Chapter 440: That study… never disappeared

The prison shattered.

Light poured in through the cracks.

Sun Wukong thought he would return to Wanshen Fenchang.

Return to that battlefield strewn with corpses.

Return to his fleshly body.

But he didn't.

His foot stepped onto a wooden plank.

Creak.

A familiar sound.

The old, patina‑covered plank gave a soft sound when stepped on.

Sun Wukong froze.

He lowered his head to look.

Underfoot was dark‑yellow wooden flooring, the gaps filled with years of dust.

He looked up.

A bookshelf.

Yellowed bamboo slips leaned crookedly on the shelf; a few rolls had come undone, exposing the brittle bamboo strips inside.

To the left was a half‑open window.

Outside the window there was neither light nor darkness, only an indistinct white expanse.

To the right stood a desk; a bald‑headed brush hung on the brush holder, and the ink in the inkstone had dried and cracked into a tortoise‑shell pattern.

The air smelled of dust.

There was the stale, sour odor that damp bamboo slips give off.

There was the faint woody scent of a pine tabletop worn smooth by time.

Sun Wukong stood still, his breath suddenly becoming shallow and hurried.

He recognized this place.

Not "like".

Not "as if".

It was where he had lived.

Here he had been scolded.

Here he had stolen his master's tea to drink.

Here he had been hit on the head with a scroll of bamboo slips.

Fangcun Mountain.

Slanting Moon Three Stars Cave.

Master's Study.

But this time it was different.

Before, this study had also appeared inside the prison.

Back then he could touch nothing; his hand passed through the desk, through the bookshelf, through everything.

Like a ghost.

Now——

His foot really stepped on the floor.

The floor was calling.

It was ringing.

He was truly standing here.

Sun Wukong's gaze withdrew from the bookshelf and fell on the desk in the center of the room.

Behind the desk was a chair.

Someone sat in the chair.

Not a back view.

They sat facing him.

An old man.

He wore an old daoist robe washed white, the corners frayed.

White hair hung loose over his shoulders, messy, as if it hadn't been tended for a long time.

His face was thin.

His cheekbones protruded, his eye sockets were deeply sunken, and his lips were dry and cracked.

His eyes were closed.

As if asleep.

And yet——

Sun Wukong dared not think further.

His breathing stopped.

Not blocked by some force—he had simply forgotten to breathe.

His two legs felt as if nailed to the floor.

He stared at that face.

He looked for a long time.

So long that his eye sockets began to ache.

So long that his throat felt like a lump of red-hot iron.

His gaunt cheekbones.

His sunken eye sockets.

His chapped lips.

The vertical line on his forehead that he had seen since childhood.

He had searched for this face countless times in his dreams.

Each time, separated by mist.

Separated by wind.

Separated by the distance of the entire universe.

Couldn't see clearly.

No matter how, couldn't see clearly.

Now he could see clearly.

Bodhi Patriarch.

His master.

The old man who taught him Somersault Cloud.

The old man who disliked his stupidity, scolded his foolishness, and hit his head with a ruler.

The one who threw himself into Endless Darkness and bore it alone for who knows how many tens of thousands of years—

Old man.

Sun Wukong opened his mouth.

"Master..."

Half a word stuck in his throat, couldn't come out.

It wasn't sealed shut.

It was he himself who choked up.

His chest was filled with too much.

Regret.

Heartache.

Grievance.

Anger.

Fear afterwards.

And there was an indescribable emotion, sour enough to make one want to slap oneself.

All of it clogged together, blocking his throat completely.

He couldn't speak.

Then he wouldn't speak.

Sun Wukong stepped forward.

The first step was very slow.

Like stepping on cotton, yet like stepping on a blade.

The second step was a bit faster.

The third step.

The fourth step.

The fifth step.

He walked to the table.

He got closer.

Close enough that he could see a few withered yellow hairs mixed in the white hair at his master's temples.

Close enough that he could see the deep blue-green circles of fatigue under his master's eyes.

Close enough—

He lowered his head.

On the table sat a cup of tea.

A white porcelain cup, small, with a chip on the rim.

Exactly like the one he kept in his bosom.

The tea inside was icy amber.

No steam rose.

Dead.

Cool.

He reached out.

His five fingers trembled uncontrollably.

He touched the cup's wall.

Ice-cold.

Real.

The coolness on the porcelain surface traveled from the fingertips to the palm, then into the bones.

He touched it.

This time he really touched it.

Sun Wukong lifted the teacup.

It was very light.

Light as a dry leaf.

He raised the cup to his lips.

He stopped.

He lowered his head to look at the tea in the cup.

The amber-colored liquid surface was smooth, reflecting a face.

It was not the all‑golden, Chaos Dao‑shattering "Great Sage Equal to Heaven".

Nor was it the withered, emaciated gray‑white stone monkey.

It was an ordinary monkey face.

The eyes were round, the mouth pointed, and the cheeks still bore a bit of unfaded fur.

Childish.

Clean.

Like the furry monkey who, the first time he scrambled up Fangcun Mountain, knew nothing and only knew how to jump about wildly.

Sun Wukong looked at that face, and his mouth twitched.

He gently set the teacup back on the table.

He didn't drink it.

Then he crouched down.

His knees hit the wooden board with a "thud".

He bent over to look under the table.

A piece of tortoise shell.

Broken, twisted, and dull‑gray tortoise shell.

It was wedged under the table leg.

Exactly the same as it was hundreds of millions of years ago.

What supreme divine artifact.

What heaven‑defying relic.

Just a broken thing used to prop up a table leg.

Sun Wukong's hand reached out.

The instant his fingertip touched the surface of the tortoise shell—

A surge of warmth seeped in through the gaps between his fingers.

It was not an attack.

It was not magical power.

It was not any kind of Dao empowerment.

It was a voice.

Hoarse with age.

Languid.

Tinged with impatience.

"Monkey."

Sun Wukong shuddered all over.

"If you can see this—it means you're not dead."

The voice paused.

As if it were choosing its words.

And as if it had spoken too long, its throat grew a little hoarse.

Then the final line came.

It was very soft.

It was very faint.

Faint as an offhand remark like "The weather's nice today."

"Don't cry. Master…is still here."

"Go open the door."

The tortoise shell shattered.

It split down the middle into two halves, then each half crumbled into powder.

The powder turned into a warm current that slipped into Sun Wukong's palm, traveled up his meridians, and finally lodged in the steady‑beating monkey heart in his chest.

It fused with the monkey heart into one.

They could no longer be separated.

Sun Wukong knelt before the table.

He remained utterly still.

Like a stone statue.

Pat—

A drop of water fell onto the wooden board.

Pat—

He didn't make a sound.

He didn't howl.

He didn't roar.

It was just tears falling on their own.

They kept falling, unstoppable.

They hit the floor, splashing tiny droplets, which the dry wood quickly soaked up.

He knelt for a long time.

Long enough that a small dark water stain seeped into the floorboards.

Then he stood up.

He roughly wiped his left sleeve across his face.

He smeared bloodstains, tear tracks, and dust all together into a mess.

It was hideous.

But his eyes lit up.

They shone as bright as the reddish-gold monkey fur covering his body.

No sorrow remained.

No hesitation remained.

No fear remained.

Only one thing remained.

A steadfastness that seeped from his bones, something even the Heavenly Dao could not suppress.

Master said.

He's still here.

Master said.

Go open the door.

Then open it.

Whoever blocks—smash them.

Sun Wukong turned and walked toward the door of the Study.

His hand gripped the door handle.

The moment he pushed it open, the white world beyond the Study shattered, revealing the cruel reality of the battlefield behind him.

Wanshen Fenchang.

That ultimate gate.

And—

Before the gate, a colossal black hole that had completely torn space, spreading outward, capable of devouring the entire Universe.

A voice came from the center of the black hole.

Ice-cold.

Carrying a smile.

"You're late, monkey."

"The gate—no longer needs you to open it."

"Because I—have come out on my own."