The voice was clear and ethereal.
It was not loud, yet it drowned out every other sound.
Wisps of clear qi arose from nothing over the mountain's scorched earth.
Where the clear qi drifted, the searing heat receded, and much of the choking stench of char was washed away.
At a bend in the mountain path, a figure approached at a leisurely pace.
It was an old Daoist with white hair.
His hair and beard were snowy white, and he wore a faded blue robe, its cuffs frayed.
He swayed as he walked, seeming drunk yet not quite.
As though out for a spring outing.
His feet touched the ground, but the ground did not cling to him.
He crossed the dust without stirring it; he stepped over loose stones without setting them rolling.
In the blink of an eye, he stood before them.
Sun Wukong recognized the newcomer and grinned.
He swung the Golden Cudgel onto his shoulder and called loudly:
"Old fellow, what brings you here?"
There was an unmistakable warmth in his tone.
"What, wandering around because you've got nothing to do again? Or did you divine that Old Sun had a good show going on here?"
The Old Lord gently flicked his horsetail whisk, brushing away a few lingering wisps of smoke drifting before him.
He looked at Sun Wukong, a helpless smile appearing on his deeply wrinkled face, and chided him. "You unruly monkey. It's been so long, and that mouth of yours still won't spare anyone."
He paused, pursed his lips in their direction, and softened his voice:
"Haven't I come to clean up after you?"
At that, Wukong's eyes darted, and he dispensed with all ceremony.
He bounded over in a few steps, draped an arm over the Old Lord's shoulders, and patted