Marvel: Monkey King

The late-night restaurant now buzzed at a lower hum, as if even the air had started listening. The table between Jack Hou and the monk remained divided not by food, but by intent. On Jack's side: towering plates, smeared sauces, glistening duck bones, and a bottle of half-empty Baijiu. On the monk's side: nothing. Stillness. Emptiness. Peace.

Jack chomped on a thick, crispy slice of pork belly, grease trailing down his chin. He pointed at the monk with his chopsticks. "Come on, eat. You've already broken the Buddha's teachings by sitting in a Chinese restaurant that specializes in Peking duck. You might as well go all in."

The monk pressed his palms together in Añjali Mudrā, bowing slightly. "Amitābha. This one must respectfully decline the benefactor's offer. Though surrounded by illusion, one must not indulge in it."

Jack rolled his eyes as he slurped a tangled mouthful of chow mein. "So, what makes you come here? You don't strike me as the hotpot-and-nightlife type."

The monk's voice was soft, but it reached through the clamor like a prayer woven in silk. "Amitābha. Before his passing, this one's master—the Abbot of the Hidden Headband Temple—spoke of a man yet to come." He lowered his hands. "A man who would return our youngest brother to the path... He bade me sit in vigil until I saw a tailed man with a demon's appetite."

Jack stopped chewing. The chopsticks hovered mid-air. His expression shifted—like a switch flipped deep behind his eyes. "Oh." He swallowed. "Demon, huh?" He sat up straighter. The air seemed to grow heavier, colder—like a divine pressure settled across the lacquered table. Even the waiter, who had just exited the kitchen, froze mid-step, confused by the sudden weight in the atmosphere. "That's the second time someone's called me that," Jack muttered.

The monk, sensing the shift, gently bowed his head again. "Amitābha. This one meant no offense. In the Dharma, names are but vessels—transient and illusory. This one merely speaks the words passed by his master, not the heart behind them."

The restaurant fell silent. Jack stared at the monk. His fingers tapped the edge of the Baijiu cup. "Do you know what happened to the last being who called me demon?" The air cracked. Invisible frost kissed the edges of the windows. Condensation crawled up the soy sauce bottles like frightened ants.

The monk remained still. "No," he said simply. "But this one accepts what karma brings."

A long pause. Jack's golden eyes narrowed—Then he grinned, wide and wicked. "He became my disciple." The pressure dropped instantly, like someone exhaled an entire iceberg into vapor. The monk released a slow, silent breath. His fingers subtly relaxed.

Jack poured himself another cup of Baijiu and swirled it. "Strange, really. You wouldn't think a sentient island could have an identity crisis." He sipped. "But Krakoa—he needed guidance. Poor leafy bastard." He looked at the monk. "Long story short: he's my disciple now. Little bonsai disciple with divine potential."

The monk blinked slowly. "The Dharma teaches: even a mountain may become a disciple, if it opens itself to right understanding."

Jack chuckled. "You monks and your riddles."

"It is not a riddle," the monk said. "It is acceptance."

Jack raised an eyebrow, lips still smacking faintly from the last bite of caramelized pork. "Touché," he muttered, wiping his mouth with a napkin, "but I still don't know—Abbot of what now? Hidden Headjob Temple?"

The monk, composed as ever, responded. "Of the Hidden Headband Temple, benefactor."

Jack grinned. "Yeah, Hidden Headband... You sure that's not just a monastery of repressed ninjas? Look, I don't even know who your youngest brother is."

For the first time all night, the monk's serene face wavered. A shadow passed behind his eyes. Doubt? Pain? Maybe both. He bowed his head slightly. "Are you certain, benefactor? His name is Tenzin."

The moment the name left his lips, Jack's smile almost—almost—twitched. The image flashed in his mind, a bald kid from the Xavier Mansion. Quiet. Curious. Wide-eyed. Always drawing sigils on napkins. Always watching Jack with reverent suspicion.

But Jack feigned a yawn, then casually pulled out his wallet, threw down several thick bills, and stepped back from the table. "Nope. Doesn't ring a bell."

The monk's lips tightened. His fingers began to press together in mudra. Low, rhythmic sutra chanting rumbled from his throat. A sacred mantra. A shield against his own rising emotion. His fury. He could see it—Jack was lying.

Jack adjusted his robe, tail flicking lazily behind him. "If you really cared," Jack said, voice sharper now, "you wouldn't have lost him in the first place."

The monk's chanting grew louder—now a hushed tremble, vibrating in his chest like an unstable drum. His face flushed a dangerous red. He shouldn't feel this. He knew better. But his master's vision... his purpose...

Jack paused, turned back with a smirk. "Wow. A monk who can't even control his anger over a monkey's words." He leaned in just enough for the insult to sink. "Go back to your temple. Tell your brothers you couldn't find him." He grinned. "Because he's happier now... than in your Hidden Boyband Temple." Then he turned, striding toward the open road, the Baijiu still warm in his chest.

Behind him—something snapped. The monk's chanting fractured, replaced by ragged breathing. Veins bulged along his forehead. Eyes wide, teeth clenched. And then—SHHHHRACK.

He launched forward, robes fluttering like wings of judgment, and struck out with a blazing palm technique, honed through years of sunlit training and sacred restraint. A palm strike that felt it can level mountains, taught only to the highest initiates of the temple. It shot forward with golden chi, roaring like thunder compressed into flesh.

The moment the monk's palm shattered the air, Jack spun on his heel—tail curling in amusement. "Monk, this the part where you pray I stop, or where you keep doing this dance until you pop a tendon? Kekekekekeke."

The crowd scattered as Jack closed the distance. His robe sleeves flicked like calligraphy, hands loose at his side. He didn't block—he simply adjusted his stance, letting the monk strike first.

The monk didn't respond. He slid into Taming the Tiger Stance, palms forward, knees bent—breathing even, chi flowing from his dantian like a river of purpose. He struck again. Elbow. Palm. Reverse crescent. Elbow again. Each strike, a sutra made flesh. Buddhist Warrior Monk unarmed technique. The art of stopping conflict without hatred.

But Jack saw the cracks. And smiled. "KEKEKEKE. You're good. Seriously. If this was a Jackie Chan movie, you'd be in the final act."

The monk advanced, feet light yet resolute. He struck with Stone Fist Method, palm cutting through the air toward Jack's sternum. Jack inhaled, letting the strike flow through him like a gentle wave erasing footprints.

He snapped his fingers instead of hitting back, and the monk stumbled—haunted by the purity of his own attack. Jack chuckled. "Nice! Real… monklike. But do you practice on clouds, or only on baristas?"

The monk pivoted, body coiling into a Lotus Wind Kick—a high, spinning crescent designed to crash opponents off balance. The technique flushed through his limbs—disciplined, ancient, ordained.

Jack danced back, toes barely touching the ground. The kick sheared past his chest and crushed a signpost behind him into splinters… but he didn't flinch. "Heh! I think you missed me—and my souvenir."

Sweat glazed the monk's brow. He charged with a Pakua Palm Strike, rotating his body like an unstoppable stump of living wood. Jack braced—but this time he turned his head and laughed mid-strike. Then Jack whispered—"Do you mourn Tenzin the day you lost him…" He dodged a striking palm. "Or because your temple did?"

A pause. A tremble. The monk's jaw clenched. "Shut the fuck up, you don't know anything!"

Jack took a deep breath and shook his head. "Seems mocking your brothers and temple makes your blood boil, huh?"

The chanting inside the monk's mind broke. He went red.

All serenity collapsed. The monk unleashed a tiger-rush combination—fists and elbows wrapped in monastic chi, aimed to pressure Jack into retreat or retreat.

Each strike landed harder than the last—but Jack ducked, bobbed, weaved against the natural rhythm. He tapped a pressure point on the monk's ribs. The precise point cracked like fine crystal. The monk—formidable unit of discipline—collapsed. Jack stepped forward calmly. "Woah. That's just rude."

Jack reached for the monk's collar—steady, unbothered. He cuffed a hand on his shoulder, leaning down. The monk glared at him, vise-tight jaw refusing submission. Jack flicked the monk's collar just once—as if admitting victory—and then backed up. 

Zephyr swirl materialized beneath him. He hauled the monk effortlessly like a sack of silkworm silk. "Here, I owe you a ride." He placed the monk on the swirling cloud, hands on his shoulders. "Let's get you home, kekekekeke." Jack leapt aboard, and Zephyr rose, the battered monk finding himself soaring skyward.

Below, the alley slowly emptied—once-loud patrons fled to safety, awestruck by the spectacle. Jack grinned at the cloud-monk bundle. "You know you need to check that anger management, right?"

They ascended into the darkening sky. No words needed, but the monk's heavy breath and the city's distant lights told their own story.

…

Hidden Headband Temple.

A monastery carved into the cliffside of clouds, where the wind whispered through the pines like forgotten mantras. Within the upper sanctum, amidst shelves of sacred texts and banners of old yellow thread, sat the new abbot—a thin man, his spine straight as a staff, legs crossed over a mat of pressed grass. His fingers gently unrolled a length of sutra parchment, prepared to trace its characters once more.

But his brush paused. His eyes opened. He looked eastward. Something stirred in his breath. Something old. Something prophesied. "It seems..." he whispered, not to the wind, but to the silence, "...this is the day." He blinked once—then returned to his sutras, as if the revelation were just another line in the text.

Down below, two junior monks swept the wide stone courtyard with long straw brooms. The early mist still clung to the edges of the temple tiles.

One of them let out a sigh, the kind that only teenagers and ancient monks can perfect. "Haaaaa... When do we get to start Warrior Monk class?"

His friend chuckled. "We're still new, you dummy. And ever since the last abbot passed, half our uncles went into silent fasting, trying to 'find their center.'"

The first one shrugged. "Maybe we'll start when we can actually feel something during meditation."

"You? Feel something?" his friend teased. "You're always sleeping during meditation class. I'm gonna be a warrior monk waaay before you."

"Hey! I want to learn too!"

They both laughed, the sound bouncing between walls older than their family lines. As they swept, one leaned on his broom and lowered his voice.

"Hey, did you hear the rumor?"

"What rumor?"

"One of our uncles got so obsessed with training after the abbot died that he destroyed the back mountains just from training there."

The other monk's eyes widened. "You mean... Uncle Cheng Wudao?"

They both froze for a second, letting the name hang in the fog.

Elsewhere, under a bodhi tree whose leaves never fell, two elder monks sat cross-legged over woven cushions. Between them: a kettle of steamed tea and a tray of sliced daikon.

First elder sipped. "Cheng Wudao..."

The second glanced up. "What about him?"

"You think he'll come back?"

The wind tugged softly at their sleeves. "The abbot called him down the mountain the same day he died. Didn't tell any of us why."

The second elder nodded slowly, stroking his beard. "Hmmm... There are whispers it had to do with the cursed child."

A pause. "You mean Tenzin?"

The first elder narrowed his eyes. "Come now. Everyone knows the last abbot's final words were meant to pass down the Way of the Sacred City. It had nothing to do with the boy."

"Careful now," the second elder warned. "We don't know the truth. Only the silence left behind."

The first elder waved his hand. "Bah. The abbot loved Wudao. Raised him from the time he was a baby. Honestly? The fact that boy grew that size on monk food? That's the real miracle."

Both elders laughed, deep and long, the kind of laugh that comes after decades of waiting and wondering. The kettle hissed. And far, far away, in the skies above China, two figures soared—one of them carrying the weight of a prophecy, the other dragged by its collar.