Wukong stopped amid the clouds.
His golden eyes narrowed slightly. At the top of the slope, two young Daoists stood with their hands tucked into their sleeves, their faces beneath their star crowns as smooth and pale as shelled eggs. Below them, the ragged monks were still struggling for their lives in the sand.
Hemp ropes bit into their shoulders, splitting old wounds open to reveal bruised flesh beneath. The weather had turned warm, yet the monks still bore last winter's frostbite sores-purple, black, festering. Scabs had formed only to be scraped open again by the ropes, and yellow fluid trickled down their arms.
A young monk stumbled.
His knees struck the sand, and he pitched forward, burying his face in it. He dared not stop. Scrambling up on his hands and feet, he set his shoulder against the hemp rope again.
Wukong had meant to return and report to his master first.
But after one look at that young monk, he decided saving lives came first!
Who could have imagined that the lawless demon king would develop such a compassionate heart?
The old Wukong would have swung his staff at them long ago. Now, he truly had more to consider. Even saving people required first understanding the causes and consequences.
With that thought, he turned and pushed off the cloud with the tip of his foot.
By the time he descended, his monkey face had vanished.
He transformed into a Wandering Daoist, wearing a blue cloth robe washed almost white, a Primordial Unity Cap on his head, and a straw rope around his waist. A Water-Fire Basket hung from his left arm as he tapped a Fishing Drum and hummed a Daoist Ballad.
He strolled up from the foot of the slope at an unhurried pace, his face brimming