Ma Hou said, "You need to find a Master."
I didn't know what a Master was. Flower-Fruit Mountain had only monkeys—no Masters. Ma Hou thought for a moment and added, "A Master is someone who teaches you real skills. More than what Tongbi Ape handles. More than what I handle."
"Handles a lot?"
"Handles your whole life."
I wrinkled my nose. "I don't want anyone handling me."
Ma Hou didn't reply. He crouched at the entrance of the Water Curtain Cave, pulled a spirit stone from his pouch, and tucked it into a coarse cloth bag. The stone was snow-white, half the size of his fist, glowing faintly in the shadows. He buried it at the bottom, covered it with three layers of dried rations.
"Then don't let him handle you." He tied the bag with three tight knots, as if afraid it would come undone on the road, and handed it to me. "But if you want to learn real skills, someone has to teach you."
I took the bag. The rough hemp scratched my palms. It felt heavier than it looked.
"Where'd you get this spirit stone?"
"Saved it."
"For what?"
He stood, brushed dirt from his knees. He didn't look at me—his eyes were on the distant sea. Blue sea, blue sky; impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.
"I was going to use it myself. Break through to Qi Condensation Layer 6."
"Then what layer are you at now?"
"Five."
He turned and walked into the cave. Three steps in, he stopped. Didn't turn back.
"On the road, don't skimp on food. Save the spirit stone for when there's no other choice."
"Got it."
"If you meet something you can't beat, run."
"Got it."
"If you can't run—"
He paused for a long time.
"If you can't run, shout. My ears are sharp."
He didn't look back. The darkness swallowed his shadow. I stood outside, the bag in my hand—light, yet not light at all.
I jumped from the highest peak of Flower-Fruit Mountain.
Below was the sea. White waves surged, crashed on rocks, foamed, retreated. I clung to a driftwood log—twice my length, three times thicker. The bark was wet, slick, covered in green fuzz that oozed water when pressed.
The seawater wasn't what I expected. Not just salty. Bitter. Astringent. Like wild fruits mashed, soaked for three days, then sun-dried. I choked on a mouthful—nose burning, eyes stinging, throat full of sand.
Waves threw me up, dragged me down. Up: gray sky. Down: black water. The log spun beneath me, left, right. My nails dug into the bark, drawing water. The cold sank to my bones.
I remembered Ma Hou's words—if you can't run, shout.
I didn't shout. Couldn't open my mouth. Open it, and water rushed in—salty, bitter, filling mouth, nose, chest. Lungs burned. Ears rang like a thousand insects screaming.
My grip loosened.
Not by choice. Nails broke. Three: thumb, index, middle. No pain when they snapped—the cold numbed everything. My hands slipped free, like a fish through a net.
The water swallowed me.
It flipped me—belly up, back up. Not rushed. Playing with me. Like monkeys tossing an unripe fruit: up, catch, up again.
I opened my eyes underwater. Blackness. Nothing visible. But I felt eyes watching from the depths. Huge. Deep. Not Ma Hou's. Not Tongbi's. Not any monkey from the mountain.
Then the sea spat me out.
I collapsed on the beach, coughing. Salty water mixed with blood. Sand grated my face. I rolled over. The sky was blue—lighter than Flower-Fruit's, washed clean.
The log washed ashore beside me. Five gouges from my nails, filled with my blood.
I lay there a long time. Long enough for sand to bury half my body. Long enough for the sun to cross the sky. Then I rose, pushed the log back into the waves. It drifted away slowly, like someone walking into the distance.
I didn't watch it go. I turned west and walked.
Land was hard. Feet didn't sink, slip, or wobble. It smelled of earth, grass, and animal tracks—rabbit, deer, boar—dried, cracked, dampened by dew.
I walked three days.
Day one: Under a pine, found a bird's nest. Four blue eggs, thumb-sized. I warmed them in my palms, then put them back. The bird was gone—dead or flown. I leaned against the trunk, listened to wind through needles. Sharp whistles from far away.
Day two: Passed a clear stream. I knelt to drink—cool, sweet. A fish floated upright, tail down, eyes white-frosted. I prodded it with a stick. Dead. I set the stick down and left.
Day three: No food. Last piece of dried ration in the bag—hard, jaw-aching. I broke it in half, ate one, saved the other. At sunset, I sat on a rock, watching the western sky bleed red, clouds gleaming like golden scales.
"Go west."
The system said go west. I didn't know what waited there. Only that it was west.
I stood and kept walking.
Day four: Lost in the forest.
Trees everywhere, all the same. Similar height, girth, green. I climbed the tallest, scanned the canopy. Endless green sea.
Down. Picked a direction. Walked an hour—back to the crooked-neck oak. Neck twisted like wrung. Long, curved scar on bark, like a snake.
Changed direction. Another hour—same oak.
I squatted before it, tracing the scar. Brown, deeper than bark, smooth to touch. This tree didn't want me to leave. It sealed the path, trapped me.
"Why?" I asked.
No answer. Wind rustled leaves—laughter.
I stood, pulled the Ruyi Jingu Bang from my ear. Tiny as a needle, cool in my palm.
"Big."
It didn't grow. Since escaping Five Elements Mountain, it slept—cold, hard, dead iron. I tucked it back.
I ran.
Not walked—ran. Feet pounded earth, dirt flew, grass flattened. Branches whipped my face, vines snagged my legs. No stopping, no turning. Past the oak, through pines, across fern fields taller than me. Leaves slapped skin, itchy.
Then I burst out of the forest.
Light blinded me. I squinted. A mountain towered ahead—peak lost in clouds. At its base: white stone steps, rising endlessly. Beside them, a blue-stone tablet, words carved deep, green moss wet inside.
I brushed away dirt.
Fangcun Mountain.
I stood before the words. They stayed still. I stayed still. Wind carried pine scent—clean, fresh, not the forest's damp rot.
I glanced back. The forest dark, silent. The crooked oak at the edge—neck straight now, like a person standing tall.
I turned, stepped onto the first stair.
Stone cool, rough—different from Flower-Fruit's water-smoothed rocks. Here, each step grooved horizontally for grip, deep enough to catch toes.
Up. One, two, ten. No fatigue.
Hundred: legs ached.
Five hundred: knees trembled.
Thousand: sun crossed sky. Shadow stretched behind, then before. I sat, legs straight, heels hanging over edge. Down: clouds hid the bottom, white sea. Up: clouds hid the top.
I sat, watched clouds drift slow—like white fish swimming. Reached out. Too far.
Stood. Continued.
Sun set and rose. I counted three times.
First set: feet blistered. Straw shoes shredded. Soles peeled, red flesh exposed. Stepped on stone—pain. Lifted foot, looked, set down. Pain is pain.
First rise: more nails broke. Left ring and pinky. No pain till blood. Dropped on stone, absorbed fast, brown spots.
Second set: fell. Knee smashed edge, skin tore, bone showed—whiter than stone. Spit-washed it, kept going. Knee wouldn't bend—dragged straight. Over time, hard shell grew over bone.
Second rise: counted steps. One, two… thousand, forgot, restarted. Scratched lines on stone—one per hundred. Thirty-seven lines. Palm full of cuts, indistinguishable.
Third set: collapsed. Not sat—collapsed. Face to stone, cool. Reminded me of Water Curtain Cave. Summers, monkeys sprawled on cool rocks to sleep. Ma Hou beside me, heavy breaths, hot air on my face.
I didn't cry. Just lay.
Then footsteps. Not mine, not wind, not leaves. Human. Light, slow—like water flowing downhill.
Stopped before me.
I didn't look up. Smelled tea—bitter, astringent, hint of sweet. Not fruit, not sea salt, not rot.
"What's your name?"
Voice old, soft—like dry branch on snow.
Lips stuck with blood and spit. I licked—salty,涩.
"Sun… Wu… Kong."
Three words. Slow. Each caught in throat, tumbling like stones down a slope.
"Who gave it to you?"
"Myself."
Silence. Long enough I thought he left.
A hand on my head. Dry, warm, rough as bark. From crown to nape, thumb on Adam's apple, fingers gripping neck.
"Does it hurt?"
No. But his warmth—after so long—made words stick.
"Hurts," I said.
"Then why not shout?"
"Shouting, no one hears."
No reply. Hand moved, gripped arm, pulled me up. Legs buckled. He let me lean. Thin, bones sharp on shoulder, but warm.
"Climb on."
He turned, bent.
I climbed his back. Narrow, hard like slate. But steady—one step, another. Not fast, not slow. I smelled tea and sun-dried cotton.
"I've waited for you a long time," he said.
On his back, I watched stars. Bright, many—like glowing fur on cultivating monkeys.
"Who are you?" I asked.
"Your Master."
"What does a Master do?"
Three steps. No answer. Three more.
"A Master is—"
Long pause.
"The one who waits for you."