The Golden Cudgel

Zhi Zun Bao's pupils contracted slightly.

"When Sun Wukong was released from beneath Five Finger Mountain, Guanyin told him he had to protect a monk on a pilgrimage for scriptures. He agreed, but before setting out, he made a trip to your village."

Patriarch Bodhi said this and glanced at Zhi Zun Bao. "He had to say goodbye to someone."

The stone chamber remained silent for a long time.

"You in that lifetime were already over eighty years old. You were lying in bed, unable to speak, but you recognized Sun Wukong. Your eyes—they could still recognize him."

Zhi Zun Bao sat there, motionless. But his breathing grew slow—a rhythm of someone struggling to control their emotions.

"Sun Wukong sat by your bedside for the entire night. He didn't speak; he just sat there. When the sky was about to brighten the next day, you passed away. Sun Wukong buried you under the locust tree at the entrance of the village. Then, he sat before the grave for an entire day. When he finally stood up, he said one thing."

Patriarch Bodhi's voice lowered slightly. "He said, 'In the next life, Old Sun will come to find you for a drink again.'"

Zhi Zun Bao kept his head bowed. His expression was obscured, but his shoulders were trembling slightly.

"In this life, I don't drink," Zhi Zun Bao's voice was somewhat hoarse, "but I think... I should learn."

Goten was on the training ground, five stones laid out before him.

Ranging from the size of a fist to the size of a millstone, the five stones were suspended in mid-air in a row.

He had already managed to keep all five stones floating simultaneously for the duration of an incense stick. Yesterday, he had still been struggling with four, but today, five were steady. He lowered them to catch his breath, preparing to try again, when he felt it.

A kind of... calling.

It didn't come from within Fangcun Mountain; it came from very, very far away.

This was the first time since arriving in this world that he had felt such a summons. It wasn't the aura of an enemy during battle, nor a sense of crisis—it was a deeper connection, like the feeling of being chosen by something.

He didn't know why he had been chosen, but he knew he had no way to ignore it.

Low and lingering, like the beat of a low-frequency drum, some ancient power was awakening—surging up from the depths of the earth, passing through the soles of his feet, and reaching straight to his heart.

Goten stopped his movements. He closed his eyes to perceive the call. It grew clearer—not a sound, but a sense of familiarity.

He opened his eyes and looked toward the west. That was the direction of Five Finger Mountain.

"It's the Golden Cudgel," he whispered. He didn't know why he was so certain, but he just knew—the Golden Cudgel was calling him.

He began to practice—not for the sake of telekinesis, but to make himself stronger.

He compressed his internal energy, focusing it on his fingers, and just as Patriarch Bodhi had carved characters into the tree trunk, he slashed his fingertip through the air.

A silvery-white trail lingered in the air for a second before dissipating. It wasn't enough, but it was an improvement over before.

He continued to practice. Over and over, not stopping even when his fingers went numb.

Because he knew the Golden Cudgel was waiting for him, and he couldn't let it wait too long.

Zhu Bajie walked out of the kitchen with a pot of tea and wandered over to the edge of the training ground.

He leaned against the doorframe and watched for a while, observing Goten slashing his fingers at empty air, and couldn't help but laugh. "This kid, he's practiced himself into a frenzy."

Sha Wujing was squatting at the kitchen entrance chopping wood; he didn't even look up. "He's anxious."

"Anxious about what?"

Sha Wujing paused his axe. "Anxious to become stronger."

Zhu Bajie took a sip of tea and thought for a moment. "Who isn't?"

Sha Wujing didn't answer, but the speed at which he chopped the wood became a little faster than before.

Zhi Zun Bao walked out of the cave.

He walked very slowly, as if digesting something, but when he saw Goten on the training ground, he stood still for a moment.

Then, he sat down under the old locust tree and picked up his bamboo pole, practicing stroke after stroke. There were no techniques—just the repetition of a basic movement: raising the staff, striking down, and retracting.

But with every strike, it grew a fraction heavier than the last.

When Zhi Zun Bao reached his fifty-seventh strike, he suddenly felt that what he held in his hand was no longer a bamboo pole, but a very, very heavy staff—so heavy that his palms were burning, as if something were awakening within them.

He didn't stop; he continued to strike.

On the sixty-third strike, he saw a golden pattern emerge on the back of his hand. It flashed and vanished, like a mark left by something.

He stopped, wanting to take a closer look, but the pattern had already disappeared.

Patriarch Bodhi stood at the mouth of the cave, watching this scene from afar.

He had seen that golden pattern, but he did not speak of it.

He knew that the staff had already waited long enough.