"Even Heaven forgets the cries of those who once walked among stars. But the wind remembers. And so do the monkeys."
– From the Forbidden Sutra of Dust
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The sky was bruised with the colors of mourning—charcoal and deep plum, with veins of crimson sunlight bleeding across the horizon like the last breath of a dying beast. The mountain stood tall and solemn beneath that sorrowful sky, cloaked in thick mists that wept from the heavens and swallowed sound like a tomb.
They called it Mount Zhulong—once sacred, now cursed. A place where even the gods dared not linger, where the wind whispered names long erased from jade tablets and temple scrolls.
There were no birds.
No cicadas.
No echo, save for the wind dragging its dry breath across shattered stone and rusted bronze.
At the foot of the mountain, past forgotten statues of lion-headed sages and vine-choked pavilions, a figure knelt before a broken shrine. His robes were tattered, once the color of cloud and moonlight, now soaked with rain and flecked with ash. His face, aged by centuries, bore not the serenity of monks but the bitter stillness of one who had endured more than he ever asked for.
His name was Reverend Xuanli—once the Bright Candle of the Eastern Immortal Court.
Now, only a flicker remained.
In his hand was a censer. Old. Cracked. But the smoke still rose in gentle spirals, dancing like memories on the wind.
"You who were never granted names," he whispered, voice coarse from disuse. "You who were born of cloud and root, fur and flame... may this incense ease your rage, though not your pain."
He placed the censer before the shrine's base, where a stone carving of a monkey once sat—arms outstretched, eyes wide in defiance of heaven. But the head had long since been shattered, buried in moss and dirt. A crude vine had grown through the empty socket like a tear that time refused to dry.
Above, the sky cracked with thunder—distant, but heavy as if the heavens themselves strained to listen. Lightning forked across the horizon, illuminating for a heartbeat the ruins of what once was a temple garden. There, stones told stories in silence—crumbled prayer wheels, scorched banners, talismans half-burnt and caught in the gnarled claws of wind-twisted trees.
A soft rustle stirred behind the reverend.
He did not turn.
He had already sensed it. The weight of presence. The scent of heavensteel and demon blood on silk.
Footsteps approached. Unhurried. Unafraid.
A man—tall, clad in black lacquered armor that gleamed even in the murk. A crimson plume jutted from his helm like a war god's crown. His eyes were golden and cruel, the kind of eyes that had seen cities burn and called it righteous.
The man bowed, though it was shallow. "Reverend Xuanli," he said, voice smooth as polished jade. "Even now, you burn incense for beasts."
"Not beasts," Xuanli replied without looking. "Children. Warriors. Victims."
"Monkeys," the man said. "Savages who dared rebel."
At last, the reverend stood. Slowly. Each bone crackling like branches under snow. He turned, revealing the long scar that ran from brow to jaw—a relic of a battle sung only in forbidden poems.
He looked into the soldier's golden eyes.
"I remember when you trembled before their king."
The soldier's smile twitched, but never reached his eyes.
"That was another life," he said. "And he is long dead."
"Is he?"
A silence passed between them, heavy as stormclouds.
Behind the soldier stood a procession—half a dozen warriors clad in celestial iron, bearing banners marked with the sigil of the Azure Mandate: a dragon coiled around the sun. Their armour bore no scratches, yet their eyes were wary. Not of the old man, but the mountain.
Especially the mountain.
Reverend Xuanli stepped forward, cane thudding softly against the moss-laced stone.
"You came to bury ghosts, General?"
"No," said the soldier. "To ensure they stay buried."
He lifted a hand.
Behind him, one of the soldiers approached with a jade scroll sealed in crimson wax.
"By decree of the Jade Celestial Court, the site of the Simian Rebellion shall be cleansed and sealed. The tombs sanctified. The names unspoken. The memory erased."
The reverend took the scroll, unsealed it, and read in silence. The wax flaked like dried blood across his fingers.
"And what then?" he asked. "Will the stars be rewritten? Will the wind be silenced?"
"We write the will of Heaven," the general replied. "The rest is noise."
Xuanli looked to the sky. The clouds were weeping again.
"I remember when the Heavens spoke through monks and poets," he said, more to himself than to the man. "Not through blades."
There was a pause.
The general's voice hardened.
"Do not test my patience, old man. We are here to purge what remains. You may offer prayers, but the fires begin at dusk."
And with that, he turned. His soldiers followed, like shadows with teeth.
The reverend waited until their footsteps faded down the path. Until the wind returned.
Then he knelt once more before the broken monkey statue, fingers tracing the moss where eyes once glared defiantly at the sun.
"They have forgotten," he murmured. "But I have not."
From beneath his robe, he withdrew a scroll of his own. Older. Frayed at the edges. Marked not in ink, but in charcoal and blood.
He unrolled it carefully.
Upon it were sketches—warriors in simian form. Spear-wielding apes. Staff-dancing beasts with fire in their eyes. And at the centre, a figure crouched atop a stone throne, his shadow vast, his hair wild, his crown forged from starlight and rusted chains.
"He was not born of stone," the reverend whispered. "He was made… by suffering."
———————
Long ago…
Before the Rebellion. Before the War.
There was a jungle.
Endless. Ancient. Untamed. Trees older than memory stretched so high they touched the backs of clouds. Vines as thick as temple pillars draped across the canopy like serpents of green. Rivers flowed with spirit light—luminescent waters carrying dreams and secrets, whispering songs in voices not heard by men.
And among them—monkeys.
Not yet divine. Not yet damned. Just monkeys. Fur and curiosity. Joy and mischief. Living, learning, playing.
They swung between trees with laughter, chased birds with boundless delight. They had no gods, only the sun and rain, and the earth beneath their paws.
Until they were hunted.
By gods.
Not out of hatred. But fear.
For deep within the mountain's heart, something had awakened. A pulse. A heartbeat. Not of flesh, but of possibility.
A monkey had touched the Dao.
He had seen the golden thread that connected leaf to cloud, claw to mountain, wind to fate. He plucked it like a string.
And the world trembled.
They called him the Nameless King.
He had no title.
No blessing.
No heavenly approval.
Only a staff, carved from the roots of Mount Zhulong and tipped with meteor iron.
He taught the others—not with words, but with motion. Every swing a lesson. Every leap a sermon. Under his guidance, the monkeys changed.
They shed fur for fur-lined armour. Claws for weapons. Screeches for battle cries.
They became a tribe. Then an army.
And when the Celestial Envoys came to demand fealty, the Nameless King offered only silence—and a challenge.
"Climb down from your clouds," he said, "and I will teach you what it means to touch the earth."
The war was not long.
But it was loud.
Heaven fell like a storm. Legions of sword-wielding immortals. Beasts bound by jade collars. Elemental curses that turned rivers into ash and skies into steel.
And yet—the monkeys held.
Not through strength alone, but through belief.
In freedom.
In each other.
In their king.
And then—he vanished.
Some say he was sealed beneath the mountain, impaled upon a tree that fed on divine blood. Others whisper he rose beyond the sky, to a realm even Heaven could not see.
But the truth was simpler.
He was betrayed.
By one of his own.
———————
The reverend rolled up the scroll with shaking fingers. His eyes burned, not with tears, but with memory.
"They never gave him a name," he said. "Because names are remembered."
The wind stirred again.
And in the mist above the shrine, something moved.
A shadow.
No sound. No weight.
But the reverend felt it. The air grew heavier. Thicker. Like the moment before a monsoon.
He did not turn.
"You still watch," he said softly. "Even now."
The vines near the monkey statue curled. Slowly. As if in recognition.
And somewhere, far above, a drip echoed from the mouth of a cave.
The reverend rose.
"They come to burn the bones," he said. "But you... You will rise when the fire ends."
The incense flickered once more, then died.
And the mountain was silent again.
———————
The ashes will fall. But not all ashes sleep.