Marvel: Monkey King

KEKEKEKEKEKEKEKE. Laughter rang out like cymbals thrown into the sunrise. It wasn't just loud. It was improper. Irreverent. Divine. The mountain echoed it back as if the rocks themselves had never heard joy quite so stupid.

Inside the sleeping quarters of the Hidden Headband Temple, junior monks stirred from meditation. One rolled off his woven mat and groaned. "...Did the bell ring early today?"

Another whispered, "That's not the bell, that's—someone's laughing."

Up on the terraces, senior monks halted mid-chant, mouths still open on half-spoken sutras, eyes rising toward the source of the disturbance. High above the main temple yard—floating on a cloud—stood a long-haired man with a tail, holding by the collar a burly, bruised monk whose glare could curdle milk.

Jack Hou stood barefoot, balancing lazily on Zephyr, one foot tucked under the other, laughing like a man who'd just discovered blasphemy was delicious. "KEKEKEKEKE! Hey, anger issues! Why didn't you just tell me your hidden temple from the beginning?" He waggled the limp Wudao like a sack of potatoes. "Could've avoided becoming a Picasso painting—look at you! All cubist and stuff!"

Below, the monks gasped. The man in Jack's grip—Cheng Wudao—was barely conscious, his monk robes torn, his lip bleeding, but his eyes still burned with fury, like a dragon's heart inside a rice cooker.

Jack noticed. Grinned. "KEKEKEKE. Still glaring, huh? Is it the weekly head-shaving ritual that makes you monks so stubborn?" He let his long, luscious hair down in slow motion, running a hand through it like a shampoo commercial god. "Don't be jealous. Asceticism should come with a little detachment, y'know?"

By now, monks from every cliffside chamber had poured into the temple yard, robes fluttering, blinking up at the hovering lunatic with their fiercest brother limp in mid-air.

Jack squinted. "Yo! Can you guys, like... wear hats or something?" He raised his hand to block the glare. "Your bald heads are reflecting sunlight directly into my corneas. KEKEKEKE!"

On the ground, one senior monk whispered to another. "We... we can't jump high enough to retrieve him."

A child monk tugged his sleeve. "Is Uncle Wudao... dead?"

A commotion broke out—murmurs and prayers overlapping, questions tumbling over each other like dropped prayer beads.

Jack looked down and tilted Wudao slightly toward the scene. "Wow. Look at that. Your brothers really care, huh?" The burly monk grunted through clenched teeth. 

Then—CLANK. A sharp, singular metallic chime rang out. The monks froze. The air calmed. The light held its breath. Standing on the raised stone dais, leaning gently on his ornate khakkhara, stood the new Abbot—a man in his fifties with a lean frame and a gaze that felt ancient. 

He bowed slightly. "Amitābha. It appears we have revealed our unrefined side to our esteemed guest." He looked up at Jack. A small smile played across his lips. Then—He inhaled. Deeply.

All the monks in the courtyard suddenly moved as one, hands flying to cover their ears. Even Wudao, still dangling from Jack's grip, reflexively clapped both hands over his own. "Huh?" Jack blinked. "What are you—?"

"COME DOWN, DEAR BENEFACTOR!!"

The Lion's Roar shattered the clouds. It wasn't just loud—it was a spiritual technique, the kind that echoed not in the ear, but in the bones, the mind, the soul's quiet corners. 

Jack winced as the full force of the roar pierced his divine hearing, rattling through his skull like a hundred temple gongs. He staggered. Zephyr twisted underfoot. And—"Ah, dammit." He dropped Wudao.

WHUMP.

The mountain monk crashed onto the temple yard floor, cushioned only slightly by a blur of robes as several monks rushed in to catch and steady him. "To the recovery hall!" one barked. "Medicinal salves—now!"

Jack blinked, rubbing one ear. "Okay... you got lungs." He looked down.

The new Abbot bowed from below. "Please forgive this one's insolence, sage. In seeking to honor the temple, this one failed to greet you in humility."

Jack scratched his head. The sunrise reflected in his golden eyes. And for a moment—he said nothing.

…

Golden Peach Territory. A stronghold tucked in the former glory of Hell's Kitchen, its streets gleaming gold under Jack Hou's protection. None would believe this district was real—except those who lived it.

On a narrow, quiet street, a tall, angular woman in a sharp blazer walked with purpose, despite its absurdity. Eyebrows slightly raised under the brim of her fedora, she absorbed every detail—each gilded sign, each guarded alley—without blinking. Stryker's assistant— yet she wasn't: Raven Darkhölme. No assistant. No human. Mystique.

She pushed open the door to Mario's Pizzeria, gold‐trimmed and antiquated, like a platonic ideal of "Italian joint in a forgotten New York." As she entered, the warmth and aroma of dough filled the air.

Behind the counter, Mario, a soft grandfatherly figure with flour on his sleeves and a genial smile, greeted her. "Buonasera! Welcome to Mario's! What can I get ya?"

Raven crossed her arms, she paused, smiled benignly. "Let me get a margherita pizza, please."

Mario nodded. "Coming right up. You'll pay at the window, love. Dine in?"

"No—to go, thank you."

He dusted off his hands and tossed a pizza dough into the air. Raven watched as the circle spun and stretched into perfect roundness—almost hypnotic.

Outside, the evening air smelled like hopes and dust. Golden Peach glowed behind her. Where the X‑Men didn't reach. Where Jack Hou reigned. And where, unbeknownst to William Stryker, Magneto's interest had already flickered into life.

A moment later, Mario slid the margherita pizza into a white box and slid it beneath the counter. He took out Raven's debit card. She nodded and collected the pizza.

"Thank you, Mario."

"Enjoy it, dear."

She stepped back into the road, pizza box held like a delicate offering. Raven—in the guise of Stryker's assistant "Ms. Helen"—walked with grace, chewing slowly on a still-warm slice of margherita pizza.

Each step brought her closer to the towering marvel that now dominated the eastern skyline. The God Tree. It claimed Fisk tower, like myth made flesh—twisting peachwood, endless tiers of curved roofs, woven bridges, and radiant lanterns. Its bark shimmered under the dusk sun like living lacquer. And its crown... perpetually rained soft pink petals. No matter the season. No matter the wind. No matter logic.

Yet the streets beneath the God Tree were always immaculate—not a single petal piled or plastered underfoot.

…

Across the street, half-hidden by crates and incense carts, a group of grumbling Jack clones swept at the edges of cobblestone.

One clone growled. "'Loser cleans the whole district' they said... but nobody said anything about it being during pollen season!"

Another clone shook his broom. "I'm a divine being, not a janitor!"

Third clone. "Shut up and sweep. I'm not losing bets to a fucking tail-standoff again."

They swept in unison. Pink petals vanished on contact. Where they went? No one knew.

…

Back across the way, Raven stepped through the rotating glass doors of the God Tree's lobby, where the air turned cool, perfumed by sandalwood and rain-slick stone. She approached the receptionist desk. A woman in a dark crimson cheongsam looked up with a warm, professional smile. "Good evening. Do you have an appointment?"

Raven matched her tone. "Yes. I'm here to see Ms. Natalie Beckman. I represent Mr. Stryker."

The receptionist typed quickly. "Ms. Helen, yes. You're on the list." She tapped her headset. "Tim, could you escort our guest to the Boss' office?"

A moment later, a man emerged from a side hallway. He looked like someone who once ruled alleyways with a baseball bat, now wearing a God Tree uniform with almost reverent pride. Tim. "Ma'am," he nodded at the receptionist. Then to Raven. "You can follow me, ma'am."

Raven gave a poised smile and stepped beside him. As they entered the elevator bay, another guard silently joined behind them, his boots clicking in rhythm.

Raven's eyes flicked to him, then to Tim. "Is this necessary?" she asked, letting her voice carry mild offense.

Tim didn't miss a beat. "Just procedure, ma'am. No exceptions inside the Tree."

"I'm just an assistant," Raven reminded him.

Tim nodded, pressing the button for the office floor. "That's what the last guy said. He turned out to be a mutant wearing a congressman's face."

"We had to mop him up in a bucket." The other guard said.

Raven stayed silent. The petals floated softly outside the elevator windows. The God Tree creaked like a living breath. And above, Natalie Beckman waited.

…

Hidden Headband Temple – Outer Courtyard

A line of small bald heads peeked just above the ornate carved wood gate, their tiny hands gripping the lattice like little monks at a zoo exhibit. They whispered excitedly, their eyes wide as saucers.

"That's the Sage!"

"His hair is long!"

"He has a tail! That's not a human thing, right?"

"I heard he can fly without chanting anything!"

"I heard he beat Uncle Cheng and folded him into a dumpling."

Then—SMACK. A palm landed clean on the back of one tiny shaved head. All the kids turned slowly. Standing behind them was Sister Yimei, robes tucked tightly, her broom slung over one shoulder like a naginata. "How many times must I say? No eavesdropping."

The little monks bowed in synchronized terror. "We're sorry, Master Yimei!"

She sighed through her nose. "Training yard. Horse stance. Until the abbot is done speaking with the Sage."

One tiny monk dared to mutter: "But... Master... our knees still hurt from yest—"

"Now."

And like guilty sparrows, the whole flock scattered toward the yard, mumbling prayers for better reincarnations.

Inner Courtyard – Abbot's Table

Jack sat cross-legged on a stone mat, staring at the plate of boiled greens and root broth in front of him with a look of existential nausea. He nudged the plate with a chopstick like it might bite back. "Keh—what the hell is this?"

Across from him, the abbot sat with serene grace, hands folded over his knees. "Amitābha. We humbly apologize, Sage. This is all we have to offer—what the land can provide us."

Jack's nose twitched. "This is the same crap my master made me eat. It's like chewing wet dreams of a sad carrot."

The abbot chuckled softly. "We can only grow what karma allows, I'm afraid."

Jack leaned forward. "You want me to bring some chicken? Maybe a pig or two? I could drop a yak from orbit if you're low on protein."

The abbot gave a courteous bow. "Amitābha. Your generosity honors us, but we must respectfully decline."

Jack scoffed and folded his arms. "Fine. So what do you want me for anyway? I came here to drop off your muscle-fury monk. That's it."

The abbot smiled, a little wider this time. "Yes, yes. Brother Cheng Wudao can be... impetuous. But his intentions have never strayed from compassion."

Jack raised an eyebrow. "Is that what you monks call it now? 'Compassionate' people try to crush my skull?" He tapped the table. "I see things in people, y'know. There's plenty in Wudao's soul that your temple would brand 'impure.'"

The abbot lowered his gaze. "This monk does not judge what arises in others. Only how to guide it."

Jack laughed dryly. "Well then, congratulations—you guys really fucked up his guidance, huh?"

The abbot let the words wash over him like river water over stone. He nodded. "Wudao has always been strong. The last abbot raised him like a son, taught him never to be angry at what the world placed in his path."

Jack squinted. "Yeah... I can believe that. He doesn't rage for himself. But he explodes when someone insults your little shaved-head club."

The abbot pressed his palms together. "Indeed. He bears nothing for himself. But to dishonor this temple, or its brothers? He burns like dry timber."

Jack leaned back, arms behind his head. "Consumed by his own fury... I guess he really loves this little headjob temple of yours."

The abbot blinked. Then chuckled. "Hidden Headband, Sage."

Jack tapped his chopsticks against the edge of the stone table like a ticking clock. Then he leaned forward, pupils glowing faintly. "Alright. Enough dilly-dallying. I'm out of patience and vegetarian suffering." His voice dropped an octave. "Why did you want to speak to me in private?"

The abbot placed his palms together, exhaling softly. "This one is... one of the Five Successors of the late abbot before his passing." He met Jack's eyes. "And I was there the day our master gave his final words to Cheng Wudao." A pause. "They concerned our youngest disciple... the child named Tenzin."

The table shuddered under a golden shockwave. SLAM. Jack's palm cracked into the stone. The air trembled. His tail swayed like a whip looking for a neck. His golden eyes ignited, shining through the courtyard with the light of a storm barely leashed. "Seriously? What the fuck is wrong with you bald bastards? Can't you let the kid be happy for once?"

The abbot flinched. Sweat beaded down the back of his neck, trailing into his collar like a serpent of shame. But he didn't look away. He remained seated, hands still folded. "I mean no offense, Sage," he said calmly, though his voice shook, "But Tenzin is my junior brother. The fifth disciple of our late master. As the new abbot, it is my duty to bring him home."

Jack snorted. "Oh, so now he's a beloved brother? How convenient." He turned slightly, his voice sharp and bitter. "You temple boys didn't give a damn when you pushed him aside. Called him cursed. Treated him like a ghost in your own damn halls."

The abbot lowered his head. "...Yes. I... I was in the wrong too. I focused on our master's health. I believed that Tenzin's title as a disciple would shelter him. I thought... our temple would see that and embrace him." He looked up, eyes heavy with regret. "I was wrong."

Jack narrowed his eyes. "Do you think the other monks will accept him now?"

The abbot raised his chin. "I am the abbot. And he is my junior brother. They—"

"HAH!" Jack cut him off, voice ringing like a blade drawn across iron. "You are abbot. He is still cursed to them. Their eyes won't change just because you sit on a taller cushion."

Silence. The courtyard listened. Then Jack stood. His robe swayed. His shadow stretched. He turned, walking toward the garden path. The abbot hesitated. Then—"I will give you our sacred relic, if you bring him back."

Jack stopped. No movement. No word. Then, slowly, he turned his head. The glow returned to his eyes—this time, colder. Sharper. In an instant—CRACK.

He was across the courtyard. The abbot's throat was in his grip, his back slammed into the temple wall. "You think you deserve my help?"

The abbot gasped, feet barely touching the ground. "Kh—khhhh—"

Jack's fingers curled tighter. "You want to buy back the kid's happiness with trinkets?"

The abbot choked, but managed. "We... we need him… To go to Peng Lai."

The name hit Jack like a slap of snow. He dropped the abbot. The monk collapsed to his knees, coughing, hand to his throat. Jack's face twisted—not in anger now, but in genuine curiosity. "You know how to get to one of the Seven Capital Cities of Heaven?"

The abbot nodded, wheezing. "Yes… But we cannot reach it... without Tenzin."