The Bitter Bloom of Shadows

by Skeletons_InYourCloset

Summary:

𝘞𝘪𝘭𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘱𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘢 𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘥, 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘴𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘦 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘰𝘮 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘳, 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘐 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳.

It started subtly, a tickle at the back of his throat, a faint, almost floral taste on his tongue. Macaque, ever the master of self-deception, attributed it to the dust of his shadow portals, or perhaps a lingering scent from a particularly potent incense. He was wrong, of course. He was always wrong when it came to 𝘩𝘪𝘮.

Or,

The shadowpeach Hanahaki AU you never asked for but always needed.

Chapter 1

The first time a petal appeared on his tongue, Macaque had dismissed it as a weird phenomenon. A stray blossom, caught on the wind, perhaps, alighting on his lips as he’d drawn a breath too deep. He’d coughed it out, a delicate, weightless thing, beautiful with its core a tender flush of sunrise pink that bled outward into a translucent, almost pearlescent gold. Its edges were a whisper of ruffled silk, a fragile perfection that seemed to defy the grimace on his face, before he spat the bitter taste from his mouth.

But then came another, and another, each one tinged with a faint, insistent blush of scarlet, clinging to his throat like an unwanted memory. It started subtly, a tickle in his lungs, a phantom tightness in his chest. He, the Six-Eared Macaque, master of shadows, illusions, and the art of subtle manipulation, found himself hunched over a basin, gasping for air, as a cascade of wilted petals faintly dyed a scarlet red tumbled from his lips. He stared at them, scattered amongst the water, their edges crinkled and sad, like forgotten promises.

It was then, in the quiet horror of the dawn, that Macaque figured it was a twisted joke of fate that he would be cursed with a disease so few got, and yet none could defeat. Of course, 𝘩𝘦’𝘥 get Hanahaki. The romantic, tragic disease of unrequited love, where flowers bloom in one’s lungs, choking the life out of them with beauty. Him. The cynical, jaded shadow. It was a cosmic joke, truly, that his eternal torment wouldn't be a heroic battle, or a vengeful curse, but a slow, floral death wrought by the very thing he fought hardest to deny.

He laughed then, a dry, rasping sound that turned into another cough, bringing forth more petals. This was precisely the kind of feeble sentimentality he despised, yet here he was, living it, breathing it—or rather, dying by it.

Yet, this wasn’t the first whisper of the blossoms. The true seeds of this floral curse had been sown long before the world went dark for him, long before the legendary journey to the West even. It would start back when Wukong began reaping havoc in heaven. Back then, when the flower fruit mountain had been a shared throne, a playful dominion—a home. The petals, then, had been imperceptible, a mere phantom sensation, a rare dry catch in his throat that he’d attributed to dust or a chilly breeze. They had first stirred when the Golden Light, the self-proclaimed Great Sage Equal to Heaven, Sun Wukong, began to change.

Macaque had watched, helpless, as Wukong’s red-golden eyes, once sparkling with shared mischief and joy, narrowed with an insatiable longing for more. More power, more recognition, more immortality. He had seen the frenzied joy in Wukong’s face when he stormed the underworld, taking his name from the Book of the Dead, declaring himself free from the chains of mortality.

Macaque had stood beside him, a silent, apprehensive shadow, as Wukong had crowed about infinite life, infinite strength. How that would lead to a peaceful life for the two of them. How it meant they’d forever be together.

He’d thought that’d be the end and they would get to start that peaceful life, but even out running death wasn't enough. It became all too apparent far too quickly that Wukong would always be running off, looking for more power, more sources of immortality. The one who wouldn't quit while they were ahead, constantly chasing a horizon that receded with every step. That was solidified when Wukong decided to take on the Jade Emperor.

Macaque remembered the countless times he tried to convince Wukong to stop and take a moment to really think about his actions—to think about how dangerous the Gods were—his voice quiet, unsure, his patience fraying.

"Look, Wukong, I get you're excited, I do. But crossing the Jade Emperor is gonna have consequences and— and you're not even listening..." He had tried to warn, plead, 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘰𝘯. He had seen the storm brewing, 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙙 the inevitable clash between an arrogant god and an even more arrogant demon. But Wukong, high on his ever growing power, his ego swollen with every minor victory, had merely waved him off.

It was in those days, as Wukong became deaf to his friend’s pleas and blind to his growing unease, that Macaque truly felt the first phantom stirrings in his chest. A faint, almost imperceptible pressure, like the bud of something fragile pushing against solid bone. It was the crushing realization that Wukong, despite the promises of a new life where they would live happily and freely, would only strive for power. That Wukong would never truly believe he was strong enough. He would always feel he had to be stronger. More immortal. He was so terrified of mortality, he went so far as to take his name out of the Book of the Dead for Christ sake. But even that wasn't enough.

Macaque had watched Wukong, once his other half, transform into an entity obsessed, a force of nature that cared for nothing beyond its own ascent. The truth had dawned on him, cold and sharp as a shard of ice: Wukong, no matter how hard Macaque wished for it to be true, would never love him the way he pretended to.

Macaque was Wukong’s best friend, but even that felt fake now, a title bestowed out of convenience. Wukong only truly cared for himself. So, obviously, he'd never be able to love Macaque the way he loved him. That bitter, unyielding truth, the shattering of a shared dream, was the moment the first root took hold, twisting deep within Macaque's heart. The moment his first petal graced his lips and he realized his love was truly unrequited. The flowers, choosing to appear then, were mere symptoms of a love that had already died on barren ground.

Even so, he tried to hold on to the connection, to convince himself it wasn't true, even as the world shattered around him, courtesy of the very power Wukong had relentlessly pursued.

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"𝗛𝗲’𝘀 𝗮 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗶𝘁𝗼𝗿! 𝗪𝘂𝗸𝗼𝗻𝗴 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗲𝗻𝗱 𝘂𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗳𝗶𝗿𝘀𝘁 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝗵𝗲 𝗴𝗲𝘁𝘀!" Peng roared, his massive gold wings flared, casting monstrous, agitated shadows on the rough-hewn walls.

Macaque, who’d been m̶o̶p̶i̶n̶g̶ sitting on the tree he and Wukong used to watch the sun set under before the king was imprisoned, flinched at the sudden shriek. He looked around, but no one else was present (other than a few monkeys who decided to use him as a napping post again.) Peng was nowhere to be seen, but even so, he could tell from his voice alone that he was angry.

He was about to write it off as a thing of his imagination before, Yellowtusk, never one for impulsivity, rumbled, "𝗬𝗲𝘀. 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗦𝘁𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝗠𝗼𝗻𝗸𝗲𝘆 𝗶𝘀 𝘂𝗻𝗽𝗿𝗲𝗱𝗶𝗰𝘁𝗮𝗯𝗹𝗲. 𝗡𝗼𝘄 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗵𝗲’𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗼𝘄𝗻 𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗹𝗼𝘁 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗖𝗲𝗹𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗮𝗹 𝗛𝗼𝘀𝘁, 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲’𝘀 𝘁𝗿𝘂𝗹𝘆 𝗻𝗼 𝘁𝗲𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗺𝘆𝗿𝗶𝗮𝗱 𝗹𝗼𝘆𝗮𝗹𝘁𝗶𝗲𝘀 𝗹𝗶𝗲."

Now 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 couldn’t be ignored. They were obviously talking about Wukong, but it made no sense. Wukong, Mr. Lets-go-take-the-Jade-Emporers-throne-I-don’t-know-the-word-self-preservation, 𝘫𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 the celestial realm? That had to be a lie.

But, he couldn’t deny what he was hearing. And considering the circumstances (being alone, out of range to overhear any conversations even with his impeccable hearing, and Wukong being trapped under a literal mountain) there was only one explanation: he was hearing the future.

It was an annoying ability, one he couldn’t always control (like right now) and was never able to fully grasp. One second he could be minding his own business, and the next he could be hearing a future conversation he’d have to decipher the meaning of or be reliving a past conversation for no reason.

Most of the time, he could choose when he wanted to hear the past or future, but there were times where he would unwillingly get forced to hear an unwanted conversation somewhere in the time stream. As annoying as it was there was nothing to do about it other than to A, choose to stop listening, or B, listen until he felt satisfied. Considering this had something to do with Wukong he obviously chose option B.

Sue him, he was p̶i̶n̶i̶n̶g̶ curious.

Peng, his gaze sweeping the gathered demons, narrowed his eyes on the figure cloaked in deepest shadow by the far wall. "𝗬𝗼𝘂’𝗿𝗲 𝘂𝗻𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝗾𝘂𝗶𝗲𝘁, 𝗠𝗮𝗰𝗮𝗾𝘂𝗲!"

Macaque stiffened, his tail twitching in agitation. It seemed he was a part of this conversation then. Just great. He squeezed his eyes tighter, trying to listen more intently. He could hear someone—most likely himself—shift, before his voice, a low rasp that barely carried over the clamor, sighed a response. "𝗜 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗸 𝘄𝗲 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗼𝗽𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀 𝗯𝗲𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝘄𝗲—"

"𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁’𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗿?" Peng interrupted, his voice rising to a furious crescendo that echoed through Macaque’s head. "𝗪𝘂𝗸𝗼𝗻𝗴’𝘀 𝗺𝗮𝗱𝗲 𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗰𝗵𝗼𝗶𝗰𝗲. 𝗜 𝘀𝗮𝘆 𝘄𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝗵𝗶𝗺 𝗱𝗼𝘄𝗻 𝗻𝗼𝘄 𝘄𝗵𝗶𝗹𝗲 𝘄𝗲 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲!"

The words, sharp and undeniable, pierced deeper than any blade. Macaque felt them resonate with the burgeoning fear and resentment within him, yet something fought back, a stubborn, buried warmth that refused to be extinguished.

That couldn’t be true. Wukong couldn’t be an enemy of the brotherhood. It wasn’t possible. Sure, Wukong might be a bit angry that he’s trapped under a mountain right now but that wouldn’t mean he’d…no. Wukong would never. It was only Peng being an idiot like always. Right?

…

It wouldn’t hurt to check though. Besides, paying Wukong a visit was probably better than moping—AHEM—sitting here.

Macaque stood (ignoring the displeased screaches from the monkeys who had been peacfully relaxing on him), ready to set things straight for himself before a metallic tang coated his tongue, a familiar prelude to the violence that tore through him. A cough, deep and guttural, wracked his frame, forcing him to double over in the dim quiet of his hidden sanctuary. It wasn't the usual dry rasp of a regular cough, nor the small tickle of small petals coming to bloom. This was something different, something impossibly delicate yet terribly real that 𝘴𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 at the back of his throat. He gagged, a desperate gasp for air, and then, with a wet, sickening pop, it emerged.

Not bile, not phlegm, but a single, pristine full fledged flower, crimson with his own blood, resting in his trembling palm. It was a grotesque, beautiful manifestation of the poison that festered within him, a physical testament to the silent, internal bleeding he endured. The sight halted the decision he’d been about to make, an indescribable dread overcoming him.

It was decided.

He would not seek Wukong. Not now. The blood-kissed petal was a final, damning sign.

After that he retreated even further into his shadows, into the quiet corners of the world where Wukong’s bright, obnoxious presence couldn’t reach him. He meditated, he trained, he even sought out new grievances, anything to feel something other than the deep, aching hollow in his chest that longed for a warmth it would never truly hold again. He told himself he hated Wukong, hated his arrogance, his blindness, his soon to be betrayal. He repeated it like a mantra, a desperate attempt to excise the lingering affection that was literally rooting itself into his being.

But Macaque, despite how hard he tried, was always plagued by the same never-ending song—a tempest of his everlonging sorrow. Every sharp intake of breath, every flutter of an unseen fragile petal against his larynx, was a bitter reminder of a love that haunted him.

𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘦 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘦, 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘢 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘯𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘐 𝘭𝘪𝘦 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘴𝘶𝘯 𝘬𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵.

The words echoed in his mind, not a whisper, but a shout from a younger, more hopeful version of himself. He saw Sun Wukong’s red-golden eyes, sparkling with mischief and genuine affection, heard the peals of laughter that used to intertwine with his own. They’d been inseparable, an unstoppable force, a perfect balance of light and shadow, chaos and cunning. They were supposed to conquer the world, not just fight it. They were supposed to 𝘣𝘦 the world, for each other.

𝗕𝘂𝘁 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗹𝗮𝘀𝘁𝘀 𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿.

From a shimmering shadow portal nearby, Macaque emerged, his expression a familiar blend of casual bravado and underlying concern. He’d tried so hard to stay away, to convince himself everything was fine, but in the end he couldn’t. He had to know how Wukong was doing. He had to know if what he heard stood a chance at being true.

"Yo. Hey, bud. I got you a little something," Macaque announced, holding up a large, succulent peach. A small peace offering.

Monkey King, pinned beneath the colossal weight of Five Phases Mountain, imprisoned for going against the Jade Emperor looked up, a flicker of mock surprise and delight in his eyes. He gasped, though his voice was strained.

"What?! For 𝘮𝘦?! You're not serious, that 𝘸𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘦 peach is for 𝙢𝙚?! Bud, you shouldn't have." The forced lightness in his tone underlined by a sarcastic shroud was a desperate attempt to ignore his current predicament. Ignore how for a split second he had believed Macaque was actually there to 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦 him instead of stand on the sidelines like a coward.

Macaque flinched back, his shoulders tensing and tail wrapping around his leg as he leaned back against the mountain imprisoning Wukong and sighed, sliding down to sit side by side with Wukong, just like old times. Before everything got so…messy. "Okay, you don't have to be so... 𝘺𝘰𝘶 about it."

"No, no! Honestly!" Wukong insisted, a forced cheerfulness in his voice. "This is exactly what I need right now. I'm trapped under a mountain but the Six-Eared Macaque brought 𝘮𝘦 a 𝗽𝗲𝗮𝗰𝗵. Hurray." His sarcasm was barely veiled, a sign of the deeper frustration boiling beneath.

A faint frown touched Macaque's face. "You know I'd help if I could." The words were genuine, but they hung in the air, hollow against the insurmountable power of the mountain.

"Oh, sure!" Wukong scoffed, his diminishing patience giving way to a cutting remark. "'Cause normally you just 𝗿𝘂𝘀𝗵 to my rescue!" The jibe cut deep, touching on an insecurity Macaque always felt—that he was never enough, never as powerful, never as essential as Wukong wanted him to be. He’d heard this before too, a whisper of the future, but hearing it here, 𝘯𝘰𝘸, having it become real… It was too much.

A tremor of irritation ran through Macaque. He stood up, the peach still clutched in his hand, and started to turn away. "Yeah, okay." He scoffed. It was obviously a mistake to come, he should’ve just stayed away, kept trying to convince himself Wukong wasn’t worth it—that he was fine, ignore these feelings—

"Well, it was great seeing you, 𝙗𝙪𝙙!" Wukong’s voice rose, laced with sarcasm and anger, cutting through Macaque’s thoughts. "Just run off like you always do."

The accusation struck a raw nerve, twisting the knife of Macaque's long-held grievances. Macaque spun back, his usual cool demeanor cracking to reveal the raw emotion beneath. "No, that's 𝘺𝘰𝘶! You're the one who's always running off! Looking for more power, more sources of immortality! You're the one who wouldn't quit while we were ahead!”

Macaque’s teeth clenched, his body stiffening as his chest spasmed with an uncontrollable burning. He barely resisted the urge to double over with the pain. He could feel it, the blossoms crawling up his throat, threatening to silence him. And they should, he didn’t want to say these things to Wukong. It hurt. It hurt 𝘴𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩. But he couldn’t stop, he 𝙬𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙𝙣’𝙩.

He was tired of being ignored.

“Not the Great Sage, he's gotta drag everyone else into his mess!" His voice, usually so controlled, was now sharp with centuries of suppressed frustration.

“You're not 𝘪𝘯 this mess! You're still free! Everything I did was for us!” Wukong shot back, his eyes piercing through Macaque. They were like mini daggers stabbing into him, twisting into his heart until nothing was left.

“You did it for yourself.” Macaque shot back, his voice cracking with emotion. “You’ve become like this... obsessive demon! I told you going against the Jade Emperor was a bad idea, but 𝗻𝗼, Wukong doesn't listen to 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦. He just does whatever he wants! 𝘠𝘰𝘶 put yourself here, not me."

The words hung heavy in the air, laced with bitter truth. A silence descended, broken only by the soft creak of chains in the cavernous breeze. Red tinged golden eyes stared into pure gold ones, both silent storms of devastation and anger.

Then, with a sudden, devastating fury, Macaque crushed the ripe peach in his hand, the sweet juices dripping through his fingers like blood. He tossed the ruined fruit away, its vibrant color now a pulpy mess on the ground, before stepping back into the shimmering darkness of his portal, vanishing without another word.

That was the end of the warrior and the hero, the moment the promise of forever shattered. And soon after the world went dark. Literally, for Macaque. He was permanently left behind. Nothing but a memory left to be forgotten from the Great Sage's tale. He was no longer the best friend of the great hero Sun Wukong, only the backstabber. The no longer loyal dog that had to be put down.

And that was how it was supposed to stay until fate decided differently.

In a flash he was back.

Revived.

But with that came a price.

𝘞𝘶𝘬𝘰𝘯𝘨 was back in his life, vibrant and heedless, still helping save the world, still oblivious to the ruin he’d left behind. Still oblivious to the silent, leafy death blooming inside Macaque, a cruel monument to a love that had never truly been returned.

He thought maybe being brought back to life, that being quite literally stabbed in the back (or more accurately 𝘦𝘺𝘦,) would allow him to be free from this cursed disease, but no. Life could never be so kind. Instead that betrayal seemed to make the Hanahaki worse. Instead of it being a slight tickle in the back of his throat, or a pressure in his chest, or even the occasional flower petal here and there, he was now constantly suffocating. His chest now burned with pain, his throat was hoarse and his petals had evolved into massive clumps almost forming full blossoms.

It was pathetic. And an undeniable, bitter truth that no matter what happens, what he tries to tell himself, he will always come running back to Wukong. Just the sight of him, a flash of gold in the distance, a ripple in the ambient magic that screamed Sun Wukong, and Macaque felt the undeniable tug. It was a gravitational pull, a cosmic joke played upon his very soul, pinning him to a past he couldn’t escape, a love he couldn’t forget, and a pain that festered like an open wound.

He’d tried to kill Wukong, even his new found successor too, to erase him from his life, from existence. He’d tried to forget him, to move on, to build a new life forged in bitterness and independence. But the petals kept coming, each one a testament to his failure. They were the tangible manifestation of his love, the proof that no matter how much he fought, how much he bled, his heart still foolishly, stubbornly, tragically yearned for the Golden Retard.

He coughed again, a deep, rattling sound that shook his frame. More petals, smaller now, drier, but still carrying that faint, tell-tale scarlet. He watched them drift down, a silent snow of his own undoing. And he knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that the ‘unsaid’ would remain unsaid. It was too late for confessions, too late for healing. There was only the inevitable ending, orchestrated by a love as beautiful and as crushing as the flowers themselves. And somewhere, Wukong would be oblivious, still basked in the warmth of his own golden light, utterly unaware of the shadow silently suffocating in the dark.

Or at least, that's how it was supposed to be. Go figures the kid would screw even that up for him.

Chapter 2

The void was absolute. A crushing, suffocating blanket of non-existence that stretched infinitely in every direction. Macaque knew, or perhaps merely perceived he knew, that he was here. In the void. He was, but he wasn’t. There was no ‘here’ to be. No light to pierce the darkness, no sound to break the silence, no sensation to register—not cold, not heat, not pain, not even the phantom ache of a phantom limb. He was a consciousness suspended in nothingness, a thought without a body, a memory without a present.

And oh, the memories. They were the only companions in this endless prison, vivid and relentless, flickering behind the non-existent eyelids of his non-existent form. They were the cruelest torments, because they were beautiful lies.

He saw Flower Fruit Mountain, bathed in the golden kiss of a setting sun. Wukong, all mischievous grin and bright, boundless energy, pulling him along by the wrist, laughing until his belly ached. He saw the quiet moments, too, sprawled on a sun-warmed rock, Wukong’s head resting on his shoulder, the soft murmur of promises echoing in the still air.

“𝘌𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘺, 𝘔𝘢𝘤𝘢𝘲𝘶𝘦. 𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘶𝘴. 𝘈𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴.”

The words, once a comforting pleasure, were now a corrosive acid, burning through him, over and over.

Lies.

All of them.

Because the eternity Wukong had spoken of wasn't with him. It was with a monk, a pilgrimage, a cause that Macaque had no part in. He had been forgotten, cast aside like a broken toy once the Monkey King found a new, shinier obsession. The bitterness, a gnawing, festering wound, consumed him.

The void offered no distraction, no escape from these looping reels of torment. With every memory of shared joy came the gnawing realization of the abandonment that followed. The slow, agonizing creep of neglect, the growing distance in Wukong’s eyes as he became consumed by a different destiny, a grander purpose that Macaque had no part in.

The feeling of being forgotten was a physical ache, worse than any blow his body had ever sustained. He’d felt it even before the end, a tightening in his chest, a strange, floral taste in his mouth, the sickening sensation of petals blossoming in his lungs, choking him with silent, beautiful despair. Hanahaki—a lover’s grief, a silent, deadly requiem for a love unrequited or lost. He’d coughed and choked on countless flowers, a private, agonizing misery that Wukong, lost in his divine calling, had never once noticed.

He roared into the void, a soundless scream of fury and grief, hands clenching at nothing, lashing out at the invisible, unfeeling expanse. He clawed at the phantom pain in his chest, the phantom petals that choked him, the Hanahaki Syndrome that had blossomed in his heart, each flower a physical manifestation of Wukong’s indifference, choking him even now in death.

Anger, a raging inferno, consumed him, mingling with a crushing guilt he couldn’t place and a profound, desolate sadness that threatened to drown what little essence remained of him. He raged at the world, at fate, at the heavens, but most of all, he raged at Wukong.

𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶? 𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵? 𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘺 𝙢𝙚 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴?

Then the memories shifted, darkening, twisting into the final, horrifying tableau. The fight. The ultimate betrayal. The rage that had flared within Wukong’s eyes, once warm, now a terrifying, angry red, tinged with that familiar, burning gold. He saw the staff, Ruyi Jingu Bang, a blur of crushing force, swinging down, again and again. He felt the impact that wasn't there, the shattering of bone and spirit, the defeat that was absolute. He saw the magic chains, binding him, dragging him, helpless and broken, to the precipice of obliteration. And then, the fall into this, this suffocating, timeless nothingness.

But before the fall, before the chains, there was the moment of no return. Something he could remember as though it happened only moments prior.

The air in the forest clearing had crackled with a tension that was almost physical, thick with unspoken grievances and ancient wounds. Macaque, fueled by a cocktail of burning humiliation and a profound, gnawing ache of abandonment, had listened, for too long, to the whispers.

They slithered from the deepest crevices of his shadows, urging him, demanding him, to make Wukong feel it. The pain. To tear down the walls of his blissful ignorance, to make him realize that Macaque wasn't just some discarded toy, easily forgotten. And the most potent way to make the Monkey King pay was through what he held most sacred: his oath. His fragile, mortal charge.

With a guttural snarl that tore from his throat—half pain, half pure, unadulterated fury—Macaque lunged from where he'd been silently watching Wukong and his new friends as they made their way to the West. His form rose from a ripple of shadows, forming less than a foot from the unsuspecting Monk Tang Sanzang, his clawed hand already outstretched, aiming for the soft flesh of the man’s throat.

"What the— 𝘕𝘰! Macaque, 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗽!" Wukong’s voice, a familiar thunderclap, ripped through the air, laced with a plea that Macaque, in his blinding rage, barely registered. He had spent too long watching from the shadows as Wukong moved on without him. The golden monkey’s eyes, in that fleeting instant, had still held a flicker of the warmth Macaque had once known, a desperate, pained hesitance. But it was a warmth Macaque was determined to extinguish. He didn't care about the Monk; he only cared about the pain he could inflict on Wukong by hurting his precious ward.

The staff, Ruyi Jingu Bang, materialized in Wukong’s hand with a resonant thrum, a golden blur intercepting Macaque’s attack just inches from the Monk. The force of the block sent a jarring tremor up Macaque's arm, but he was beyond reason.

𝘏𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦! the shadows hissed, their voices a thousand echoes of his own misery. He recoiled, only to strike again, a relentless flurry of shadow-infused blows, each one aimed at bypassing Wukong’s guard and finding its mark on the Monk.

Wukong, initially, fought with a desperate restraint. His movements were defensive, deflecting Macaque’s brutal onslaughts, his eyes darting between his former best friend and his master and new found friends. "I don't know why you're suddenly here but Macaque, please! Don't make me do this!" His voice was ragged, laced with a pain that mirrored Macaque's own.

But Macaque couldn't hear him. All he could feel was the agony of his own neglect, the suffocating knowledge that he had been so easily abandoned for these mortals. He lunged low, a shadow clone distracting Wukong for a split second, allowing the real Macaque to dart past, claws extended towards Tang Sanzang’s robes. He felt the coarse fabric tear under his grip, heard the Monk’s terrified gasp.

“𝙉𝙊!”

That was the breaking point.

The last remnant of hesitation, of warmth, of regret, vanished from Wukong’s eyes. His golden irises flared, consumed entirely by a terrifying, liquid red, tinged with the ancient, burning gold of his true immense power. A guttural roar, raw and primal, ripped from Wukong’s chest, a sound born of betrayal and a vow breached.

Monkey King’s staff—Ruyi Jingu Bang—became a force of nature. The first blow wasn't aimed to kill, but to cripple. It struck Macaque’s arm as he tried to pull away from the Monk, a sickening crack echoing through the clearing as his ulna snapped, the limb going instantly limp. Macaque cried out, a high-pitched shriek of agony, but the shadows in his mind screamed louder.

𝙂𝙚𝙩 𝙧𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙣𝙜𝙚! 𝙃𝙚 𝙝𝙪𝙧𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪! 𝘽𝙪𝙧𝙣 𝙝𝙞𝙢! 𝘿𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙤𝙮!

Before Macaque could even register the pain, the staff swung again, a wide, sweeping arc that caught him squarely in the chest. He felt ribs splinter, the wind forcefully knocked from his lungs as he was sent sprawling through the air, a broken ragdoll, to crash against the base of a gnarled tree. He coughed, a thin spray of blood misting the air, but scrambled to his feet, powered by pure, unadulterated pain and the relentless goading of his shadows.

He met Wukong's offensive stance with a flurry of swift, brutal strikes, each one aimed to wound, to break, to remind Wukong of the power he had cast aside. And as he fought, a strange, acrid taste filled his mouth. He choked, a sudden, desperate cough escaping his lips, and felt something soft and papery caught in his throat. White, sickly-sweet petals.

𝘕𝘰, 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘸.

He fought them back, gagging, the unwanted sensation adding to the chaotic torment of the moment. He tried to swallow, to clear his restricted airway, but more flowers seemed to bloom, pressing against his windpipe.

Wukong, noticing his guard was down, descended upon him, a vengeful god. There was no more pleading, no more hesitation. Only a brutal, efficient fury. The staff became a blur of crushing force, swinging down, again and again. Macaque parried with his good arm, tried to dodge, but Wukong was faster, stronger, his rage an unstoppable tide.

A blow glanced off Macaque's temple, sending dazzling sparks of white-hot pain exploding behind his eyes, disorienting him. He stumbled, and the staff slammed into his knee, a sound of crushed bone resonating through the forest that sent a shockwave of agony straight up his spine. Macaque's leg twisted at an unnatural angle, his knee screaming in protest, but he wouldn't fall. He 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵 fall. He was a broken thing, but he would not yield.

Wukong didn't stop.

He hooked the staff under Macaque’s good arm as he was distracted by the pain, tossing him like a sack of grain, sending him slamming into the rocky ground several yards away. Macaque’s head bounced hard, his skull reverberating with the force. He tasted blood, metallic and hot, on his tongue. His vision swam, tinged with red, and the flowers in his throat seemed to multiply, thick and cloying. He clawed at his neck, desperate to clear them, even as he tried to scramble back to his feet.

"Wukong! Enough! You'll kill him!" Tang Sanzang's voice cut through the brutal cacophony, his face pale with horror. He moved forward, his hands outstretched as if to physically restrain his disciple, to break the terrible cycle of violence.

Wukong paused, chest heaving, his eyes momentarily flicking to the Monk, then back to the heap that was Macaque. His golden eyes, now softening, were wide with a desperate plea. “He's right Macaque, please! Don't make me… don't make me finish this!"

But Macaque, a canvas of bruising and blood, was already pushing himself up, his broken arm hanging uselessly. He wasn't stopping. He wouldn't. The shadows pulsed around him, whispering tales of betrayal, driving him forward. He coughed, spitting out the flowers that over flowed his throat into a small shadow portal before raising his head to meet Wukong’s gaze. "𝘕𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳! You made your choice, Great Sage! Now feel the consequences!”

Wukong’s face hardened in an instant, his body moving to react instantly and deflect the incoming shadow with a blast of golden energy.

“Wukong do not engage! I will handle this from here!” the Monk commanded, his voice firm. He began to chant, his staff glowing with a serene, golden light. Intricate gold chains, shimmering with spiritual energy, began to manifest from the earth, reaching for Macaque and extinguishing his shadow.

For a split second, Wukong hesitated, his eyes flickering back towards his Master, his face a perfect image of how torn the Monkey King was between protecting and obeying. Macaque, battered, bloody, his bones screaming, tried to push himself up and take advantage of Wukong’s guard being lowered, but his limbs were unresponsive, his vision fading.

He could feel the golden chains, conjured by the Monk's chanting and Wukong's momentary allowance, wrap around him, binding him, locking him in place. He was helpless, broken, a bloody mess of fur and shattered bone, the constant choke of the flowers reforming a testament to his internal rot. His pain—his 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦.

Even so, he wouldn't quit. A tendril of shadow, born from pure, unadulterated rage, lashed out, slicing across Wukong's cheek. Wukong quickly stumbled back, his hand darting to his new wound. He looked down at the blood now coating his hand, his shoulders hunching and tail flicking with agitation. His eyes returned to their previous hostility as they rose to bore into Macaque.

"You just won't stop, will you?" Wukong’s voice was a low growl, devoid of any mercy, only cold, hard fury. Blood continued to blossom on Macaque’s fur, a stark contrast to the once pristine black. His breath came in ragged, wheezing gasps. His body screamed in protest, every movement an exquisite agony, but the whispers were a siren song, promising solace in Wukong’s suffering. He tried to scramble again, his remaining intact hand raking at the earth, his shadowy claws lengthening.

More chains of spiritual energy erupted from the ground, lashing out, wrapping around Macaque's broken limbs, binding him even tighter as it responded to his movement. He struggled, snarling, but the chains were too strong, too pure. They pulsed with a gentle warmth that burned against his shadows, sapping his strength.

"Get off me!" Macaque shrieked, his voice raw, his body writhing against the golden bonds. Even as he was chained, helpless, his shadows lashed out, desperate tendrils of darkness seeking purchase, seeking an escape, seeking a target. One managed to slip past the King and Monk’s guards, a sharp, clawed shadow raking across Tang Sanzang's arm and knocking his staff out of his hand. The Monk cried out, a gasp of pain, a fresh crimson stain blossoming on his fair skin.

For a moment, a flicker of satisfaction, cold and bitter, ignited in Macaque's chest as the chains previously holding him down receded. He had done it. He had hurt the Monk. He had hurt Wukong!

But before he could revel in that small, petty victory, he saw Wukong rise. The Monkey King hovered mid-air, a terrifying, divine wrath made manifest. Any hint of warmth in his eyes, any hesitance, any regret, was gone. Replaced by a cold, unadulterated fury that chilled Macaque to his core. His eyes, now twin pools of burning gold and angry red, were fixed on Macaque, not with recognition, but with pure, unyielding hatred.

“How… 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘦 you hurt my master.”

Wukong raised Ruyi Jingu Bang high above his head, and Macaque felt a primal dread, a fear colder than any shadow, rip through him. This wasn't just a fight anymore. This was an execution.

“𝗜’𝗟𝗟 𝗠𝗔𝗞𝗘 𝗬𝗢𝗨 𝗣𝗔𝗬!”

“WUKONG, NO!”

Then the staff plunged.

Macaque didn't even have time to scream. The world exploded in a searing, blinding agony. He felt not just the impact, but a sickening rip, a wet, tearing sound as the staff, with unimaginable force, tore straight through his right eye. The world went black on that side, replaced by an inferno of pain. He heard a wet, grotesque squelch as something crucial ruptured in his head, then an all-encompassing weight crushed his skull as the staff plunged directly through, piercing his brain.

His vision, what little remained, swam, distorting into abstract shapes of light and shadow, the sounds of the world fading into a distant, muffled roar. He felt his body go limp, the shadows wrapped around him slackening slightly as life drained from him. The last thing he saw, through the haze of agony, was Wukong's enraged face, hovering above him, a mask of cold, uncompromising vengeance. And then, his vision exploded into a blinding flash of white, then faded into the deepest, most suffocating black.

And then, the fall into this, this suffocating, timeless nothingness. The memories shifted, and he was back in the void, the phantom pain of his lost eye and shattered skull a constant, agonizing reminder of the absolute defeat, the ultimate betrayal.

He was stuck. Forever. The void offered no escape, no distraction, no end to the endless loop of his own suffering. He replayed every moment, every word, every lie, every blow. The golden eyes, the staff, the betrayal, the crushing loneliness of being forgotten. He had died, withering away as Wukong’s memory of him faded, replaced by the grander narrative of his hero’s journey. And the flowers, countless and invisible, still choked him in this meaningless existence, a constant reminder of the love that had been unreciprocated, the loyalty that had been abandoned.

He didn't know how long he had been here in the after life—the void. Days? Years? Eons? Time had no meaning. It was just an unending now, punctuated only by the rise and fall of his own internal torments. He was fading, slowly dissolving into the very nothingness that surrounded him, his memories becoming duller, less sharp, threatening to merge with the endless black.

And then, a whisper.

It was faint, barely there, like a ripple in the fabric of his personal hell. A feminine voice, silken and low, slithering through the void. It was the first sound in an eternity.

“𝗗𝗼 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗶𝘀𝗵 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲 𝗳𝗿𝗲𝗲?” the voice purred, sultry and low, yet with an undercurrent of something sharp and old.

Macaque’s non-existent form shuddered. He tried to speak, but his voice was gone. 𝘞𝘩𝘰’𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦? he thought, his mental plea echoing unheard.

The voice evaded his question, its tone shifting, becoming more persuasive, more insidious. “𝗝𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗮 𝗳𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗱,” it cooed, “𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝘄𝗶𝘀𝗵𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗽. 𝗜 𝗰𝗮𝗻 𝗳𝗿𝗲𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗹𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝘀𝘂𝗳𝗳𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗠𝗮𝗰𝗮𝗾𝘂𝗲.”

His immediate, instinctive reaction was distrust. Trust had gotten him here. Trust had left him choking on flowers and dying alone. He tried to deny her, to push her away, to retreat back into the familiar misery of his isolation. He attempted to build a wall of his own pain against this sudden, intrusive hope. He opened his mouth, ready to tell this voice to fuck off, but as if on cue, the void shimmered, and a fresh wave of memories crashed over him.

Wukong’s angry, red-tinted golden eyes flashed before him, closer, more damning than ever. He felt the phantom pain of the staff connecting, the searing agony of defeat, the humiliation of being chained, the suffocating terror of silent death. And then, the vivid, gut-wrenching memory of the flowers, blossoming in his throat, choking him, the bitter taste of betrayal in every petal. The chilling realization that Wukong, the one he’d loved, had simply forgotten him, allowing him to wither away into the blackness.

The endless, mind-numbing oblivion. The silent suffering. The thought of forever enduring this torment, with no hope of escape, no chance for vengeance, no closure... it was too much. The pain of the past, the futility of his current state, outweighed his distrust.

“What… what do you want?” he rasped, the words a monumental effort, a desperate plea in the darkness.

A low, chilling laugh, like the rustle of ancient bones, echoed in the void. “𝗚𝗹𝗮𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗿 𝘆𝗼𝘂’𝗿𝗲 𝗼𝗻 𝗯𝗼𝗮𝗿𝗱, 𝗠𝗮𝗰𝗮𝗾𝘂𝗲. 𝗜 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗮 𝗳𝗲𝗲𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘄𝗲’𝗿𝗲 𝗴𝗼𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲 𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮 𝗴𝗼𝗼𝗱 𝗳𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗱𝘀. 𝗦𝗼𝗼𝗻, 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗯𝗲 𝗳𝗿𝗲𝗲. 𝗔𝗻𝗱 𝗶𝗻 𝗲𝘅𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗲, 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗱𝗼 𝗶𝘀 𝗮 𝘀𝗺𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗳𝗮𝘃𝗼𝗿.”

Macaque’s mind reeled. “Favor? What are you talking about? Who are you?” He snarled, his teeth bared at the void.

There was a pause, a pregnant silence that seemed to last an age. Then, the voice lowered slightly, becoming almost intimately close. “𝗪𝗵𝘆, 𝗜 𝗮𝗺 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗟𝗮𝗱𝘆 𝗕𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝗗𝗲𝗺𝗼𝗻, 𝗺𝘆 𝗱𝗲𝗮𝗿. 𝗔𝗻𝗱 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗱𝗼 𝗶𝘀 𝗳𝗿𝗲𝗲 𝗺𝗲 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝗺𝘆 𝗽𝗿𝗶𝘀𝗼𝗻.”

Before Macaque could even begin to process the implications, to question, to recoil, the void around him shattered. A blinding, searing light erupted, and a feeling unlike anything he had ever known, living or dead, coursed through him. It wasn't the slow, gentle return of sensation, but a violent, painful rebirth that was a sudden, jarring return to a physical form he hadn’t possessed in an eternity.

He felt air in his lungs, the solid ground beneath him, the ache of muscles long unused. When his eyes snapped open, he was in a cavern, the faint glow of some unearthly light revealing ancient carvings on damp walls. In his resurrected hand, something cold and metallic rested—a Skeleton Key.

He didn't hesitate. The key, the deal, the Lady Bone Demon—it all faded into the background, eclipsed by one singular, overriding purpose. He had been dead. He had suffered. And Wukong was to blame.

With a snarl, Macaque flung the Skeleton Key away, letting it clatter uselessly against the stone. Freedom from the void was merely a means to an end. All that mattered now was the burning, unquenchable thirst for revenge. Wukong would remember him. Oh, he would remember him. And he would burn.

At least, that's how it was supposed to go. It figures the universe would never be so kind as to let him have the easy route. No, instead it had to let his consequences catch up with him while simultaneously slapping him in the face as it denied him his vengeance on Wukong.

Quite frankly, it was a bit unfair how his actions always caught up to him and Wukong's never returned the favor. At least he could say he 𝘥𝘪𝘥 manage to get Wukong to remember him. Even if the whole destroy him part didn’t work out. It was a small solace granted to him in his current predicament.

And what predicament was that, you might ask? Well, as it turned out some demons didn’t actually like it when you went back on your deals with them. Who knew?

Macaque lay knelt, pressed against the cold, damp stone of a metallic floor. Invisible, yet undeniably potent, ribbons of magic wrapped around his limbs, pinning him down with an oppressive force that stole his breath. It wasn't the searing pain of Wukong’s staff, but a dull, insistent ache that touched every cell, a constant reminder of his helplessness.

His new, resurrected body, still adjusting to the brutal return from oblivion, protested with every strained muscle. The air on the mech was thick with an ancient chill, tinged with the scent of dust and necromancy. Glyphs, intricately carved into the roughly hewn bone structures surrounding them, pulsed with a faint, unholy blue light, casting dancing shadows that made the open cavern seem to breathe around him.

Dominating the space, looming under him like a skeletal god, was the colossal frame of the Lady Bone Demon’s mech. Its massive, ivory-white bones gleamed dully in the dim light, articulated joints creaking with a subtly sinister hum. It was a monument to death and power, a stark symbol of the very entity he had so foolishly, so 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺, made a bargain with.

His gaze, dark and resentful, trailed over the immense structure—the towering ribs, the articulated spine, the impossibly long limbs that seemed capable of crushing mountains. He felt a shiver, not of fear, but of profound irritation. He had been so close. So close to his freedom. And now this.

Slowly, painfully, he managed to turn around, his eyes settling on the elegant, chilling figure floating before him. The Lady Bone Demon, a vision of pristine white against the chilling gloom, her form ethereal yet undeniably solid, her movements precise and deliberate. She held her head high, her eyes faintly glowing with the same eerie blue light as the mech beneath them.

Macaque chuckled, the sound strained as as he swallowed his nerves. "The staff. The city. You've been busy," Macaque rasped, his voice rough from disuse and the suppression of the magic weighing on him. He tried to inject a note of flippancy, but the effort was wasted; his words were laced with a bitterness that even he couldn't hide.

The Lady Bone Demon’s head tilted slightly, her expression unreadable, though the air around her seemed to grow colder, sharper. "Tell me. What madness overcame you, that you would forsake your oath? When did you decide to betray me?" Her voice, usually a silken purr, now carried an edge of glacial fury, each word a slow, deliberate chipping away at his composure. Her eyes glowed, an icy storm that crept underneath his very skin and froze him from the inside.

Macaque scoffed, a dry, humorless sound, ignoring the chill. Even pinned, he couldn’t resist a retort, a push against the invisible bonds. He raised his arms, shrugging as he said, "Listen, Lady Bone Demon…” he began, trying to shift, to alleviate the pressure on his chest, but the magic beneath him tightened, a phantom hand squeezing his ribs.

Her gaze, devoid of warmth or empathy, pierced him. She took a slow, deliberate movement closer, her body rising further in the air. "Have you forgotten who I am? 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 I am! I, who returned you to the mortal plane. All in exchange for such a little favor. That when the time came, you would free me, aid in my pursuit of equilibrium. But no." Her voice rose, not in volume, but in intensity, each syllable imbued with ancient power. One second she was in front of him the next she was a breath behind him, her lips a whisper on his ear. "With the first breath of a new life, you rebelled against your fate. Fool."

Macaque quickly spun around, taking a step back and glared, his humiliation warring with a stubborn defiance. He 𝘩𝘢𝘥 rebelled. He had chosen his own path, even if it had led him right back into chains. His own damn fault. "So. You want something," he stated, cutting to the chase, his voice still ragged but regaining a touch of its usual sardonic edge. There was no point in denying his actions now. The void had taught him nothing if not the futility of resistance against overwhelming power.

A faint, almost imperceptible smile played on her lips, a movement so slight it was more a ripple in the air than a physical alteration of her serene features. "I offer one more chance at redemption. Bring me the Monkey King and his protégé, and perhaps you will be worthy of my mercy."

As she spoke, a small, intricate object materialized in her pale hand. She extended it, and with a subtle release of the magical pressure, Macaque felt one of his hands free, enough to grasp the item she offered freely without strain. It was a silver compass, beautifully crafted, its needle spinning wildly before settling, pointing resolutely in a specific direction.

"And this is—?" Macaque began, examining the strange device.

"A compass of sorts. No matter where they flee, this will find them," she explained, her voice returning to that chillingly calm cadence.

Macaque’s fingers traced the compass’s smooth, cool surface. His mind, ever the strategist, was already working, weighing options, calculating angles. This was a reprieve, a chance to escape this predicament, even if it meant playing her game for a while.

"Convenient. All righty, then.” He pushed himself up, tossing the compass in the air and catching it as he took a subtle step backward. “Seems like they've got a bit of headway, so—" He started to turn around, intending to walk away and make his departure, to put distance between himself and this formidable, impatient demon.

But before he could even flex his muscles for the effort, the subtle magic that had held him snapped taut. Chains, forged of glowing bone and pure magical force, erupted from the very mech floor beneath him, coiling around his previously freed hand, then his legs, his torso, pinning him with brutal efficiency. They weren't solid, physical chains, but shimmering constructs of energy that nonetheless exerted undeniable force, pressing him deeper into the cold, unyielding ground.

"What is this?!" Macaque snarled, struggling furiously, his struggles futile against the unbreakable bonds. The brief taste of freedom was snatched away, replaced by an even more profound sense of entrapment. He couldn’t help but think back to when a certain Monk had captured him in a similar way and how that ended with a gold filled fury from a certain king. It made a cold, all encompasing chill fall over him, flowers begining to claw their way up his throat.

The Lady Bone Demon’s expression remained serene, untouched by his anger or his predicament. She simply watched, her gaze piercing, unwavering. "A reminder. It seems you cannot be trusted to willingly follow the path of destiny. But know this." Her voice dropped, a chilling, absolute declaration that echoed in the space between them, shaking the very air. "If you betray me again, one misstep, one failure in any way, I will erase the very memory of you."

Macaque froze, the fight draining from him, replaced by a cold dread that eclipsed even his hatred for Wukong. To be forgotten, truly, utterly erased—it was the ultimate, most terrifying suffering, a fate worse than the void itself. It was the absolute antithesis of his every purpose since his resurrection. He had died, a memory fading, and the thought of that happening again, permanently, utterly, was a terror he couldn't stand.

"Now," she concluded, her voice regaining its silken, commanding tone, "bring them to me, my champion."

The silver compass, gripped tightly in his bound hand, glowed with a faint, insistent light, pointing the way. Macaque lay still, utterly defeated, yet absurdly, a spark of cunning flickered in his dark eyes. He would play her game. For now. But the path to revenge, he knew, was rarely a straight line. And he had always been good at finding detours.

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Weeks later, the world groaned under the Lady Bone Demon's chilling reign, a desolate arctic tableau of ice and despair. The air crackled with raw, untamed power, and at the epicenter of it all, a titanic struggle raged.

Macaque moved with a deadly grace, his six ears processing every ripple of energy, every strained grunt, every desperate cry for hope. He had found the Monkey Kid, alright. He just wasn't bringing him 𝘵𝘰 the Lady Bone Demon. Not in the way she wanted anyway.

"𝘚𝘵𝘰𝘱. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘢𝘥 𝘨𝘶𝘺, 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘪𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸, 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱, 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯, 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘨𝘶𝘺. 𝘏𝘦𝘭𝘱 𝘶𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵."

The words, ringing with an earnest conviction that grated on Macaque’s soul, echoed in his mind. 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘬𝘪𝘥. MK. That earnest, annoying, eternally optimistic kid, had been the reason he was here, now. Fighting Wukong who just had to be the idiot he always was and rush head first into something he couldn’t possibly win and get himself possessed by the Lady Bone Demon.

"𝘐’𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘰, 𝘣𝘶𝘥." Macaque had argued, even as he knew there was really only one option left for him.

"𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘣𝘦 𝘢 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘳."

And so, here he was. A warrior. Probably going to die a second time.

The Monkey King, cloaked in an aura of frigid blue energy, moved like a puppet, his golden eyes devoid of their usual mischievous spark, replaced by the Lady Bone Demon’s cold, calculating malice. He lunged, a flurry of precise, powerful blows that Macaque barely parried, his fists clashing against Wukong’s. Each impact sent vibrations rattling through Macaque’s still-recovering body, making his bones ache in protest.

"You really think you can resist me?" The Lady Bone Demon's voice, distorted and amplified through Wukong's vocal cords, thundered, each word a hammer blow of psychic ice. "This is your destiny, little shadow. To serve."

Macaque gritted his teeth, ducking under a sweeping arc of Wukong's leg, his own shadow emerging from the ground to trip Wukong. The clone dissolved an instant later, but it bought him a precious second. "My destiny," he gasped, launching a barrage of shadow blasts, "is my own damn business!"

Wukong, now airborne, spun, summoning a blizzard of razor-sharp ice crystals. Macaque created a ripple in space, a portal just large enough to swallow the assault, redirecting it back at his opponent. The possessed King barely flinched, the ice simply shattering against his enchanted fur.

The fight was a brutal symphony of power and pain. Macaque dodged, wove, and countered, his six ears on high alert. He wasn’t trying to defeat Wukong, not truly. He was trying to buy MK time and 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦 Wukong, to find a weakness in the Lady Bone Demon’s iron grip. It meant taking hits he normally wouldn’t, analyzing Wukong's corrupted movements.

A sudden, searing pain tore through his chest as Wukong’s laser from his eyes connected, not with his body, but with an echo of his shadow, the magical backlash rippling through him. Macaque stumbled, a choked gasp escaping his lips. He pressed a hand to his chest, the phantom pain worse than the actual blow. A wave of nausea rolled over him, and a hot, tickling sensation bloomed in his throat.

He tried to suppress it, to swallow it down. Not now. Not 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. But his body betrayed him. A violent cough wracked his frame, forcing him to momentarily double over. His lungs screamed, his throat burned, and his body shook as he fought desperatley to get oxygen in his lungs. What was only seconds felt like an eternity of agony before it was finally over. As he straightened, a flash of vibrant color stained the frozen ground before him. A single, delicate, 𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘦 petal lay amidst the frost and shattered ice. He stomped on it instinctively, crushing it into oblivion, his expression a mask of fury and humiliation.

From across the crumbling battlefield, amidst the chaos of fighting the colossal mech and swatting away LBD's ice clones, MK caught a glimpse of it. A flicker of movement, a sudden, wrenching cough from Macaque, and then... something red, something soft, against the harsh white landscape. It was gone in an instant, crushed under Macaque's boot.

MK frowned, a bewildered furrow in his brow. What was that? A trick of the light? A stray piece of debris? There was no time to dwell on it. The Lady Bone Demon's chilling laughter echoed, and Wukong, her possessed puppet, lunged again.

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Weeks later, after the Lady Bone Demon’s chilling reign had been averted, after the dust had settled and the world had begun its slow, painful process of healing, Macaque found himself seeking the familiar solitude of his little theater, the creaking floorboards, the silence, and the smooth velvet of the seats a more welcome companion than any hero. He needed to think. He needed to plot. He needed to forget the inconvenient fact that he’d actually helped save the world. Save 𝘞𝘶𝘬𝘰𝘯𝘨.

The very name, even unspoken, resonated like a chime in his skull, sending a ripple of unease through his veins. 𝙒𝙪𝙠𝙤𝙣𝙜. A burning ember in the pit of his stomach, rapidly fanned into an inferno. A sudden, violent cough tore through him, wracking his lean frame. It wasn't the dry, dusty cough of the theatre, nor the lingering ache of a recent brawl. This was a deep, guttural expulsion, tearing at his throat. He doubled over, gasping, clenching his fists against the urge to scream.

Petals, vibrant and impossibly soft, erupted from his mouth, a sickeningly beautiful spray against the dark wood of the rafter. Their delicate fragrance, mingling with the bitter tang of bile and blood, was a cruel mockery.

Each tremor that shook his body was a testament to the agonizing truth: he couldn't stop. He couldn't stop loving him. It was a poison, a curse that had taken root deep within him centuries ago, twining around his soul, blooming even now in grotesque beauty. He’d died, he’d been reborn, he’d watched Wukong become the very thing he swore he’d never be, he’d seen the casual cruelty in his eyes, felt the searing pain of his betrayal, the crushing weight of his indifference. He’d suffered, he’d plotted, he’d 𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥. And yet…

Another wrenching cough, more petals, some flecked with a faint, rusty red that spoke of shredded capillaries. The sheer, infuriating 𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘺 of it. To be bound by this pathetic, unreciprocated agony. It wasn’t just the pain of unrequited love that choked him; it was the searing, bitter anger that he still 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘵 it. After everything. After the attack on the Jade Emporer, after the betryal, after the Journey, after his death, after… everything. He’d promised himself he’d be free. He’d sworn to bury it under layers of shadow and resentment. But the tendrils of it still clung, stubborn and unyielding, blooming in the depths of his being, mocking his efforts to move on, to truly despise. He’d saved Wukong, yes, but only because his wretched, traitorous heart had 𝘥𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥 it, had rebelled against his very will.

Gasping, he pressed a trembling hand to his mouth, wiping away the faint dampness and the last remnants of the petals. They lay scattered on the rafter like fallen, fragile dreams, a stark contrast to the darkness around him. He needed to discard them, to erase their presence, just as he wished he could erase the origin of their existence.

He scoffed, stretching out on one of the rafters directly above the stage, head propped on a folded prop curtain, trying to ignore the lingering aches, both physical from the recent chaos and existential from the damning revelation that he was still, impossibly, bound. His tail flicked in annoyance, a restless shadow against the dusty air. His jaw clenched, his face scrunched up in discomfort, a grimace that held layers of self-loathing and fury. He should have never let those words get to him.

𝘉𝘦 𝘢 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘳.

The very thought was a fresh spike of nausea. He was no one's warrior. Not anymore. Especially not Wukong's. Not when saving him cost Macaque so much more than a few scrapes and bruises. It cost him what little shred of peace he’d managed to reconstruct.

𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘢𝘥 𝘨𝘶𝘺, 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘪𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸, 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱, 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯, 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘨𝘶𝘺.

Hah. What idiocy. That damn kid didn’t know what he was talking about. If only he’d just ignored him when he had the chance. Now it seemed MK, that earnest, irritating kid, actually thought they were 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴 or something. Thought he had to 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦 about him. If the way he was currently impeding on his solitude meant anything.

The scuff of a boot on broken glass from outside the theater had shattered the just regained peace and alerted Macaque to the prescence of another. At first, Macaque had stiffened, one ear twitching. Then he relaxed as he truly listened to who the newcomer was. He knew that hesitant, shuffling sound. He knew that voice huffing a curse under their breath.

It was MK.

MK, who was now standing in the entrance, by himself (thank the Gods,) bathed in the faint glow of the recovering city. The kid was clearly looking around for him, wanting to ask something, but not quite doing so, fidgeting like a nervous delivery boy.

Macaque debated letting the kid think he wasn’t there, ultimatley leading to the kid going home, before he let out a sigh, loud and theatrical. "Spit it out, kid. You're ruining the ambiance."

MK jumped, startled, his eyes darting up to where Macaque was resting, then winced. "Oh, uh, hey Macaque! You're actually here!”

Macaque raised an eyebrow, his face screaming he was unimpressed as he met MK's gaze. “Yup. This 𝘪𝘴 usually where I go to relax 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 from others.”

MK chuckled, the sound a bundle of nervouse energy. “Oh, sorry, I, uh..." He wrung his hands, his eyes darting around the theatre, everywhere but at Macaque. “Look, I, uh, get it, this is… weird. And awkward, and you probably don't want to talk to me about this. And honestly, I'm not even sure if what I saw was truly real, with all the chaos and everything. It was just, like, a quick glimpse, y’know? And then LBD was all… big and stompy, and I just had to focus, but it’s been bothering me ever since because, like, what if it was real? And if it was, then—”

“Just spit it out, bud.”

MK winced, his hand coming to rub the back of his neck in that nervous tick of his. “Right. Right, you're totally, uh, right. Heh. Uhm. Okay, so... I guess what I'm trying to say is… or really more 𝘢𝘴𝘬 is…” He trailed off, taking a deep breath and finally finding Macaque’s gaze, his brow furrowed with genuine concern. “Do you… do you have Hanahaki?”

Macaque froze. His heart, or what passed for it, seized in his chest. "What?” He breathed, the word slipping past his lips effortlessly as though it was forced out. “Don't be ridiculous, kid," he scoffed, trying to inject his usual disdain, to wave it away like a pesky fly. "Hanahaki? 𝘔𝘦? Please. You think I’d be caught dead with some sappy, lovesick ailment like that? Get real, bud. I'm the Six-Eared Macaque, not some lovesick fool." He crossed his arms, leaning back, trying to appear unbothered. “I just had a little dust in my throat from all the collapsing rubble is all. Y'know, collateral damage. Happens."

"No, no, it wasn't just dust," MK insisted, taking a tentative step closer. "You spit something up. It was... red. And shaped like a petal. And your face looked kinda green for a second too.” MK took a deep breath, sighing as he looked to the ground nervously. “Look, Macaque, I get it’s probably not something you want to admit but there's nothing to be ashamed of. It's a real thing. It's just... unrequited love, right? And it goes away if the feelings are reciprocated, or... or if..." He didn't finish that thought, but the unspoken implication hung heavy in the air. "I just want to help, okay? You don't have to keep pretending to be totally fine."

Macaque scoffed again, pushing himself up from his seated position and walking away from MK, trying to create distance. Help? This kid, after everything, wanted to 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱 him?

"I 𝘢𝘮 fine! I don't... I don't have unrequited love for anyone! That's just a silly fairy tale for softies. I'm a demon, kid. I deal in shadows and vengeance, not... feelings. Seriously. Nothing to see here. Go bother Wukong or something." He hoped his voice didn't crack, hoped he sounded convincing.

MK, however, was stubbornly not giving up. "But you coughed up a petal! I 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 that’s what I saw! And… and,” MK frowned, his eyes fixed on Macaque with unnerving intensity. “Wait. Who would it even be for? I mean, who do you even... 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 well enough? The only person I really know you've ever interacted with, or been close with, in any sort of... 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘤 way, was... Monkey King."

A pause. Macaque felt a cold dread creep up his spine.

"And come to think of it," MK mused, his voice growing more thoughtful, more deductive, "the coughing fit acted up when you were going against the Monkey King during the Lady Bone Demon fight. And even before that, there seems to be, like, a lot of history there. And some... 𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯. Like, 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 tense tension."

MK's eyes widened, a dawning horror mixed with a weird blend of understanding and disbelief spreading across his face. "Oh my God. Macaque. You... you 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 Monkey King, don't you?!"

Macaque stumbled, catching himself with a shadow portal and appearing in front of MK, playing it off as though he meant to teleport closer. "What?! No! Of course not! You have it all wrong, kid! That's... that's insane! He's... he's the absolute worst! I 𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦 him! I want him erased from existence! That’s why I tried to kill him!"

But because fate, it seemed, had a cruel sense of humour, and absolutely hated Macaque, a sudden, violent coughing fit seized him. It wasn’t a gentle clearing of the throat this time either, but a deep, racking spasm that bent him double, his hands instinctively flying to his mouth. The pain was sharp, agonizing, and for a moment, he genuinely feared he might suffocate.

He choked, a raw, wet sound. He gasped, trying to suppress the sensation, but it was too strong, too overwhelming. His six ears flattened against his head in shame under his glamor and when the fit finally subsided, leaving him breathless and trembling, he slowly straightened, his eyes wide with a desperate, hopeless fear.

MK stared, his own mouth agape. On the dusty, broken floor, perfectly pristine against the carpet, lay a delicate flower. Its petals were a soft, ethereal pink, almost translucent at the edges, unfurling in gentle, overlapping layers, each one perfectly formed. A faint, sweet aroma, like warm sunshine and fresh fruit, wafted from it, utterly out of place in the acrid theatre. It was unmistakably a Prunus Presica.

A peach blossom.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy, broken only by Macaque’s ragged breathing.

Then, finally, MK’s gaze lifted from the flower to Macaque's pale, horrified face. His voice was barely a whisper, filled with a stunned realization that shattered the last vestiges of Macaque's carefully constructed facade. "Well, fuck," MK breathed, then louder, firmer, "You really 𝘢𝘳𝘦 in love with the Monkey King."

Notes:

Ah, yes more angst my beloved. <3

Anyway,

Hope you enjoyed the chapter!! Kudos and comments are especially appreciated!

Chapter 3

“Well, fuck,” MK breathed, the swear word feeling foreign and clunky on his tongue, a stark contrast to the delicate peach blossom still lying on the dusty stage floor. His wide eyes, still glued to Macaque’s horrified face, slowly narrowed, processing. “You really 𝘢𝘳𝘦 in love with the Monkey King.”

The words hung in the air, a final nail in the coffin of Macaque’s carefully constructed indifference. He stood there, frozen, the peach blossom a stark, beautiful indictment on the grimy floor between them.

But MK, bless his unfiltered heart, wasn’t done. His eyes, still wide with a mix of horror and dawning comprehension, flickered between the flower and Macaque’s ashen face. “I mean, oh my 𝘎𝘰𝘥, Macaque! This is… this is,” he brought his hands up to clutch at his hair, then with the delivery of his next words flung his arms down in front of himself, “𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘦! Like, beyond insane! I know you two have, like, history—but 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴?!”

He threw his hands back up, taking a step back before walking over to the stage, sinking onto the edge with a thud.

“This is… this is 𝘴𝘰 shocking! Like, where is Mei when I need her!? I mean, you two are always 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨! And you tried to 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭 him! Aggressively! That’s, like, the opposite of love, right? But then again,” his eyes darted to the peach blossom, then back to Macaque, “maybe not? Because, I dunno,” he brought a hand up to the back of his neck, his hand rubbing nervously, “there 𝘸𝘢𝘴 that whole ‘hero and great warrior’ story you told me about, remember? You two, like, fighting side-by-side, totally in sync. It really did hint at some deep past tension, not that there isn’t still tension brewing, like, 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦, because there is. A hundred percent no doubt. And I guess you did help save Monkey King from Lady Bone Demon without much of a fight, but still! It’s just… it’s still so shocking! I mean, you’d never guess from the way Monkey King acts around you that he knows how much you still… care about him!”

As MK rambled, his voice rising and falling with his frantic internal debate, Macaque felt the blood drain from his face. The peach blossom seemed to glow mockingly from the floor, a beacon of his deepest, most humiliating secret. His six ears, which had flattened in shame during his coughing fit, now stayed stubbornly pinned to his skull beneath his glamor, a physical manifestation of his desperate attempt to shrink, to disappear.

His tail, usually a confident, expressive appendage, curled subconsciously around one of his legs, a nervous anchor. He couldn’t bring himself to look at MK, his gaze fixed instead on a worn support pillar in the distance, anywhere but the kid’s piercing, surprisingly perceptive eyes. He just wanted to dissolve into the shadows, to never be seen again.

MK, who had been standing completely wide-eyed, slowly began to fidget himself. His frantic energy seemed to pick up on Macaque’s radiating discomfort. A nervous chuckle escaped him. “He… he knows, right? Monkey King knows?”

The question hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Macaque didn’t answer. He just kept looking away, his shoulders hunched. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken truths. Finally, with a weary, theatrical sigh that belied the panic clawing at his insides, Macaque started to speak, his voice a low, gravelly whisper. “Look, kid, this is—”

“WHAT?!” MK’s voice exploded, a high-pitched shriek of pure disbelief that cut Macaque off mid-sentence. He had been so immersed in his own thoughts that he hadn’t even noticed Macaque’s subtle shift, but now, the lack of denial hit him like a physical blow. “Monkey King 𝙙𝙤𝙚𝙨𝙣’𝙩 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬?! You… you never told him?!”

MK shot upright from where he had slumped onto the edge of the stage, his eyes wide with a fresh wave of horror. He began to pace back and forth across the splintered wood, his sneakers thudding rhythmically.

“That’s 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘻𝘺! How can he not know?! I mean, sure, he’s like, super oblivious sometimes, not that I’m one to talk, but still! He should’ve 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘥! All that history, all that… 𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯! Unless,” MK paused, tapping a finger to his chin, a wild, conspiratorial gleam entering his eyes, “unless this is a new development? Maybe this wasn’t present back when you two were still… friends? But I find that super hard to believe, with how advanced the Hanahaki looks! Like, that was a whole 𝘧𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳! Not just a few petals! Not that I’m an expert, but Tang is! He told me all about it when I asked him what it could mean if someone coughs up petals.”

Macaque, who had been trying desperately to gather his thoughts, finally saw an opening. “Wait, you brought this up to Tang—” he started, a fresh wave of mortification washing over him. The thought of the scholar dissecting his personal, pathetic tragedy was almost too much to bear.

But MK was a force of nature when he got going, and Macaque’s interjection was drowned out completely. “Anyway, point is, I can’t believe Monkey King doesn’t know! Like, sure, he’s kinda not the most knowledgeable when it comes to emotions and can be pretty dense, again, not that I’m one to talk, but still! He should’ve noticed! All those dramatic fights, all the yelling, the whole ‘I hate you but I clearly care’ vibe! It’s so 𝘰𝘣𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴!”

MK’s pacing came to an abrupt halt at the edge of Macaque's personal bubble, who was still trying to look anywhere but at the increasingly frantic kid. Before Macaque could even register what was happening, MK’s hands shot out, gripping his shoulders. Macaque flinched, his ears twitching, but MK’s grip was surprisingly firm.

And then, MK started to shake him, his voice rising to a fever pitch. “We need to tell Monkey King!” He declared, his eyes burning with renewed conviction, completely ignoring Macaque’s wide, panicked stare

Macaque’s shoulders instantly tensed. His brows, already furrowed with a mixture of fear and irritation, deepened, pulling his features into a rigid mask. Without a word, he violently shoved MK’s hands off his shoulders, the force sending the younger stumbling back a step.

“What? No! Absolutely not!” Macaque’s voice, a low snarl, cut through the frantic energy of the theater. He took a few more steps back, creating a chasm between them. “Look, bud, I appreciate the concern and all, but telling Monkey King? Not happening. This is 𝘮𝘺 issue alone, and I don’t need help or want anyone’s opinions. I’m fine.”

MK, however, was not deterred. He pointed a finger at the pristine peach blossom on the floor, a stark, accusing spot against the dusty stage. “You’re 𝘯𝘰𝘵 fine, Macaque! There’s a whole flower to prove it on the ground! And Monkey King deserves to know! He 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘴 to know!”

Macaque’s gaze flickered to the blossom, then back to MK, his golden eyes narrowing to slits. A bitter, humorless laugh escaped him. “So he can what!? Tell me to my face he doesn’t feel the same way? Look, bud, you don’t always know everything, and this is definitely one of those times. Just drop it.” He turned, ready to melt into the shadows, to flee this suffocating conversation and the terrifying vulnerability it exposed.

But MK was faster. He lunged forward, his hand shooting out to grab Macaque’s arm, his grip surprisingly tenacious. “Then explain it to me!” he demanded, desperation clinging to every syllable. “How are you so certain Monkey King doesn’t feel the same way? I mean, sure, you guys are on tough terms right now, but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t feel the same. From your story, you two were pretty close, and if you can still lo—𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦 about him, then the same could be said that he cares about you! I just think it’d be worth a shot—”

Macaque didn’t let him finish. A raw, choked sound, halfway between a gasp and a dry, rattling laugh, erupted from his throat, cutting MK off mid-sentence. It wasn't a laugh of amusement, but of pure, bitter derision, edged with a terrifying, hollow madness.

The air in the theater grew heavy, the faint light dimming as if acknowledging the shift in the atmosphere. The shadows, which had merely clung to the corners before, began to stir, stretching like waking beasts. They writhed and pulsed, deepening the already murky corners of the stage, crawling up the support pillars, and weaving intricate, unsettling patterns on the tattered curtains.

Wisps of deep violet and midnight black began to curl around Macaque’s form, snaking out from under his feet and dancing up the crumbling walls. His smile stretched, thin and chilling, as a dark, almost maniacal shadow overcame him.

“Oh, oh, that’s a good one, kid. The Monkey King, the Great Sage, caring about someone other than himself. Caring about 𝘮𝘦! Now 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵’𝘴 a good joke.”

Macaque’s voice dropped, each word laced with venom, his gaze piercing MK as the shadows around him intensified, coiling around his form like a morbid cloak. Macaque’s laughter grew, echoing eerily in the suddenly oppressive darkness. With every word, the shadows coiled tighter, deepening around him, swirling like an agitated storm and MK’s nervousness visibly escalated, a chill creeping up his spine despite the warmth of the humid air.

“Let me tell you something, kid.”
With every sentence, the shadows grew more agitated, swirling faster, their tendrils lashing out playfully, yet with an underlying menace. MK’s nervousness escalated, his grip on Macaque’s arm loosening despite himself. “The Monkey King? He could care less about me. He abandoned me. He 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 me behind and then decided to 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭 me!”

MK’s eyes widened to saucers, his face draining of all color. He looked utterly horrified, his mouth agape, a faint whimper escaping his lips. The revelation hit him like a physical blow, contradicting everything he thought he knew about his hero.

“No… that can't…”

A chilling, predatory smile stretched across Macaque’s face, a stark, sinister crescent in the encroaching gloom. His eyes glinted, reflecting the swirling shadows. “Oh, what’s wrong? Didn’t know your hero wasn’t so innocent after all? Well, sorry to disappoint ya, 𝘣𝘶𝘥, but he’s no saint.”

As Macaque spoke, his voice dropping to a low, guttural growl, the shadows around them surged. They no longer merely clung to the theater, but became extensions of Macaque’s tormented memory, projections born of his pain.

“He chained me down, he beat me to a pulp, he did everything in his power to make sure I felt his anger and hatred towards me before he killed me!”

The shadows truly came alive then. On the dusty walls of the theater, grotesque, flickering images began to play out. A massive hand, claws extended, gripping a much smaller arm, dragging it across what looked like jagged stone. Chain links forged of shadow manifested, binding a struggling, smaller figure. MK flinched, his breath catching in his throat as the shadows started to wrap around him, cold and clammy, pressing in. He gasped, terror rising in his chest.

A large, golden staff, whistling through the air, thudding against flesh in a crushing force, again and again, striking the bound form. A pained shriek, hauntingly familiar, echoed in his ears, though no sound had actually left Macaque’s lips. The shadows tightened around MK, stealing his breath, feeding his burgeoning panic.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the horrifying spectacle, but the shadows were inside his mind, showing him every brutal, agonizing detail. He could almost feel the impacts, the crushing weight, the desperate struggle.

The black tendrils of Macaque’s power surged outwards, wrapping around MK’s legs, his arms, pulling him closer to the horrifying spectacle. Visions of the brutal ordeal slammed into MK’s mind, not just seen, but felt—the crushing blows, the suffocating rage, the bone-deep terror.

The final, most terrifying image appeared directly in front of MK. A towering, shadowed figure, unmistakably Monkey King, loomed over him, the Great Sage’s staff poised like a spear, its tip glowing with murderous intent, aimed directly at 𝘔𝘒’𝘴 eye.

MK’s heart leaped into his throat. He gasped, a strangled sound, flinching back with such force he stumbled and nearly fell, scrabbling desperately at the shadowy tendrils that still clung to him. His breathing came in ragged, hyperventilating gasps, his chest heaving. The sheer, visceral terror of the vision, the feeling of imminent death, sent a cold wave of shock through his entire body.

Then, as suddenly as they had materialized, the shadows began to recede, drawing back from MK’s trembling form. The terrifying vision of Wukong and his staff flickered, dissolving into nothingness before the final, fatal blow could land. The oppressive darkness in the theatre lightened marginally, though the air remained heavy with dread.

Macaque’s voice, though no longer tinged with maniacal laughter, was still dangerously low, devoid of all warmth. His face was a mask of cold fury and profound, ancient pain. “Trust me, if I could, I would stop caring about Wukong the same way he never cared about me, but I can’t. These damn flowers won’t let me. But if you think Wukong ever cared about me, you’re sorely mistaken. There will 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 be a happily ever after to this story so don't even bother trying to make one.”

Before MK, still breathing hard, still reeling from the horrific display, could stammer out a single word, the shadows around Macaque coalesced. A swirling vortex of inky blackness ripped open the air behind him, a portal to anywhere but here. Without another glance at the petrified boy, Macaque stepped into the void, and in a blink, he was gone.

 

The theater was plunged back into its natural dimness, the shadows retreating to their corners, leaving behind only the dust motes dancing in the faint light. The only sound was MK’s ragged, uneven breathing. His legs gave out from beneath him, and he crumpled to his knees on the splintered stage, his hands pressed against his chest, as if to physically calm his hammering heart.

 

The scent of peach blossom, once sweet and ethereal, now seemed to mock him, a gentle reminder of the brutal, horrifying truth he had just been forced to witness. His mind replayed the chilling visions, the soundless screams, the staff aimed at his own eye. He closed his eyes tightly, trying, desperately, to calm the frantic, terrified beat of his heart.

 

MK remained on his knees, his hands clamped over his chest, each breath a shallow, ragged gasp that snagged in his throat. The scent of peach blossom, which had seemed so innocently wistful just moments ago, now twisted in his stomach, a sickly-sweet reminder of the horror he had just endured. His eyes were still squeezed shut, but the images were burned behind his eyelids: the grasping shadow hand, the chains, the whistling staff, and most viscerally, the unblinking, murderous gaze of Monkey King, the staff tip aimed 𝘥𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘮.

 

“No…” he whimpered, the word barely a whisper, even though he was utterly alone. “No, no, 𝘯𝘰…”

 

It couldn’t be true. It 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵. Monkey King… his 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘰 the Great Sage Equal to Heaven, the one who fought for good, who protected the weak, who had saved him countless times. Sure, Wukong wasn’t perfect. MK knew that. He was impulsive, egotistical, sometimes a little lazy with his duties. But 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴? Torture? Murder? And of someone he was supposedly close to? It was completely different from the Wukong he knew. The 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘰𝘳 he knew.

 

His mind scrambled for excuses, for ways to discredit what he’d just seen. Macaque was the trickster, the master of illusions, the shadow demon. He played mind games. He had to be manipulating him, planting false memories, twisting the narrative. Macaque was evil, right? He’d tried to steal MK’s powers, he’d been an antagonist. It had to be his fault. He 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 to believe it was Macaque’s fault, that Macaque had done something so unforgivable the Monkey King had been forced to retaliate, to trap him, to…

 

But even as the thought formed, it crumbled. The raw, gut-wrenching despair in Macaque’s voice, the genuine, ancient pain that had ripped through the air, felt too real to be an act. The chilling, desolate "𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘦, 𝘪𝘧 𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥, 𝘐 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘞𝘶𝘬𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘮𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘯 𝘧𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘦." The quiet, heartbroken admission of unwilling adoration, trapped by a magical illness that only manifested from unrequited love. No, even a master manipulator wouldn’t feign that depth of torment, that self-loathing, unless it was real. And the 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘢𝘨𝘦 terror of the vision—he had felt, not just seen, the blows, the suffocating rage, the deathblow aimed at his own eye. It was too profound, too personal to be mere trickery. The thought that his hero, the mighty Monkey King, could be capable of such chilling, calculated cruelty, made MK’s stomach churn. It made him feel sick.

 

He pushed himself up, shaky and unsteady, his legs threatening to give out again. His eyes scanned the theater, half-expecting Macaque to reappear, to deliver another devastating blow to his worldview. But there was only the dusty silence, the lingering scent of peach blossom, and the chilling echoes of a past he never knew existed. Never wanted to know existed.

 

A dark, terrifying weight settled in his chest. Macaque was hurting. Deeply. And while his initial instinct was to protect his hero’s image, a stronger, more fundamental urge ignited within him: the need to help. To be a hero. He had seen the raw wound of Macaque’s past, and even through the layers of fear and confusion, he felt an undeniable pull to mend it. Macaque wouldn’t want help, wouldn’t ask for it, but clearly, he 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘥 it. He needed truth, he needed resolution, he needed… something.

 

But how could he help when the whole story was a gaping, horrifying void in his knowledge? He knew Monkey King wouldn't tell him. Wukong always deflected, always made light of things, always avoided the painful parts of his past. He would make jokes, he would change the subject, or he would simply disappear. To confront him with this would undoubtedly trigger a defensive reaction, not an honest confession.

 

No, he needed to find the truth elsewhere. He needed an unbiased account, a record unclouded by the two combatants' deeply consumed in bitterness and pain. He needed a source that simply 𝘸𝘢𝘴. His mind raced through all the legends, all the stories Tang had ever rambled about, all the ancient texts he’d ever glimpsed. And then, a flicker of an idea, a name whispered in a forgotten scroll, an obscure legend that Tang had once dismissed as mere poetic embellishment, solidified into a desperate hope.

 

The Great Jade Archives.

 

Legend said it was a nexus of all knowledge, a library not just of books and scrolls, but of 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 and 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘩𝘴, hidden away in a pocket dimension, accessible only to those who knew the forgotten paths. Tang had described it once, off-handedly, as a place where the Jade Emperor himself stored the unfiltered history of all realms, a cosmic library far grander than anything in Heaven or on Earth. MK had always thought it was just a fanciful tale, a flourish for Tang’s storytelling. Something to keep him from getting bored (not that he could ever get bored of 𝘵𝘩𝘦 Monkey King.) But now, it was the only place that made sense. It was the only place that might hold the 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘦 account of what had happened between the two Monkeys, unclouded by pain or pride.

 

He had to find it. He had to know. For Macaque’s sake. And, perhaps, for his own, to reconcile the hero he adored with the monster he had just seen. He took a deep, shaky breath, pushing the last remnants of terror down. He had faced demons and villains before, but this felt different. This felt personal. This felt like the real story, the one that truly mattered. And he was going to find it.

 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

MK wasted no time. The immediate, suffocating dread of the theater eventually gave way to a surge of frantic energy. He had a path, however faint, however desperate.

 

The Great Jade Archives.

 

He spent the next few days, then weeks, pouring over dusty scrolls (secretly found at Monkey King’s house), badgering Tang for any obscure reference, and even attempting to meditate into forgotten dimensions. Which he was 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 doing that again—soooo boring. Anyway, the point was, he tried every technique he knew, every trick Wukong had ever shown him (or Tang had told him about), every piece of magical lore he could get his desperate hands on. He searched for hidden portals, for ancient sigils, for whispers of guides or maps to these fabled "forgotten paths."

 

But the more he searched, the more the initial spark of hope shriveled up and died. The legends of the Great Jade Archives were just that—legends. They spoke of a place woven from pure knowledge, accessible only to minds of unimaginable clarity or those with forgotten artifacts that spoke to the universe itself.

 

MK found no obscure legends that truly solidified into actual information that could be used to find the Jade Archives, no hidden maps that didn't dissolve into riddles, no ancient texts that offered more than poetic foolery. Every lead led to a dead end, every whispered possibility evaporated into thin air. He followed cryptic hints to desolate mountain peaks that yielded nothing but wind, to forgotten temple ruins that were simply ruined, and even tried to commune with ancient spirits who only offered riddles or laughter. Which was super annoying by the way. Like, seriously can no one give a straight answer?

 

The truth was, the Great Jade Archives were simply too grand, too well-hidden, too 𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵 for someone of his inexperience with the celestial realm and still-developing powers to handle. He wasn't a sage of a thousand years, a god, or a cosmic librarian. He was just MK, a noodle delivery boy with a powerful staff and very little patience for metaphysical hide-and-seek.

 

The realization hit him like a physical blow: his first plan, the purest, most idealistic path to truth, was an absolute, undeniable failure. He slumped against his bed after a long day of noodle deliveries, training, hanging out, and secret searching, the last of his energy draining away, leaving him with nothing but the bitter taste of defeat and the gnawing anxiety of Macaque's pain.

 

He needed another option. He needed a source, any source, that could shed light on Wukong’s past without being caught in the emotional crossfire of his hero and Macaque. Someone who had been around, who knew the Monkey King before he became the legendary, somewhat aloof, hero MK idolized.

An image flickered in his mind: a hulking, horned figure, wreathed in dark smoke. Eyes filled with hatred and vengeance and power that shook the very Earth.

Demon Bull King.

The thought made him shiver despite himself. DBK was an antagonist, a villain of legend, a King who nearly took over the world. But… things were different now, weren’t they? After the whole Lady Bone Demon debacle, after they had 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 (holy shit what was his life) against a common, greater threat, there was an unspoken, uneasy truce. They weren’t exactly friends, not by a long shot, but they weren't actively trying to obliterate each other every five minutes either.

MK had even teamed up with DBK’s son, Red Son, when going against the Lady Bone Demon. Heck, it wasn’t even his first time teaming up with Red Son! There was… a decent working relationship, if you squinted hard enough and ignored the lingering animosity. Though, it was obvious he and Mei have mostly won Red Son over by now. Or at least Mei has.

More importantly, Demon Bull King had been around. He was 𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵. He had fought Monkey King centuries ago, even been imprisoned by him under a mountain—-a detail the Monkey King himself always conveniently glossed over or made into a joke. DBK knew Wukong in his early, wilder, more uncontrolled days. He knew the side of the Monkey King that wasn’t coated in heroic sheen, the side that might just be capable of the chilling cruelty Macaque had revealed. If anyone had dirt on the Great Sage, it would be his oldest, most enduring rival. DBK would have no reason to sugarcoat the truth, no desire to protect Wukong’s image. In fact, he’d probably revel in exposing it.

The idea was terrifyingly problematic. Going to Demon Bull King’s fortress was inherently risky. DBK was still a powerful, volatile demon. He might flat out refuse to talk, or worse, he might try to squash MK like a bug for daring to intrude. But the desperation to understand, to help Macaque, outweighed the fear. He had faced worse, hadn't he?
And, if nothing else, if DBK proved too stubborn, too dangerous, or just plain unhelpful, at least there was a chance he’d run into Red Son.

MK allowed a small, almost nervous smile to touch his lips. He’d been meaning to hang out with the fiery demon for a while now but that was kind of hard to do when you didn’t have said demon's number. As embarrassed as he was to admit it, he still hadn't managed to get Red Son's number despite how many times they’ve saved the world together.

He’d tried asking Mei, his supposed best friend, for Red Son’s number because of course 𝘴𝘩𝘦 managed to get it, but no matter how much he begged she was insistent on him being the one to obtain Red Son’s number. Mei was utterly unyielding on the matter, insisting with a wicked grin that he 'had to earn it' and actually ‘get it from Red Son himself, or what’s the point?' Big meany. It had become a running joke, a personal challenge. Maybe, just maybe, this seemingly undoable journey for a singular ancient, buried truth could have a small, secondary, and far less apocalyptic payoff.

He pushed off his bed, his body still aching from his fruitless search, but a new resolve hardening his features. The path ahead was treacherous, uncertain, and probably involved risking his life in a very literal way (like always.) But he had to know. For Macaque. For Monkey King. And, if he was being honest, for himself, to finally understand the true history of the hero he had chosen to follow. So, Demon Bull King, here he came—here came Monkey Kid!

Notes:

I hope you enjoyed!!!

Notes:

I hope you enjoyed! Comments and kudos are especially appreciated! :)