Upon the Jade Terrace.
The old man sat motionless.
His plain Daoist robes hung over the terrace's edge.
He wore a Daoist crown.
A Ruler lay across his hands.
It was none other than the Bitter Bamboo Ruler.
His eyes were closed in quiet repose.
Clear qi slowly wreathed his body.
When that clear qi came within three inches of his front, it seemed to fall into a boundless void, neither gathering nor dispersing.
When lamplight shone upon him, even its glow grew fainter.
As though it had illuminated an empty space.
He was plainly seated high above them, yet somehow seemed not to be there.
His features were as still as an ancient well.
As though hearing their approach.
He slowly raised his eyes.
In those eyes there was neither surprise nor joy nor wistfulness, only an unmoving, crystalline serenity.
And yet they brimmed with compassion.
Truly, he was:
A great enlightened golden immortal, untouched by stain; wondrous visage of the West, Patriarch Bodhi.
Neither born nor destroyed, practicing the threefold paths; qi and spirit whole, compassion without end.
Empty stillness naturally followed every change; the true nature of Suchness acted freely.
His majestic form endured as long as Heaven; through countless tribulations, the great Dharma master's heart remained clear.
Wukong stood below the Jade Terrace.
His lips moved several times.
Something seemed to have lodged in his throat.
His hands hung at his sides, his tail pressed against the jade steps.
The old man looked at him.
He said nothing.
He merely watched him for a long time, with still greater affection.
Then said softly:
"Wukong."
At the sound of that call.
Wukong's eyes reddened, and he abruptly bowed his head.
His tail stiffened behind him.
Only after a long while did he force out the words.
"Mas...