The shadows led us to a temple steeped in gloom and darkness.

And by "led," I mean they unceremoniously dumped us into a completely different area in the map (or maybe even the afterlife). Star Trek zapped us might be a better term. One moment we were ringing a bell next to a dead body swaying gently in a sunless clearing—and the next? We stood before a temple shrouded in an ink-black mist, as if the night itself had woven a veil around its crumbling temple walls.

I wasn't sure which was worse: the clearing, where the air seemed to whisper secrets meant for other ears, where a dead body covered in white sheets swung from a tree, or this spectral mausoleum-like place with its ominous stairway leading up into an abandoned, totally not haunted, temple.

Both felt like they'd been plucked from the plot of a B-rated horror flick, the kind where no one survives and the dialogue was just as tragic as the deaths. Or, lack of dialogue in my case.

So much missed dialogue…it was tragic…

The stairs waited, daring Monkey Boy to climb as he stood at the base. The mist swirled, promising answers—or maybe our annihilation. Either way, it was clear: bad decisions had been made.

Or perhaps it was the exact right one, the choice that would unravel the answers we sought. But we wouldn't know—not until the dust had settled, the echoes of this place had faded, and the final truth revealed itself, waiting patiently at the end of this strange and treacherous path.

Monkey Boy, despite being Star Trek zapped into an entirely new area, didn't so much as blink at the sudden shift in scenery. He gave the place a cursory once-over, his sharp eyes scanning for enemies like he was bored of the game but still begrudgingly playing (more for my benefit, I was sure), and then strolled over to the Keeper's temple. Without so much as a pause, he made and then lit an incense stick with one of his hairs—his hairs—and tucked his staff into his ear.

Of course he wasn't fazed. This wasn't just a Tuesday for him; this was his always. Voodoo witchcraft magic, Star Trek teleportation—just another day in the life of Monkey Boy. Meanwhile, I was still trying to process the whole "where are we and why is reality crumbling/shifting" bit.

And as if the situation wasn't bizarre enough, clothes—actual, tangible clothes—materialized in his outstretched hands as they hovered over the Keeper's temple. New, pristine robes in a shade somewhere between blue and green.

At this point? I was done. Checked out. Whatever. It wasn't like I could ask him how he managed to materialize new clothes from thin air anyway; Monkey Boy wasn't exactly a conversationalist.

But then he placed the folded robes on the ground near the temple, straightened, and casually reached for the ties around his waist. His eyes tracking his movement, which meant I was seeing everything he was seeing…

I teleported from my stone so fast I might've left a scorch mark, materializing beside him with a heat in my cheeks that had nothing to do with magic or the current precarious predicament we were in.

I…didn't want to be flashed with Monkey…parts…

His head tilted when I suddenly materialized next to his right, eyes locking onto me as his hand paused, hovering over the ties at his waist. One eyebrow arched, his gaze swept over my face—no doubt noting the newfound shade of embarrassment painting my cheeks.

I did the only thing I could think of: took a couple of measured steps back, putting some very necessary space between us, and crossed my arms like I could physically restrain the heat creeping up my neck.

Stop blushing. Stop blushing, I willed myself. But my face, ever the traitor, had other plans.

"Listen, Monkey Boy," I began, trying to summon my best authoritative tone, though it wavered like a leaf in the wind. I jabbed a finger in his direction, as if that might help. "If you're about to get naked, could you at least give me some kind of warning? A signal? Like, I don't know, cross your fingers in front of your vision or wave your staff or snap or fingers or something? Just don't—"

I faltered, gesturing vaguely toward his hand hovering at his waist. "—just don't start stripping while I'm still tuned in! I can't turn off your vision when I'm in the stone, okay? My eyes see everything yours do!"

And then, like a true master of digging my own grave, my gaze flicked back to his face—and that infernal raised eyebrow—before words I would regret tumbled out. "I don't want to see Monkey di—"

Nope. Nope. Abort mission. My hand slapped over my mouth before the word could fully escape, my cheeks igniting like a bonfire. I wasn't sure what was more horrifying: the near-slip or the fact that I was starting to sound suspiciously like Susie.

And for the record, I wasn't usually one for crude talk. Swearing and saying things like... that... always made me flush with embarrassment. But Susie had a way of pulling those words out of me, usually with a wicked grin and a lot of persistence, or she'd ignore me until I gave in. Now? I was beginning to wonder if spending so much time with Monkey Boy was having the same effect, in its own way. The last person I'd ever felt truly comfortable around was Susie, with her relentless teasing and knack for turning every awkward moment into a comedy skit. She had this way of making you feel like even your worst flaws were part of the joke, and somehow, you were in on it.

In a good way, of course. Susie had a knack for walking the tightrope between hilarity and humanity, always knowing just how far to push before pulling back. She could read people like an open book, her finger tracing the lines of their limits without ever crossing them. It was a gift, really—an uncanny ability to make you laugh at yourself without ever feeling the sting of being laughed at.

But now? Somehow, impossibly, I was starting to feel that same kind of ease with Monkey Boy. Which was absurd, really. He didn't even talk—he just raised his eyebrows like they were their own language, and yet… there it was. That strange, quiet comfort creeping in, like an uninvited guest who made themselves at home anyway.

And wasn't that just the most ridiculous thing? Feeling at ease with a mute, staff-wielding Monkey who conjured clothes out of thin air and looked at me like I was the most perplexing puzzle he'd ever come across and who killed others without a care in the world. If Susie could see me now, she'd probably laugh herself into another dimension.

Back into my own dimensional world.

I tore my gaze away from Monkey Boy, suddenly hit with a pang of homesickness so sharp it felt like a blade. My arms instinctively wrapped around myself, as if I could shield against the ache. "Just… tap me on the shoulder when you're done getting dressed," I mumbled, trying to keep a smile on my face so as to not worry Monkey Boy while trying to avoid his infuriatingly calm expression.

My eyes drifted to the stone stairs spiraling up into the darkness, leading to a temple above—a structure so steeped in shadows it seemed like the earth itself wanted to forget it existed. "This place doesn't feel right," I added, my voice quieter now. "The sooner we can leave, the better."

The air felt heavy here, like it was pressing secrets into your lungs you didn't want to keep. Even the stairs seemed to glare at me, daring me to climb.

And the longer I stared at the temple, the more it seeped into me—an unease that slithered under my skin and refused to let go. Something about it felt wrong. No, not just wrong—angry. The kind of fury that didn't shout but simmered, waiting for the right moment to erupt.

I could feel it more keenly now, out here in the open, away from the safety of my stone sanctuary. The stone had dulled it, muffled the edges of that seething presence. But now? Now it was like standing too close to a fire, the heat licking at my skin, daring me to step closer.

It was…pulling me in?

Why?

I tore my eyes from the temple, forcing myself to take in our surroundings. Stone pillars loomed around us in a jagged circle, like sentinels guarding some long-forgotten secret. Some stood tall and defiant, others lay toppled or broken, their jagged edges clawing at the gray haze that clung to this place. They encased us completely, their silent presence beckoning—no, demanding—that we ascend those damned stairs.

Something on the ground caught my attention as I wandered closer to one of the fallen pillars. Kneeling down, I brushed my fingers over a stone half-buried in the ashen dirt. In this gray, lifeless atmosphere, its blue streaks gleamed unnaturally, vivid and sharp against the muted tones around it. It was just a rock—gray with streaks of cobalt running through it—but it seemed to shimmer with significance, as if it didn't quite belong here.

I picked it up and turned it over a few times in my hand, examining its smooth surface, before reaching into my satchel. Opening a small pocket inside, I dropped the stone in next to another trinket I'd collected along the way. A silly habit, maybe. Picking up things so small, so insignificant, just because they caught my eye. But these little treasures felt important—anchors to remind me of this strange, impossible journey.

One day, when all of this was over and I returned to my world, I hoped I could take them with me. These tiny fragments of a reality that would eventually feel like a fever dream than a memory. Proof that I was here. Proof that it mattered.

And who could say if I'd even be allowed to keep the memories of this world when—or if—I ever returned home? I couldn't recall how I'd gotten here; that thread of my past had been cut clean, the memory erased as if it had never existed. Perhaps this place would fade the same way, slipping from my mind like smoke through trembling fingers, leaving nothing behind but the haunting sense of something lost.

And Monkey Boy…my chest was beginning to ache…

I felt a light tap on my shoulder, and from my crouched position on the ground, I glanced back at Monkey Boy, now donning his shiny new wardrobe.

A smile tugged at my lips before I could stop it, spreading wide as I stood to face him. He stared at me with his usual mix of boredom and authority, though, as always, his eyebrow decided to do its own thing, arching slightly the moment he caught sight of my grin.

And how could I not smile? "Those colors look nice on you," I said, meaning every word. And they did. The under robes—a rich blue-green—wrapped neatly around his arms and legs, offset by a white half-robe draped over his right shoulder, while an armor plate guarded his left. The whole look was both practical and surprisingly stylish, a blend of fashion and function.

Still, I couldn't resist poking fun. "Seems like a lot of layers, though. Couldn't you skip the white cloth on your right shoulder? Doesn't look like it's doing much." I circled him as I spoke, inspecting the outfit from all angles, like I was sizing up a mannequin instead of Monkey Boy. I briefly considered asking him to give me a twirl but decided I liked living too much.

He…wouldn't appreciate that.

Predictably, he didn't respond—just stood there with his arms crossed, tracking me with that inscrutable gaze. I let out a small laugh, unable to help myself. "I'm serious, though. The colors look great on you. Handsome, even. You'll definitely turn some heads if you go back home dressed like that—get all the female Monkey's attention."

If he was even into female monkeys to begin with. Maybe he liked male monkeys?

The thought struck me out of nowhere, and before I could stop myself, I was already spiraling down that mental rabbit hole. Did Monkey Boy have a type? Did he even know if he had a type? What was dating like for the yaoguai monkey's, anyway? Did he court his suitors with feats of strength or impress them with his staff tricks? Did he conjure clothes out of thin air for them, too?

Elegant clothing?

…or maybe lacey…?

I bit back a grin at the absurdity of my own thoughts. Because honestly, who was I to speculate on the romantic preferences of a mute, magical, staff-wielding, human-like monkey? Still, the idea of him being some kind of monkey Casanova, batting his eyebrows at admirers, was enough to keep the grin firmly plastered on my face, my earlier thought and homesickness entirely forgotten thanks to this Monkey.

Not that I'd ever say any of this aloud. I didn't want Monkey Boy to think I was weirder than what he already thought I was.

But my earlier words earned a slight reaction. His gaze flicked away, and his head gave a slight shake, as if trying to dislodge my words from his ears. Was he embarrassed, or was I just annoying him? Probably both. But when I stopped in front if him, he still had his head turned away from me, his eyes refusing to return back to mine as I leaned toward him, my hands clasped behind my back as I tried to get a better look at his face.

He shifted from one foot to the other, his gaze stubbornly avoiding mine, and for all his usual composure, it was… oddly cute.

It was almost too much. The way his ears twitched ever so slightly (did they look redder than usual?), the barely-there pout tugging at his lips—it was a side of him I hadn't expected to see, and frankly, I wasn't sure how to handle it.

If I didn't know any better, I'd say I was getting under his skin. Embarrassing him. And that thought? That was dangerous. Because now all I wanted to do was keep pushing, just to see how far I could go before he snapped.

Snapped and showed his true embarrassment instead of hiding it all.

I was terrible, I know. But if he could hide as a peach and scare me, I had the right to tease him once in a great while.

Moments like this made me wish we had an easier way to communicate. Something more than eyebrow twitches and head tilts. But then again, maybe that was half the fun…

I straightened up, brushing imaginary dust off my clothes as I cleared my throat. The urge to tease him lingered on the tip of my tongue, but I bit it back. As much fun as it was to see Monkey Boy squirm, now wasn't the time.

"Be careful, okay?" I murmured, my voice softer than I intended, my gaze lingering on the ominous stairs stretching into the shadows above behind Monkey Boy. Then I let the magic tether of the stone pull me back into the stone around his neck.

The world blinked out for a heartbeat, darkness pressing in on all sides, before my vision snapped into focus—his focus. Monkey Boy had already turned, the tilt of his head unreadable as he pulled his staff from his ear with an ease that bordered on casual arrogance.

He gave it a quick twirl, the movement fluid, almost lazy, before he started up the stairs. Each step was deliberate, measured.

He moved with all the indifference of someone heading to market, the weight of the darkened world around him nothing more than a fleeting nuisance. Typical Monkey Boy. Fearless to a fault, or maybe just too stubborn to care.

Did my words matter to him, I wondered.

The temple was haunted, but not with the usual ghosts. No, this place crawled with zombie-like creatures, thin, frail, all men, their weapons rusted and movements jerky, as if their souls were caught between agony and obedience. Were they lost souls, or something worse? Whatever they were, they didn't spare much of a glance at Monkey Boy. Not yet, anyway. Their vacant stares only glided over Monkey Boy—barely acknowledging him. But only at first.

They only moved when the temple's master gave the order.

And what a strange master he was. A golden man-beast with a bulbous head, stubby tail, and short chubby proportions that seemed pulled from a drunken artisan's fever dream -- short and stout and baby-like. Oddly familiar, too. We'd met something like him before in the forest, though that one shimmered in blue with gold streaks and skipped straight to violence without the courtesy of conversation. A cousin, perhaps? A sibling? Or just another cog in whatever divine comedy we'd stumbled into?

This one, however, talked.

He droned on about a kasaya, his words dripping with resentment and a grudge as ancient as the cracked temple walls. He accused Monkey Boy of theft, snarling about his recognizable scent and some betrayal before unleashing his fury.

Monkey Boy dispatched him with startling ease—too easy, really. Either my traveling companion had grown sharper since our last encounter with this creature's kin, or this golden yaoguai was too predictable. To my untrained eye, the fight felt eerily familiar, though this one had a few extra tricks up his gilded sleeves. He commanded the zombie-like creatures like a conductor wielding an orchestra of the damned, using them to attack and even siphon their energy to heal himself when he had the chance.

But in the end, no amount of borrowed strength could save him. Monkey Boy, ever the quick study, turned the creature's theater of rage into a one-act tragedy.

As he crumbled into ash, there was no triumph in his fall. Just confusion, raw and unguarded, etched into his golden face. He looked lost, his cries spilling into the air like embers from a dying flame. Something about fire—something he couldn't seem to grasp. Couldn't understand.

He had attacked first. I reminded myself of that, the way I'd done countless times before. Monkey Boy had every right to defend himself. Every right to win.

And yet, it was still sad.

There was a wrongness to it that clung to the air, heavy and unwelcome. Like we weren't meant to be here, standing in the ruins of his unraveling. Like the path we thought we chose weren't our choices but ones written by someone else, pulling strings we couldn't see.

It wasn't just his end that felt hollow. It was the act of it—the inevitability of his fall, as though the ashes he became were preordained long before we ever arrived.

When the last ember of his dying ashes vanished into nothingness, I peeled myself free from the stone's grasp, appearing into the dim light of the temple. My eyes immediately caught sight of a table laden with chests, plates, and bags—a veritable dragon's hoard waiting to be plundered at the very end of the open temple grounds. Naturally, this drew a grimace from Monkey Boy, who glanced my way the moment I appeared by his side. His expression was a cocktail of disapproval and resignation, the kind one wears when babysitting a particularly reckless toddler. Still, he said nothing, merely shook his head and, with a scoff, began swatting aside the shambling undead that dared to block my path to the prize.

I made my way to the table, the squeaking of my sneakers mingling with the wet, sluggish steps of the zombie-like creatures. Monkey Boy's footfalls echoed behind me, their deliberate rhythm grounding me as he stalked about, even as I sifted through the bags and chests with the enthusiasm of a magpie. Amid the jumbled treasures, a smaller satchel caught my eye. It had been tucked away inside a vase near the table, as though someone had tried to hide it from prying hands like mine. Crouching low, I dragged it free from the vase, my fingers brushing off years of grime and dust when I turned the opening toward me to reveal what lay beneath.

It was just a satchel, plain and brown like the one slung at my side, but its flap was adorned with a breathtaking embroidery of flowers. Petals unfurled in vibrant swirls of color, delicate and detailed as if they'd been painted by the gods themselves. The artistry was stunning, intricate, and completely out of place here.

The satchel was at odds with its surroundings, an anachronism in this decayed, ancient temple. The flowers didn't just feel unusual—they felt different, too modern, too alive. I ran my fingers over the stitching, the thread almost luminous against the drab, faded fabric. It whispered of another world, another time.

Something about it didn't belong, not just here in this lifeless ruin, but in this era. It was a whisper of the future, caught in the grasp of the past.

Or maybe the one who stitched these flowers onto the satchel flap didn't belong to this world at all.

The thought unfurled in my chest, a spark of excitement igniting and spreading like wildfire. I straightened, clutching the satchel, ready to show Monkey Boy what I'd uncovered. But as I stood up straight, the thrill dimmed, replaced by a creeping awareness. The air suddenly felt wrong—too still, too heavy.

The footfalls of the zombie-like creatures had stopped.

And then I felt it…

Something stood behind me.

Not the shambling, mindless presence of the undead. No, this was something else—silent, icy, and seething. The emotion hit me first, sharp and unyielding: anger. But not the fiery, explosive kind that burned and roared. This was colder. A frigid rage that seeped into my skin, wrapping around my bones like frostbite, unrelenting and inescapable.

Behind me, Monkey Boy made a sharp sound, his footfalls pounding against the stone floor as he approached. Fast. Too fast. And too far away. Hadn't he been right behind me just a moment ago? When had he moved so far away?

Or worse—maybe something had pushed him away?

My breath hitched, the satchel trembling in my grip as I turned my head, inch by inch, to glance over my shoulder.

And then I saw it—no, felt it. The breath I'd been holding escaped in a sharp, visible exhale, a ghostly plume of mist in the icy air. The cold hit me like a wave, seeping into every corner of the temple. My fingers ached, and my lungs strained against the chill. It was so cold I could see the outline of my own breath, dissipating into the dark.

Whatever stood behind me wasn't just cold. It was death itself, shrouded in unrelenting fury.

But what stood behind me was only a shadow…

Its edges flickered and blurred, as though reality itself couldn't decide whether it belonged. The figure shimmered like smoke caught in a restless wind, phasing in and out of existence. It was my height, and close enough that the slightest movement would bridge the impossible space between us.

Too close.

The air stilled, pressing against my skin like a warning. Then, without warning, Monkey Boy's staff whipped in front of me, the swish of its speed grazing the tip of my nose (or maybe it was just the wind) before slamming through the shadow's head. The strike should have sent it sprawling—or at least done something—but the shadow barely wavered. Its head reassembled instantly, the smoky outline reforming as if the blow had been nothing more than an annoying breeze.

I finally moved, instinct taking over. My hand shot up, reaching for the thing, as if I could shove it away. But the moment my fingers even twitched to move, the shadow recoiled, darting back as if I'd burned it. I stumbled a step away too, needing the distance, needing to breathe. The back of my legs hitting the table behind me.

With the space between us, I could see it more clearly—or at least, I could try.

The figure was my height, its outline sharper now but still cloaked in a veil of shifting black, but I could still make out the outline of its figure and clothing. Its hair, long and disheveled, spilled past its shoulders and moved in waves as if a breeze was blowing, framing a form that was maddeningly familiar and yet impossibly wrong. It wore an oversized coat, the hem brushing its knees, and sneakers—sneakers.

My heart stuttered as I stared, the realization sinking into my bones like ice.

Those clothes…they weren't from this world.

They were from mine.

Monkey Boy stepped in front of me, his form a solid wall of defiance between me and the shadow, his staff pointed at the shadow.

The figure tilted its head, the movement unnervingly slow, as if it were finally acknowledging him. Its shadowy outline flickered, the edges dissolving and reforming like ink spilling into water, unable to hold its shape. And then it started to tremble.

At first, it was subtle—a faint shudder rippling through its form. But the tremors grew violent, overtaking its entire body. Its head jerked, its limbs twisted unnaturally, and its entire frame began to writhe as though something deep within it was unraveling thread by thread, each pull more frayed and chaotic than the last.

And yet, through it all, its shadowy eyes remained locked on Monkey Boy.

The fury in its bottomless gaze was suffocating, heavy and oppressive, like a tide rising too fast, threatening to swallow everything in its path. This wasn't just anger; it was something raw and relentless, a hatred that seemed to seep into the world around it, twisting the very space it occupied. And still, it writhed, its movements sharp and jagged, as if even its own form was rejecting the intensity of its rage.

And all of that rage—all of that unrelenting, suffocating fury—was aimed squarely at Monkey Boy. The shadow's eyes burned with a darkness so pure it felt alive, its form quivering like a dam on the verge of collapse. It wasn't just hatred—it was purpose, ancient and undying, clawing its way through the veil of its fractured existence. The very air seemed to coil and compress, drawn into the singularity of its wrath, and for a breathless moment, the temple felt like the eye of some unholy reckoning. Then the shadow lurched forward, its movements jagged and unnatural, but filled with a predatory grace that screamed of inevitability. Whatever force bound it, whatever pain twisted its form, none of it mattered anymore.

Its target was clear. Its rage was absolute. And it was coming for Monkey Boy.

A/n: Thank you to fire.soul.love8792 for the kind comment last chapter!