New Journey to The West - Season 1

1-1 In the beginning, before beginnings were begot and chaos cheerfully cavorted across the cosmos without decorum or decency, there existed a rather large, undistinguished lump of cosmic stuff. Scientists of a later age might have termed it the singularity, but since this was a time that predated such nomenclatures, let's just agree to call it the 'Great Blob of Beginnings' for clarity's sake. So came about a poem, which goes a bit like this: In the dark, before the split, chaos ruled without wit. No eyes had seen its sprawling sprawl, till Pangu came and broke it all. With a cleave, he set things right, Chaos became day and night. To know the story of creation, and its endless fascination, Take a gander at the quest, For the scriptures tell it best. Our cosmos, you see, is like a rather large clock that ticks over every twelve million nine hundred and sixty thousand years, give or take a weekend. This grand epoch is chopped up into slices, much like a cosmic pizza, into twelve parts. Each part, a thousand eight hundred years a slice, flavored with the essence of time itself. Imagine, if you will, a day in the life of this cosmic clock. At the witching hour, yang energy stirs, by the first crow of the c**k, day breaks, and as the hours march on, the activities of heaven and earth align like dancers in a grand, cosmic ballet. Every epoch, the grand cycle turns, chaos blooms anew and the world takes a nap, only to wake up five thousand four hundred years later to stretch and yawn and start the day again. It's at these junctures, my friends, where the magic happens. This is where roots take hold in the heavens, and the Earth, well, it decides to show up to the party. After another jaunty jig around the sun (five thousand four hundred years, give or take), the Earth decides it's high time it got dressed, and so it dons the elemental attires of water, fire, mountains, stones, and all that earthly jazz. This is where the story truly starts getting interesting, this is where our Earth begins to look a bit more like the home we know today. Fast forward another epoch, and life decides to crash the party. Humans, animals, birds, and everything in between, started defining the times. And thus, the grand cosmic ballet found its lead dancers. Thanks to Pangu’s pioneering spirit, followed by the sage governance of the Three Sovereigns and the Five Emperors, our world developed into something resembling a four-part harmony, with each part being a major continent. Among these, we're zooming in on the East - the land of fantastical creatures and untold stories, a place so dripping with magic that even the trees probably whisper secrets. And in this land, not so far from the sea, lies a certain mountain - the Flower-Fruit Mountain, to be exact. A place not born but rather, exploded into existence, with such force and flair that even the cosmos took a step back and whistled. Ah, what a mountain it was! Crowned with clouds, draped in waterfalls that sparkled like jewels, its peaks piercing the heavens themselves. On this mountain, dragons played hide and seek among the clouds, phoenixes sang duets at dawn, and the mythical Qilin lounged lazily, dreaming whatever it is that Qilins dream about. The forests were alive, not just with the rustle of leaves, but with the laughter of immortal fauna. The flora, too, refused to be outdone, blooming in defiance of the seasons, ensuring that spring was a permanent guest. In the heart of this mountain, amidst a tangled web of vines and the freshest hues of green, stood the Great Stone that would soon birth a hero. A hero, you ask? Yes, but that, my friends, is a story for another time. Let's just say, for now, this is where our tale truly begins, in the shadow of the Flower-Fruit Mountain, where destiny was about to knock on a very particular stone door. 1-2 In a world not too far from our own, where the improbable is probable and the magical is just another Tuesday, nestled atop a mountain as unremarkably remarkable as any mountain under heaven, there dwelled a most curious rock. This wasn't your garden-variety pebble or your run-of-the-mill boulder. Oh, no. This rock was precisely 10.1 feet tall—every inch a testament to the 365 days circling our lives—and 7.9 feet round, a nod to the 24 weather-pulses driving the cantankerous mood swings of Mother Nature herself. If rocks had resumes, this one's would boast of nine apertures and eight orifices, paying homage to the ancient game of cosmic Sudoku known as the nine palaces and eight trigrams. n***d to the four winds, shorn of any arboreal parasol, it was flanked only by sprigs of spiritual flora, affirming its unyielding neurosis of being 'one with nature'. Now, our rock wasn't just sitting pretty soaking up the sun and moon’s whispered secrets without an agenda. Over eons, it got inspired (as one does under a constant barrage of cosmic wisdom) and decided to take matters into its own non-existent hands. It birthed from its stone womb a stone egg, which, having had quite enough of the sedentary lifestyle, exploded to reveal a monkey. A stone monkey, mind you, with the complete anatomical accuracy of a marble statue come to animated life. This monkey did what any newborn does: it crawled, it toddled, it paid its respects to the four cardinal directions (a polite chap, obviously), and then, just for kicks, shot beams of gold from its eyes straight into the constellation Ursa Major, unsettling the divine bureaucracy to such an extent that the Jade Emperor Himself had to hit pause on his celestial Netflix binge to see what the fuss was about. Meanwhile, our stone monkey—let’s call him Rocky for convenience—was living the literal high life. He was the mountain's version of a social butterfly, albeit one who preferred the company of wolves, tigers, and other furry natives to that of actual butterflies. By day, he played the carefree wanderer among the floral and faunal high society; by night, he crashed on cliffside Airbnb’s free of charge. Seasons, quite irrelevant to his eternal Saturday vibe, passed unnoticed. As fate, or narrative necessity, would have it, one scorching summer day led Rocky and his simian squad to seek respite under the cooling canopy of pine trees. The scene was a delightful pandemonium of monkeys doing monkey things: leapfrogging across branches, hosting impromptu floral heists, engaging in the ancient art of flea-picking. It was joy, unbridled and bipartisan, until curiosity (that notorious cat-killer) reared its head. The g**g stumbled upon a brook of such enticing crispness, boasting a rush that promised adventures untold. The consensus was unanimous: explore said brook's origins, because what else does one do on a lazy afternoon? Thus began the upstream pilgrimage, culminating in a waterfall that was nothing short of nature’s own opera, thunderous applause included. The monkeys, true to their roots in drama and overstatement, were enchanted. Propelled by a mix of daredevilry and the democratic spirit, they issued a challenge: whoever could explore behind the waterfall’s veil without turning into performance art would be crowned Monkey Monarch. And who should step up but our Rocky, his heart set on proving that even a protagonist made of stone can embody the spirit of adventure. With a confident leap and a rallying cry of "I've got this!", he dove into the narrative headfirst—quite literally. And thus, under the most enchanting of circumstances, in a world where the line between the writeable and the writable blurs, our Rocky, stone-born and adventure-bred, was crowned king. For isn’t it always the way of stories to uplift the under-rock, transforming them into the unexpected heroes of their own epic tales? 1-3 Imagine, if you will, a monkey with eyes closed and body hunched, launching himself into the waterfall’s embrace. But lo! Upon opening his eyes and lifting his head, he finds not the expected aquatic assailment but instead, a strangely serene bridge span, basking in light devoid of water, devoid of wave. Our monkey, now still, now serene, peered closer and discovered this was no ordinary crossing but an iron bridge of tales. The water beneath it danced through rock crevices, a flowing upside-down curtain shielding the bridge’s entrance. With a bend and a bound, he found himself atop the bridge, and as he walked and watched, it seemed as though he stumbled upon a homestead hewn from dreams—truly, a sight to behold. Here, green moss piled atop azure stones, white clouds drifting like floating jade, scattering beams of light in smokey halos. Silent rooms with ghostly windows, smooth benches erupting in blooms. Dragon pearls hung against milk caverns, twisting vines of exotic flowers carpeting the ground. The legacy of fire lingered by the cliff’s side stove, remnants of meals past by the jars and jugs. Stone seats and stone beds, delightful; stone basins and stone bowls, commendable. And beyond, bamboo poles in pairs, plum blossoms, spattering. Pines stood, forever draped in rain's embrace, painting a picture of domesticity amidst nature’s cradle. After a time, our intrepid explorer leaped to the bridge’s heart and looked around, only to find a rock stele in the center bearing the proclamation: “Mountain of Flowers and Fruit, the Cave of Water Curtains, a Heavenly Abode.” Joy overtook him, and with a quick about-face, he leaped back through the waterfall, emerging to proclaim, “Fortune! Great fortune!” His simian kin crowded around, their curiosity aflame. “What lies within? How deep is the water?” they clamored. With a grin, he proclaimed, “No water! No water at all! A bridge of iron is what I found, leading to a divine domicile crafted by nature’s hand.” Their curiosity now peaked, “And what signs tell you it’s a home?” they queried. Laughing, he replied, “Beneath that bridge, the water carves through stone only to veil our entrance with its upside-down flow. Flowers and trees by the bridge, a stone dwelling within. A stone hearth, stone bowls, stone basins, stone beds, stone seats. And in the center, a declaration: ‘Mountain of Flowers and Fruit, the Cave of Water Curtains, a Heavenly Abode.’ A perfect place for us to rest our heads, spacious enough for hundreds. Here we can shelter from the elements, a sanctuary from the heavens’ whims. For within: Here winds can’t bite, nor rains oppress, Frost and snow can't make us wince, thunder is unheard in our bliss. Mists and auspices shine on us, auspicious airs kiss. Pines and bamboos in yearly promise, exotic flowers never miss. Their joy was palpable, their decision unanimous. “Lead us,” they cheered, “lead us within!” And so he did, with eyes closed and body hunched, leaping back into their new home. The brave followed eagerly; the timid, eventually, with heads poked and necks craned, with scratching ears and scrambling limbs, all found their way. Past the bridge, they clamored, claiming their spaces in makeshift jubilation, embodying the chaos and camaraderie of their kind until exhaustion claimed them. Seated regally, our monkey spoke, “A promise made is a promise kept. I’ve led you in and out, without harm. Found us a sanctuary for restful slumbers, a place to call our own. Shall I not be your king?” And so, with no dissent, they bowed and paid homage, declaring him “The King of a Thousand Years.” From that day forth, the monkey shed his stone moniker, adopting the title of the Great Sage Equal to Heaven, and history would remember him as the “Monkey King.” A poem immortalizes this moment: When suns align the living thrive, from stone was born a spirit so alive. By celestial design, with egg transformed, a monkey's path in Dao confirmed. From the inner unseen to the outer seen, his form took shape, a figure keen. Through ages, all beings to him relate, in kingship, in sanctity, their fates intertwine, his legend great. 1-4 Once upon a time, in the land where the flowers bloom with the secrets of spring, and the fruits hold the laughter of summer within their flesh, there lived a Monkey King. And oh, what a king he was! With a court comprised of gibbons, macaques, and all manner of simian subjects, this sovereign ruled over the Flower-Fruit Mountain, seeking refuge at dusk within the mystical Water Curtain Cave. They pledged loyalty to none but themselves, dining on blossoms in spring, feasting on fruits in summer, hoarding chestnuts and yams in autumn, and hunting for yellow essence to warm their bellies in winter. It was a life as wild and free as the wind, and joyful beyond measure. Yet one day, amidst a banquet under the canopy of stars, bathed in the glow of fruit that shone like jewels, the Monkey King felt a shadow creep across his heart. Tears fell from his eyes, surprising his subjects. "Why, oh why," they implored, "does sorrow touch our king in these times of mirth?" He sighed, the sound like the rustling of ancient leaves, "Even amidst this feast, a thought nags at me, gnawing at the edges of my contentment." Laughter, clear and bright, chimed through the crowd, "But sire," they exclaimed, "we live untouched by beast or man, free from the chains of the earth below and the heavens above. What could possibly cloud your heart?" “My loyal subjects,” he began, his voice a tempest of emotion, “though we fear neither predator nor king, what of the ultimate shadow, the great equalizer, which no one can escape? When my strength wanes and my vigor fades, what then? Do we not all seek to avoid the embrace of that final darkness, to live beyond the touch of time?” A silence fell, broken only by the soft sounds of weeping, as the reality of their existence – fleeting and fragile – dawned upon them. From this silence emerged a clear voice, sharp as the c***k of dawn, “Great king, if such concerns cloud your mind, perhaps it is time for a quest. Within the five species, only three escape the grasp of the inevitable – the Buddhas, the Immortals, and the Sacred Divines. They alone tread a path beyond the cycle of endings and beginnings.” “And where, pray tell, might one find these illustrious beings?” the Monkey King inquired, a spark of hope igniting within his breast. “In realms beyond our own, in ancient caves and atop sacred mountains, where the cycle of life and death dares not venture.” Thus, with a heart swollen with new purpose, the Monkey King proclaimed, “Tomorrow, I shall depart. Across seas and mountains, I will search. To learn their secrets, to conquer the specter of time itself.” And so, a grand feast was prepared, a farewell like no other. The forest yielded its treasures, fruits gleaming like gems, and dishes fit for the immortals themselves. There was laughter and tales, and amidst it all, a promise of something more, a journey beyond the boundaries of their world. As dawn kissed the edges of the earth, the Monkey King stepped forth, his eyes alight with the promise of eternity. This, my friends, was the beginning of a tale that would echo through the ages, the quest for immortality, a journey into the unknown. For in seeking to escape the inevitable, the Monkey King was set upon a path that would lead him to become the Great Sage, equal to Heaven itself. And as his subjects watched him depart, a cheer went up, for they knew not what the future held, but that their king, their friend, would forever chase the horizon, in search of that which we all seek – a little more time under the sun. 1-5 Amidst a congress of simian revelry, the Monkey King ascended his throne, a makeshift pedestal of natural assembly, attended by a procession of his leafy kingdom's subjects. They came in turn, bearing tributes of fruit, flowers, and libations, celebrating until the day waned into a haze of joyous stupor. With the dawn's early breath, our monarch, in a stroke of inspiration propelled by a restless surge for discovery, commanded, "My minions, craft me a raft of withered pines, forge a pole from the heartiest bamboo, and gather a trove of fruits for the journey. I shall embark on a quest." Thus he set sail, alone upon his crafted vessel, navigating the whims of fate and the swirling tides, propelled by wind's unseen hand towards the vast embrace of the Southern Jambūdvīpa. The journey, an epic in motion, whispered of a destiny unfolding: "A celestial primate, born of heaven's grace, Ventures forth across the sea's vast face. In pursuit of enlightenment and deeds grand, Seeking wisdom across the expanse of land. Freed from worldly desires, his spirit soars, Meeting dragons amidst the ocean's roars. Destined to find kinship in a distant place, Unlocking truths that span time and space." Fortune favored our intrepid explorer, guiding him to the shores of a new realm. Upon arrival, he traded his raft for the firm embrace of the land, greeted not by welcoming hosts but the daily grind of mortal toil—fishermen and salt gatherers ensnared in life's ceaseless labor. Our protagonist, in a display befitting his mischievous nature, conjured a spectacle, masquerading as a fearsome beast, sending the local populace into a pandemonium of panic and awe. From the pandemonium, he gleaned the garb of man, adopting the attire and mannerisms of the very creatures he sought to understand. Wandering amidst civilization, our Monkey King observed. Day melded into night, and through his travels, he sought the counsel of immortals, the secrets of eternal youth—a pursuit unmarred by the pettiness of human ambition for fame or fortune that he witnessed at every turn: "Why toil for titles, in endless strife? Bound by the turmoil of mortal life. Aspiring for steeds while riding an a*s, Coveting thrones, in fleeting class. Worries of wealth consume each day, The reaper's call, they cannot sway. In pursuit of legacy, they bind their fate, None pausing to ponder until it's too late." The Monkey King, in his quest for divine knowledge, found no guide among the lands of Southern Jambūdvīpa. Years passed as he traversed ancient walls and explored forgotten villages, until the Western Sea beckoned with its mysteries. Upon its shores, he crafted yet another raft and set forth, venturing until he reached the lands of Western Cattle-Gift Continent. It was here, amidst mountains of unmatched splendor and forests of tranquil depth, that he discovered what his soul yearned for. Not deterred by beast nor shadow, he climbed to the summit, beholding: "Mountains stand as warriors in repose, Their peaks like screens unfurled. Sunlight dances with the mist, a tender caress, Rain softens the green, in a quiet confess. Vines entwine with ancient bark, Paths lost in the holy dark. Among blossoms rare and pines so tall, Nature’s cathedral, grand and tall. Birdsong fills the air, a near whisper, Springs murmur clear, a gentle sister. Every valley, every cliff, a story untold, A realm where dragons of lore might boldly unfold." Captivated, the Monkey King’s ears caught the drift of song, an anthem to simplicity and virtue. Rushing forth, guided by the melody, he found not celestial beings but an everyman, a woodcutter immersed in the ritual of his daily toil. Yet, in this simple laborer, clothed in the mundane, he discerned the essence of the divine. The song, a rustic hymn, celebrated the joy of existence beyond the grasping claws of ambition and the hollow victories of mortal endeavor. It spoke of a life unencumbered by deceit or pretense, rich in the true wealth of being. Joy erupted in the Monkey King's heart, "Here, in the humble guise of a woodcutter, wisdom hides!" He leaped forward, eager to uncover the secrets veiled in plain sight, for sometimes, it is in the simplest acts that the profound truths of the universe reside. 1-6 In a world not entirely dissimilar to ours, where the trees whispered secrets if you knew just how to listen, there lived a man who might have stepped straight from the pages of a fairy tale, assuming your fairy tales preferred heavy lifting to magic wands. With a hat modeled from the freshest sprout of bamboo, clothes spun from the softest cotton that ever flirted with the sun, a belt woven from the finest silk that a tired old silkworm could muster, and straw sandals that whispered of dry grass and simpler times. He wielded a steel axe like it was an extension of his essence and carried a burden of hemp rope that had seen better days. This man, with every swing of his axe and every log he split, could have told you that there are few professions as honest and as pure as that of a woodcutter. Enter the Monkey King, because every story worth its salt needs a protagonist with a flair for the dramatic and a penchant for stumbling into divine quandaries. He sauntered up to the woodcutter, exuding the kind of confidence you only find in those who have sparred with gods and lived to brag about it. "Hey there, venerable hermit!" The Monkey King called, bowing with an overzealous flourish that sent a startled rabbit bolting for safety. The woodcutter, in turn, nearly dropped his axe and executed a bow so profound it was almost an apology. "Oh, most exalted one, I am but a humble man, too wrapped up in the mortal coils of cloth and sustenance to ever dare brush close to the divine!" "But if you're not a celestial being, how come you speak in the tongue of the immortals?" the Monkey King countered, his curiosity piqued. "What did I say that sounded unearthly?" the woodcutter asked, genuinely perplexed. "Well, as I was making my grand entrance," the Monkey King explained, "you were chanting about encountering immortals and reciting sacred texts. That's not exactly the usual woodsman banter." The woodcutter chuckled, a sound like leaves rustling underfoot. "Ah, that. Just a little something a real immortal taught me. Lives just down the way. Noticed I was struggling, with the whole 'mortal life being incessantly difficult' business, and offered me those words to ease my mind and troubles. They're supposed to be good for calming the soul and solving life's little hang-ups." "Interesting," mused the Monkey King, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "And you didn't think to apprentice yourself to this immortal? Learning the secret to eternal youth doesn't sound like a bad deal." "Ah, but you see," the woodcutter sighed, "life's dealt me a tough hand. Been the man of the house since I could swing an axe. With no one else around, it's been me looking after my aging mother. Can't exactly go chasing immortality when she depends on me." "Sounds like you're a stand-up guy," the Monkey King nodded approvingly. "How about you point me in the direction of this immortal? I've got a bit of a penchant for learning things not meant for mere mortals." "Not far at all," the woodcutter replied, pointing. "Just follow that path there, and you'll find yourself at the dwelling of the great sage, Subhuti. But I'm afraid I can't escort you. Duty calls here, you understand." The Monkey King, ever the impulsive adventurer, bid the woodcutter farewell and ventured forth. After a walk that could best be described as 'scenic if you're into that sort of thing', he found himself standing before a cave that practically screamed 'mystical hermit domicile'. And, taking it in, the Monkey King thought this might just be the beginning of something remarkable. Or, at the very least, a story worth telling. 1-7 Amidst splashes of celestial color and a shimmering of sun and moon, where a thousand ancient cypresses stood sentinel and a myriad of bamboo stretched skyward — half-draped in rain, giving off a misty verdancy; the other enshrouded in a haze, a lush tapestry of green. The gate was a show of exotic florals, while by the bridge, fragrant grasses teased the senses. Stone cliffs, decked in the green of moss and ivy, loomed, marvelous and mysterious. Now and then, the cry of a crane would pierce the calm, or the majestic phoenix would take to the skies, its plumage a riot of colors against the clouds. Elusive were the black apes and white deer, while golden lions and jade elephants played their game of hide and seek. Truly, this was a landscape that could rival the celestial realms themselves! And yet, the entrance to this paradise, a cave’s mouth, remained tightly sealed — ominously silent, as if no soul had trodden there for eons. Turning, there it was: a monolith, standing tall and broad, etched with the words “Mount of the Finger Moon, the Cave of the Slanted Three Stars.” The Monkey King, face alight with joy, mused, “The locals were not spinning tales. This mountain, this cave...they exist indeed.” He lingered but dared not knock, instead climbing a pine to snack on its nuts, the very picture of casual defiance. In a trice, a sound — the cave mouth swung open, and out stepped a figure, no ordinary boy, but one whose stature and demeanor were cut from a different cloth. His garb billowed, free and unbound, his spirit, it seemed, matched his outward ease. "Who disturbs this hallowed place?" he called. Down sprang the Monkey King, bowing low, “Oh, celestial youth, merely a pilgrim seeking the path of enlightenment. No disturbance intended.” The youth, with a laugh that seemed to ripple through the very air, said, “Seeking the path, are you?” To which the Monkey King nodded eagerly. “My master has just risen, about to preach the doctrine, when he bade me to open the gate, insisting a seeker was at our threshold. Could it be you?” “Indeed, it is I,” the Monkey King chuckled. “Follow me,” said the boy, and together they ventured into the recesses of the cave, a marvel of architectural wonder that defied description, leading finally to the feet of the Bodhi Master himself. There he sat, an embodiment of the divine, flanked by his thirty disciples — a sight to strike awe into any heart. The Monkey King, overcome, prostrated himself, his declarations of fealty unending. The master inquired of his origin, to which the Monkey King declared himself denizen of the Flower-Fruit Mountain. “Out with him!” the master declared, seeing through the façade, “A trickster stands before us!” But the Monkey King persisted, “I speak naught but truth!” Pressed about his heritage, the Monkey King spoke of his birth from a stone, which greatly pleased the master, seeing in him a creature of the natural world. He bade the Monkey King walk, who did so with a peculiar grace. “Though your appearance may be humble, there's a certain nobility in your eyes, like that of a pine nut-eating macaque. Henceforth, your surname shall be 'Sun',” granted the master, a twinkle in his eye. And so ‘Sun Wukong’ came into being, the Monkey King’s delight boundless. Yet, what path he would tread in pursuit of enlightenment, that’s a story for another day.