s no wonder people think I’m a hideous freak!”
Erlang huffs, “Don’t give others so much credit, you’re hideous enough as is.”
Wukong gasps and promptly tackles him, knocking their table and jostling the wine set.
Erlang takes his kneeling mat and whacks it at him. Their roughhousing tumbles them off the plinth of the pavilion, carving their backs through the expanse of untouched snow where the roof no longer shields them.
“Xiaotian, bite him,” Erlang jokes, but the hound pays him no mind. It rests on its paws, watching their usual antics.
They laugh and jab like wild children, not worried in the slightest about keeping up appearances with just the two of them, not that Wukong ever is. He laughs like he always does, high and crazy, heedless of any potential audience. There’s sweet wine slicking his lips and mirth in his eyes, his cheeks ruddy from the cold. His robes are askew, chest going up and down and up and down and the snow dusts his fur like fine powdered sugar.
“Ow, ow! My head!” The shaking stirs up Wukong’s incessant, recurring headaches, and Erlang lets go with a jolt.
He recedes when Wukong calls for a truce, thankful that he did because his heart might just give out if he continues shoving his body against him. His head aches too a little, from the scuffle and the alcohol, but there’s also the pleasant dizzying buzz.
They get up with minimal shoving, patting the snow off their clothes. Erlang helps Wukong reach his back—his hands lingering only a bit too long—before they stroll back to the pavilion, like they weren’t just rolling on the ground a few seconds prior.
One of the cups is spilled over the table, a puddle of fragrant wine almost touching the painting scroll. Wukong gasps when he notices and hastily scrambles over to pick it up, tucking it to his chest and checking for stains. Erlang rolls his eyes at his theatrics.
“Just toss the useless trash. No need to spare my feelings.”
The worried crease between Wukong’s eyebrows smoothens when he sees no damage, a cheeky smile making its way back onto his face. “Indulge my curiosity, brother, what brought upon this lovely gift?”
“Do not patronize me, Sun Wukong.”
“I would never!”
Erlang purses his lips and crosses his arms. “Your worshippers lack cult images. I merely thought to attempt one so your pitiful little altars could be less empty.” He ducks his head slightly, shadowing his face to hide the pink on his cheeks. “I didn’t paint you terribly on purpose. If it is terrible, well- then, that’s likely the fault of the painting’s subject, I’d say.”
Wukong stares at him with wide eyes and his mouth slightly open. Erlang feels increasingly more embarrassed and clears his throat, shaking him out of his silence.
“Perhaps I should feel offended but…” Wukong leans in to poke his chest, making his heart tickle. “You’re quite cute, you know that Little Sage?”
Erlang splutters.
“Though I won’t lie to you brother, this is a terrible painting.”
“Just leave it already—”
“But it is a wonderful gift,” Wukong grins, his eyes curving into crescent moons with deep wells of burnt umber framed within. “I mean it. Thank you, Erlang.”
…
Erlang rubs his arm, shifting on his feet before he chews out his words. “You’re welcome.”
Later, they take an alcohol induced nap on the wooden floor, with Wukong’s head tucked in the crook of his neck. He probably associates this with his monkey brethren. They do like keeping close in the cold, those guys. But Erlang dreams of something more.
A few years before Wukong’s death, or no. Maybe a few decades. Maybe even almost a century. It’s difficult to keep count.
Erlang doesn’t remember for exactly what reason, but he drinks himself until he’s red and weepy. He remembers their conversation though, the irony being too compelling to forget.
The whining dog steps away when Wukong takes its place by his side, “Brother, for what reason is there to grieve alone? Worry not, I’m here now.”
“Don’t say that. It does nothing to abate my worry,” Erlang confesses. “What if one day you’re gone and I, who’ve grown complacent by your presence, can’t adapt without you? What will become of me then?”
“Never. I would never abandon an elder brother like that. Even if I die, I’ll always return to you, in whatever shape or form.” Wukong flaps his hands by his head, mimicking desperate insect wings.
Erlang gives a helpless snort and bats away his teasing hands. “Foolish brother, you’re immortal. Death would never touch you. I’m worried you’d leave of your own accord.”
“Now why would I ever do such a silly thing?”
Erlang laughs from his stomach now, like it’s a bad joke. “How are you so blind to your own nature?”
And with the nature of a wildfire, Wukong starts burning away. It happens so fast that Erlang almost misses it. He does miss it, in fact, when it first happens, but rolling the memories in his head grants him a clarity that rivals the Eye of Heaven. His head aches with shame for not seeing the signs before.
“Sun Wukong.”
“Elder brother! Ah, how I’ve missed that face!”
Erlang scowls, if only to put on an act in front of the other attendees. The scowl gradually falls as they move away from the crowds. Wukong is indulging in liquor until his cheeks pinken like a maiden with a bit too much blush, chattering loudly as always. He never bothers acting cold.
They manage to slip onto the balconies, unbothered by the rest of the banquet happenings in the rest of the pagoda. Erlang breathes easy for the first time in months.
“Your little jaunt, how was it?” Erlang asks.
Wukong laughs, “The air is better down there, it certainly eases my headaches…” Then he goes quiet and the dread in Erlang’s stomach grows.
The drop of spring rain falls into his cup from the overhead eaves tiles. The scenery on Mount Huaguo is probably beautiful this time of the year. He can only hope the trimmed and methodically organized flowers around the Heavenly Palace is enough in comparison.
“It’s been a long time since I last returned. Much longer than I thought,” Wukong says, looking all too sober for a man who had just been screaming and laughing at the top of his lungs. “A minister I used to consult has a full body of white hair now, and another has died of old age. So many youngsters I don’t even know the name of have been born, and so many that I remember have long since passed.”
He runs his fingers across the wet handrails, breaking the water with dripping trails.
“I have all the time in the world, yet I’m missing so much.”
There is a faraway look in his eyes. It scares Erlang.
He reaches out to hold Wukong’s hand. “Forget them. They’ll only hold you back.”
Wukong laughs, a rather blank look on his face for his sound. “Is that how you think, brother?”
Erlang nods. “My mother’s passing, it um. It freed me. It saddened me, yes, but nothing left tethered me to the mortal realm. I have no obligations left that shackles me. Those monkeys will come and go in the blink of an eye. You have others who will linger longer,” He squeezes Wukong’s hand. “Much longer.”
The cold, lithe fingers squeeze back. “Oh brother, what you speak of doesn’t sound like freedom to me.”
Truthfully, he still dreams of her sometimes. Never a consistent face—he’s long forgotten what she looked like. Just a warm hand stroking his closed eyes with a disembodied voice. It’s sweet and achingly gentle, like how he imagines a mother would sound.
Yang Jian ah. Why do you look so haggard? My heart is hurting.
I’m doing fine, mother.
This long life has taken its toll on you. Do you remember to sleep well? Eat well?
Just the right amount.
How is your sister?
He hasn’t seen her in a long while. He last spoke with her an even longer while ago. She’s fine, he guesses.
Don’t forget to rest, even if you think you don’t need it.
I know, ma.
He wakes up with tears in his eyes.
“Wukong, wake up.”
Wukong swats at his hand, automatic. He whines as the hand comes back, shaking his shoulder, “Oww, my head.”
He meets eyes with Erlang, and then glances at the dark sky further above him.
“Why,” he scratches at the dried drool trail in his fur. “Are you up late or am I awoken dreadfully early?”
Erlang shakes his head with a chuckle. “The banquet’s started. Our stage will soon commence. Will you be awake enough to not make a fool of yourself?”
The stage. A sword dance, demonstration. Anyone worth anything will be present for this banquet, and nobody worth something would ever miss one between the Great Sage and the Sacred Divinity. Pride swells in Erlang’s chest whenever he thinks about it—hundreds of envious eyes on them as they perform footwork and parries only each other could match, a declaration of their brotherhood and compatibility that no one would dare challenge—and he jitters with anticipation like an unruly child.
“Soon?” Wukong yawns. “Why did nobody wake me earlier?”
Erlang peers over the roof they lay atop of. The hooked edge shields them from lantern light and searching eyes.
“Hard to blame them,” he says, amused.
Wukong rolls to the edge so he doesn’t have to get up. “Oh right.”
There are attendants rushing through the corridor beneath them, calling out for the Sacred Divinity and the Great Sage. Mostly for the Great Sage. His absence is most concerning. Erlang wonders how many times they’ve checked the peach garden.
Wukong clicks his tongue. “All these immortals and deities with flying clouds, yet they could only think to search the ground and not walk the skies. What sort of spell has the Heavenly Kingdom casted upon these walls? It’s like everyone turns ten times dumber here.”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t have ran off in the first place,” Erlang flicks him in the forehead, and the monkey dramatically rolls onto his side with a yowl. “If you weren’t found, I would’ve skinned you alive after the Emperor forced me to perform alone.”
“Phew, good thing you found me then! Thanks for saving my hide, elder brother, I can always count on you.”
“Don’t think you’re out of hot water yet, Great Sage. You miss one beat and I’ll have new boots for winter.”
“Oh, come on now Little Sage. I’m worth at least a coat,” Wukong says as he stretches his arms. “I’m a big monkey.”
“Sure, sure. Now get your big monkey ass up and going.”
Wukong finally sits up, but he sits slouched and not particularly enthused. “Why, you’re unusually chipper.”
“And you’re unusually miserable-looking.”
Wukong’s lip lifts in a light snarl. “Well, I’m not exactly excited to play circus monkey for the masses,” he grits his words out through clenched teeth.
Erlang splutters, shame coating his face red. He didn’t think of it that way. “You’re exaggerating. You don’t need a stage to play a fool,” he tries to joke.
“What do you think this stage is arranged for?”
The question catches him a little off guard. “It’s only a sword dance. It’s fine if you think yourself too high for the role of an entertainer, but there are esteemed guests who are invited to perform for these banquets too, you know? This isn’t some elaborate scheme to humiliate you.”
Wukong massages his temples, chasing away that persistent headache. He gazes listlessly at the hills of clouds in the distance, glowing transparent with moonlight. “I see it differently. I thought, why would they arrange this? Are they wanting to show off their military might? But we’re not exactly pride warriors of the Heavenly Court now, are we?” He tugs his bottom lip, the other hand tapping in his lap. “More like rabid curs, no discipline and off their collars.”
He has a point, Erlang knows, but he can only clench his fist in shaking indignation. “So what, you were just going with my whims? I suppose I must thank you for your graciousness, for agreeing and playing along with this idiot.”
“What?” And Wukong’s eyes finally snap into focus. Focused on him. With a wronged frown on his lips and furrowed brows, but focused on him. “No, no that’s not what I’m saying.”
“Why’d you agree to do it?”
“Because I thought I had to!”
“Of course you don’t have to! We could’ve saved the time practicing for the stupid thing if you just said so at the beginning!”
Wukong’s eyes jump around the roof tiles as if they’d offer some reprieve from Erlang's angry tongue. His nose twitches nervously and his voice comes out in a whisper. “I just don’t want to look tamed.”
“Bending over backwards to the Emperor’s request, you sure look tamed to me,” Erlang spats.
…
Regret settles in his stomach like rotten food. “Sorry,” Erlang says.
…
He sighs. “You’re right,” Erlang messes with his hair until black strands get tugged out of his topknot. “It’s not too late, what do you propose? Shall we skip the festivities and leave an empty stage?”
“And make a fool of the Emperor?” Wukong chuckles. “He’ll be livid.”
Erlang smirks. “Well, what can you do about a couple of untamed rabid curs?”
Wukong gives him a grin and suddenly, all irritation and grievances are dashed from Erlang’s heart. He proposes, “How about a spar for real, away from prying eyes, and not some stupid choreographed dance?”
“You know what? That’s not a bad idea,” Wukong scratches his chin. “I’ve changed my mind. Let’s do it.”
“What?” Erlang says, bemused.
“We get on the stage and we spar. Not that silly dance, but a real fight,” Wukong winks. “It ought to be more exciting for the crowd, right?”
Erlang’s grin stretches too wide to be polite. The childish giddiness is back. “Shall we go then?”
Wukong leans back with his arms folded behind his head, “Let’s rest a bit longer, scare them a little. And wait for this headache to pass.”
Erlang lays down too, on his side, and reaches out to rub Wukong’s forehead. He gets a hum of appreciation.
“I’ll admit it’s pleasant, not being leered at by apprehensive eyes, but this pavilion is quite off the way. We couldn’t have met in the Heavenly Court’s tea room?”
Nezha gives him an unimpressed look. “You’re still yet to be permitted entry on Heavenly Court grounds for another year.”
Erlang laughs. “Oh, yes, that’s right.”
“Yeah I’m right. Remember the time you two tore up the banquet hall? Do you remember that?”
Erlang chuckles, “That’s a bit dramatic. The damage was resolved within just a couple of days.”
“You had to be restrained and dragged away in front of all the guests.”
“And they loved it. We went out to their applause and cheering.”
“Cheering? I distinctly remember fearful screaming.”
“Semantics,” Erlang waves off.
“You just grouch around the entire time,” Wukong drops from the tree and hands him a plum. “You’re no fun! Why are you following me if you don’t like these things?”
“But I like you,” Erlang says before thinking twice, moving to place the fruit in a basket.
Wukong’s eyes widen and Erlang’s hand freezes, the plum bulging between his fingers. He’s about to backtrack his words but he’s interrupted before he opens his mouth.
“Oh Little Sage, stop it, I’m blushing,” Wukong laughs, patting his back firmly and amiably. His heart fractures with every slap.
“Shut it,” he shrugs his arm away. “Anyhow, it was your brilliant idea that led to my barring. You must take responsibility for me for the rest of my prohibition period, or else I’ll be bored out of my mind.”
“I suppose that’s fair,” Wukong rubs his chin before he jolts in realization. “Wait, you don’t even frequent the Heavenly Kingdom anyways- Hey? Hey!” Erlang’s already walking off, hearing none of it. He wants to find a stream to wash off the plum juice and to discard the pulp.
The flowers are too colorful, the sun is too bright, and the weather is too warm. Sweat sticks to the back of Erlang’s neck and he wonders how anybody could stand this kind of weather with a body covered in hair. But perhaps he is just used to the cold, sharp temperature of Mount Mei.
Still, he can’t help the irritation brewing in his gut as another monkey leans in to peer over his shoulder, its fur rubbing against his sweaty skin, and he swats it away with his brush.
“Come here child, don’t bother your granduncle Erlang. He’s just a grouch.” The monkey scrambles over and climbs into Wukong’s lap. He’s lounging in a full set of armor, babbling infants hanging off of him like tree fruits, and yet there’s not a single sweat on his forehead or a flush to his cheeks.
“How do you stand the heat? It’s unbearable.”
“You’re just angry right now, brother. The anger rouses internal heat. You’ll feel cooler when your heart is at ease.”
“You know saying that only makes me angrier?”
“Well I tried,” Wukong shrugs. He catches an infant with one hand and sets it back on his shoulder before laying his hand back into position.
“Can you move the monkey from your lap,” Erlang hisses. “I can’t see your belt.”
“Can you just draw another part in the meantime?” Wukong teases. “How will you ever survive a career as a live painter without being a little flexible, Little Sage?”
“I give up! Everytime I start on another part, another monkey scrambles by and covers it up just to make my life difficult,” he tosses his brush carelessly onto the inkstone. “I’m taking a break until they all tire themselves out and fall asleep.”
Wukong laughs, “You’ll be waiting until tomorrow’s daybreak then.”
Erlang fusses with his hair, trying and failing to tie it with a ribbon. “So be it,” he says between grunts. Strands keep slipping out, the sweat from his palms making his hair even oilier and disgustful.
“Run along now,” Wukong urges the monkey infants away before gesturing for Erlang. “Come here, the rocks help cool you.”
He trudges over as if irate and reluctant. Well, irritated yes, but not quite reluctant. “Watch it, I have a sensitive scalp.”
Wukong barks a laugh. “No worries brother, I’m an expert! Your hair will be groomed and bug-less by the time I’m finished.”
Erlang sits at his feet, “Just tie it you freak.”
Wukong tugs him closer with all the casualness of wrangling a child and starts combing his fingers through. “If you’re staying for the night, would you come with me to harvest fruits from the west side of the mountain? I’m afraid they’ll grow overripe and drop.”
“What, your monkeys too preoccupied to feed themselves?” He gets a hard tug on his hair for that.
“The area is hard to reach!”
“Fine. I suppose it’d be more effective to help rather than watch you fumble alone.”
Arms wrap around his shoulder and neck and Erlang’s squeezed against armor plates, smelling fruit and wine and sweet spring rain in his nose. Wukong speaks so close to his ear, “Oh the Illustrious Sacred Divinity, compassionate as ever to grace me with your presence!”
“Stop,” Erlang sounds a bit breathless, “It’s hot.”
“Oops,” Wukong releases him and Erlang still feels hot. A burning sensation in his face and everywhere he touched. The cool air rushes between them like a balm as Wukong moves to stand.
“You can always paint something else, you don’t have to wait for me,” Wukong says, after Erlang reprimands him for moving for the hundredth time that day.
“No, but then there’d be no point in painting”
Wukong lifts an eyebrow.
“In that I mean, I started because of you. So of course you must be my subject.”
“Oh brother, you’re so dedicated to proving me wrong I’m almost touched.” He rolls onto his stomach, much to Erlang’s dismay, and rests his chin in his palm. “You don’t have to excel in everything, you know? It’s okay to be a rotten painter. I think it’s part of your charm!”
“Shut up, I’ll show you! I’ll show you.”
It’s raining lightly, so there’s little audience. Yet the actors still sing loudly and dance with vigor. Their voices carry over the pitter patter on the roof ledge over their stage, like small beating drums. Sporadic cheering carries back to them from under oil paper umbrellas. Erlang chuckles as a performer in yellow robes with a painted monkey face backflips across the stage, making shrill noises as he goes.
“Bajie Bajie,” he enunciates his words in a raspy voice to mimic a whisper. “There stands the man who bested me, but I am much too embarrassed to approach, oh! I see his harrowing figure whenever I close my eyes and my knees go soft! Soft!” His legs shake intensely as he speaks and his armor clunks loudly as he falls to the ground with a thump.
What little crowd present breaks into giggles, but someone playfully boos from next to Erlang. A man about the same height as him, which is taller than most of the people around them. He dresses in plain garb and wears a silvery-brown topknot despite his young age. “I don’t sound like that,” he tells Erlang, aggrieved.
“You’re right,” he agrees. “His pitch is too low and articulation too eloquent.”
Wukong gasps, “Ouch ouch ouch! Brother, am I really nothing but a fool in your eyes?”
“If I ever say otherwise, know that I’d be telling blind lies with my eyes open.”
“Is that my brother, the handsome, venerable Great Sage Equal to Heaven? Oh, it’s been too long!”
On stage, the Erlang Shen actor hugs Sun Wukong, praising him for his wit and battle power. The off-stage Erlang bites his tongue as Wukong gives him a stupid grin.
“Aaww Little Sage, you think I’m handsome?”
“Stupid play,” Erlang huffs. “Let’s go. There’s nothing worth sticking around for.” Nonetheless, he rains drops of pure gold from his fingers when they pass the donation box.
The streets grow darker, the further they walk from the stage. None of the lanterns of the food stalls are as bright as the theater lights, but Erlang doesn’t mind. They’re much softer on the eyes.
Wukong stops and stares at one of the stalls, then turns to stare at Erlang.
“Make your own gold.”
“I can’t make real gold brother,” Wukong’s bottom lip juts out a little. “And I can’t bear to cheat these honest people out of money!”
Erlang rolls his eyes and drops some into his palm. Wukong runs out from under the umbrella without a second thought.
The vendor’s eyes pop at the gold and fills Wukong’s arms with food, fresh off the stone. He prances to a table with a big smile, the apple of his cheeks flushed from the cold. “I was given so much! It’ll take me days to finish this.”
Erlang clears his throat and looks at him expectantly.
“Oh right,” Wukong hands him a plate of pancakes, chopsticks towards him. Erlang shows him his hands, preoccupied with adjusting the umbrella against the table to fit two people, and leans forward with his lips open.
Wukong laughs, specks of rain jumping from his hair. “Careful, we’re already pushing it by sharing an umbrella,” he says with a wink, but he feeds him anyway.
He focuses on the chopsticks itself, making sure all of the fried, flakey mess makes it into Erlang’s mouth, and Erlang focuses on Wukong. The slope of his nose is less pronounced than usual, but it flares the same way when he’s smiling. His gray irises are covered with a brown film but his eyes still curve like crescent moons. The human glamor alters his features slightly, but Erlang could pick him out from a line up of faces. He could do it in a heartbeat.
He starts coughing. A searing spasm in his throat.
The umbrella shakes as he half bends over and Wukong pats his back. “I told you! I told you it’s hot,” he admonishes. “Where have you lost your ears? I said it so many times!”
Erlang wipes his mouth on his sleeve. His eyes burn with escaping tears. “Why is it so oily? There may be enough oil for my tongue to drown in,” and he coughs a few more times, trying to clear his throat of the scorching pain.
“It’s what makes the flavor!”
“Flavor? It’s just salty! And the inside is too chewy and sticks to my teeth,” his tongue prods around his mouth, still numb from the hot oil.
“Okay okay stop whining,” Wukong lets out a dramatic sigh, shaking his head. “I guess it’s up to me to finish the rest. Don’t worry brother, I shall overcome this adversity for the both of us.”
“And it smells pungent too,” Erlang grumbles.
“Oh you grouch, try something else.”
He presents him with a fried cake. Honey drips over it in a slobbery mess. Erlang’s lip curls back in disgust, “No, I will not.”
“C’mon Little Sage, just a bite?”
“If I get sick tomorrow—“
“You won’t.”
“If I do—“
“You won’t!”
“But if I do—“
“I’ll take full responsibility! Come on, it’s really good—oh, but, let it cool this time.”
Wukong blows on the fried cake before lifting it to Erlang’s mouth. His eyes are sparkling with innocent anticipation. He’s ignorant of the festival drums in Erlang’s chest.
He leans down, feeling warmer than he should in such weather.
“…Hm.”
“It’s good, isn’t it?”
“The sweetness pairs well with the salt,” Erlang admits. He doesn’t bother to try and take the chopsticks, opening his mouth naturally. “Give me another bite.”
Wukong giggles and Erlang frowns self consciously, snapping his mouth shut with a click. “What? What is it?”
“It’s just, well,” he interrupts himself with a snort and has to set down the fried cake. “Sitting side by side at an empty table, sharing an umbrella, not to mention I fed you by hand,” Wukong flashes a disarming smile. “If only I had glamored myself as a charming young beauty. Then people would think we were a couple. Wouldn’t that be troubling to you?”
Erlang coughs into his fist. “You trouble me enough, nothing else could faze me.”
“Hey! No more for you,” Wukong takes an exaggerated bite out of the same cake, right over where Erlang bit, and leans away to dodge his swatting hands.
“Oh wow, this is delicious,” his tongue darts out, smearing honey and spit over reddened lips. Warm. It’s so warm, Erlang can’t even feel the rain on his shoulder anymore.
“You missed a spot,” he takes his chance to rub his finger across Wukong’s chin, getting as close to his lips as he would dare. He’s lying, of course, but continues admonishing him anyways. “Look how old you are and yet you still eat like a child. Come here.”
“Just how old do you think I am?” he says, offended. “Are you insulting yourself too?”
“No, because I act my age,” Erlang says, brushing away the hair on Wukong’s forehead with both hands. It’s still wet but warm, slowly drying. Tenderly, he rubs away water with the edge of his sleeve.
“There.”
Wukong rubs his nose, ticklish and bashful. He glances left and right, attention running away from their little table and taking in the customers around them.
“Well, do you wanna go back to that stage later? Maybe they’ll have started another set!”
Erlang huffs. Peeved at the conversation change. “Not particularly, no.”
“Oh.” Wukong cleans off the plate and starts on another one. “Then… What about acrobats? I heard there’s a group stopping at the next village over.”
“Too excitable. I get drained just from watching them.”
“How about the—“
“No.”
…
“Sorry,” Erlang clears his throat to contain a laugh. The sulky look on Wukong’s face is much too amusing. “Continue.”
“No, I give up! Just tell me what you’d want to do instead.”
“I’d rather go watch a public execution,” Erlang says conversationally. “I heard they’re having one in the city tonight. A new thing that somehow involves five horses. I’m quite curious.”
“No! Erlang, I’m Buddhist!” Wukong throws his hand up in disbelief and knocks over the umbrella. He catches it before he falls, leaning over Erlang to adjust it before freezing. He grabs him by the shoulder to twist him around.
“Your shoulder, you weren’t under the umbrella?”
“I guess. It’s hard to fit two builds like ours,” Erlang shrugs. He’s forgotten about it until now. “No worries brother, since I’m the bigger man, I’ll make the sacrifice.”
Wukong rolls his eyes, “But if you grow ill with fever, it won’t be my fault right?”
“What do you mean? Of course you’ll still have to take responsibility.”
“What!” He playfully shoves him, pushing his shoulder out under the rain again, and Erlang laughs from his stomach. Tomorrow, the cold wetness will seep past his skin, bone-deep. The pervasive ache will rob him of any semblance of comfort and he will curse himself from yesterday. But today, Erlang rakes his eyes over Wukong’s shy, grateful smile and it’s all worth it.
Like tree branches, the candlelight shivers in gentle shadows against the walls. It’s quiet, only Xiaotian’s light snoring and the whistling cold being siphoned through a window crack in the air can be heard. And Erlang’s occasional drunk hiccups.
“You know,” Wukong finally breaks the silence with a yawn and a stretch. “I think this is better for the both of us.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re improving your paintings, and I’m getting better at sitting still for dreadfully long periods of time.”
When Erlang looks up, there are two Wukongs, overlapping. His eyebrows furrow and he blinks hard, and they slowly merge together. The singular Wukong laughs, “I’m excited to see this one.”
“Put your leg back,” Erlang slurs through his speech. He dips his brush into a rosy pigment, sweeping the color across Wukong’s entire face. He looks silly with how drunk he is, but Erlang supposes he isn’t much better.
His sleeve hits a jar when he moves for more water. The pigment spills and the blood red pools over the scroll. Erlang curses and wipes it with his sleeve, cursing once more when he realizes he wiped it with his sleeve. Wukong’s laughing doesn’t help.
“Here, let me-“
“No, go back to your seat,” Erlang hisses. “Just- just stay. Stay put.”
“Fine,” Wukong shrugs and leans back. “Not like it’s my fancy wooden carved tables.”
Erlang frowns as he gives up cleaning, satisfied with just saving the painting. “I’ll just get another one if it stains.”
The Howling Celestial Dog is awake now, observing silently and alert. Erlang is thankful he doesn’t need to worry about it licking at the pigmented water. Not because it’s well-mannered and would never lick from the floor, but rather its immortal-esque immunity would make licking anything inconsequential.
He uncaps his yellow pigment, wondering why he didn’t have it opened already, and dips water into the block. “You know if you cared so much about my furniture, you’d take your feet off my exotic hardwoods.”
“Ah but, it’s much too late to move now, Little Sage,” Wukong says with an exaggerated pout. “I would ruin the pose you’ve so painstakingly painted.”
Erlang rolls his eyes. “As if you would’ve listened—“
“Shh shh.”
Erlang stays silent for a few seconds longer, just to let the incredulity sink in. “I barely said anything.”
“Shh, let me bask in the quiet,” Wukong laments. “For once it is peaceful in my head.”
“I think that’s just the buzz of the alcohol.”
“Exactly,” Wukong says with a snap of his fingers. “Come tomorrow morning, the pain will intensify two fold because of the alcohol. I must make most of the benefits now before enduring the punishment.”
“You’d make for a terrible monk.”
“The precepts dissuade intoxication,” Wukong nods his head, convincing nobody present but himself. “I’m offending no one if a few sips don’t make me drunk.”
“Lying is also forbidden amongst your precepts.”
“I speak no lie.”
Erlang levels him with a lifted brow, “You’re clearly drunk.”
“What will it take to earn your trust?”
Erlang taps his chin with his brush. His eyes crawl along the spread in front of him and he dips into the still-wet ink, soaking long enough to gather enough of it before flinging his arm out. Some of it gets onto his sleeve as a black streak splatters on his floor.
“Walk this line on the tip of your toes without falling. Then I’ll concede.”
Wukong scoffs. “Really? I’m offended.”
“Whatever for?”
“You’re underestimating me,” Wukong says, but rolls onto his feet anyways. To his credit, he’s only a little wobbly. “I’ve fought with this much alcohol in my stomach, and I’ve won those battles too. Walking a line, it’s nothing!”
“We’ll see then.”
Wukong huffs with his chin held high. He struts to the end of the line that’s closer to himself and lifts onto his toes. He takes a step and immediately has to lift his hands for balance, face falling into something more serious and concentrated.
Erlang chuckles and covers his mouth when Wukong looks up with a glare.
“You could’ve made the line thicker,” he grumbles. Each step is painstakingly careful and unsteady, like his legs are actually stilts with the weight of palace columns. He’s barely halfway there.
The line curves the closer it gets to Erlang, and Wukong realizes ten seconds too late that his feet won’t cross comfortably from how he’s positioned. He still tries, as all good competitors do, before defeat trips him like a drunk man’s poorly placed foot underneath another.
Erlang kicks the table away and stretches his legs in time to break Wukong’s fall. He can barely feel the armor plates hitting him as Wukong laughs. Laughs and laughs. And Erlang can barely feel anything else but the vibrations of his laugh in his lap, in his arms, on his skin.
“Ah damn it, you overestimated me!”
Erlang grins and wordlessly brushes his fingers through raw umber hair. Warm, soft, a drunken sweet scent. He withdraws his hand with practiced ease as Wukong rolls out of his lap.
His laughter titters off as he looks at the mess of painting setups and alcohol. “Ah, I don’t remember the pose,” Wukong mumbles to himself. He walks over on his knees to check the painting for his pose, as if standing would be too much of a chore.
He makes an appreciative noise. “I’d have thought it’d turn out to be a mess. To think you can hold such a steady hand, I guess we know who’d win if we sparred drunk.” He carefully lifts the scroll, tilting it towards the candlelight to see better.
Erlang doesn’t see what he sees though. He busies himself with watching the light flicker on Wukong’s flushed face. The warmth makes him shine like the twilight sun sinking behind snowy mountains, casting a fiery orange to scorch the skies. Orange, a searing orange glow like hot metal. Like the skin of sweet oranges overripe for picking, a far cry from the muddy mixture Erlang procured for his painting. Any pigment in the world would look dead next to the real thing.
He doesn’t realize he’s been staring for too long until Wukong drops the scroll on the table, the bamboo clanks across the wood and slides into alcohol jugs, splashing bits over the table and barely not knocking over the entire thing.
Has Wukong been speaking? He doesn’t think so, but it may be just as possible for him to have missed an entire spiel as his mind wanders off to sunsets and ripe oranges.
“Wukong?”
“I- ah,” Wukong rubs the collar of his cloak, not really pulling it close but rather making an awkward aborted, jerky motion. “I should return.”
“You can spend the night.”
“No I—“
“You’re much too drunk to find your way. I’d hate to find you asleep in the snow tomorrow morning,” Erlang says with a laugh.
“I’m actually feeling quite sober,” Wukong says, clipped. “I’ll be returning now.” And he walks out the door without looking back once.
Erlang takes a nap when he leaves, right there on the floor, stewing in his failure to spend more time with Wukong. Sleep washes over him like a spell and the next time he blinks open his eyes feels like only a second has passed, but the dry tongue sitting like rotting fruit in his mouth and the morning sun streaming into the room says otherwise. The candlelight is dimming by the time he wakes up and along with it, Wukong is indeed nowhere to be seen.
Something cold pokes Erlang’s hand and he looks to see Xiaotian licking the red paint staining his skin. The floor and table is already clean but the hound is not satisfied as it stands on its hind legs to reach further onto the table, going for the faint overcoat on the painting.
Erlang lifts the silk scroll from the mess and unrolls it, curious how a drunk man would paint.
His breath hitches in his throat as the floor collapses underneath him.
Circlet. In bright, yellow pigment, in a sloppy but thin and delicate strokes, adorning Wukong’s forehead like regalia. His painted smile is smudged and barely discernible. In Erlang’s drunken daze, he had forgotten to leave it out.
The candle burns out then. Nothing but a hardening puddle of wax now. The last wisps of smoke disappear into the air, and Erlang can hardly breathe.
I don’t understand. Is his freedom worth the risk?
Are you afraid? His mother asks, stroking from his eyes to his hair.
Of course not. You’re dead. The Jade Emperor holds nothing over me.
She clarifies, Are you afraid of losing him?
Losing him doesn’t sound right. He’s not a misplaced trinket or something Erlang dropped on the street. It’s more like, I’m afraid of him leaving. And my fears bear ill fruit, he’s doing it already.
Yang Jian ah, a love like yours, it’ll never completely leave you. If the love is true, he’ll return, as sure as the wind blows.
“That thing tests the bearer’s heart greatly. He has borne it alone for many years, let’s hope he doesn’t fail at the last moment.”
— Green-Capped Martialist Journal
Erlang, Erlang wake up. I’ve returned, as you always knew I would. Warmth holds him like a hug with rough hands, Thank you for waiting for me. These years have been hard on you.
“Wukong…”
The name slips from his lips like a misted breath in cold air as he wakes. He mouths it rather than speaks it. His voice hasn’t come out in a while, as he sees no point in talking with a dog or a man in the mirror. Erlang drops his outstretched hand with the usual disappointment and shame, bouncing on the hardwood floors upon impact.
The dream leaves him aching and sore, his chest hurting something tender. Like forest fires, Wukong lived so fiercely and all encompassing, as if there’ll never come a day where he’ll cease to burn. Now all that’s left in his wake is a wasteland of Erlang’s heart.
And the wishful delusions of a desperate heart never does him any good, yet it seems it’ll stay ever incomprehensible for his mind to understand, plaguing him with endless fantasies as he sleeps.
He rubs the wetness out of his eyes and gets up, quilts and sheets dragging off his shoulder and falling around him. Erlang belatedly realizes Xiaotian’s insistent licking and nudging is missing this morning and walks to the window to peer out, searching for the large, dark figure of the hound.
Instead, he spots something taller, lighter, and achingly familiar, and his breath catches in his throat.
He’s a faithless man, is what Erlang’s always thought of himself. There’s no sure reprieve or award for a stupidly hopeful believer, just like how there’s no certain punishment for the wicked. He trusts Wukong, to a certain degree, but a niggling doubt forever sits in the corner of his mind, poised to strike at his weakest moments. It tells him his wait is fruitless, that all this patience won’t amount to anything but a broken heart and a shattered spirit. The only way he’ll ever be able to see him again is in his dreams. In his mind.
When Wukong appears in front of him, he thinks he’s dreaming.
His voice grinds in his throat, “Wukong?”
A ringing in his head, a grating dissonance tells him he’s wrong. The monkey approaches with slow steps. Shoulders back and head low, gazing at him with the calculating, cautious eyes of a predator animal. No humanity in those eyes. More object than human, more weapon than warrior. Not Wukong, but the Howling Celestial Dog isn’t barking, so not a malicious intruder’s illusions either.
So he’s real, very real, and he looks like Wukong, but he’s definitely not Wukong, and Erlang really doesn’t know what to do with that. Like the mirage of water in dry, hot climates, the visitant taunts him. Fate leers at him cruelly.
The monkey stops a good distance from him, next to where Erlang usually sets a fire for boiling. He taps his staff on the ground, not so threatening but more so awkwardly, as if trying to fill in the silence as Erlang continues to stare. He lifts a hand and gestures, “Here.”
Erlang blinks. “Yes, good morning.”
The Destined One’s eyebrows furrow a bit before smoothening out. He glances around them, taking in the environment as Erlang tries to untangle the mess of memories in his mind.
“Right. Sorry.” Erlang rubs the hilt of his spear obsessively, thumb straining from the exertion. “You’re not… You’re… Yaba?”
The Destined One eyes snap to him. He looks at him with a mix of amusement and sadness. He nods.
“Right. That’s right,” Erlang mutters. “I trust that it’s been no easy feat getting here. Yes, I see it now. I remember. Your ambition, determination, it’s quite impressive. I admire how far your loyalty goes for a dead king, but I suppose I’m no better.”
The Howling Celestial Dog paws the ground around them, nervously nosing the snow and making random marks. Erlang’s spear shakes, beckoning, and the hound whines. Its protest means nothing and the wispy contour of its body collapses into tendrils of luminous gold and charcoal specks. The blade glows with intent after it swallows the hound’s essence.
“You must be itching to move on. A shame you won’t even stay for a drink, but I know you didn’t come to keep me company.” His legs ache just from standing more than usual, but he readies his spear anyway.
The Destined One’s grip actually slackens on his weapon, his jaw dropping in shock before frantically shaking his head.
“What? What is that look?”
“Cease. Cease Attack. Cease Cease.”
Erlang shows him a wry smile. “Nice try, yaoguai. Sure you’ve made it thus far, but I’m afraid I can’t let you pass just on my brothers’ words. I won’t rest easy. Wukong will never forgive me if I slacken my resolve now.”
Seeing as the Destined One won’t take the first hit, Erlang moves instead. He usually won’t attack a man unwilling to fight back, but what other choice does he have? That’s right, this is the only way. Wukong had no choice, and neither does he.
Heavy weight slams into him.
“What are you-”
His spear slips from his fingers and he’s carried far by the momentum, crashing to the ground. The words die on his tongue as he tries to breathe around the impact. He tugs and kicks to no avail, the arms constricting him by the middle won’t let go.
“You fucking,” he wheezes. “Fucking idiot!”
He stretches out and opens his hand and the spear flies back with a sharp sound, yet the monkey still won’t move. He lifts it to strike but his arm spasms and he clenches his teeth in pain.
The pain climbs down into his chest, eating away his heart and leaving a hollow cavity, one that crops up now and then. One that would render him a terrible, useless mess amongst a heap of blankets.
“What are you doing to me?” Erlang says, voice trembling a little. From disuse. From disuse, not fear. The weight on top of him is breathing hard but resolute. The arms go impossibly tighter, resigned to wait for whichever fate Erlang decides for him.
Erlang drops the spear, arm falling to the side. The monkey on top of him waits a few seconds more before finally moving, shifting up and glancing at the spear casted to the ground.
“Damn it.”
The Destined One takes a glance at him, and then sits back as he pulls Erlang up. He takes a sleeve to wipe Erlang’s cheeks, little chirps falling from his throat. Whatever he doesn’t catch falls onto the clumps of snow that was kicked into his lap, leaving salty little divots.
Erlang whimpers and shoves him away, though he doesn’t get him very far despite his mediocre efforts. “God damn it all. What do you want from me?”
The hand returns, undeterred and cleaning the rest of the mess from Erlang’s face. Erlang glares at him incredulously but he can feel it, beneath the surface frustration, something cold, weak, and aching.
He doesn’t know how long they sit there for. The sky, the position of the sun, all of it is never changing in the mural painting, and his internal clock has long been broken. The Destined One stays ever patient, waiting until his tears subside and the congestion in his nose is frozen stuck by the cold. Erlang rubs his nose and glances miserably at the Destined One, out of ideas of ways to prompt him for a reply.
Looking at him arouses a sense of eeriness, like Erlang’s in an illusion spell and he knows it but can’t pinpoint all the differences of the mimicry, but there’s familiarity, like he’s known him in a dream. His clone has spent a long time with him after all.
“Stupid clone,” he curses, head dropping to the Destined One’s shoulder. The hands move to his hair, weaving through long, clumped strands. He reaches for them, holding the lithe fingers around his head. They’re like Wukong’s, but there’s scars missing and new marks he doesn’t recognize, or maybe he does? It all tangled in an incomprehensible knot in his chest.
The hand slips from Erlang’s grip. A finger taps his closed eye, the Eye of Heaven.
“I can’t. I can’t see,” he says, distressed.
The Destined One drops a hand into his view, gesturing, “?”
“It’s… obstructed,” Erlang tries to explain.
“?”
Erlang’s eyebrows furrow, his sigh coming out in a mist between his lips and the Destined One’s shoulder. “I pray I’m making no mistake,” he mutters, and the Eye of Heaven blinks, sore and aching and all.
The wind picks up, guiding Wukong’s memories out. Smoke flies around the air in a frenzy, descending upon them like a swarm of locusts.
“Wukong.” Erlang grabs him and he sags in response, legs limp as he’s held up by his middle. He sees Erlang’s complicated expression but he can’t stop laughing, his head cranes back with breaths of sweet wine huffing into the air.
“Wukong!”
“You knew, you knew,” he says breathlessly. “You knew!” He really can’t stop laughing. “All this time you’ve always known, all this time!” The corners of his eyes are a bit wet.
Erlang covers his third eye with a guilty face, his face red from the cold and flushing deeper with shame, embarrassment, something of the like.
“Damn it,” Wukong sighs, sliding to the ground and palming his forehead. Another terrible pang throbs, barely masked by the alcohol. “I don’t know why I thought you wouldn’t… of course you’d be able to see it. All this time… and here I thought I was hiding it so well. That’s right. You can see it, can’t you? Do you find it funny? Does it tickle you, perhaps, every time you see me, this damned thing tightened around my head?” He grabs at the circlet but his fingers pass right through as if he were hallucinating ghost pains, but Erlang’s direct gaze on that empty spot on his forehead assures him he’s not crazy. “Was it funny, acting like you didn’t know?”
“Wukong, I…”
Wukong scoffs. “Personal circus monkey, you've always called me. I should’ve known. Did you chuckle every time you saw it? Did you run off to tell your uncle about my foolishness, just a fool fraternizing with a man I thought to be my brother?” He lifts his head and the rest dies in his throat.
Erlang’s breathing hard, bloody indents around the Eye of Heaven from where his nails were, as if trying to dig it out. The armor plate he hasn’t taken off only further constricts his breathing as he works himself up to a tizzy, and Wukong bites his lip.
“Sorry. It’s- it’s not your fault, it’s just… I thought nobody knew. I suppose I didn’t want anyone to know either but,” he laughs humorlessly. “I wish you had told me, instead of acting ignorant.”
Erlang crumbles to his knee in front of him, shaking hands reaching for his face. Wukong tilts away from his touch and Erlang breaks impossibly further.
“It hurts, Erlang.” Mountains flatten with time and even stone dents under water. “It hurts so dreadfully.”
He doesn’t have the strength to push away as Erlang pulls him into his arms.
He expects it, Erlang’s fury.
“You’ll kill yourself over this?”
“Nonsense. I’m only freeing myself.”
“Is this life really so wretched that you’d rather stake everything on such a perilous plan?”
Wukong doesn’t reply instantly. He takes a moment to rub the carved details of his cup, watching the tea leaves dance serenely on the surface. They haven’t shared wine for a long time now, Erlang having banned it after finding him face down in dried retch and two days into a drunken coma.
“We became sworn brothers because we share ideals that are drastically different from most of the court,” Wukong says, tone much steadier and calmer than he feels. “Even so, I fear we will never understand each other entirely.”
Bright, hot anger flushes Erlang’s face.
“You prefer your bestial life on that mountain, living with your subhuman kind,” he spits. “I suppose you’re right then. I’ll never understand you.”
Wukong looks at him with cheerless eyes. Erlang doesn’t give him another glance as he storms out.
When Erlang comes to find him a few days later, panicked desperation tucked under a thin layer of stoicism, Wukong takes advantage of it. It’s not an entirely unreasonable request, but based off Erlang’s response to his plan, he may be more averse to the idea than Wukong thought.
“I understand if you refuse. I don’t wish to beleaguer you with this.”
“No. I’ll do it.”
Wukong looks at him in surprise. Erlang frowns, breaking eye contact.
“Really?”
“Of course. If not me, who else can do it without arousing suspicion from the court?” He says so but he still looks wry, not understanding. That’s alright, Wukong doesn’t need him to understand.
He says with a laugh, “Right as always, brother.”
Erlang doesn’t stay for long. Quick and messy, his spear leaves Wukong’s chest with a wet noise. His face is frozen solid, just like those statues Wukong still swipes from temple shrines. And, maybe he’s known him for too long, or maybe he’s only imagining it, but the deep-set regretful anguish clings to his body like spider silk. There’s a brief hysteria in Wukong’s mind, a rush of words fill his head but won’t leave his mouth as he tries to speak everything left on his tongue, just in case this doesn’t work out and they never meet again.
But the panic quells and Wukong settles, the heaving in his chest slowing as much as it can. Erlang releases his shoulder, where he was holding as leverage to pull out his spear.
He flies back as the rest of the party joins, leaving Wukong alone in the spotlight. His eyes shift up with his head still lowered, shifting across the army of celestial warriors and yaoguai alike. He’s made quite the number of enemies in this lifetime. He scoffs. They’re here in case Erlang can’t finish the job, but really, how many of them would ever hope to stand against the Great Sage if he decides to start fighting?
Only Erlang can. Only Erlang.
They’ve done a good job.
For the first time in years, Wukong can think clearly. His thoughts ring loud and comprehensible. The circlet, it still hurts, but the stinging agony dripping from the open wounds where his viscera meets air hurts louder, clearing his mind from the fog of pain.
After this, Erlang will probably be celebrated. Another one of those smothering banquets that drives him mad will be thrown in his honor, and Wukong won’t be there. He’ll be accompanied by that Howling Celestial Dog and his other yaoguai brothers, of which he has plenty, as he drinks and paints, and Wukong won’t be there. He wonders just how much of a gap he would leave in his life, and if it’d be wide enough to notice.
He wants to apologize for inconveniencing him with this, but the party has arrived, and Erlang is too far away to hear him.
The Destined One gasps as he’s torn through, skin ripping and stitching together as he lands head first in another memory, but this one, he’s watching from the sidelines. The disjointed memories make his head hurt, like he’s trying to read a book with chapters of pages torn out.
No. Erlang’s voice sounds in his head, or from around the room. Yes, Erlang. That’s the name. This is…
The Destined One looks around for him, but there’s no source to the voice to be found. In fact, he can’t even see his own body, like he’s a floating spectre who only exists unless proven otherwise. Instead, he sees Maitreyabuddha character from the game. he makes the mural painting that erlang's hidden boss stays in.
The chubby hand grasps tightly a brush, strokes lining an unfinished mural that has already been completed in the Destined One’s memory.
“It’s a lovely painting.”
Erlang walks in. Not the shaky, splintered man with atrophied muscles he met just now, or the weary, softhearted warrior with a spiteful tongue he’s known. Someone in between.
No, no this one’s mine-
Maitreya doesn’t look back to greet Erlang. “I knew you would come.”
Erlang bows his head, a fist against his palm. Strands of oily hair drape around his face. “Your wisdom is unparalleled, Venerable One. You must have foreseen this day back on Mouth Huaguo. Therefore, I beseech you, please, relieve me of my inner turmoil.”
Stop.
“Since your turmoil stem from Sun Wukong, he should be the one to answer them.”
“He is dead,” the Sacred Divinity says, his voice faltering as if unwilling to utter the word.
Enough.
The Destined One tumbles through the floor, his unseen body ripping and forming once more.
They land back in the snow. The Destined One blinks at the sky, unminding of the bright sun in his eyes, phantom pain tickling his head. Sitting up, snow slides from his cuirass. He’s wearing familiar-foreign armour. Gold and wealthy unlike anything he's worn before in this life. He casts one glance at it before moving on, continuing to blink at Erlang.
The man keeps his head down, a hand on his chest and another on his head as he breathes hard and fast.
“Put on the circlet,” he decides, hands scrambling to grab his. For the first time in 500 years, Erlang breaks.
The Destined One makes a questioning noise in the back of his throat.
Erlang lifts his head, glaring at him with renewed emotion. The Destined One almost jolts back, but the hold on his hand is tight. “Put on the circlet,” he implores, eyes wild and unreasonable. “I can’t lose another.”
He wants Wukong still, yes, but what will happen if they succeed? Will Wukong really come back? Would it even truly be him again? What if something goes wrong, and they’re both gone, and Erlang is left with a husk that only holds the residue of their nature, and he’ll forever lap at the dregs on a dried river bank like a famished dog? Just the thought makes his head spin.
“Cease.”
“Please, please,” his hands scramble higher, nicking himself on sharp armour edges and tangling blood into cold, wet fur.
The Destined One grunts as he struggles to keep balance on frigid palms. “Cease.”
“Just kill me.” Erlang’s crying. He hasn’t cried in a long time. Humiliation burns his face as the tears keep streaming. It’s humiliation, like a criminal led through a village in chains. Except there’s no chains here or village. There’s just the Destined One, and somehow that’s worse than it happening in front of a live audience of villagers. “If you won’t listen then just kill me.”
“Cease.”
“I don’t- it will—” His tongue waggles dry and useless in his mouth, tripping over like pigs in mud. “I won’t survive it anyway.”
He falls forwards when the Destined One yanks away, the sharp temperature change almost burns his hands. The Destined One’s hands shake on his sides, making aborted motions again and again until he gives up and lets them hang loose.
Warm palms burn something different on Erlang’s cheeks, pulling him close. Chapped lips touch over his third eye, which is still blinking disoriented from five centuries of neglect. He’s smiling when he pulls away. A little reassuring, a little wry, and a little tender.
Erlang’s mouth gapes, “Wu-”
The Destined One stands, picking up his staff as he walks away without missing a beat. He rips a tear in the painting as he leaves, a large opening for Erlang to follow. He sits there for a long time. Long enough for Xiaotian to trickle out of his spear and poke him with its nose, whining high in distress at the statuesque man with frosted skin and heavy hair. Then, he takes the silent offer. Mountains flatten and stones dent, Erlang never claimed to be any stronger.
“Immortality? It’s not for me.”
— The Great Sage’s Broken Shell Journal
First, there was nothing. Then he came to be, in a burst of smoke and shrill humming in his blood, he came to be.
The world was muted at first, like someone had wrapped layers of shawls over his head to dull his senses, but he still moved fast enough. Strong enough. Like muscle memory, though there were no such memories in his mind.
When he accepted the task to resurrect their dead King, the duty of a Destined One, he accepted it with the same automated resignation he had used throughout his entire life. He wasn’t excited or honoured or scared because the track record of his predecessors didn’t bode well. He wasn’t much at all.
The old monkeycharacter in game who tries to put the circlet on the destined one after the final boss fight. whether the destined one refuses or not is the difference between getting the normal or true ending patted his head, smoothing down the wind-bristled fur with a gentleness only becoming of a loving nurturer. The willow staff in his hands was carved and sanded down with care, and in the old monkey’s eyes, therein lied the bittersweet reluctance of an attached farmer butcher. “When you grow tired on your journey, come home often to rest. I’ll be here, always.” But the Destined One didn’t tire. He fought, he killed, he prayed, and he didn't think about the old monkey or any of the other monkeys back on Mount Huaguo. Not once.
Then he met him. A striking, elegant man in white robes, floating like a ghost in the misty marsh that the Destined One had been blowing through like a boulder rolling downhill.
He felt it in his bones. The bloom in his chest like a flower greeting the spring sun, the mad beating like a stampede of wild horses in his heart. The next breath he took fills his head with fresh, clean air, like he’d been breathing wrong his entire life until this moment. Pieces click into place and for the first time, ever, the Destined One wondered. The man hadn’t turned around, but he wondered if he'd forgotten something important. Or more like, if he’d been anticipating something to happen, something that should’ve been happening and he knew it like he was there when the gods weaved their fate strands, intertwining them together and striking chords down the loops.
His heart beated out of control. The brief magic was gone and he was left wondering if he was dying. If his body was bursting with little fireworks because it was warning him in a last ditch effort to save himself. Maybe he was poisoned. Maybe it was a seduction spell, common amongst weaker or meanspirited yaoguais with human glamours.
The Destined One snapped out of it, realizing this must’ve been the seduction of an ancient fox spirit. Without another thought, like how he’d functioned for most of his life, he rushed the yaoguai with the intent to bash its head in with his staff.
It turned around as it dodged and the Destined One thought—this must be the most dangerous fox in the world, because who could ever resist such beauty?
But it was no yao, he came to realize. The man was an immortal warrior, hailing from far north under the orders of the Celestial Court, and this all rooted inside the Destined One’s memory like the wind dropping foreign seeds in fresh soil. Immortal… sounded like a long time. The Destined One thought he didn’t have enough going for him to need such a long time, and that a short life would be enough for him.
The immortal man was a prude. Annoying, talked at him too much, and a worrywart to boot. Now, the Destined One wonders how much of this is his own opinion and how much comes from Wukong’s memory. The man stuck around like flies on dried honey, but the Destined One found that he didn’t mind the company.
With every curio, he grew more conscious of the world. He was in wonder at re-experiencing old patterns he used to perform without a second thought—like crossing a river on almost-perfectly formed stepping stones, or bumping into round blushing fruits as he harvested them from a branch. Living in the world outside of Mount Huaguo filled his mind with wonders. The tumultuous curvature of mountain planes glittering with golden dust was awe inspiring, but so was the texture of bark under his fingers, and so was the fruit juice running down his chin and leaving a sweet residue, like a sticky kiss.
And in the middle of all of this, the man remained. He humored the Destined One’s curiosity, explaining simple concepts with irritated sighs but explaining nonetheless. He reshaped along with the Destined One’s body. Everytime he absorbed a new curio was like meeting a new version of him, or perhaps, more like, delving past a deeper layer. What would he look like when he was complete? Would he reach the core of his soul? The Destined One shakes. In the midst of this wonderful, beautiful world, he got to experience it with him.
But the curios kept coming. Pieces of his Majesty’s butchered body clicked into place within him, like puzzle pieces forming a bigger picture. He felt like himself still, but the lingering fear wouldn’t leave: ego death.
Somehow it was scarier than real death.
It shouldn’t matter to him. There wasn’t much he’d miss from this world, and not many who’d miss him in turn. Except, maybe, him.
But that wasn’t right either, the Destined One realized when he was staring at Erlang as he stared at a painting of his face on a different man. They weren’t the same monkey.
He saw in him something familiar, but everything else about him was unfamiliar. This gave him a sense of unease, didn't it? It felt unnatural, right? The Destined One saw it clearly when he knew what he was looking for. The half glances Erlang threw his way when he thought he didn't know. The anger in his set jaw and grief in his eyes. The excess fondness leftover for him, originally for another man he’d never met before.
He doesn't know what will happen when he finishes this journey. Maybe he will lose himself, what little of him he has will be squeezed out for Wukong to take place within this vessel. He wonders, in that case, would Erlang miss him?
A heavy hit to his stomach snaps him out of it. Water sprays around him as he crashes, splintering stone.
The Destined One drags his head off the ground, bleeding sluggishly everywhere from under his armor. Wukong doesn’t take the final hit. The king stands in all his former glory, face stoney blank but posture relaxed and confident as he kicks up his opponent’s staff and sends it back to him, like they’re only sparring and the Destined One isn’t fighting for his life.
He catches it and pushes himself up, feeling almost as helpless as when Erlang’s clone laid coughing in front of him, medicine spilled on the ground.
The old monkey’s watching from afar, eyes trained on the Great Sage’s broken shell. It makes his skin crawl. He watches their fight with the eyes of a butcher. Routine, bored, cold. The Destined One wonders if the gaze would turn to him if he dies.
He’s not familiar with death. He didn’t attend funerals on Mount Huaguo, his presence being uncomfortable and unwelcomed. He got in an altercation with other cubs his age as a parentless child with nobody to defend him, killed some in the struggle, and lost his tongue for it, but he didn’t remember the deaths itself. All the yaoguai he had killed, he’d been unfamiliar with, and their bodies faded like sand in the wind. The frozen corpses of the New West were long after death, gone cold with age. No point of reference, really.
So when Erlang’s body died, he wasn’t sure if that was what actually happened. He thought he might’ve still been breathing, but that may as well have been the fires pulsating the air. Heat, hot, yet the body was cold to touch. He didn’t know if he was dead, but he wrapped his arms around his neck and pressed him to his chest, keeping him warm, just in case he wasn’t.
In the brief reprieve of the shelter, he held him for a while, but it did nothing and he woke up to a true corpse. Empty eyes and slack face. Then he held him for a while longer, until the magic had worn off and Erlang crumbled to dust in his lap. For the first time in his life, he understood loss a little bit.
Focus. A rough voice rings in his head. Rough, but high, like his own if he spoke. He looks at Wukong in shock but the king makes no indication that he’s said anything.
Show me your resolve. What drives you forward? Prove to me you’re worthy.
The Destined One growls in frustration. He’s trying, by god he’s trying. Meeting the real Erlang, travelling back to Mount Huaguo, fighting the husk to complete his journey, it’s so fast it makes his head spin but it looks like a long time coming to everyone else. To the old monkey. To the Black Bear guai. To the Demon Bull King. To Maitreya. To Erlang, that tired man he left waiting in the Great Pagoda’s mural, who’s been waiting for much too long for the Destined One to just give up now.
Now, in the midst of the fight, he finds that he’s not all that afraid anymore. Though it's different from before, when he simply didn’t care. Now he cares too much.
No matter what Erlang thinks in the heat of the moment. The Destined One won’t give up what he’s been waiting on for 500 years. The toll of a bell reverberates within him, finality.
Desperation, grit guides his body as he strikes and pummels, and the Great Sage’s husk breaks with a grin. There it is. A circlet splashes into the water as the shell fractures into pieces.
The Destined One doesn’t watch as stone crumbles to ash. He doesn’t pay attention to it turning into golden luster and whirling around him. He doesn’t loosen the hold on his staff as the old monkey approaches. Gold light blinds him for a moment, seeping to his core, and it dissipates quick enough for him to whip around and see where to strike.
Our acquaintance beneath the Buddah proves our bond.
— Golden Set Armor
Nobody stops Erlang as he rushes through Mount Huaguo, hopping right through the cracked stone. An entrance, like the rip crack in his mural. The same domineering, unyielding footprint.
His pants are soaked up to his knees as he moves. The sun reflects in the water and flashes in his eyes. There’s the smell of ash, blood, and smoke in the air, not covered in the slightest by the fresh marsh. His heart beats in his throat as he keeps running, his legs screaming but his powers inoperable here.
He knows he arrives when the sun is at its brightest. A lone figure shadowed by the light behind him, next to an empty boat.
“Yaba!”
The monkey looks back at his name, or maybe just at the call. His face is carefully blank, blinking in a dazed manner and taking in Erlang’s person. He pants as he comes closer, gait slowing to a stumble.
Erlang wipes his mouth, and then his face, squinting his eyes at the imposing stature dressed in kingly armor. Now he’s unsure. His heart feels tender and vulnerable, displayed for breaking as he holds in tongue in fear of making a bigger fool of himself.
There’s no circlet, he realizes. A lump in his throat. A stone in his stomach. His heart on the floor. There’s no circlet, and for a second Erlang’s scrambling to proper himself for a third first impression.
“I–Forgive my impropriety,” he coughs weakly, ducking his head. “You, ah, I wonder if you’re a little confused. Worry not, uhm, I’m no enemy, I–”
“Cease.” A fist clenches in his line of sight and his voice cuts off immediately.
“Little Sage?” The voice is raspy, but so sweet in Erlang’s ears. His head jerks up and he gapes at him in shock, and the monkey speaks again, this time more sure. “I’ve kept my word brother, I’ve returned to you, just as you’ve always kept yours.”
Erlang’s lips tremble and he feels like crying again. Like some inconsolable child.
“Even though you almost lost it at the end there,” the monkey teases. His hand lifts to trace over Erlang’s chest, scratching lightly at his heart. “I must say, your devotion impresses me. I didn’t know you cared for me so.”
Erlang grabs his hand, clenching as hard as he can with an angry grin. “You’ve never listened to me. Not once, you damned monkey.” The circlet lies at their feet.
“My, God of Justice, your hands are so gentle,” The monkey laughs and wipes the wet tracks on Erlang’s cheeks. “A forest fire burns wild and unpredictable. Surely you didn’t think I’d lose this charm point of mine just because it’s a different lifetime?”
Erlang sighs, resigned and fond. He rubs the monkey’s forehead. There’s an empty space where the circlet used to lie, not even scarring from the tightening spell, but Erlang no longer thinks he looks odd without it. In fact, he looks perfect.
The winter was long, and it has ended. Spring looks different this year, like shifting landscapes and newly budding seeds carried over by the wind, but it is still so beautiful.