Great King Linggan hunched his back and lowered his head.
A low, long breath rasped from his throat.
Like a fish stranded in the shallows, unable to breathe.
Wukong put away the paddle.
He did not step forward.
The golden rope also dissolved.
Great King Linggan knelt on the riverbed, his back still hunched, his forehead almost touching the gravel. After the golden light that had strangled his neck dispersed, his shoulders trembled even harder.
A scale came loose from his back.
It drifted gently down.
Then another.
From his shoulders, the back of his neck, his arms, they fell one after another.
The scales fell into the water without sinking far. The instant they left his body, their edges curled, black-red light leaking through the gaps like the ashes of burnt paper, scattering at a touch of river water.
Wukong watched him.
The Golden Cudgel lay across his palm. He did not raise it again.
Great King Linggan's thick arms slowly grew slender.
His claws retracted.
His gills closed.
His pointed mouth shrank inward.
That hideous fish face slowly lost its sharp contours in the water. Blood ran down his brow from his forehead, and by the time it reached his lips, it had turned bright red.
Not black water.
Wukong's knuckles tightened slightly.
The river water was receding too.
Black water slid away from his feet.
The aquatic weeds withered against the ground and turned to ash.
The gravel sank, and when he looked again, it had become blue-green floor tiles.
The cracked stone strata of the riverbed were smoothed flat.
Silt spread outward along the ground.
The sound of water grew fainter.
More distant.
As though a dream had ended, or he had fallen into another.
The lamps lit up again.
One.
Two.
Three.
Firelight shone on