Echoes of Five Hundred Years

The morning on Fangcun Mountain was always covered by mist first, then peeled away inch by inch by the sunlight.

Dewdrops hung on the blades of grass along the mountain path, and the air was filled with the scent of soil and vegetation.

Two figures ran through the mist—one carrying twelve stones on his back, the other gripping a bamboo pole.

Goten and Zhi Zun Bao had been running together like this for over twenty days.

From the initial pressure that left them gasping for air to their current steady rhythm, both of them were changing.

Goten's pace was steadier than before—with every step he took, his Origin Energy flowed naturally to the soles of his feet, channeling the impact into the ground and allowing him to run almost silently.

Zhi Zun Bao was on his seventh bamboo pole—the previous six had snapped during training, but this seventh one had lasted nearly ten days—he had learned to conserve his strength, learning to control rather than vent it.

When they reached the fifth lap, Zhi Zun Bao spoke first—not about the running, but about the battle from the day before yesterday.

"Goten—do you think I can become strong too?"

Goten slowed his pace, not answering directly. "Tell me first—why do you want to become strong?"

"I don't want to be a burden."

"Anything else?"

Zhi Zun Bao was silent for a moment. His fingers tightened slightly around the bamboo pole. "I want to know—if I could fight too—would I be more like him?"

Goten stopped in his tracks. Zhi Zun Bao stopped as well, turning his head to look at him.

"You aren't like him—you are yourself." Goten's tone was calm when he said this, without any intentional encouragement; it was simply a statement of a fact he held to be true. "You don't need to become anyone—you only need to become the best version of yourself."

Zhi Zun Bao did not answer. But the fingers gripping his bamboo pole—loosened a little.

"Besides—" Goten grinned, "you're already pretty amazing. You used a bamboo pole to shatter the Immortal-Trapping Array—I couldn't do that."

Zhi Zun Bao was stunned for a moment—then couldn't help but laugh.

It was a smile he had rarely shown since arriving at Fangcun Mountain—not a bitter smile—but one that truly felt like "I suppose that's true."

"Let's go—five more laps." Goten turned and continued running.

Zhi Zun Bao followed his pace. The mist gradually dissipated behind them.

After breakfast, Zhi Zun Bao was summoned by Patriarch Bodhi to the depths of the mountain cave.

He had never been this deep inside before—outside the cave were the main hall and side rooms, and further in was a narrow passageway.

After walking for about the time it takes to burn an incense stick, the passageway suddenly opened up—revealing a stone chamber.

The stone chamber was not large, roughly two zhang square.

The walls were covered in fine cracks—not formed by natural weathering—but traces left behind by the repeated scouring of Origin Energy.

Five hundred years ago, Sun Wukong had spent countless days and nights here—returning after his training to carve his insights into the walls.

Back then, he was still a green lad—afraid of everything—afraid he wouldn't learn, afraid his master wouldn't accept him, afraid he wasn't strong enough. But he had never stopped.

Every carving was evidence of his struggle to live. The stone walls were covered in writing—not scriptures, not incantations—but one person's training notes.

The handwriting was scrawled, with some parts crossed out, as if he were thinking while he wrote. Zhi Zun Bao's gaze swept over the words—and his footsteps halted.

Because he recognized that handwriting.

Although he had never seen Sun Wukong's writing before—he just knew—these words had been carved by Sun Wukong.

Every stroke carried an indescribable sense of familiarity—it was a legacy spanning five hundred years—something a master had taught his disciple, left behind on the stone—as if he had seen it countless times in his dreams.

"These were left behind when he was learning his craft." Patriarch Bodhi stood behind him, his voice calm. "He lived here for three months while learning the Seventy-Two Transformations—every night he would return and write down the day's realizations."

Zhi Zun Bao reached out—his fingertips touching the deepest carving on the stone wall—which read: "The final transformation of the Seventy-Two Transformations—no matter how much you change, being yourself is best."

He froze—then let out a laugh. The laughter was not loud—but it echoed in the empty stone chamber.

"Sounds like something he would say."

Patriarch Bodhi did not respond.

He walked to the other side of the stone chamber—where there was a raised stone, shaped like a meditation cushion.

He sat down. Zhi Zun Bao sat down opposite him. A silence stretched between the two.

"When Yang Jian came—I told you that you were the reincarnation of Sun Wukong." Patriarch Bodhi's voice was very low.

Zhi Zun Bao raised his eyes.

"As I said before, you are the reincarnation of Sun Wukong—but before that—you had another life. In that life, you were the last person Sun Wukong saw before he set off to retrieve the scriptures."