Chapter 4:White Whale
He stood there for a while.
Still as a stone. Not because he couldn't move—no, no. Because he didn't want to. The world around him had gone quiet, the trees holding their breath, leaves frozen mid-rustle as if time had paused just for the Monkey King to decide what would come next.
And The Monkey King... he was enjoying the silence.
His tail flicked once. Twice.
Then he moved.
It was a blur.
One second he was standing, the next his body twisted away, his torso bending like a willow branch as a bamboo spear-leg came crashing down where his heart had just been. The forest floor exploded in a burst of leaves and soil. Another limb shot forward, aimed for his shoulder—he ducked under it, spun on one hand, and flipped back with a laugh.
"Oh?" he said with a grin. "You finally decided to pull your own weight,insect?"
The Hundred Bamboo Demon didn't reply. Its grotesque limbs descended like a deadly rainstorm, each leg a blur of green-black fury. But none touched Wukong. Not one.
He danced between the strikes, each dodge laced with casual elegance. He leaned, bent, twisted, and flipped through the chaos with the ease of someone playing hopscotch, not avoiding death.
"Ohhh, careful," he said, ducking beneath another stabbing limb and tapping it mockingly with his staff. "You'll strain a joint if you keep flailing like that. Maybe stretch next time, insect."
A screech cut through the air—high-pitched, shrill, and hateful. The Hundred Bamboo Demon reared back, and its abdomen shuddered violently. The forest dimmed as shadows thickened. Then came the hiss.
Pop.
Pop.
Pop.
The air ruptured.
Barbs. Dozens. No—hundreds.
Barbed spines exploded outward from the demon's segmented body, each one glistening with a thick, venomous sheen. They spiraled toward Wukong like a cloud of jagged wasps.
"Oh. Ohhh, you're one of those demons."
He grinned wider, eyes sparkling. "The sore-loser type."
The first volley of barbs struck the earth behind him—but Wukong was already gone. He cartwheeled sideways, narrowly avoiding the second wave, then launched himself straight up. The barbs changed direction mid-air, twisting unnaturally, defying gravity and reason. They were homing.
"Persistent little needles, huh?"
He vaulted from tree to tree, his footfalls light on bark, not even bending the branches. Still the poisoned spikes followed. They sliced through leaves. They tore into trunks. They impaled moss-covered stones. Wherever he ran, they followed—through glades and streams and clusters of thick bamboo. The forest itself was now a labyrinth of death, and yet Wukong moved through it like a ghost.
"I feel like I'm being chased by your feelings," he muttered, glancing back at the spinning barbs. "Desperate. Clingy. A little too stabby."
But even the Monkey King had his limits.
He skid to a halt atop a narrow stone ridge, one hand gripping a bent tree branch. His breath was steady, but his tail lashed once—annoyed. His grin flickered.
"You know," he muttered, as the barbs closed in from behind, "I was going to play with you a bit more. Really stretch this out. Do a few cartwheels, mock your ancestors, the usual."
He turned slowly, his golden eyes locking onto the blur of glistening poison and chattering limbs chasing him through the forest like a plague.
"But you're boring me."
There was no wind. The forest waited.
And then—
He vanished.
No crack of displaced air. No sound of movement. Just gone.
The barbs shot forward… and missed.
High above the tallest trees, where the sun pierced the canopy in thin golden blades, Wukong hovered in silence. The world below him looked so small now. The forest. The beast. The rage. All of it.
He stared down at the Hundred Bamboo Demon, which twisted in confusion far below, its limbs clacking together as it searched the empty ground for its prey.
"You," Wukong said softly, raising his staff overhead. "Have wasted enough of my time."
And then he fell.
It was not a dive.
It was not a leap.
It was a descent like judgment.
His fury channeled through motion, gravity warped into a spearhead of inevitability. His staff, once lazy and light in his grip, now burned with an ancient weight—a mountain's soul coiled in polished stone.
He descended like a comet. Stone against wood like skin. The hammer of the monkey versus the demon.
The demon looked up.
It didn't scream.
There was no time.
Wukong struck with a roar that cleaved the air apart.
His staff slammed into the demon's upper body—through bark, through chitin, through bone, through myth. A shockwave erupted from the impact point, a ring of force that splintered every tree in a fifty-meter radius. Bamboo groves disintegrated. Stones shattered. Birds fell from the sky. The earth cracked, yawning open like a mouth to swallow the horror that had haunted it for so long.
The Hundred Bamboo Demon didn't die with a scream.
It died with a whimper.
Its body crumpled like a rotten fruit. Its limbs twitched once, twice—and then stopped. Poisoned barbs that had hung in the air dropped, harmless, lifeless.
The Monkey King stood in the crater.
Dust rose in swirling ghosts.
His staff rested on the ground, still humming with latent energy. He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders.
"Well," he said, eyes scanning the broken forest. "That was a little satisfying."
The forest answered him, finally, with birdsong. A hesitant chirp. A breeze that rustled trembling leaves. As if nature itself had waited to see who the victor would be before daring to breathe again.
He walked toward the corpse of the demon, stepping over shattered branches and upturned roots. Its body was still twitching, not from life—but from death lingering, refusing to go quietly.
"Root rot, was it?" Monkey said, crouching beside the shattered skull. "Forest hunger? Dramatic names, I'll give you that."
He tapped the corpse once with his staff. It smoked faintly.
"But you forgot the most important thing," he said, rising. "No matter how monstrous you become…"
His eyes flared gold.
"There's always something worse."
He slung his staff over his shoulder, tail lazily swaying. Around him, the forest began to regrow—bamboo rising, healing, stretching toward the sun as if the land itself was grateful. Light danced between leaves. Water trickled again through the creeks.
He turned his back on the corpse and started walking.
"Now then," he muttered. "Where to next?"
He started walking out of the forest.
....
After leaving the bamboo forest, Monkey took one last look at the broken stalks behind him and nodded to himself.
"That's enough sticks for today," he said, cracking his knuckles. "Time for something new."
He bent his knees, focused, and leapt.
The wind howled past his ears. Trees became dots, rivers turned to threads, and clouds welcomed him like old friends. He flew through the sky like a shot arrow wrapped in laughter. Birds flew beside him for a while, confused and annoyed at the furry intruder invading their airspace.
"Hey there, featherheads!" he shouted, twisting mid-air and blowing a raspberry. "Wanna race?"
They didn't respond, but Monkey didn't mind. He was too busy soaring, arms wide, tail fluttering like a banner behind him.
Every few hundred li, he dropped down to rest. Not because he was tired—he would never admit that—but because the ground had snacks. He'd land on a mountain ledge, yank a fruit from a tree, or chase a deer just to scare it. Sometimes he'd nap on top of a giant rock or float in a hot spring while muttering nonsense to himself.
After resting, he'd jump again. Higher. Farther. Faster.
It went on like this for days.
The sky became his road. The clouds, his companions. The world below, just a distant painting.
Then—finally—he saw it.
Blue.
Endless, sparkling, alive.
The East Sea.
It stretched all the way to the horizon, as far as his golden eyes could see. The sun was just starting to set, and its light danced across the waves like fire on silk. The salty breeze hit his nose, and he wrinkled it with curiosity.
"Now that's a big pond," he said, grinning.
He took one step off the cliff and yelled, "WOOOOOHOOOOO!!" as he dived into the ocean with the grace of a cannonball.
SPLASH!
Water exploded around him. Fish scattered. A confused crab blew bubbles.
Monkey flailed under the surface, laughing and spinning.
"Ahhh, this is the life!" he shouted, though it came out as a stream of bubbles.
Colorful fish zipped past him, circling him like living ribbons. One even stopped to stare at him before darting away.
Then Monkey stopped laughing.
He looked down.
The sea floor was getting closer.
Faster.
Uh-oh.
He looked up. The surface was very far away now.
He blinked.
"Oh…"
He frowned.
"…I forgot."
He stared at his own chest and tapped it with a finger.
"Right. Made of stone."
He paused, legs kicking slowly.
"Stone sinks in water."
Then, more urgently:
"Shit!!"
He thrashed. Arms spinning. Legs flailing. Tail twisting like a confused snake.
"I don't wanna die from bathwater!!"
The fish watched him with mild interest.
"Come on, up, up—up, you useless rock butt!" he yelled at himself.
He tried to swim, but it was like asking a brick to do ballet.
He kept sinking.
And then—just as he was about to start yelling for help, even though no one could hear him underwater—
THOOOOOOOM.
A deep, booming noise echoed through the water. It was so loud, the fish scattered instantly. The ocean trembled around him.
Monkey froze.
"Uh-oh… that better not be a demon octopus…"
Then he saw it.
A huge shape moving through the water like a mountain made of calm.
A whale.
But not just any whale.
This one was massive. Big enough to carry mountains on its back. Its skin was smooth and white, glowing faintly like moonlight trapped in flesh. Its eyes were huge and ancient, shining like stars that had been born before time began.
Monkey floated there, jaw open.
"Holy hell," he whispered, then immediately started sinking faster again. "Gah,come to me,whale!"
The whale noticed him.
With slow, gentle movements, it rose toward him, letting him drift right onto its head.
"Whew…" Monkey said, laying flat on the warm, smooth surface. "Thanks, big guy. You just saved a legend from an embarrassing end."
The whale said nothing. But it rumbled again, a soft sound that vibrated through Monkey's bones. It felt… friendly.
The whale began to swim, carrying him like a tiny passenger.
Days passed.
The whale glided through the sea with effortless grace, rising to the surface every few days to breathe. Each time, Monkey would sit up and look around, soaking in the view.
The ocean was beautiful. Calm one day, stormy the next. Full of strange creatures, sparkling waves, and skies that went on forever.
The first time they surfaced, the sunset was breathtaking.
The sky was a canvas of orange and red, bleeding into soft blue. The ocean reflected it all, glowing like molten gold.
Monkey stared in awe, sitting cross-legged on the whale's head.
"You've seen this every day, haven't you?" he asked.
The whale rose slightly, sending a splash into the air.
Monkey grinned. "You're lucky."
He lay back, looking up at the changing sky.
"My aquatic friend," he said lazily, "how long have you lived?"
There was silence for a while.
Then, a voice—not a sound, but a feeling—answered in his mind.
"I don't remember. But I think I'm older than most of what you've seen."
Monkey raised an eyebrow.
"Wow. That's impressive. I'm only eighty years old. Not bad for someone made out of rock and magic, huh?"
He chuckled, then looked up again, more serious this time.
"Do you still want to live? After so long?"
The whale slowed.
"Yes," the voice said again. "Because the world is still beautiful. And as long as I'm alive, I get to choose what to do. After death… the heavens decide. And I don't trust them."
Monkey snorted.
"Ha! You and me both. Heaven's full of uptight old snobs who've never even touched dirt. I like your answer."
He looked at the horizon.
"I want the same thing. To live. To keep choosing. To laugh. Even if it's just to jump around and make gods angry."
The whale gave another low rumble. A sound that somehow sounded like laughter.
Monkey smiled and curled up on its back.
"Wake me if we see a sea dragon," he mumbled, already half asleep. "I wanna punch something mythical before breakfast."
And so they sailed on.
A monkey made of stone.
A whale older than the world.
Drifting across the sea beneath the stars.