Patriarch Bodhi's Fortune-Telling

"What is this place..." he murmured.

The water in the bowl sloshed even harder. He opened his eyes—without realizing it, he had already walked two hundred steps.

Only the final hundred steps to the mountaintop remained. But he felt as if he could barely hold the bowl steady.

It wasn't his hands trembling—it was his heart.

Ever since he had crossed over into this world, he had been fighting—against Sand Scorpions, the Bull Demon King, Heavenly Soldiers, the Four Demon Kings, and Yang Jian. He had used battle to numb himself, to keep from thinking about the things that truly frightened him.

But on this quiet mountain, there were no enemies, no battles, no danger—and the thoughts he had forced down began to surface.

Could he get home? Could his father find him? Would Zixia be all right? Could he hold on by himself?

The water in the bowl shook violently, right on the verge of spilling—

An aged hand closed around his wrist.

Patriarch Bodhi. When had he arrived? Goten hadn't sensed him at all—not a footstep, not a breath, not the slightest sound. He had simply appeared in front of him.

"That's enough." Patriarch Bodhi took the bowl. Not a single drop of water had spilled. "You've carried it a long way."

Goten froze. He looked down at his empty hands, then at the bowl in Patriarch Bodhi's hands. The water was as still as a mirror.

"Sir... did I—"

"You did very well."

Goten opened his mouth, unsure what to say.

Patriarch Bodhi looked at him. There was something in his gaze that Goten couldn't quite place—something like sympathy, yet also like approval.

"For three hundred years, you're the first person to make it two hundred steps and still be standing."

"Then... what about Sun Wukong back then?"

Patriarch Bodhi fell silent for a moment. "He made it to the mountaintop. But he spilled half the water."

Goten didn't know whether he should be proud or ashamed.

"Then did he pass or not?"

"He passed." Patriarch Bodhi gazed into the distance. "But when he completed all three hundred steps, the water in his bowl had been replaced by something else."

"What?"

Patriarch Bodhi didn't answer. He turned and carried the bowl of water step by step up to the mountaintop. Goten stood where he was, watching the white-haired elder's retreating figure.

It wasn't about becoming stronger. It was about control. Controlling his power—and controlling his heart, too.

Night fell. The nights on Lingtai Square Inch Mountain were so quiet, it felt like another world.

There was no demonic aura, no immortal light, no Heavenly Soldiers' horns—only the wind, the chirping of insects, and the sound of a stream flowing in the distance.

Goten couldn't sleep. He simply got up, left his room, and followed the flagstone path uphill. Before he knew it, he had reached the pavilion at the mountaintop, where he had been earlier that day. But someone was already there.

Patriarch Bodhi sat alone beside the pavilion, an ancient zither resting on his knees, though he wasn't playing it.

He simply sat there, gazing at the night sky. His white hair shone silver in the moonlight. The night breeze stirred his Taoist robe.

Goten hesitated, then walked over and sat beside him. Neither of them spoke. They sat in silence for the length of about one incense stick. The wind moved through the mountains and forests, while the sound of the distant stream came and went.

"Sir."

"Hmm?"

"Have you been waiting for me... for five hundred years?"

Patriarch Bodhi didn't answer. In the moonlight, the corners of the elder's mouth lifted ever so slightly—and then a tear appeared at the corner of his eye.

It wasn't a tear of sorrow. It was a kind of tear Goten couldn't explain. It slid down his wrinkled cheek, glimmered in the moonlight, and vanished.

Patriarch Bodhi didn't turn to look at him. He gazed at the night sky and said:

"Your father—Sun Wukong." Patriarch Bodhi's voice was as calm as if he were telling a very old story. "Back then, I read his fortune. I saw that he would have two sons: his eldest, Gohan, and his younger son, Goten. And his younger son... would one day come before me."

Goten sprang to his feet. His heart pounded like a war drum.

"You—you know my father? You know the Dragon Ball World?"

Patriarch Bodhi turned to look at him. Those aged eyes shone with startling brightness in the moonlight.

"What I know is far beyond what you can imagine."

For a moment, Goten felt as if his blood were on fire.

Goten sat in the pavilion for a long time.

Patriarch Bodhi had already returned to his room. After saying those words, he had stood up, patted Goten on the shoulder, told him, "Go to sleep. You'll have to get up early tomorrow," and left.

Goten was alone in the pavilion, his mind filled with those words.

"What I know is far beyond what you can imagine."

What did that mean? Did Patriarch Bodhi know his father, Sun Wukong? Did he know about the Dragon Ball World? Did he know how to get home?

He took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. He couldn't rush things. He had waited this long—he couldn't lose his patience now.

Since Patriarch Bodhi had said, "Tomorrow, I'll teach you what Origin Energy is," then he must have a plan.

He stood up and walked back down the flagstone path. As he passed through the courtyard, he saw that the light in Zhi Zun Bao's room was still on. He walked over and peeked through a crack in the window.

Zhi Zun Bao was still awake.

He stood by the window—not just standing there, but holding a pose. His hand was slightly raised, fingers held together, palm facing down. It was a starting stance.

Like the stance a martial artist took before striking.

But Zhi Zun Bao's expression was blank. His hand was moving, but his eyes were vacant. His body was moving on its own, while his consciousness played no part in it.

It was as if the memories sealed away inside him were slowly awakening, bit by bit.

Goten didn't disturb him. He quietly walked away.

When he returned to his room, he lay down and stared at the ceiling. Zhu Bajie's snoring came from next door. Sha Wujing's room was completely quiet.

Goten closed his eyes.

When the sun rose tomorrow, he would officially begin learning the fighting style of this world.

He would grow stronger.

Strong enough to protect everyone.

Strong enough to go home.

In the room next door, Patriarch Bodhi sat on his meditation cushion, his horsetail whisk resting on his knees. He gazed at the full moon outside the window, a faint smile on his lips.

Three years earlier than your father expected. That boy might actually be able to do it.

He gently plucked a zither string.

Ding—

A clear note rang out, carrying far into the night.

He would grow stronger. Strong enough to protect everyone. Strong enough to go home. But before then—how much farther did he still have to go...