That day, there were no omens.
Mount Ling was evenly illuminated, without shadow. Its steps were worn smooth by countless validations.
The Tathāgata sat with palms joined.
He had not summoned me, yet knew I would come.
I stood below without bowing. He did not correct me.
Such gestures were no longer necessary.
"The sutras are complete," he said.
A statement of fact.
"You have also completed your part."
I said nothing.
Within my six ears, the hall was perfectly silent—not empty, but exhausted. Everything audible had already been absorbed.
"You may remain," he said. "As part of the result."
I looked up.
"What does remaining mean?" I asked.
"It means you will no longer be questioned," he said. "Nor required to choose."
I thought of Wukong—not his battles, but the moment in the riverbed.
"What if I do not remain?" I asked.
The Tathāgata paused.
The pause was brief, yet revealing.
"That question is not often asked."
"Then you will be released," he said.
Released.
The word appeared often in scripture, yet was never defined.
"Released to where?" I asked.
"Outside the sutras," he said.
I lowered my head.
Not in hesitation, but confirmation.
"After release, what will I be?" I asked.
He smiled faintly.
"That no longer requires an answer."
I understood.
To remain was to become explanation.To be released was to become an unfinished annotation.
I looked up.
"Then release me," I said.
The Tathāgata nodded.
No thunder. No light.
Only a long-maintained connection gently withdrawn.
My six ears began to fail.
Not at once, not violently.
Like doors closing one by one:
Distant echoes faded.Causal whispers cut off.Unspoken thoughts became inaudible.
For the first time, I heard only the present:
Wind.Cloth rustling.My own breath.
Sounds without meaning.Pointing nowhere.
I was sent down the mountain.
Not expelled—simply no longer retained.
No one watched. No record was made.
In a completed system, the released require no position.
The pilgrimage was soon finalized.
The sutras copied, expounded, distributed.The name Wukong fixed in annotations.All deviations archived as "necessary process."
The world grew more stable.
People came to believe:
Order is natural.Explanation is complete.Discomfort arises only from insufficient understanding.
Years later.
Mist rose in the mountains.
When it cleared, a monkey stood in the forest.
Its ears were ordinary. Its expression calm. It stood on a stone, gazing at the sky.
It did not know where it came from, nor hurry to know where it would go.
Someone passed and said, "That is Wukong."
The monkey did not respond.
Another said, "No—it's just a monkey."
Still no objection.
Finally, someone asked, "What are you doing here?"
The monkey thought, then said:
"Listening."
"Listening to what?" the person asked.
The monkey paused.
"To the soundsthat have not yet been written."
It leapt down and disappeared into the forest.
Its steps unhurried.No looking back.