"You're not still mad at me, are you?"
Monkey Boy's glare burned across the fire, sharp and unrelenting. His arms and legs were crossed so tightly it looked like he was holding himself together with sheer willpower, his nails visibly digging into his skin. Oh, he was absolutely still mad.
This was worse than after we'd returned from that other world, when he decided that staring at me was his new favorite pastime. Not glancing. Not peeking. Full-on, soul-piercing staring. And he'd kept it up for two nights straight.
But back then, I'd understood. I'd known why his gaze lingered on me, heavy and unwavering.
I'd be staring, too, if our roles were reversed. Watching, waiting, searching for cracks in his façade, for the faintest flicker of pain he might be trying to hide. Because if I believed—truly believed—that a shadowed creature capable of conjuring flesh-clinging, leeching crystals, and defying death itself, had somehow disappeared into my companion without explanation, and that same companion stood before me, calm and unbothered, acting like the impossible had never happened… I'd be worried, too.
Maybe more than worried. Maybe terrified for him.
But even though his stare had made my skin prickle with unease, it wasn't the same as the glare he leveled at me now—sharp as a blade and just as unforgiving.
"I swear, it wasn't intentional!" I protested, my hands flailing above my head like I could somehow pluck an excuse from the air itself. I sat cross-legged with the journal on my lap, my movements as desperate as they were useless.
"It was just… it was just…" My fingers twitched mid-air, useless artists trying to sketch my way out of trouble, before falling into my lap in surrender.
"Dangling there! How was I supposed to know that thinking about how his… his…"—God, even saying it was mortifying—"dingaling was hanging out for the world to see would broadcast straight into your head mid-fight!?"
The heat rushing to my cheeks rivaled the firelight. I couldn't even bring myself to use any word other than dingaling… and I could only hope the ring translator didn't botch the word to mean something completely different.
Somewhere, someone was definitely laughing at my expense—I could feel it.
Monkey Boy, meanwhile, looked like he'd gladly swallow a boulder just to smother his own mortification. His eyes bulged from their sockets as he stared at me, his mouth slightly agape in stunned disbelief.
Yeah… it translated correctly.
He'd been squaring off with a Wolfman earlier today. A Wolfman who, judging by the way he'd stumbled out of the bushes mid-ambush, had clearly been in the middle of… well, something private. Whatever urgent business he'd been attending to, it must've been so pressing that pants had become an unnecessary inconvenience for murder.
Ordinarily, you'd think the dense layer of fur blanketing a Wolfman's body would spare us all from an unwanted anatomy lesson. But no—apparently, yaoguai Wolfmen were cursed with patches of tragic, glaring baldness in certain… highly unfortunate areas.
At least, that was the case for this one.
Probably why they usually opted for clothing.
The moment my eyes betrayed me—following Monkey Boy's calculated sweep of the Wolfman's body to find the quickest way to take him down—my brain zeroed in on that. The glaring, red… thing dangling between its legs.
Horror misfired through my thoughts, leaving me completely and utterly mortified.
Before I could stop myself, I screamed—no, broadcasted—directly into Monkey Boy's head: "HIS WEINER IS HANGING OUT! OH GOD, WHY DOES IT LOOK LIKE THAT?!"
It wasn't supposed to slip out. Most of my unfiltered thoughts stayed safely caged behind iron gates of decency—or at least managed to stay locked away for most of the day, despite yesterday's disasters. But this? This was too horrifying, too absurd to remain silent. The sheer audacity of it shattered my control, and the thought catapulted straight into Monkey Boy's head mid-fight.
He faltered, his staff frozen mid upper-cut swing, hanging limply as though it, too, had been struck dumb with my horror. Then his gaze, against all better judgment, flicked down to the wolfman's crotch. I might have screamed into his mind again, raw and shrill with secondhand horror. Honestly, I was scarred for life. Apparently, so was Monkey Boy—because even he flinched, but I believed more from my squeal than what he saw.
That split-second hesitation was all the wolfman needed. With a guttural snarl, he lunged, his blade slicing through the air with lethal intent, aiming squarely for Monkey Boy.
The strike missed anything vital—thank the heavens—but it raked across his head with cruel precision, carving a bold stripe of fur clean off his scalp.
The aftermath? A lopsided bald patch that screamed less "fearsome warrior" and more "monk who lost a bet with a drunk barber." I didn't notice the damage right away, but I had a pretty good guess when he reached up, one hand gripping his staff to hold off the wolfman, the other brushing over his scalp. When his hand came back into view, clumps of fur tumbled from his fingers like tragic confetti.
As the wolfman circled for another attack, I clamped down on my thoughts, desperate to keep them from slipping into Monkey Boy's head again. I was stuck between mortified guilt and the kind of hysterical laughter that would definitely get me killed.
Monkey Boy, meanwhile, stood frozen for a long moment, his staff trembling in his grip. It was as if he was debating whether to deal with the wolfman first—or somehow drag me out of the stone and make me pay for this mess.
"Your magic drink can't grow back hair?" I asked, forcing my gaze to stay locked on his eyes and not wander to the defiant bald patch gleaming above his forehead.
But my self-control didn't last. My traitorous eyes flicked upward, drawn to the lopsided mess the wolfman's sword had left behind—a bold strip of hair-fur missing from his forehead to the middle of his head.
Monkey Boy huffed, his arms crossing tightly as his tail flicked with a level of irritation that could probably set an entire forest ablaze. He did not appreciate me looking.
"Guess it only works if there's an actual injury, huh?" I added, my lips twitching with the beginnings of a grin I probably shouldn't let show.
He didn't respond, but the glare he leveled at me said plenty.
So, I softened my tone, offering a tentative smile in the hopes it might soothe the frayed edges of his patience. My hands tightened around the journal on my lap as I added, "It's not so bad. Really. It'll grow back. And… yeah, I'll try harder next time to keep my thoughts to myself."
Judging by the sharp lash of his tail, he wasn't buying it.
And, honestly? He wasn't wrong to doubt me. Ever since we'd unlocked this shiny new trick with the stone, every surge of excitement turned my thoughts into a one-way broadcast straight into Monkey Boy's head. Whatever crossed my mind—no matter how fleeting or humiliating—became his personal, unwelcome entertainment if a good amount of emotion was involved in my end.
It was every bit as mortifying as it sounded—a front-row seat to the unfiltered chaos of my brain, handed to him without even a shred of dignity to soften the blow.
Not that he saw it as much of a gift either.
Take, for instance, the time I found out he was a vegetarian. It was a couple of weeks ago, when I'd tried offering him some dry meat—generously bartered from the Horseman—and he rejected it faster than I could blink. A round of back-and-forth gestures and exasperated questioning later, and voilà: I deduced Monkey Boy was a vegetarian monk.
In a burst of misguided solidarity, I told him I'd give it up too. Less food wasted, easier to cook for both of us, all that noble nonsense.
In hindsight, I was beginning to suspect that might've been a catastrophic lapse in judgment.
That revelation carried through to two nights ago, when I discovered Monkey Boy's vegetarianism wasn't limited to just meat—no milk, no eggs, nothing even remotely tied to an animal. I nearly lost it on the spot.
I managed to hold it together that night, biting my tongue and clinging to what little dignity I had left. But by the next morning, when I returned to the stone? Dignity had packed its bags and fled.
The cursed connection made sure Monkey Boy felt the full weight of my despair in all its unfiltered glory.
Every. Single. Time. I thought about pancakes—their golden fluff, their buttery perfection, their syrup-drenched glory—it broadcast straight into his head. For an entire day, I waxed poetic about the sheer injustice of it all. How cruel fate was to tear my beloved pancakes from me. How life without them was a torment worse than death. And why, oh why, had I made that stupid promise?
It was mortifying. Absolutely mortifying. To have my most passionate, pancake-related laments served to him on an unrelenting mental platter.
And the worst part? He probably didn't even know what pancakes were. For all I knew, he thought I was losing my mind over some mystical artifact instead of the absolute pinnacle of culinary perfection.
He made it abundantly clear that my pancake obsession was driving him to the brink. By the end of the day, after enduring yet another syrup-soaked lament, he stormed over to a tree with all the grace of a martyr and thunked his head against it—dramatically, pointedly, and with zero restraint.
The sound echoed through the clearing—a dull, hollow thud that felt almost conspiratorial, as if the tree itself shared his exasperation.
I materialized beside him, the soft glow of the stone fading as I appeared. Monkey Boy didn't so much as glance my way, stoic in his misery save for the rhythmic thud of his forehead meeting bark. Over and over again.
My hands shot up instinctively, palms out, as if I could somehow stop his self-inflicted torment without actually touching him.
Not that I dared. The rigid line of his shoulders practically screamed that laying so much as a finger on him would rank among my worst ideas yet.
"You're going to hurt yourself if you keep doing that!" I blurted, my voice pitched with a distress that even I couldn't ignore.
He didn't so much as glance at me. Just stayed there, forehead resting against the bark, motionless now, as if the tree might grant him the kind of solace he'd long since given up expecting from me.
The next day, I made a vow: no unnecessary thoughts, no embarrassing broadcasts, just blissful, uninterrupted silence.
And it worked. For the most part. Right up until the Wolfman incident.
I was starting to see a pattern here. My adventures with Monkey Boy were shaping up to be less of a journey and more of a running tally of disasters: The Pear Incident, The Butterfly Incident, The Frog Incident, The Clothes Incident, The Finger Incident, The Running Off Incident…
And, of course, the Shadow Incident.
Now, I could officially add the Wolfman Incident to my ever-growing list of shame. Or, if I were being completely honest—and only within the safety of my own mind—the Red Rocket Incident felt far more fitting.
And, let's face it… funnier.
Privately, of course. There wasn't enough courage in the world to explain that to Monkey Boy. Not that he'd get it anyway. Then again, he'd probably be more baffled by the concept of a rocket—unless fireworks existed here. Maybe my translator would step in and twist it into something vaguely comprehensible. The Red Fire Arrow Incident? The Red Sky Fire? The Red Exploding Stick?
Yeah, no. Definitely not that last one.
I sighed, dragging a hand down my face. There wasn't enough bark in the entire forest for the amount of headbanging I needed.
"Look, Monkey Boy," I started, my voice quieter than I intended, the words thick and sticky, like trying to swallow honey. My foot shifted in the dirt, tracing aimless patterns as I kept my gaze firmly downward. But his glare—sharp, unrelenting—practically burned a hole in me.
"My mind…" I hesitated, scratching the back of my head, stalling for time. "How do I even put this?"
Finally, I risked a glance up at him. Yep. Still glaring. If looks could set fires, I'd already be a pile of ash.
At least I had his full attention…
"I know I've messed up. It's just… my brain doesn't have an off switch, you know?" Heat crept up my neck, spreading across my cheeks as the words tumbled out. "Sometimes it latches onto things—awkward things—and apparently, I have zero control over which awkward things get beamed… um, whispered into your head."
Whispered was putting it lightly. Let me be honest—I screamed that tidbit about the Wolfman into his brain.
I drew a steady breath, forcing the next words out before my courage failed me. "But I'm trying. Really, I am. And I'll keep trying." This time, I made myself meet his gaze, holding it despite the sharp pressure of his stare.
"Just like with the clothing incident…" Was it just me, or did his ears turn red for a second? Probably the firelight playing tricks on me. "I'll figure this out too. I swear I will. I won't give up—not if it makes your life easier. It's not fair to you. None of this is. You didn't sign up for this. For me. And I'm sorry."
I faltered, breaking eye contact for just a heartbeat before scolding myself and forcing my gaze back to him. Keep it together, Ember. You've burdened him enough.
"I know I've broken promises before," I said, my voice softer now, barely above a whisper. But I knew with his sharp hearing, he'd catch every word. "And I know you probably think I'll fail at this one too. But please, believe me. I don't want to be a burden to you. More than anything, I want to help you—to make this journey even a little easier. No matter what. The last thing I want is to weigh you down, and right now… I know I have."
My gaze faltered again, wavering beneath the intensity of his unrelenting stare. My fingers curled into my palms, the pressure grounding me against the swell of emotions threatening to pull me under. I didn't want to manipulate him—not with apologies, and certainly not with tears—but I felt the traitorous sting anyway, burning at the corners of my eyes.
I blinked them back, swallowing the lump rising in my throat like some bitter antidote to my regret.
"So," I began, the word trembling on the edge of a breath, "I'll do better. Be better. I'll learn to control my thoughts." A faint, forced smile tugged at my lips. "Or at least I'll try… when I'm not busy distracting you at the worst possible moments or, you know, plotting my next embarrassing disaster."
The words lingered awkwardly in the air, and that's when I noticed it—something strange. His expression, once carved from stone, softened into something unreadable as I spoke. Then, slowly, it twisted into…
A grimace.
With his elbow propped on his knee, he reached up and rubbed the bridge of his nose, slow and deliberate. The movement was heavy, almost weighted, like he was trying to press down whatever emotion was bubbling beneath the surface.
I froze, my stomach tying itself into knots.
What did that mean? Had I done something wrong again?
"Sorry," I blurted, uncertainty stinging every word. "Did I… did I say something to upset you? I-I know words can only go so far, but I'll prove to you that I mean it, Monkey Boy. I pro--I'll try."
My hands fidgeted uselessly at my sides, and a familiar warmth crept up my neck, betraying my nerves. I hated the way my chest tightened, the way the silence stretched just long enough to leave me guessing.
His sharp eyes flicked up, meeting mine with a grimace still firmly etched across his face. But before I could stumble through another apology, he closed his eyes, straightened his back, and rested both hands deliberately on his knees.
A small, measured huff escaped him, and when his eyes opened again, they weren't sharp anymore. Just… tired.
The shift in him made me sit a little straighter too, my fingers tightening instinctively around the edges of the journal in my lap. His brows furrowed, his gaze sliding from my face to the journal…
And then, without warning, he stood.
My breath hitched as I watched him round the fire to my left, his movements fluid and purposeful. He stopped beside me, and before I could fully process it, he sat down. Close. Too close. Our knees nearly touched, and the warmth radiating from him mingled with the firelight that flickered across his face—stern but softer in this moment, shadows smoothing the edges of his sharp features as he settled in.
But he didn't look at me. His focus stayed locked on the journal, and before I could find my voice, he reached out. With the tip of his finger—not his nail—he tapped the cover. The gesture was deliberate but startlingly gentle, almost… curious.
I blinked, caught off guard by both his sudden nearness and his unexpected interest. Usually, we kept a comfortable distance at night—me rambling about nonsense, him pretending to listen. But now? Now he was here, sitting cross-legged beside me, so close I could feel the faint shift of air whenever he moved.
And I? I was blushing.
I quickly tore my gaze from his face—why did the firelight have to make him look so… different?—and focused on the journal resting on my lap instead. My fingers brushed its worn edges, seeking some sense of grounding in the midst of my fraying composure.
"Do you… want to know what's inside?" I asked hesitantly, searching his steady, unreadable gaze for any hint of meaning in the silence.
He nodded. Just once.
The simple gesture made my heart stutter—a quiet affirmation that felt deeper than words ever could.
I'd told Monkey Boy bits and pieces of the stories before, spinning them aloud while he sat in his usual stoic silence, his expression as impenetrable as stone. He always seemed to listen—or at least, he never stopped me—but I'd convinced myself it was more out of tolerance than genuine interest. A small kindness to keep me from feeling ignored.
After that first night, I stopped sharing what I found in the journal. The last thing I wanted was to push too far, to burden him with something that only I cared about. I'd made that mistake before—with friends who once humored my ramblings until my enthusiasm became too much, wearing them down until they quietly drifted away.
I didn't want to do that to Monkey Boy.
But he must have noticed how the journal consumed me, how I pored over its pages with a focus I couldn't hide. And now, for reasons I couldn't begin to understand, he was asking me to share it with him again.
Even though I knew—knew—he couldn't actually be interested.
…Or was he?
I didn't understand it. Two of the stories mentioned a monkey, and I'd thought, surely, that would spark something in him—some curiosity, some connection. But no. His expression remained as calm and unreadable as ever, no matter how hard I tried to bridge the gap with the journal.
And yet… here he was, sitting closer than he'd ever dared before, watching me with a quiet patience that made my chest ache.
Why? Why was he being considerate of my feelings now, after the mess I'd made of everything today?
I felt my lip tremble, the threat of tears prickling at the edges of my resolve. But I swallowed hard, steadied my breathing, and opened the journal anyway. My eyes fell to the first page, and I let the words steady me. If he wanted to listen—even if it was only to humor me—I wouldn't waste the moment.
Besides, it was a good distraction.
"When I first mentioned these stories to you," I began softly, the firelight flickering between us, "I thought they were just that—stories. Tales spun from someone's imagination, nothing more."
I paused, my fingers tracing the journal's worn edges, a habit I'd picked up without realizing. The familiar texture grounded me, gave me something to hold onto. "But the more I read, the more I realized… they weren't just stories."
I glanced up at Monkey Boy, sadness pooling in my eyes and tugging faintly at the corners of my mouth. His expression was stoic as ever, his left leg propped up, his arm resting casually across it. But his attention was there—solid and steady, silently urging me to go on.
"Especially when I got to Guangzhi," I murmured, the name tightening in my throat like a knot I couldn't quite swallow.
Slowly, carefully, I unraveled the truth I'd found in the journal, my voice trembling as the pieces fell into place between us.
The journal wasn't just a collection of random tales—it wove stories that were all connected in some way. Most of them revolved around the Black Wind Bear, the Bullguard, or the Blue Cowman—my name for him—and, of course, Guangzhi, the fire wolf. But it didn't stop there. It chronicled more than creatures; it also detailed the trinkets we'd stumbled across, like the Fireproof Mantle—a dramatic little relic claiming to shield its wearer from flames.
We'd found it on the dead Wolfman, the one hanging lifelessly before crumbling into ash after we'd returned from that other world. The same world where Monkey Boy fought the golden yaoguai and its shadow. The mantle had been a striking crimson cloak, bound with a golden cord, its ends tipped with pale blue beads that shimmered like captured moonlight.
'Let everything else burn. I care for nothing but my master. Give it to me, quickly.'
Naturally, I insisted Monkey Boy tie it to his belt wrappings—just in case he found a use for it later. He grumbled, of course, because nothing screams "fearless warrior" like being forced to accessorize. The dork. Or he was embarrassed I was fussing over him. Most likely the latter, if I was being honest.
And then came the stories…
Guangzhi, the fire wolf, had a tale steeped in sorrow—a story so heavy with grief it felt as though the ink in the journal had bled with his pain.
And I believed every word of it. Those weren't just stories etched into the pages—they pulsed with life, carrying a glimmer of truth in every line, every detail.
It was an odd sensation, but for whatever reason, I believed them.
If I had lived in the village where Guangzhi had tried to pass as human, I liked to think I would have been his friend. At least, I wanted to believe I would have been. But that was a bold claim, wasn't it? If I had grown up in this world, shaped by its rules and prejudices, would I really have been any different? Would I have had the courage to stand beside him?
…Yes. I would have. I knew myself better than that. I had always been the odd one out, the square peg in a world of round holes. And maybe that was why his story felt so achingly familiar—because I recognized the loneliness in it. If nothing else, Guangzhi and I would have been two misfits in a world that didn't known what to do with either of us.
But he was gone now, and there was no bringing him back.
That part about believing I would have been Guangzhi's friend? Yeah, I didn't mention that to Monkey Boy.
The journal also described two monks arriving at a temple. One had a fair, devout countenance, while the other's face was covered in fur.
It was the first time a monkey appeared in the journal, and when I told the story to Monkey Boy… he didn't seem to care.
Odd.
Or maybe not odd at all. Maybe he wasn't surprised to hear about another monkey in these tales—like it was old news to him, something he'd known all along.
I sighed, frustration simmering just beneath my skin. For the thousandth time, I wished Monkey Boy could speak to me—just one word, one whisper through the stone, something to bridge the gap. But no, all I ever got was silence or the faintest echo of an emotion. It was maddening.
And then I turned the page.
A page that had been blank the last time I checked. My fingers moved to flip it again, eager to reach the next story, but I froze, my hand still on the corner.
The page was no longer blank.
I gasped, the sound sharp and startled even to my own ears, as my eyes locked on the image.
An image of him.
Monkey Boy.
My gaze snapped to him, searching for any sign of a reaction. His golden eyes flicked to the journal, his face as unreadable as ever. He blinked at the sketch, gave it a brief, disinterested glance, and then looked back at me, clearly waiting for me to move on.
I gawked at him, then back at the page. My hand, still cradling the journal, moved almost on its own, my fingers brushing over the inked lines. The grooves left by the quill—or whatever had been used to create it—felt rough beneath my fingertips, but the image itself was smooth.
My fingers traced the stern set of his eyes, the flat bridge of his nose, the curve of his monkey lips, and the wild spikes of hair framing his face. It was him.
Not an approximation. Not a caricature. Him.
This wasn't the work of someone imagining a monkey or guessing at his features. It was intimate, precise, and so impossibly perfect it felt like a black-and-white photograph rendered in ink.
Whoever had drawn this must have had endless patience—and a very willing subject. Someone who had sat for hours, maybe even days, allowing themselves to be captured in such painstaking detail.
I glanced back at Monkey Boy, but he remained maddeningly unmoved. His gaze stayed fixed on me, calm and detached, as if none of this—the image, the mystery of its existence—mattered to him in the slightest.
But to me? It mattered more than I could ever put into words.
But I had to try.
"You don't look surprised to see this, do you?" I asked, my voice soft but edged, the importance of the moment pressing down on me like a held breath.
Monkey Boy's golden eyes flicked back to mine, studying me with that unnerving intensity of his. His gaze shifted between my eyes, as if weighing something unspoken, and then, slowly, he shook his head.
No. He wasn't surprised.
"…And you didn't pose for this, did you?" I pressed, though the idea of him sitting still long enough for someone to sketch him was almost laughable.
Another slow shake of his head. No.
"And you don't know who drew this?"
The silence stretched between us, heavy and deliberate, before he gave a third, measured shake of his head.
No.
Each response was maddeningly simple, yet each one unraveled a thousand more questions in my mind. Questions he wouldn't—or couldn't—answer. And, of course, he just watched, letting me stew in the quiet chaos of my thoughts, offering nothing but that steady, unyielding stare.
I couldn't be angry with him. How could I? There was a depth to his silence, a truth he carried but couldn't share—not with the fragile, fractured threads of understanding stretched thin between us. And yet, even in the void of words, I could feel it: the unspoken things he would tell me if he could. Maybe, in another time, in another life, he would have told me everything.
A part of me wanted to ask him. To beg him to break the silence and lay it all bare—why he was on this journey, what purpose it served, what waited for him at the end of this path.
He knew. Of course he knew. I'd seen it in the way his gaze would fix on some distant, unreachable point, as if he could already see the end from where we stood. There was a quiet determination in his stillness, a magnetic pull drawing him forward, even when we stopped to rest.
Sometimes, as we sat together in silence at night, I'd notice the way his body leaned ever so slightly toward the direction we were heading, like an invisible thread was tugging at him. Pulling him closer to whatever destiny awaited him.
But I couldn't ask.
Not after learning he was—at the very least—practicing monkhood. He had likely taken a vow of silence, a commitment to something greater than himself. If that was the path he had chosen, the discipline he lived by, how could I ask him to break it? To give up something sacred just to quiet my restless curiosity?
It would be selfish. Cruel, even.
So I swallowed the questions clawing at the back of my throat and let the silence stretch between us, heavy and unbroken, as it always did. Even though it felt like it might suffocate me.
But as my fingers glided over the page, words I could swear hadn't been there before began to surface beneath my touch. They read:
"The Great Sage Equal to Heaven, bold and unrelenting, flaunted the golden kasaya before the Old Monk. What he saw as triumph became the Old Monk's ruin, as obsession met its inevitable downfall."
…What?
First off, what a dorkey, grandiose title to give someone. The Great Sage Equal to Heaven? Seriously?
Second, the Old Monk… That name. I'd read about him before, somewhere in this journal.
Flipping quickly through the pages, I found it—the one that had first appeared when I'd opened the journal back in that other world.
Elder Jinchi, a yaoguai king.
Elder Jinchi's journal spoke of a monk and his disciple—a monkey, though this one, unlike mine, apparently talked. Not like my Monkey, who preferred grunts, glowers, and the occasional smug grin. No, this other disciple had an impatience sharper than a blade and a tongue looser than a toddler hopped up on sugar.
And yet, despite my Monkey's occasional bouts of grumpiness—a scowl here, a huff there—he was surprisingly patient with me. Not just patient, but disarmingly understanding, as if beneath that prickly exterior lay a well of calm, quietly waiting for me to stumble upon it.
It was a peculiar kind of softness, wrapped in sharp edges and stubborn pride, but it was unmistakably there.
He'd shown it today. Just now, as he sat and listened to me ramble about the journal…
So unlike this other Monkey disciple.
For reasons only the gods could fathom (or maybe even they questioned his motives), he had paraded a golden kasaya before some old monk, arrogance dripping from every word as he invited the elder to inspect it. Boldly, he'd declared that if anything went awry while the Old Monk took it to a back chamber, he'd personally set it right.
The journal entry ended there, but a heavy weight settled in my gut—like the quiet tension of a storm gathering on a still day.
Was this story somehow tied to Monkey Boy's drawing? To the mention of the Great Sage Equal to Heaven? Could this brazen, reckless Monkey truly be that Great Sage?
And was the temple where this Old Monk resided the same one that had burned to the ground?
It was all so confusing. But one thing I knew for certain—the Old Monk was Elder Jinchi. And the golden monster Monkey Boy fought in that other world…
"You know what I've noticed while flipping through these journal entries and watching new ones appear?" I asked, glancing over at Monkey Boy.
He sat by the fire, his golden eyes fixed on the flames. But as my words lingered unfinished, he turned his attention to me, one brow raised in quiet expectation.
"The new yaoguai entries," I continued, "only show up after you've killed the one they're about."
The fire crackled in the pause that followed. I let the journal fall shut in my lap, my fingers trailing over its worn cover. My gaze lingered on it, as though the answers I sought might rise from the leather and ink.
"It makes me wonder," I said softly, "if you decided to spare one of the yaoguai it so dramatically spins its tales about… would the journal still update? Or does it demand blood to earn its ink?"
We came across a mountain of a man inside a cave—hulking, self-important, and eager to announce that he'd rebuilt some ancient temple with his bare hands. Five hundred years, he said, had passed since a fire had consumed the monks, leaving their souls to wander the forest as restless ghosts. And apparently, he had been the one to grant them "eternal repose." Whatever that meant. His ramblings were a kaleidoscope of nonsense.
Until he said something that sent a chill down my spine.
He had always known Monkey Boy would return.
And then he lunged.
So, humans attack Monkey Boy too. Good to know.
As Monkey Boy fought him, the man spewed riddles like a broken faucet, ranting about divinity, someone named Guanyin, and how monkeys only burn, rob, and kill. It was like listening to a bedtime story penned by a lunatic. If he fancied himself a deity, did that mean he wasn't human? Or just a human with delusions grand enough to fill this entire cursed forest?
Not that it mattered. Monkey Boy dispatched him with laughable ease, pummeling him into submission until the so-called deity turned tail and fled. Divine, my foot.
But it also meant Monkey Boy didn't kill him. For once, I didn't have to stand there—or more like sit within the stone forced to watch through Monkey Boy's eyes—a silent witness to yet another life snuffed out by his hand.
Truth be told, the impact on my consciousness of all his killings was starting to press down on me, an invisible burden I couldn't seem to shake. Watching it up close—every swing of his staff, every body crumpling like paper—it was wearing me thin.
There's only so much blood you can watch spill before it starts to seep into your soul, staining places you didn't even know could darken.
Just don't think about it, Ember.
That's when the Keeper appeared, as if summoned by the chaos left in the aftermath. He didn't say much—he never does—but he gifted Monkey Boy some shiny new power.
And then, just as suddenly as he arrived, he was gone again, vanishing like mist under sunlight. Right when I leaped out of the stone, questions ready on my tongue.
I'd wanted to ask him about The Great Sage…
"Darn that old geezer," I muttered, kicking at a pile of leaves in frustration. The leaves scattered uselessly, much like my effort to corner him.
I stood there, alone again, with only Monkey Boy for company. And where were we? In—surprise, surprise—yet another open, temple-esque clearing, surrounded by towering walls of stone. Except this time, we were in a cave, complete with beautiful Chinese architecture sprawling through the shadows.
It was almost laughable. These places felt so perfectly staged, like arenas pulled straight from a video game—purpose-built for Monkey Boy's endless cycle of battles. Boss fight here, power-up there. Rinse and repeat.
The sprawling temples, carved with the patience of centuries, whispered stories of their own. Intricate, ancient Chinese designs adorned every surface, like the brushstrokes of a forgotten artist, their beauty demanding reverence. But this one? It dwarfed the others we'd stumbled upon. Larger. Grander. Another training ground, maybe?
But where were the homes? The villages? Yaoguai or human—it didn't matter. Why hadn't we come across any? Everything we'd seen so far was the same: gazebo-like buildings surrounding wide-open areas.
Always wide-open training grounds. Always the same. What was up with that?
I turned to Monkey Boy, half a question forming on my lips, ready to ask about his newfound power. But when I looked, he was gone.
My chest tightened, and I spun back toward the battlefield where he'd fought the hulking man. Just moments ago, he'd been there—fur catching the dim light, defiant in the center of the fighting grounds.
Now, all that remained was the quiet murmur of leaves, swaying gently, as if they were in on some secret I wasn't meant to know.
Swaying… shifting… moving?
Wait. Why was there a line of leaves slithering across the arena floor, untouched by wind, sliding with a purpose all their own?
And why were they heading straight for me?
Panic prickled at the base of my spine as the peculiar parade of leaves crept closer. I stumbled back a step, unease blossoming into outright fear. The instinct to retreat into the safety of my stone coiled in my gut, ready to take over—until, at the last moment, the leaves swerved, brushing past me with eerie precision.
They stopped at the edge of the arena, frozen as if waiting for some invisible command.
And then, like a mirage snapping into focus, Monkey Boy materialized where the leaves had halted. My heart shot to my throat at his sudden appearance, thundering with a mix of fright and embarrassing relief.
He stood there, his back to me, his golden gaze fixed on the far end of the temple. A crack in the wall—away from the temple and the path we'd traveled—seemed to hold his complete attention. Whatever he saw—or sensed—had him utterly captivated.
Honestly, I was a little surprised he hadn't used that shiny new invisibility trick to spook me. It seemed exactly like the kind of thing he'd do—vanishing into thin air, only to reappear with one of those smug monkey smirks, poking me in the ribs just to watch me jump out of my skin.
Not exactly the pinnacle of monkly decorum. Were monks even allowed to pull pranks? Was there some ancient scroll somewhere listing "thou shalt not be a mischievous little menace" as an official rule? And would it even matter when it came to him?
Probably not.
With Monkey Boy's back to me, something in the air felt wrong—a discordant note in the melody of his usual self-assurance. He was distracted, his stillness a jarring contrast to the constant motion that defined him. It wasn't like him. It was too quiet, too tense.
I stepped toward him, my movements cautious, the crunch of my steps muffled by the intensity of whatever had captured his focus. My fingers hovered near his arm, ready to anchor him back to the present, back to me. The words were already forming—What is it? Are you okay?—but before they could escape, he blinked, as if waking from a trance.
His head snapped toward me, golden eyes locking on mine, startled and wide, like a cornered animal caught off guard.
He hadn't noticed my approach. Monkey Boy, who noticed everything, had been so utterly consumed by whatever lay ahead that I could've been nothing more than a shadow slipping past.
His surprise softened into confusion, an expression that made him look impossibly young. Too young. The kind of youth that made my chest tighten with a strange mix of protectiveness and unease. Vulnerability didn't suit him. And yet, there it was—uninvited and raw.
I offered him a small, careful smile, as if it might somehow shield him from whatever ghost lingered in his gaze. With a breath I hadn't realized I was holding, I stepped closer, turning my back to the invisible pull that had ensnared him so I could face him fully.
"Are you coming, Monkey Boy?" I asked, my voice bright and deliberately breezy—or at least, I hoped it came across that way.
He nodded, the movement slow and hesitant, before falling into step beside me. As we walked, I spun forward on my heel, clasping my hands behind my back and leaning forward just enough to flash him another smile. It was a flicker of forced cheer, meant to punctuate the growing heaviness in my chest.
That quiet dread settled deeper, insidious and inexplicable—a whisper in my bones that refused to be silenced. Something was coming. Something neither of us had noticed until it was almost too late.
A/N: I wanted to thank DarkMatter69 for the kind comment!
Sorry for a boring, possibly even underwhelming chapter. I struggled with this one. It's the fourth rewrite, and I'm still not satisfied. Honestly, I think I'm starting to annoy myself with my own writing, haha. That, and I'm itching to write more dialogue, but there's only so much I can do when one of the protagonists is mute.
I cannot wait to write Bajie, though. He's going to be so much fun… and probably a little creepy at times, not going to lie, haha.
I'm still not thrilled with this chapter, so it might get another rewrite once I've had some distance from it. Thanks for sticking with me through a slower chapter—I promise more excitement is on the way! I've had this next part of the story on my mind for a while now.