Patriarch Bodhi's Fortune-Telling

"Where on earth is this place..." he muttered.

The water in the bowl shook more violently. He opened his eyes—he had walked two hundred steps without even realizing it.

Only one hundred steps remained to the summit. Yet, he felt he could no longer hold it steady.

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

Since crossing over into this world, he had been in a constant state of battle—fighting Sand Scorpions, the Bull Demon King, Heavenly Soldiers, the Four Demon Kings, and Yang Jian. He used combat to numb himself, to keep from thinking about the things that truly frightened him.

But on this quiet mountain, with no enemies, no battles, and no crises, those suppressed voices began to surface.

Can you go home? Can your father find you? Will Zixia be alright? Can you hold on all by yourself?

The water in the bowl sloshed violently—on the verge of spilling over—

An aged hand gripped his wrist.

Patriarch Bodhi. When had he arrived? Goten hadn't sensed him at all—no footsteps, no breathing, no movement whatsoever—he had simply appeared before him.

"Enough." Patriarch Bodhi took the bowl—not a single drop of water had spilled. "You have carried it quite far."

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

"O-Old Master... did I—"

"You did very well."

Goten opened his mouth, not knowing what to say.

Patriarch Bodhi looked at him. There was something in his gaze that Goten couldn't define—it looked like heartache, yet also like relief.

"Three hundred years. You are the first person to reach two hundred steps and still remain standing."

"Then—what about Sun Wukong back then?"

Patriarch Bodhi fell silent for a moment. "He reached the summit. But he spilled half of it."

Goten didn't know whether to feel proud or ashamed.

"So, did he pass or fail?"

"He passed." Patriarch Bodhi's gaze drifted toward the distance, "But by the time he finished the three hundred steps—the water in his bowl had been replaced by something else."

"Replaced by what?"

Patriarch Bodhi did not answer. He turned and, carrying the bowl of water, walked step by step toward the summit. Goten stood where he was, watching the back of the white-haired old man.

It wasn't about becoming stronger. It was about control. Controlling one's own power—and controlling one's own heart.

Night fell. The night on Lingtai Square Inch Mountain was as quiet as another world.

There was no demonic aura, no celestial light, no horns of Heavenly Soldiers—only the sound of the wind, the chirping of insects, and the distant murmur of a flowing stream.

Goten couldn't sleep. He simply climbed out of bed, walked out of his room, and followed the bluestone path upward—before he knew it, he had reached the pavilion at the summit from earlier that day. But there was already someone in the pavilion.

Patriarch Bodhi sat alone at the edge of the pavilion with an ancient zither across his knees, though he was not playing it.

He just sat there, gazing at the night sky. His white hair shimmered with a silvery light under the moonlight. The night breeze caused his Daoist robes to flutter gently.

Goten hesitated for a moment, then walked over and sat down beside him. Neither of them spoke. The silence lasted for about the time it takes for a stick of incense to burn. The wind wove through the mountain forest, and the sound of the distant stream was faint and intermittent.

"Old Master."

"Hmm."

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

Patriarch Bodhi did not answer. Under the moonlight, the corners of the old man's mouth lifted slightly—and then, a single tear appeared at the corner of his eye.

It was not a tear of sorrow—it was a tear Goten could not name. The tear track slid down his wrinkled cheek, flashed in the moonlight, and vanished.

Patriarch Bodhi did not turn to look at him. He simply stared at the night sky and said:

"Your father—Sun Wukong." Patriarch Bodhi's voice was as calm as if he were telling an ancient story, "Long ago, this old man calculated his fate—I foresaw that he would have two sons, the eldest, Gohan, and the younger, Goten. And the younger son—would one day come before this old man."

Goten stood up abruptly. His heart hammered like a drum.

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

Patriarch Bodhi turned to look at him—those aged eyes were startlingly bright under the moonlight.

"This old man knows—far more than you can imagine."

In that instant, Goten felt the blood in his entire body burning.

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, said "Get some sleep, we must rise early tomorrow," and left.

Goten remained in the pavilion alone, his mind filled with that one sentence.

"This old man knows—far more than you can imagine."

What did this mean? Did Patriarch Bodhi know his father, Sun Wukong? Did he know about the Dragon Ball World? Did he know how to go back?

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. He couldn't be impatient. He had waited this long—he couldn't be rash at this very moment.

Since Patriarch Bodhi had said, "Tomorrow I will teach you what 'Ki' is," he must have his own plan.

He stood up and walked down the bluestone path. Passing through the courtyard, he saw that the light in Zhi Zun Bao's room was still on. He walked over and took a peek through a crack in the window.

Zhi Zun Bao was not asleep.

He was standing by the window—no, not just standing—he was holding a pose. His hands were slightly raised, fingers pressed together, palms facing downward—it was a starting stance.

It looked like the posture a martial artist would take before launching an attack.

But Zhi Zun Bao's expression was dazed—his hands were moving, but his eyes were vacant—his body was operating on its own, while his consciousness remained uninvolved.

It was as if that sealed memory was awakening, bit by bit, within his body.

Goten did not disturb him. He quietly walked away.

When he returned to his own room, he lay down and stared at the ceiling. The sound of Zhu Bajie's snoring drifted in from next door. Sha Wujing's room was completely silent.

Goten closed his eyes.

When the sun rose tomorrow, he would officially begin learning the combat methods of this world.

He would become strong.

Strong enough to protect everyone.

Strong enough to go home.

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

"Three years earlier than your father anticipated—that kid might actually be able to do it."

He gently plucked a zither string.

Ding—

A crisp, clear note echoed far, far away into the night sky.

He would become strong. Strong enough to protect everyone. Strong enough to go home. But before that—how much further was there left to go...