Chapter 441: No regrets even in defeat — this is the Master's Dao

After the turtle shell shattered into powder, the lingering wisp of breath did not dissipate.

It burrowed into the Monkey Heart.

It was not some grandiose empowerment, nor some great Dao blessing.

Just a warmth.

Like a wisp of warm air drifting from beside a winter brazier.

Not hot.

Not scorching.

Just warm for a moment.

Then, a scroll unfurled in his heart.

Soundless and silent.

No prologue.

No narration.

The image appeared directly in his consciousness, like ink spreading on its own on rice paper after an ink bottle was knocked over.

The first scene.

Chaos.

Endless chaos.

Chaos older and more deathly silent than any void Sun Wukong has ever seen.

In that place where even the concept of 'existence' had not yet been born, there was a figure.

Very small.

Placed in the boundless chaos, it was less than an ant.

Wearing a dingy gray Daoist robe.

His back turned to him.

There, he was being beaten.

Not some grand battle.

No heaven-shaking, earth-splitting, no flying magical treasures.

Just the chaos itself rejecting him.

Like seawater repelling a grain of sand.

A wave came, the figure was overturned.

He got up.

Another wave came, overturning him again.

He got up again.

The hem of his robe was burned through by the chaos's power.

The figure fished out a needle and thread from his bosom, crouched, and stitched clumsily.

He stitched two stitches, the thread broke.

He rethreaded the needle.

He stitched three stitches, then another wave came.

This time even the needle was washed away.

The figure lay on the 'ground', silent for a moment.

Then he got up, pulled a silk thread from his sleeve, and continued stitching.

Sun Wukong watched this scene, his throat felt as if someone had gripped it.

He recognized that back.

He recognized it to the bone.

That was his Master.

Not the 'Divine Ancestor' others speak of.

Not the omnipotent being of legend, the Chaos Demon God Master.

Just an old man who sweats profusely while trying to sew clothes and still can't do it well.

The scene moved forward.

The Master was confronting something.

The opponent's form was unclear.

Only the result could be seen.

The Master lost.

Not a small loss.

It was a crushing defeat where his Daoist robe was left without a scrap of cloth.

His Dao Heart shattered.

Sun Wukong could feel that shattering, like smashing a porcelain bowl hard against stone.

Shattered completely.

Shattered cleanly.

Then the Master crouched in the void, like a mender, picking up the shards piece by piece.

What to use as glue?

He didn't know.

It's just a hard clash.

One piece stuck to another, crooked and twisted, ugly beyond belief.

It's stuck.

He went up and fought again.

It broke again.

He squatted down to pick them up.

Glue again.

Go up again.

Break again.

Sun Wukong couldn't count how many times this process repeated.

Maybe several thousand times.

Maybe tens of thousands of times.

The time scale in the image is so vast it's meaningless.

Stars lit up, then went out, then lit up again.

The universe was born, then died, then born again.

And that gray-covered figure always did the same thing: lose, get up, and keep going.

Then once.

Master lost especially badly.

So bad that even the concept of 'self' could barely be held onto.

His figure in the void was like a crumpled ball of paper, swaying as if about to fall.

He sat down.

He sat his butt in the void.

He didn't move.

He didn't move for a very long time.

So long that Sun Wukong thought Master would give up this time.

His heart was clenched tightly.

He wanted to shout.

He wanted to call.

He wanted to rush into the image and help Master up.

But he couldn't move.

This is just a memory.

A memory that has already happened and cannot be changed.

How long did Master sit?

There was no timing in the image.

But Sun Wukong knew it was a long time.

So long that the nearest star in the void went from birth to death.

Then.

Master moved.

He stood up.

Slowly.

Like an eighty-year-old farmer after shouldering a day's wheat.

His knees were covered with gray from nowhere—where did the dust in the void come from?

But Master still patted twice.

Then he spoke.

Two words.

"Again."

His voice was hoarse.

He was tired.

He had no heroic spirit at all.

It was like saying "tomorrow I still have to water the fields."

Just two words.

Sun Wukong's nose felt sore.

He understood.

Master is not some saint.

Not some mighty being transcending all things.

Master is just a stubborn donkey.

An old stubborn donkey that hit the south wall and still complained the wall wasn't hard enough.

The image shifted again.

Fangcun Mountain.

Slanting Moon Three Stars Cave.

The study was packed with people.

The disciples came and went.

There were those with keen talent.

There were those who were dull and slow.

There were those who, after studying for just three days, found it bitter and ran away.

There were those who, after three years of study, thought themselves remarkable, then went down the mountain to "venture out."

The Master sat behind the desk.

Watching them leave one after another.

His face showed no expression.

He did not try to keep them.

He was not angry.

He was not disappointed.

He had nothing.

It was as if he had long been accustomed to it.

It was as if he had never expected anyone to stay.

This left Sun Wukong feeling suffocated in his heart.

That feeling of "having borne too much alone, so even expectation became too much trouble," was more painful than anger.

Then the picture paused for a moment.

As if something important was about to arrive.

A monkey.

It scrambled up from the foot of the mountain, rolling and crawling.

Its whole body was covered in mud.

Branches clung to its fur.

Its mouth still held half a fruit it had stolen from somewhere.

It ran to the study's doorway, its two paws gripping the doorframe, peeking inside.

A pair of round eyes darted back and forth.

Full of curiosity.

Full of unreserved enthusiasm for this world.

In the picture, the Bodhi Patriarch raised his head.

He looked at that dirty monkey.

He fell silent.

Sun Wukong held his breath.

He saw it.

The Master's corner of the mouth.

Moved.

Upward.

Very slight.

Faster than a blink.

But Sun Wukong saw it clearly.

That was a smile.

It was the only smile he had ever seen in the Master's entire memory.

It was not kindness.

It was not "discerning eyes recognizing pearls."

It was simply… he was happy.

A dirty monkey came running, making a ruckus, and made this old man who had lost who-knows-how-many ten-thousands of years laugh.

That was all there was to it.

The picture froze here.

Like a carefully mounted ink painting.

In the picture, the monkey grinned foolishly.

In the picture, the Master had already returned to a blank expression.

But that arc of that moment remains forever here.

Sun Wukong sat on the floor of the study.

Utterly still.

Like a stone.

He had previously imagined many kinds of answers.

Why did the Master take him on?

Was it because he prized his unusual bone structure?

Was it because he foresaw that he could stir up storms in the future?

Was it to keep a move to deal with the "Original Mistake"?

None of those.

None of them.

Master took him in just because that day his mood improved a little.

An annoying monkey made an exhausted old man chuckle.

Then the old man thought, 'Fine, I'll teach this kid.'

No Heaven's Mandate.

No grand scheme.

No scheming.

Just an old man's liking for a monkey.

Sun Wukong's chest surged with something indescribable.

Not sorrow.

Not anger.

It is an extreme, warm feeling of being cherished that brings tears to one's eyes.

Master waited for him.

Master left clues for him in the boundless darkness.

Master would rather have his Dao Heart tormented for ten thousand years than break,

Not for any 'saving of all beings'.

It's because he cannot bear to part.

He cannot bear to lose his master over that foolish monkey.

That's all there is to it.

Such a simple reason.

So simple that Sun Wukong felt he had overthought things before.

He had thought too much.

He closed his eyes.

Let that painting completely dissolve.

Merge into the deepest part of the Monkey Heart.

And fused with the core of 'No Regret'.

They can no longer be separated.

When he opened his eyes again.

The light in his eyes changed.

Not the previous violent golden blaze that wanted to burn the whole universe.

It is a sinking light.

Heavy.

Warm and moist.

Like an ancient tree thousands of years old, with rough bark, twisted branches, but roots deeper than mountains.

It is a light that, having endured all betrayal, all deceit, all despair, still wishes to believe.

Sun Wukong stood up.

His knees gave a click.

The Study beneath his feet began to turn transparent at the moment he rose.

Planks, bookshelves, desks, inkstones—all turned into tiny light particles, drifting upward like dandelion fluff.

The outside breath surged in.

Chaos Realm's

Fierce.

Full of destruction and malice.

That is the real world.

That is the world after the 'Original Mistake' broke free of its seal.

Sun Wukong drew a breath.

The breath carried a tang of iron rust and a scorched, burnt smell.

He moved his shoulders.

Then he made an unnecessary gesture, lifting his hand to adjust nonexistent attire.

As if preparing to go out and meet guests.

His voice sounded.

Not loud.

Calm, as if speaking of a trivial matter.

"Master."

"You wait."

"Your cold tea,"

He curled the corner of his mouth.

"I'll heat it up for you."

His words fell.

The last particle of light in the Study vanished.

The black hole outside is tearing apart the whole spacetime.

And that voice, cold, carrying a smile, the voice of the 'Original Mistake', still echoed.

"You're late, monkey."

"The door, you don't need to open it anymore."

"Because I came out myself."

Sun Wukong ignored it.

He lowered his head and glanced at the cup of cold tea tucked in his bosom.

The tea trembled slightly in the white porcelain cup.

He shoved the cup deeper into his bosom, making it sit more securely.

Then he raised his head.

Something was forming at the center of the black hole.

Enormous.

Indescribable.

An 'Error' that should not have existed since the dawn of creation was descending in its most complete form.

Sun Wukong hoisted the dusty stone staff.

He took a step forward.

Under his foot, the void was cracked into a spider‑web pattern.

"Good that you've come out."

His voice finally carried a hint of a smile.

Not madness.

Not fury.

It was a relief of 'finally no longer needing to search.'

"So I don't have to smash the door again."