Chapter 2: The Beginning of Forever
There comes a time in every kingdom when laughter fades, not because joy is gone, but because the voices that once laughed have gone quiet.
So it was on the Mountain of Flowers and Fruit.
Seasons bled into one another like melting inks on parchment, each year brushing its sleeve against the tapestry of life that danced across trees and rivers and stone. The Monkey King, once a figure of boundless spirit and divine mischief, sat now upon his high throne with silence in his eyes and weight upon his shoulders. His fur still glowed with youth, his step remained strong and sure, but within his bones stirred a chill older than the mountain itself.
He had lived a full life.
Not just full of years, but full. Full of glory, full of love, full of reckless days and moon-charmed nights. He had chased lightning across cloud tops and roared back at thunder. He had watched the birth of empires in the valleys below and watched them fall again, like cards swept by wind. He had fathered sons, he had held infants in his arms whose mothers once braided garlands into his mane. He had danced. He had fought. He had reigned.
But now…
He was old.
Not outwardly—no, his face bore only the faintest creases, his fur only slightly dulled by time. But he knew. He felt it in how the wind spoke to him now with whispers instead of challenges. In how food no longer sparked his appetite like it used to. In how his laughter, once volcanic, now trembled at the edges like a fragile vase on a ledge.
And worst of all—
He had begun to bury them.
One by one.
The mothers who had nursed their children in the spring-shaded glades.
The children who fell too far from the high branches.
He buried them.
With his own hands.
Under soil that wept with him.
One evening, as the sun dipped like a dying ember behind the sleeping hills, he sat beneath the Dreaming Cedar—the same tree from which he had once ruled with joy in his eyes—and he watched.
Children played in the tall grasses below. Young monkeys leapt, danced, sang. They chased butterflies and tumbled down flower beds. And yet, one child—bright-eyed and sharp-clawed—leapt too far. His small hands missed the branch.
He fell.
And did not rise.
The others called for him. Screamed. His mother shrieked.
But the child lay still.
The Monkey King did not move.
He did not breathe.
And then—he wept.
For the child.
For the mother.
For the future.
And for himself.
Because he knew… it would happen again.
And one day, to him.
And as he clenched his fists, as his nails dug into his palms and drew golden blood, a cold wind crept through the leaves of the cedar.
It did not howl.
It did not scream.
It whispered.
A voice like stone scraping bone.
"You will die."
His heart froze.
His breath caught.
His vision darkened for the briefest of moments.
He felt his soul tremble—not from pain, nor from sorrow, but from terror. The deepest, purest terror. The kind that cannot be named. The kind that cannot be fought with fists.
He stood.
Staggered.
Clawed his way back to his palace like a beast dragging its own shadow behind it.
The days that followed became still.
No calls of command.
No proclamations of celebration.
No duels, no dances, no feasts.
Only silence.
The great palace—once loud with joy and song—now stood like a tomb of stone and dust. And within it, the Monkey King locked himself away in the deepest chamber. A place carved not with tools, but with his own fingers, long ago. A place no one entered. A place only he knew how to reach.
There, amid the earth's cold embrace, he sat.
Cross-legged.
Eyes closed.
And he searched.
For days, he did not eat.
For nights, he did not sleep.
He traced the maze of his own soul, searching the folds of memory and echo. He listened to the world from within the cage of flesh, hoping to hear the answer in the beating of his heart, the singing of his blood.
What is death? he asked the dark.
What is the end?
Why does it come?
Where does it lead?
No answer.
Only silence.
Only time.
Only the ticking of eternity in reverse.
It was the servants who found him.
They came first with food, then with concern, then with fear. When the King did not respond, they broke the sacred seal of the chamber, and what they found shook even the most stalwart of his court.
The Monkey King—immortalized in tales as the fire-hearted, stone-born sovereign—sat hunched over in the corner. His hands trembled. His eyes were red, tired, haunted. His once-shining fur matted with dust. His breath shallow.
Not a king.
Not a god.
A being.
On the verge of breaking.
"My King," whispered the first servant, eyes filled with dread. "What afflicts you?"
"Have you been cursed?" asked another.
"Is the mountain sick?"
The Monkey King slowly turned to them. His eyes, once alight with endless mischief, now held only pain.
"I have a question," he said.
They leaned in.
"I have lived. I have seen. I have conquered. And yet…" He placed a hand upon his chest. "I fear."
"Fear?" asked the eldest among the servants. "You?"
He nodded.
"I fear death."
Gasps filled the chamber. None spoke for long moments.
"I saw the child fall," he continued. "He did not rise. Others too. Gone. Dust. And I…" His voice cracked. "I will follow. Won't I?"
The servants, wise in politics and ritual but not in the mysteries of spirit, exchanged glances. They had no answer. No comfort. No spell or song to offer their broken king.
And he saw that.
He saw their silence and realized he was alone.
In life.
And in death.
Then, something shifted.
His tears dried.
His gaze sharpened.
He stood.
Not like the weary old beast they had seen a moment ago—but like the King.
Like the one who had shattered the skulls of tigers and wrestled lightning into submission.
He looked to them, voice iron-hard.
"Prepare food."
They blinked. "Food?"
"Yes," he said. "A few years' worth. Dried fruits. Smoke-cured meats. Honey-roots and spirit-nuts. Anything that lasts. Fill my packs."
"…For what purpose, Majesty?"
"There are big tigers out and about,kill them amd pack them as well," he said, eyes turning toward the windows. Toward the world. "I shall not stay here and wait for death like a coward in chains. I will go."
"Where, Sire?"
He looked up.
Beyond the mountains.
Beyond the clouds.
Beyond the veil of life.
"I go," he said, "on the Journey of Forever."
And the chamber trembled.
Not from sound.
But from destiny.
Thus, the Monkey King emerged from his chamber, cloaked not in silk, but in determination. He left behind his throne, his court, his name.
He took only his staff,made from the strongest stone of the mountain.
His food.
And the fire of desperation in his chest.
He did not know where the road would lead.
But he knew this—
He would find a way to tear the fangs from death's maw.
Or he would die screaming into its face.
Either way…
He would not go quietly.
And so began the second life of the Monkey King.
He first traveled from the Mountain of Flowers and Fruit, descending the winding paths that he himself had carved out with footsteps older than memory. Behind him, the great mountain shimmered in the early morning haze, kissed by mists and cradled by the sun's first gold. Before him lay the unknown—green, shadowed, breathing with the hush of things that waited to be found. The Journey of Forever had begun, and with every step away from his kingdom, he felt the weight of eternity lifting from his shoulders and condensing into something far more focused: resolve.
A few hundred li away, nestled like a sleeping serpent curled beneath hills and time, stretched the Forest of Whispering Bamboo. The stalks were tall—taller than palace spires—and thin as sorrowful laments, swaying even without wind, as if stirred by the memory of storms rather than their presence. The forest breathed, not with lungs but with intent, its hush a kind of whisper, its rustling a secret language too old for words.
He entered without hesitation.
His staff rested across his shoulders, both hands draped lazily over it. His walk was not cautious, not slow—no, it was relaxed, confident, the stroll of one who had danced with death and grown tired of the music. His golden eyes scanned the shifting green. The smell of moss, rain, and the faint perfume of unknown flowers clung to the air like incense. Light broke through the canopy in fragmented shards, falling in patches like coins scattered by a careless god.
Berries caught his eye. Small, red, glistening like rubies dipped in dew. He plucked a few without thought and popped them into his mouth. Their taste was sweet—then bitter—then sweet again. A strange aftertaste curled at the edge of his tongue. Most mortals would have fallen, frothing at the mouth before their knees hit the earth.
But he only chuckled.
"Quite good," he said aloud, chewing thoughtfully. "But such normal poison is useless against me." He licked his fingers, voice tinged with amusement. "Only time can kill me… and soon, not even that."
The forest stirred at his words.
Somewhere between the bamboo stalks, a tremor passed—not through the ground, but through the intention of the place. The wind didn't pick up, but the leaves rustled anyway, as if something within them flinched.
He turned, slowly, eyes narrowing as he raised his voice just slightly, just enough to echo. "Come now," he called, "if you meant to kill me with berries, the least you can do is offer wine to wash them down. Or were you hoping I'd drop dead before dessert?"
Silence.
Then movement.
Not sound, not footfalls—movement. The bamboo began to shift. First one stalk. Then three. Then a dozen. Not just swaying, but stepping. Roots lifted like tendons pulled by strings. Soil gave way with soft sighs. A faint clicking sound followed, like bones tapping porcelain.
He watched, unblinking.
"Are those bamboo trees… walking?" he asked, genuinely curious.
The forest answered him not with rustling, but with a figure. A shape rose from the floor of green—no, not rose, unfolded. Emerging from the canopy like a shadow stretching into flesh, came a thing tall as ruin. Bamboo-like legs—thin, multi-jointed, too many to count—supported a bloated spidery torso that hung grotesquely in the air. Atop it sat a head like a malformed skull, with too many eyes blinking out of rhythm. Mandibles clicked in thought.
From somewhere deep in its body came a voice, sultry and wet, like oil poured into a flute.
"Ahh… what a tragedy," it said, each word a slither. "Here I thought I could eat your brains for breakfast."
The Monkey King tilted his head. "Ha… you wish."
And then he smiled.