At dawn the next day, they scattered across the mountain ranges. Some to gather immortal peaches and rare fruits, others to dig up fragrant mountain herbs and cut stalks of Huáng Jīng. They returned with armfuls of orchids and epidendrums, exotic plants and strange flowers, each arranged with care. Stone tables and stone chairs were set in the heart of the Water-Curtain Cave, their surfaces strewn with vines heavy with fruit, a banquet as colorful as a painter's scroll.
The Handsome Monkey King sat in the place of honor at the head of the table, while the others arranged themselves below according to age and rank. Laughter and music filled the cave as they feasted for a whole day, each monkey in turn stepping forward to offer their King wine, flowers, or sweet fruit.
On the following morning, the Monkey King rose early and called out, "Little ones! Cut for me some pine-wood to build a raft, fetch me a length of bamboo for a pole, and gather a store of fruit and provisions. Today, I depart."
When all was prepared, he stepped alone onto the pine raft. With a strong push of the bamboo pole, he slipped away from the rocky shore, letting the wind fill his path. All of the monkeys waved at the Monkey King, some weeping, some cheerful, but all hopeful.
Thus, the Handsome Monkey King set out across the boundless sea, bound for the distant borders of the Southern Jambūdvīpa Continent, not knowing that the path ahead would lead him to masters, trials, and the name by which all the worlds would one day know him.
The Handsome Monkey King drifted for many days and nights, the endless waves rising and falling beneath his pine-wood raft. Sometimes he paddled with his bamboo pole; other times he let the wind carry him while he nibbled fruit and sang to himself. "Across the seas, to find my fate, ha! Let the clouds chase me if they can!"
At last, one morning, the pale line of land rose on the horizon. The Monkey King's heart leapt. With a few strong pushes, he brought the raft ashore upon the southern edge of the Jambūdvīpa Continent.
The moment he set foot on land, he bounded up the beach toward the nearest cluster of houses. People who caught sight of him stopped in their tracks. Some froze, some shouted, and others turned tail and fled. "A demon! A demon!" cried one man, dropping the basket he was carrying. Children screamed, dogs barked, and old women slammed their doors.
The Monkey King stood there blinking. "Strange," he muttered. "I've never seen such jumpy folk. Perhaps they think me handsome beyond measure?" He puffed out his chest and strode into the street, but the more he grinned, the faster people ran.
Before long, he spotted a burly man walking alone down the road. Without a moment's hesitation, the Monkey King leapt in front of him. "Friend," he said cheerily, "lend me those clothes of yours. I'll be sure to return them in a hundred years or so!"
The man barely had time to gasp before the Monkey King, quick as a flash, had whisked the garments right off him. The poor fellow bolted away in nothing but his underclothes, howling down the lane.
Pulling on the stolen outfit, the Monkey King admired himself. "Ah, now I look like the people here. Or at least their more dashing cousin." Adjusting the sleeves with exaggerated care, he set off down the street, peering into shops, alleys, and courtyards, eager to begin his search for the Buddhas, Immortals, and Holy Sages who might teach him the secret of everlasting life.
With a jaunty swagger, the Monkey King strolled through counties and prefectures, strutting into marketplaces as if he owned them.
He copied the speech of the locals with comic precision, sometimes to great effect, sometimes to disastrous misunderstanding. More than once he bowed too deeply to a donkey instead of its owner, or tried to haggle with a fishmonger by offering three peaches and a handful of pine cones.
At night he would curl up alone under temple eaves or in the shelter of roadside trees, his "pillow" a bundle of stolen rags, the stars for his lanterns. At dawn, he would scavenge his breakfast. Sometimes a pilfered bun, sometimes fruit filched from a merchant's cart while the man's back was turned. No one ever shared a table with him. No one ever asked where he came from or where he was going. He missed his monkey friends dearly.
In every town, the pattern was the same. He saw merchants weighing their wares as if each grain of rice were gold. He heard scholars in wine shops boasting of official posts they had not yet attained. He watched men quarrel over coins until their faces turned purple, and women praise beauty in one breath and curse their rivals in the next.
The Monkey King scratched his head and muttered, "Not one of them wonders when Yama will come knocking. They all chase after profit and fame as if they'll live forever. Fools, all of them!"
And so he wandered on, through great cities with walls high as mountains and through villages of mud and straw, asking after Buddhas, Immortals, and Holy Sages. Yet the path to immortality stayed hidden from him.
Without realizing it, he spent eight to nine long years roaming the Southern Jambūdvīpa Continent, always searching but never finding.