Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Hey! I’m the best mentor, not you!" Wukong boasted, his tail flicking in irritation.

"Oh, really? You’re the best mentor? Then how come you weren’t there for the kid that time he almost—" Macaque cut himself off with a sharp, pointed look. "You know what I mean, Wukong. You ditch him every time something goes wrong, and then you show up with a shiny new artifact to make up for it."

"You take that back, Macaque!" Wukong lashed out, his fur bristling slightly. "Besides, what would you know? MK clearly said I was the best mentor ever! So what does that say about you?" He huffed, crossing his arms and puffing up his chest, trying to project absolute, undeserved superiority.

Macaque let out a low, humorless laugh that sounded like dry leaves scraping pavement. He uncrossed his arms, leaning forward with a dangerous glint in his eyes.

"Well, I know his weaknesses, his fears, and his secrets better than you ever will, because I actually listen to him," Macaque countered, letting the last word hang heavy in the air. "You're too busy basking in the glory of being the 'best' to notice what the kid actually needs."

He straightened up, his tone shifting from pure rivalry to a cold proposition.

"How about this, Wukong? We make a bet."

Wukong's smug expression wavered. "A bet? On what? Who can steal the most immortal peaches?"

"No," Macaque said, a predatory smile slowly stretching across his face. "A bet on something that actually matters. Something that proves who he truly values, and who is capable of giving him what he actually craves."

He stepped closer, forcing Wukong to look him dead in the eye, and dropping the most devastating line.

"A bet on who can get MK to fall in love with them first, a bet on who can get MK to completely sever ties with the other—to lose faith in you completely, or to choose me over you. The loser backs off for good, admitting they're the worst friend, the worst mentor, and the worst partner."

Wukong scoffed, though the proposal clearly rattled him. "That's a bit messed up, don’t you think Macaque! We can't use the kid like that!"

"Oh, but you've already been using him, haven't you, dear Wukong? Using him to mend your reputation, using him to replace the hole I left. This is just an official designation of the emotional games you were already playing," Macaque said as he twisted the knife, knowing Wukong's guilt over his past was his greatest vulnerability.

Wukong wavered for only a moment, his pride and competitive nature overriding his morals. He couldn't stand the thought of Macaque proving he was better at being a mentor—or worse, the thought of Macaque getting close to MK.

Wukong narrowed his eyes, accepting the challenge he knew was wrong.

"Fine. You want a bet, you got one. But if I win, you disappear and never speak to either of us again."

Macaque's smile widened, a grim, triumphant mask. "Deal.” 

“Let the best monkey win."

MK was training in the mountains, feeling the heavy exhaustion after a particularly rough week. His muscles ached from pushing his limits, but his heart ached more from the feeling that he still wasn't good enough.

"Hey, kid!" Wukong announced, shimmering into view in a burst of gold dust. He was always a spectacle, a flash of warmth that could instantly lift MK's spirits. "Forget those boring katas. I got a surprise—put on this blindfold."

As much as MK wanted to question him, he was used to his master's eccentric methods, so he tied the silky blindfold over his eyes, trusting him completely. He heard a faint mutter about "making Macaque eat dust," but he dismissed it as their typical rivalry—those two were always at it. A moment later, MK felt himself swept up in his master's arms.

"Hold on tight, bud!"

In a dizzying, cloud-riding flash, they stopped. When Wukong gently removed the blindfold, MK gasped, the air rushing from his lungs.

They were hundreds of feet in the air, standing comfortably on a small cloud. The city skyline was a miniature beneath them, and the sky itself was on fire. Wukong hadn't just moved them; he’d taken them to the perfect spot to witness a super-rare, triple-layered solar eclipse. The horizon was illuminated in hues MK had never imagined—a breathtaking spectacle of gold, ruby, and violet.

"Whoa, Monkey King... this is incredible. How did yo—"

Wukong winked, leaning in close. His scent was warm and coppery, like sunshine and old stone. "Just an exclusive little peek into the universe. Figured the future hero of the world deserves a front-row seat. No crowds, no cameras. Just us."

He then pulled out an ancient, gold-leaf-bound scroll. "Consider it a private, one-on-one training session in 'awe.' Only for the person I trust the most."

MK's heart hammered against his ribs, not just from the height, but from the intimacy of his words. The person I trust the most. He didn't say the best student, or the strongest fighter—he said the person he trusted. Maybe he was Monkey King's favorite. The warmth of the sunlight-on-gold magic filled the empty, aching space in his chest. He did care.

In the distance behind them, a shadowy bird flew, observing them from a distance.  Huh, not bad, wukong. But for how long can you keep MK enchanted?

The day after the eclipse, MK ran into Macaque. MK actually thought the world was ending when Macaque handed him a gift, a GIFT! It was a sleek, dark-stone amulet meant to absorb noise and prevent eavesdropping. Given his history, MK was immediately suspicious, but since Macaque wasn't actively tricking anyone this time, he decided it wouldn't hurt to accept it. He ended up telling Macaque about the triple eclipse, still buzzing from the sheer scale of the event. MK, still buzzing from the sheer scale of the event, ended up telling Macaque about the triple eclipse. Macaque listened, his eyes narrowed slightly as MK talked. He was processing the information and clearly formulating a plan on how to manipulate the situation to make Wukong seem in a bad light.

Macaque leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial murmur. "That eclipse, huh? Gotta hand it to the Sage," Macaque said, a false note of respect in his tone. "Always the drama. Always the spectacle."

MK nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah! It was the coolest thing I've ever seen! He said it was training in 'awe'—just for the person he trusts most."

Macaque let out a small, quiet puff of air that wasn't quite a laugh. "Of course, he did. He loves the grand gestures, the things that get a story told. But tell me, kid..." Macaque paused, meeting MK’s eyes with a look of genuine concern. "Did it actually teach you anything? Or was it just to remind you how powerful he is?"

As Macaque targeted the one thing MK constantly struggled with; practical improvement.

MK blinked, feeling a sudden, uncomfortable twist in his gut. He thought back to their usual training; Monkey King often seemed to be showing off, never really explaining how his lessons would improve him, only expecting him to figure it out on his own. Heck, his friends tended to help him more with understanding the lesson than Monkey King himself did.

The eclipse was amazing, but Macaque's question suddenly reframed it. It felt less like a genuine gift for him and more like a scene Wukong wanted him to witness.

"Well... it was really pretty," MK mumbled, the doubt beginning to settle in. "But I guess... it didn't help me practice my training or anything."

Macaque gave a small, sympathetic smile. "Exactly. He gives you legends because he lives in the past. But what does the heir to the staff actually need? Not a light show, kid. You need foundations. You need a mentor who pays attention to what you're lacking, not what he wants you to see."

Macaque continued, painting Wukong as a self-centered mentor focused on his own glory rather than MK's actual development. MK, however, was oblivious to Macaque's manipulation; he only heard a critique that, alarmingly, made sense in his own confusing training experiences.

The glorious memory of the triple eclipse faded quickly the next day. My subsequent training session was exhausting, and I felt I was failing miserably. Monkey King was acting quite intense, and yet completely distracted, after snapping at my slow reflexes before vanishing without a word of encouragement. I was left suddenly feeling that the failures were my own fault, like I wasn’t truly giving it my all in training.

As I slumped onto the couch back at the Noodles shop in my room . My muscles were screaming, and my chest felt tight with disappointment. I felt worthless. I didn't even notice the faint shift in the ambient light, the deepening of the shadows near the corner lamp.

Suddenly, a small shadow peeled away from the coffee table. My heart leaped. No one had entered the room, but there, resting on the wood, was a covered bowl, steaming slightly.

I lifted the lid. Inside was a generous portion of extra-spicy, special-order noodles—not Pigsy’s, but those ridiculously specific ones from that tiny, obscure shop miles away that I’d mentioned to Mei once. I hadn't even known how to describe them properly, yet here they were. How?

A low, throaty chuckle came from the darkened corner.

"Worrying about where they came from won't make them taste any better, kid."

Macaque stepped fully into the light, leaning casually against the wall. His eyes weren't bright and dazzling like Wukong's; they were observant, and seemed completely focused on me. He didn't look like an enemy; he looked concerned?

"That was rough today," he commented, his voice a smooth rumble that didn't judge, but just acknowledged my pain. "He has a habit of forgetting that not everyone is forged from immortal stone."

I clutched the bowl, the heat radiating through the ceramic a grounding warmth. "He just... he gets impatient when I can't keep up. I think he's disappointed."

"He's disappointed in himself, not you," Macaque corrected gently, taking a step closer. "He can't handle his own failures, so he projects them. It’s an old trick."

He simply offered a meal, the food I’d been dying to try again.

"Look, I’m not saying he’s a bad mentor," Macaque continued, his voice softer now, almost conspiratorial. "But he gives you ancient scrolls and sunsets because he wants you to worship the legend. I gave you noodles because you seemed quite stressed, and tired, and probably starving."

He paused, and the words felt devastatingly true.

"Some days, the only thing you need to fix is your hunger, Kid. Don't let the failure sink in on an empty stomach."

Macaque pushed off the wall and started to retreat toward the shadows.

"Why... why are you being so nice?" I blurted out. "You hate him. And you barely tolerate me."

He stopped just short of the shadow-portal, turning his head slightly. A genuine, almost sad expression flickered across his face.

"Oh, Mk, I do tolerate you just a bit more than him."

Then he was gone. I was left with a bowl of perfect noodles clutched on my hands, confused on whether this was a game or not to him.

The next day, I found Macaque’s sticky note on my nightstand with coordinates leading to an old, abandoned subway line. He seemed to have used some type of magic that turned the grimy tunnel into a pristine, soundproofed training sanctuary. It was cool, quiet, and completely free of any sound!

Taped to the wall was his note:

A space for actual work. No distractions. Oh, here are some tips on your footwork. Don’t get me wrong, your fighting style is good, but it could use some work!

The note was typically dismissive, yet the detailed analysis of my stance was undeniably awesome. His instructions seemed straight forward; they were about efficient movement, weight distribution, and stability—the crucial fundamentals Wukong usually glossed over with a wave of his hand.

I spent the next few days in the hidden tunnel, drilling the new footwork until my muscles burned. I was faster, more stable, and my staff strikes were cleaner. I felt a surge of real confidence I hadn't gotten from weeks of Monkey King's scattered lessons.

Excited, I showed off my progress during my next sparring session with Monkey King on Flower Fruit Mountain.

He was still distracted, still clearly brooding over something. But then I executed a perfect pivot-shift to evade a blow, instantly repositioning myself for a counter-attack that was sharper and more grounded than anything I’d done before.

Wukong froze, his hand hovering inches from my head. His eyes narrowed, focusing not on the strike, but on the effortless, grounded stability of Mk's feet.

"Wait, wait, wait. Stop," Wukong commanded, his voice suddenly sharp and cold, wiping the proud grin right off my face. "Where did you learn that pivot?"

"Oh! That was Macaque!" I stammered, confused by his intense reaction. "He gave me some notes on my footwork. He said it would make my strikes—"

"Macaque?! You let that treacherous shadow rat mess with my training regimen?!"

His fur stood on end. He looked less like my mentor and more like a genuinely dangerous deity whose domain had been invaded. His golden eyes were blazing with furious betrayal.

"It's just footwork! It works!" I pleaded, utterly taken aback. The ferocity of his reaction was terrifying.

"It's not just footwork! I am the Great Sage, Equal to Heaven! I am your Master! And you are taking lessons from—from him?!" Wukong began pacing wildly, his hands running through his hair in frantic distress. “If anything I’m your MENTOR, MK!!!”

I stood there, my new, stable footwork suddenly feeling like a foundation built on thin ice. The confidence Macaque gave me evaporated under Monkey King's searing, disappointed gaze. He was upset? Didn't he care that I was getting better? Why does he seem disappointed in me?

"Everything you learn, you learn from me! That lowlife, that traitor—he's only trying to poison your mind against me! He's using you to get back at me! Can't you see that?!"

He stopped pacing, his golden eyes fixing on me with an intensity that felt less like love and more like ownership. "You will not go back there. You will not listen to him. You will forget that move, and you will forget his voice. You understand? I am the Great Sage, Equal to Heaven! I will teach you everything you need to know!"

The air was heavy, choking on Wukong’s desperate rage. I wanted to defend Macaque—to explain how helpful the notes were, how I felt seen—but the sheer force of Monkey King’s fury silenced me. My throat felt like it was tight.

"O-ok, I’m sorry, it won’t happen again," I mumbled, my voice tight with shame, avoiding his blazing eyes. The words tasted like sandpaper, but they were the only words I could speak. Wukong just huffed, the sound more of an angry sigh than acceptance, and turned away to resume his frantic pacing on the cliff edge. He didn't dismiss me, but he didn't need to. I took that as my cue. I scrambled back down the mountain, leaving the overwhelming heat of his anger behind.

As I rode my cloud back to the city, the earlier joy of the eclipse and the pride of my new footwork felt cheap and tainted. It wasn't about being a hero; it was about being an obedient student. I needed a break from all of it. 

After all, rent doesn't pay all on its own, I thought, trying to ground myself in practical reality. I decided to head straight home to get an early night. Tomorrow, I'll go back to the shop. Hopefully, tomorrow will be a good day helping with Pigsy.

As the next morning came around, Pigsy opened the shop as he went to cook, the smell of sizzling pork and the clang of woks was a blessing in relief. Mk threw himself into working at the shop, delivering, washing dishes, taking orders, and doing anything that required no celestial power or complicated emotional navigation. It was just a simple and normal life, and Pigsy's loud, genuine complaints were far less damaging than Wukong's quiet disappointment.

The comforting scent of Pigsy's legendary noodles hung heavy in the air as he wiped down the counter for the third time when Mei burst through the doors like a green and white comet, her voice a rapid-fire stream of chatter.

“—and then I completely aced that last level! The Fire Demon’s pattern is super simple once you get the rhythm, but I still had to use my super-speed dodge like, three times! Ooh, gimme a sprite, I’m parched!” She dramatically flopped onto a stool, kicking her legs as she took a huge swig of the soda MK slid her.

MK managed a weak smile, grateful for her energy. “That’s awesome, Mei! You’re gonna have to show me the boss fight later.”

She waved a dismissive hand, her emerald eyes already sparkling with a new thought. “Pssh, I totally will! But enough about my digital triumphs. Spill the tea, MK! How’s the hero training been? I haven’t seen you in forever. Did Wukong finally teach you that cool fire punching thingy? Or, oh! Did you guys get to use the Cloud Nimbuses for a race?!”

MK's hand stilled on the damp rag. The earlier comfort of the shop evaporated, replaced by a sudden, metallic tang of unease. He shrugged, trying to keep his voice light. “Uh, it was… fine. We sparred a bit.”

“‘Fine’?” Mei cocked an eyebrow, her smile dropping a fraction. “You look like you just ate a lemon. What happened? Did he make you do a thousand handstands again?”

He hesitated, twisting the rag in his hands. He took a deep breath and the words tumbled out, faster and less controlled than he intended.

“No, no, nothing like that. It’s just… yesterday was kinda intense. I learned this new move, this pivot, from Macaque a while ago, right? And I used it in a spar with Monkey King, and it was perfect. It was stable, and my counter-attack was super grounded. I finally felt like I was actually getting better.”

He paused, his voice dropping almost to a whisper. “And Monkey King… he freaked out. Like, really freaked out. He completely shut down the training and started yelling. Not about the move itself, but about who taught it to me.”

Mei’s eyes had gone wide, her fidgeting legs completely still. “Wait, what? Macaque? I thought he was, like, a semi-friendly rival now.”

“I guess not,” MK muttered, looking down at the counter. “He was furious. Said Macaque was a traitor and a lowlife who was trying to poison my mind and use me against him. He was pacing and shouting about how he was my only mentor, and I wasn’t allowed to see Macaque or even use the move again.” He finished with a weak, defensive justification. “He was just… upset. You know, about the rivalry thing. He cares a lot about being the best mentor.”

A silence descended on the counter. Pigsy, who had been humming quietly in the kitchen, suddenly went quiet too, perhaps sensing the shift in the air.

Mei didn’t laugh. She didn’t even make a witty comment. She stared at MK, her face a mask of stone, and slowly, surely, a furious, protective fire began to bloom in her eyes. Her fingers turned white at the knuckles as she gripped the soda can till it seemed it would burst. 

“He what?” she finally ground out, her voice dangerously low.

MK flinched back a little, surprised by the sheer, unadulterated rage radiating off her. “Mei, calm down, it’s fine! He was just—”

“No, MK! It is not fine!” She slammed the soda can onto the counter, the noise echoing through the suddenly silent shop. “This doesn’t sound like some stupid ‘rivalry,’ MK! This is wrong! You did something great, you got better, and you were proud of it! And he didn’t praise you! He didn’t encourage you! He just tore you down just because you learned it from someone else!”

She stood up, leaning over the counter, her gaze piercing. “He took your confidence and smashed it! He made you feel shame for being good! And then he cornered you and made you promise to cut off someone who was actively helping you! He’s trying to make you think that everything good you have has to come only from him!”

Her hands were shaking slightly. “That is not the reaction of a mentor, MK. That is the reaction of a big, insecure, manipulative jerk who is treating you like his property! ‘You will forget that move, and you will forget his voice’?! Are you kidding me?! That’s completely messed up!”

MK stammered, feeling that awful, tight sensation in his throat return. “No, Mei, you don’t get it! He’s the Great Sage! He’s just… he’s got all this baggage with Macaque, and he’s my mentor, and he thinks he knows best—”

“He thinks he knows best?!” Mei practically yelled, her eyes flashing with a deep, defensive love. “Yeah, he thinks he knows best! But he’s not acting like your friend, MK! He’s acting like a crazy, jealous ex-boyfriend who’s demanding you cut ties with every new person you meet! You are a hero in training! You should be learning from everyone! You should be open to every technique that makes you better!”

She ran a hand through her hair, frustration practically radiating off her. “It was footwork, MK! It was a pivot! FOR GODSAKE! And he had a meltdown because he couldn't take credit for it! Wake up, dude! That is a giant, flaming red flag! I don't care if he’s the Great Sage, Equal to Heaven! You don't get to treat your apprentice like that!”

Her voice softened slightly, pulling MK back from the edge of panic. She reached across the counter and gently grasped his hand. "You're getting better, MK. That's all that should matter. And if he can't be happy with your progress because of his own stupid drama, then he doesn't deserve to be your mentor."

MK flinched, reeling back from the raw, protective fire in Mei’s eyes. The sudden, intense venom she spat at Monkey King was terrifyingly effective. It cut through his idolization like a hot knife, leaving him cold with sudden, undeniable clarity. He couldn't argue. Not against that kind of conviction. Every word she’d said felt like a hammer blow to the flimsy excuse he’d made up about their ‘rival’. He looked away, focusing intently on a tiny smudge on the countertop, avoiding her piercing gaze.

He gave a slow, miserable nod, his silence a heavy, sickening admission of guilt, not his own, but his mentor's. His lips were pressed into a thin, tight line. He was feeling miserable and deeply conflicted.

Mei watched him, her fury slowly morphing into a deep, sad understanding. She let go of his hand, letting the silence hang until MK finally cracked.

He looked up, his eyes wide and pleading, the fear he'd bottled up since yesterday finally bubbling over. “I… I know, Mei. I know it sounds bad. When he said I had to forget the move and forget Macaque’s voice, it felt… wrong. Like he was reaching inside my head.”

He slumped against the counter, suddenly looking small and utterly drained. “The confidence I had just felt like air. It just vanished. He made me feel like I did something treasonous just for getting better.”

His voice dropped to a shaky whisper. “I didn’t want to tell you, because… because if I say it out loud, then it’s true. And if it’s true, then what am I supposed to do?”

He gestured vaguely toward the ceiling, as if the cliffside mountain hung directly above the noodle shop. “He’s my mentor. He gave me the staff. He said he’d teach me everything! But I can’t go back up there, Mei. Not right now. I’m scared to go back, but I don’t know how to not go back. I don’t know what this means… to everything.”

He looked desperately at his best friend. "Mei, what do I do now? Do I just pretend like nothing happened? Do I stop training? Do I tell him he's wrong?"

Chapter Text

His hands trembled as he scrubbed a plate, the soapy water sloshing over the edge. Mei’s words from yesterday burned in his mind, even Wukong’s blazing eyes—You will forget his voice—tightened his chest like a vise. He wanted to shove it all away, to lose himself in the simple rhythm routine of Pigsy’s shop, but the weight of it clung to him.

“Take a deep breath, MK. There you go, that’s it,” Mei said, her voice soft but firm as she leaned across the counter. Her emerald eyes were gentle now, a stark contrast to the fire they’d held when she’d torn into Wukong’s behavior. “I know you’re stressed out about what to do, but maybe… maybe you could take a break from Monkey King. Just for a week, you know? Clear your head.”

MK froze, the plate slipping slightly in his hands. “A break?” His voice cracked, shaky but curious. The idea felt like betrayal, but also like a lifeline.

Mei’s expression softened, though worry lines creased her brow. “I’m sorry for coming off harsh about Monkey King, but I don’t want my best friend getting hurt just because of some stupid rivalry.” She reached out, squeezing his arm. “I care about you, you know?”

“Yeah, I know,” MK mumbled, his gaze dropping to the counter. He took a shaky breath, the knot in his chest loosening just a fraction. “Maybe you’re right. A break… just to clear my mind.”

Mei grinned, a spark of her usual energy returning. “That’s the spirit! Come on, let’s ditch the dishes and hit the arcade. You owe me a rematch on Demon Slayer Extreme!”

MK managed a weak smile, grateful for her unwavering light. “Deal. But no cheating with your super-speed dodge this time.”

As they left the shop, Pigsy’s gruff shout of “Don’t slack off too long, kid!” followed them into the bustling city streets. MK didn’t notice the faint flicker of a shadow trailing them, its edges curling like a smirk in the alley’s dim light.

High on Flower Fruit Mountain, Wukong paced the cliff’s edge, his tail lashing like a whip. The jungle hummed with life below, but his golden eyes were stormy, fixed on nothing. MK’s hurt expression haunted him—those wide, guilty eyes when he’d yelled about Macaque. I went too far, he admitted silently, his fists clenching. But the thought of Macaque’s smug face, of his notes on his student’s footwork, just set his fur bristling.

“He’s trying to steal him,” Wukong muttered, kicking a pebble into the abyss. “That sneaky, shadow-crawling rat thinks he can outdo me? The Great Sage, Equal to Heaven?” He stopped, running a hand through his hair. “I gotta make this right. MK’s my student, not his.”

His mind raced, flipping through grand gestures—a celestial sword, a cloud-racing tournament, a trip to the Jade Emperor’s old training grounds. But every idea felt hollow, MK didn’t need any more dazzling performances; he needed… what? Wukong’s tail twitched. Trust. He needed MK to trust him again. And he needed to bury Macaque’s influence once and for all.

Wukong’s eyes gleamed as a plan formed. “An apology,” he said aloud, testing the word. It tasted foreign, but he could make it work. Something big enough to win MK back, small enough to feel real. And maybe, just maybe, a little jab at Macaque to remind the kid who the real mentor was.

He summoned a cloud, its golden edges shimmering, and shot toward the city, determination burning hotter than the sun.

The grocery store was a fluorescent-lit maze of instant noodle packets and discount signs, a grounding slice of normalcy for MK. He and Mei wandered the aisles, her cart piled high with snacks for their arcade marathon. MK’s laughter felt fragile, but Mei’s relentless energy—ranting about her latest gaming high score—kept him tethered.

“—and then I totally crushed the Fire Demon with one combo! You gotta try it, MK!” Mei tossed a bag of spicy chips into the cart, grinning.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll believe it when I see it,” MK teased, his voice lighter than it had been in days. For a moment, he could almost forget the weight of Wukong’s anger, the sting of his own doubts.

A burst of golden light flared outside the store’s glass doors, and MK’s heart lurched. No way. Before he could brace himself, Wukong strode in, his presence filling the cramped aisle like a supernova. Shoppers gawked, but Wukong’s eyes locked onto MK, bright and intense.

“Kid!” Wukong’s voice was warm, almost too warm, like he was trying to outshine the sun. “Been looking for you. Got a minute?”

MK’s throat tightened, the fragile ease of the moment shattering. Mei stiffened beside him, her hand gripping the cart’s handle. “Uh, sure, Monkey King,” MK stammered, glancing at Mei for rescue.

Wukong stepped closer, his tail flicking nervously despite his confident grin. “Look, about yesterday… I got a little heated. You know how it is with Macaque—guy’s got a knack for getting under my fur. But I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.” He rubbed the back of his neck, the gesture almost boyish. “You’re my best student, MK. I just want you to shine, y’know? Not get tangled up in that shadow’s tricks.”

MK’s shoulders relaxed slightly, the apology soothing the raw edges of his hurt. “It’s… it’s okay, Monkey King. I get it. You were just—”

“Just what?” Mei cut in, her voice sharp as a blade. She stepped forward, planting herself between MK and Wukong, her eyes blazing. “Just throwing a tantrum because MK dared to learn something from someone else? Just trying to control who he talks to, who he trusts?”

Wukong’s grin faltered, his golden eyes narrowing. “Whoa, easy, dragon girl. This is between me and my kid—”

“Your kid?” Mei’s voice rose, drawing stares from nearby shoppers. “He’s not your property, Wukong! You don’t get to yell at him for getting better, then waltz in here with a half-baked apology to make yourself feel better! MK was proud of that move, and you crushed him! You made him feel like he betrayed you just for improving!”

MK’s face burned, his hands twisting the grocery bag he held. “Mei, it’s fine, he said he’s sorry—”

“It’s not fine!” Mei snapped, turning to him with a fierce, protective glare. “He’s acting like you owe him your entire life because he gave you that staff! A real mentor would be hyped that you’re growing, not freaking out because it wasn’t his idea!”

Wukong’s fur bristled, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, kid. Macaque’s trying to poison Mk’s mind. He’s using MK to get to me, and I’m not gonna let him—”

“Enough!” MK’s shout echoed through the aisle, surprising even himself. His chest heaved, the bag crinkling in his clenched fists. “Just… stop. Both of you. I can’t—I need a break, okay? From all of this.” He looked at Wukong, his voice quieter but firm. “I need time to think.”

Wukong’s eyes widened, a flicker of panic crossing his face. “MK, c’mon, you don’t mean that—”

“He does,” Mei said, stepping closer to MK, her voice steady. “And you’re gonna respect it, Monkey King. Or you’re gonna have to deal with me.”

Wukong opened his mouth, then closed it, his tail drooping. For a moment, he looked less like the Great Sage and more like a scolded child. With a huff, he turned, muttering, “Fine. Take your break, kid. But don’t think Macaque’s your friend.” He vanished in a swirl of golden dust, leaving the aisle eerily quiet.

MK’s knees wobbled, and Mei caught his arm, guiding him to a bench outside the store. “You okay?” she asked, her voice soft again.

“I don’t know,” MK admitted, staring at the pavement. “I just… I don’t know what to do anymore.”

Mei squeezed his shoulder. “You don’t have to figure it out today. Let’s just get these snacks and have some fun, yeah? No mentors, no drama. Just us.”

MK nodded, a small, grateful smile breaking through. But as they walked back to the shop, he didn’t notice the shadow perched on a nearby rooftop, its eyes glinting with quiet triumph.

Macaque watched the scene unfold from his shadowy perch, his tail curling with satisfaction. Wukong’s clumsy apology had backfired spectacularly, and Mei’s fiery defense had given MK the push he needed to pull away. Perfect, Macaque thought, his lips twitching into a predatory smile. The kid was vulnerable, and Wukong was unraveling. All Macaque had to do was keep playing the long game.

He slipped through a shadow portal, reappearing in the abandoned subway tunnel he’d gifted MK. The space was pristine now, the walls etched with faint, glowing runes that dampened sound and kept out prying eyes. He placed a small, wrapped package on the training mat—a leather-bound journal, its pages filled with detailed sketches of staff techniques tailored to MK’s strengths. A sticky note was attached, the handwriting sharp and casual:

 For when you’re ready to train on your terms.

Take care

Macaque stepped back, his ears twitching as he heard footsteps. Right on cue, MK appeared at the tunnel’s entrance, his grocery bag still in hand. Mei trailed behind, her eyes narrowing as she spotted Macaque.

“Fancy meeting you here, kid,” Macaque said, his voice smooth as velvet. He leaned against the wall, casual but deliberate. “Thought you might need a hand on training after… well, you know.” He gestured vaguely, letting MK fill in the blanks.

MK hesitated, his eyes flicking to the journal. “You… left this for me?”

Macaque shrugged, his smile disarming. “Figured you could use something practical. Wukong’s all about fame, but you’re past that. You need tools, not trophies.”

Mei crossed her arms, her gaze sharp. “What’s your angle, Macaque? You’re not exactly the ‘selfless mentor’ type.”

Macaque’s laugh was low, almost genuine. “Ouch, dragon girl. Straight to the heart.” He met her eyes, his expression softening. “No angle. I just see what the kid’s capable of. He’s got potential that Wukong’s too busy preening to notice.” He turned to MK, his voice quieter. “You looked rough after that sparring session. Thought you might need a place to breathe.”

MK’s shoulders sagged, the journal’s weight grounding him. “Thanks,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I… I really needed this.”

Mei’s suspicion lingered, but she softened slightly, seeing the relief in MK’s eyes. “Fine,” she said, pointing at Macaque. “But I’m watching you. One shady move, and you’re toast.”

Macaque raised his hands, mock-surrendering. “Noted. I’m just here to help.” He slipped into the shadows, leaving MK clutching the journal and Mei staring after him, her instincts warring with the gratitude she saw in her friend.

(Pretend Mk told Mei about the underground tunnel)

Weeks passed in a blur of arcade nights, noodle deliveries, and quiet moments in the subway tunnel. MK threw himself into normalcy, avoiding Flower Fruit Mountain and Wukong’s golden clouds. Mei was his anchor, filling the days with laughter and distraction, but the journal from Macaque became his secret refuge. He practiced the techniques late at night, each precise movement building a confidence Wukong’s lessons had never given him. Macaque’s gifts kept appearing—small, thoughtful things like a weighted training band or a tea blend that eased his muscle aches. Each came with a note, always simple, always signed with a shadowed paw print.

Macaque’s visits grew more frequent, his presence less guarded. A brush of his hand on MK’s shoulder as he corrected a stance, a low chuckle that lingered in the tunnel’s silence, a whispered “You’re doing great, kid” that warmed MK’s chest. The suspicion MK had once felt melted under Macaque’s quiet attention, his words always hitting the raw, aching spots Wukong’s grandeur left untouched.

Mei noticed the change, her sharp eyes catching the way MK’s face lit up when Macaque appeared. She didn’t trust the shadow monkey, but his gifts seemed harmless, and MK was smiling again. Maybe he’s not so bad, she thought, blind to the calculated warmth in Macaque’s gaze.

Tonight, MK’s apartment above the noodle shop was dimly lit, the city’s glow filtering through the window. Macaque sat on the couch, one leg crossed over the other, watching MK flip through the journal’s latest page—a sketch of a spinning staff strike Macaque had taught him that morning.

“You’re getting it,” Macaque said, his voice soft but deliberate, like a caress. “You’re not just swinging that staff anymore. You’re owning it.”

MK’s cheeks flushed, his heart thudding. “Thanks. I mean… I’ve never felt this… solid before. Like I’m actually good at this.”

Macaque leaned closer, his dark eyes locking onto MK’s. “You are good, kid. Better than good. Wukong’s got his legend, but you? You’re building something real.” His hand rested on MK’s, lingering just long enough to send a shiver through him. “And I see it. Every bit of it.”

MK’s breath caught, his defenses crumbling under the weight of Macaque’s words. No grand gestures, no blazing light—just quiet, unwavering focus, on him. He didn’t notice the flicker of triumph in Macaque’s eyes, or the way his tail curled like a predator closing in.

In the distance, a golden cloud hovered above the city, its edges fraying with restless energy. Wukong watched through the apartment’s window, his fists clenched. Macaque was winning, and MK was slipping away. Not yet, Wukong thought, his eyes narrowing. This isn’t over.

The city hummed with neon lights and distant traffic, but MK felt like he was standing on a tightrope. Weeks of avoiding Flower Fruit Mountain had given him space to breathe, to find a rhythm in the arcade’s flashing screens and the quiet of Macaque’s subway tunnel. The journal Macaque had given him was dog-eared now, its pages filled with techniques that made his staff feel like an extension of himself. Each note, each small gift—a wrist wrap, a thermos of tea—felt like a tether to something solid, something Wukong’s blazing lessons had never offered.

But the absence of Wukong gnawed at him.Monkey King hadn’t appeared since the grocery store, and MK’s relief was tinged with guilt. He’s my mentor, he thought, tossing a pebble across the rooftop where he and Mei sat, the city sprawling below. He gave me the staff. I can’t just… abandon him.

Mei kicked her legs over the edge, her soda can glinting in the moonlight. “You’re doing great, MK,” she said, her voice softer than usual. “I mean it. You’re killing it with those new moves. Macaque’s stuff is actually helping, huh?”

MK’s cheeks warmed, his fingers tracing the journal in his lap. “Yeah. He… he gets what I need. Like, he doesn’t just throw stuff at me and expect me to figure it out. He explains things. Makes me feel…” He trailed off, searching for the word. Seen.

Mei’s eyes narrowed slightly, but her smile held. “Just be careful, okay? He’s still Macaque. But… I gotta admit, you’re happier. And that’s what matters.” She didn’t see the shadow flicker across a nearby billboard, its edges curling with quiet satisfaction.

On the Flower Fruit Mountain, Wukong’s pacing had worn a groove into the cliffside. His tail lashed, his golden eyes blazing with a mix of panic and fury. MK’s absence was a wound, and Macaque’s smug presence—those cursed notes, those gifts— felt like acid rubbed deep in his chest. 

He needed something big, something undeniable. An apology hadn’t worked, but action could. MK was a hero, and heroes needed saving sometimes, right? Wukong’s mind raced, landing on a plan—a staged rescue, a chance to prove he was the mentor MK needed. He’d set up a “threat,” swoop in to save the day, and remind MK why the Great Sage was the only one who mattered.

He summoned a cloud, its golden edges crackling with energy, and sped toward the city, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Time to show the kid who the real hero is.”

MK drove through the warehouse district, the delivery box rattling on the front seat of the tuk-tuk beside him. The district was eerily quiet, broken only by the tinny pop music blaring from the tuk-tuk’s radio. Mei had insisted on tagging along, her motorcycle idling nearby as she scanned her phone, her green jacket a splash of color against the rusted cranes and abandoned crates.

“This place gives me the creeps,” she called, her voice cutting through the music. “You sure Pigsy needed this delivery here?”

MK shrugged, unease prickling his neck. “Order came in last minute. Weird, but—whoa!” A gust of wind slammed into the tuk-tuk, nearly tipping it. A bat-winged demon lunged from the shadows, its claws glinting as it swiped, missing MK by inches. He scrambled out, his staff materializing as he stumbled back.

“MK!” Mei shouted, her sword flaring green as she leaped off her bike. But before she could reach him, a golden blur exploded onto the scene.

“Stay back, kid!” Wukong landed with a ground-shaking thud, his ginger fur catching the flickering streetlights. “I’ve got this!” He flashed MK a grin, all bravado and charm, and launched himself at the bat-winged demon, his movements a blur of acrobatic precision. Without his staff—MK’s staff—he relied on fists and sheer power, each punch landing with theatrical flair, as if choreographed for an audience. The creature roared, its massive wings blotting out the streetlights, but Wukong’s dodges were almost too perfect, his eyes darting to MK to ensure he was watching.

MK’s heart raced, a wave of relief crashing over him. He’s here. He came for me. But the feeling soured as doubt crept in. The demon’s swipes were clumsy, almost rehearsed, and Wukong’s grin was too polished, like he was performing for a crowd of one. Something was off.

Mei’s eyes narrowed, her dragon sword glowing faintly green as she gripped it tighter. “This feels staged,” she muttered, her voice low enough for only MK to hear. Her words hit like a spark, igniting his unease.

Before he could respond, the demon’s wing grazed a rusted crane, sending a stack of crates tumbling toward them with a deafening groan. “MK, move!” Mei shouted, tackling him to the ground. The crates crashed inches from their heads, splinters flying as the impact echoed through the warehouse district.

Wukong froze mid-punch, his confident grin faltering. The demon, as if startled by the chaos, broke from its predictable pattern and lunged at MK with feral intent, claws gleaming. MK rolled to his feet, the Golden Staff materializing in his hands. Instinct took over—he pivoted smoothly, a move Macaque had drilled into him in the subway tunnel, and struck with a fluid precision that felt like second nature. The staff connected, sending the creature staggering.

Wukong’s eyes widened, a flash of fury cutting through his shock as he leaped forward, dispatching the demon with a single, brutal palm strike to its head. The creature dissolved into wisps of smoke, its form unraveling to reveal its true nature—a conjured illusion, nothing more than a pawn in Wukong’s game.

He spun on MK, his voice sharp, tail lashing. “Where’d you learn that move, kid? Was it him, again?”

MK’s relief shattered, replaced by a sickening clarity. The Golden Staff felt heavy in his hands, its weight anchoring his rising anger. “You… you set this up?” His voice trembled, cracking under the betrayal. “This was fake? You put me in danger just to—what? Prove you’re better than Macaque?”

Mei was on her feet in an instant, her sword pointed at Wukong, its green glow casting sharp shadows. “You’ve gotta be kidding me!” she snapped, her voice dripping with disgust. “You staged a demon attack to stroke your ego? MK could’ve been hurt! What kind of mentor does that?”

Wukong’s fur bristled, his golden eyes flickering with desperation. “I was trying to protect you, MK! To show you I’m the one you can count on! Macaque’s filling your head with tricks, but I’m your mentor—I’m the one who chose you!”

MK’s chest tightened, Mei’s words from the grocery store echoing in his mind ‘He’s treating you like property.’ “You don’t get it,” he said, his voice breaking but firm, each word a struggle. “I trusted you. I thought you believed in me. But this… this is about you, not me.” He gripped the staff tighter, its golden surface reflecting his trembling resolve. “I’m done.”

Wukong reached out, panic flashing across his face. “MK, wait, you don’t mean—”

“Let him go,” Mei cut in, her voice cold as steel. She stepped protectively in front of MK, her sword still raised. “You’ve done enough, Monkey King.” She guided MK back to the tuk-tuk, her hand steady on his shoulder as he climbed in, his gaze fixed on the ground.

Wukong stood alone amidst the wreckage, his golden aura dimming as the tuk-tuk’s engine sputtered to life. The city’s neon hum swallowed the silence, but his clenched fists trembled with the weight of MK’s words.

The subway tunnel glowed faintly under the runes Macaque had etched into its walls, a sanctuary of quiet amidst the city’s chaos. MK stood on the training mat, the Golden Staff spinning in his hands, its movements sharper than ever. The journal Macaque had given him lay open nearby, its pages worn from late-night study. Each technique he mastered felt like a step toward something new—not just skill, but a sense of himself, unburdened by Wukong’s towering shadow.

Macaque leaned against the wall, his dark eyes tracking MK’s every move. “Nice form, kid,” he said, his voice smooth and warm, like a melody that lingered in the air. “You’re making that staff dance to you, now. Try shifting your grip a bit—thumb higher, like I showed you.”

MK adjusted his hold, the staff feeling lighter, more alive. He spun it again, the motion fluid, and landed with a grin that lit up the dim tunnel. “Whoa! That’s so much smoother! You’re, like, a genius, Macaque!”

Macaque’s lips curved into a soft smile, his tail flicking playfully. “Genius, huh? I’ll take it.” He stepped closer, his hand brushing MK’s shoulder to correct his stance. The touch was brief but deliberate, sending a warm shiver through MK. “You’re the one doing the work, though. I’m just pointing out what you’re already capable of.”

MK’s cheeks flushed, his heart thudding with a mix of pride and something softer, something he couldn’t name. Macaque’s attention was a stark contrast to Wukong’s bombast. It made MK feel seen, not as a hero or a successor, but as himself.

Mei, sprawled on a crate in the corner, was scrolling through her phone, her green jacket a splash of color against the tunnel’s gloom. She glanced up, catching MK’s grin. “Yo, he’s right about that you know, you’re killing it!” she cheered, hopping to her feet. “Macaque’s not half-bad at this mentor thing, huh?” Her tone was light, but her eyes flicked to Macaque, still wary despite the weeks of his apparent goodwill.

Macaque chuckled, raising his hands in mock surrender. “High praise from the dragon girl. I’m honored.” His gaze slid to MK, softening. “What do you say, kid? Ready to show off that new spin for Mei?”

MK’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “Heck yeah!” He launched into the move, the staff a golden blur as he pivoted and struck, landing with a flourish. Mei whooped, rushing over to high-five him.

“That’s my bestie!” she crowed, slinging an arm around his shoulders. “You gotta teach me that one, MK. We’ll crush the next demon that shows up!”

Macaque watched them, his smile lingering, but his mind churned. Perfect, he thought, his tail curling with satisfaction. MK’s trust was growing, each smile a victory in his silent war against Wukong. But as he watched MK laugh, his eyes bright with Mei’s praise, a flicker of unease stirred in his chest. The kid’s warmth, his earnest joy ‘it was starting to feel… real. Too real.’ Macaque pushed the thought down, focusing on the plan. Win the kid, bury the Great Sage. That’s the deal.

“Let’s take a break,” Macaque suggested, his voice casual as he tossed MK a thermos of his herbal tea. “You’ve earned it, champ.”

MK caught it, his fingers brushing Macaque’s for a fleeting moment. “Thanks, man. You’re always looking out for me.” He plopped onto the mat, patting the spot beside him. “Come on, you too, Mei! Let’s chill for a bit.”

Mei flopped down, snagging a bag of spicy chips from their arcade haul. “Only if Macaque promises not to pull any shadowy nonsense,” she teased, though her grin was less guarded than before.

Macaque sat beside MK, their shoulders close enough to share warmth. “As if, dragon girl. Just good company.” He leaned back, his tone light, but his ears twitched, catching the steady rhythm of MK’s breathing, the soft crinkle of the chip bag, the hum of the city above. He was in control, every move calculated—yet the ease of this moment, the laughter, the quiet trust in MK’s eyes, tugged at something he’d buried long ago.

From his perch on a rooftop later that night, Macaque watched the city’s neon lights pulse like a heartbeat. The subway tunnel had been a triumph—MK’s growing confidence, Mei’s reluctant acceptance, the way the kid’s smile lingered in his mind. It was all going according to plan. Wukong’s absence had left a void, and Macaque was filling it, piece by piece carefully carving himself into Mk’s world. The journal, the gifts, the gentle corrections—they were bait, hooks to reel Mk in, to prove he could outshine the Monkey King.

But as he replayed MK’s laugh, the way his eyes lit up at a simple word of praise, Macaque’s tail stilled. He’d spent centuries honing his manipulation, reading hearts like open books, bending them to his will. MK was no different or he shouldn’t be. The kid was a tool, a means to an end, a way to twist the knife in Wukong’s pride. So why did his chest ache when MK looked at him like he was more than a shadow?

Macaque’s ears twitched, catching fragments of the city’s secrets—lovers’ whispers, deals in dark alleys, the distant hum of Wukong’s golden cloud. He clenched his jaw, shoving the warmth aside.’ Focus. You’re winning. The kid trusts you, and Wukong’s unraveling.’ But the thought felt hollow, like a lie he told himself to keep the game in play. He remembered Wukong’s laughter, centuries ago, when they raced through the grassfield together. That warmth had burned him once. He wouldn’t let it happen again.

Yet, as he slipped through a shadow portal, leaving a new gift—a carved wooden charm etched with a protective rune—for MK to find in the tunnel, Macaque couldn’t shake the feeling that he was slipping, too. The kid was supposed to be a pawn, not a presence that lingered in his thoughts, so warm and bright.

The next evening, Mei dragged MK to the arcade, her energy a whirlwind that swept away his lingering doubts. The neon lights and pulsing music were a welcome distraction, but MK’s mind kept drifting to the tunnel, to Macaque’s quiet encouragement. Mei, oblivious to his thoughts, shoved a claw machine token into his hand.

“Come on, MK! You’re not wussing out on the plushie challenge, are you?” she teased, her grin infectious.

MK laughed, shaking off the weight. “No way! I’m winning that dragon plushie for you!” He focused on the claw, his movements precise, a subtle echo of the staff techniques he’d been practicing. The claw snagged the plushie, and Mei cheered as it dropped into the chute.

“You’re on fire, MK!” she said, hugging the plushie. “Guess Macaque’s training is paying off, huh?”

MK’s cheeks warmed. “Yeah, he’s… really helped me figure stuff out.” He hesitated, then added, “You think he’s… okay, right? Like, he’s not just messing with me?”

Mei’s smile softened, her protective edge dulled by weeks of seeing MK happier. “He’s shady, but he’s been solid so far. Those gifts, the training—he’s putting in effort. Maybe he’s not as bad as I thought.” She nudged him. “But I’m still watching him. Nobody messes with my bestie.”

MK nodded, relief easing the knot in his chest. “Thanks, Mei. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

As they left the arcade, arms full of plushies and snacks, Macaque watched from the shadows, his tail curling with a mix of triumph and unease. Mei’s acceptance was a bonus, smoothing his path to MK’s trust. But the kid’s earnest gratitude, the way he leaned into Mei’s friendship—it stirred something in Macaque, a warmth he couldn’t afford. Just a means to an end, he told himself, slipping away. But the lie felt thinner each time.

The rooftop was a jagged silhouette against the city’s neon glow, its cracked concrete and rusted pipes a stark contrast to the vibrant lights below. Macaque stood in the shadows, his six ears twitching as they caught the faint hum of a golden cloud slicing through the night. Wukong was coming, and Macaque’s tail curled with anticipation. The bet he’d proposed months ago—who can get MK to fall in love with them first, to sever ties with the other—was unfolding perfectly. MK’s trust was his, Wukong was unraveling, and yet… a flicker of doubt gnawed at Macaque’s chest.

Wukong landed with a force that cracked the rooftop, his ginger fur blazing under the moonlight and the city’s neon lights. His eyes were storms, no trace of the carefree grin he’d once worn. “You,” he snarled, his voice low and dangerous, pointing a clawed finger at Macaque. “You think you can just slink in and steal my kid with your little bet? You’re sick, Macaque.”

Macaque stepped out of the shadows, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp as daggers. “Steal? Oh, Wukong, I’m not stealing anything.” His voice was smooth, a velvet blade cutting through the tension. “You’re the one who pushed him away—yelling about my ‘poison,’ staging that pathetic demon stunt in the warehouse. You’re making it too easy for me to win.”

Wukong’s tail lashed, his fists clenching so tightly his knuckles paled. “You’re the one who started this, Liu’er! That twisted bet—making MK fall for you, turning him against me? You’re using him, just like you used everyone else to claw your way out of my shadow!” His voice cracked, betraying the hurt beneath his rage. “I only agreed because I couldn’t let you hurt him.”

Macaque’s smirk faltered, a flash of something raw—guilt, perhaps—crossing his face before he buried it. “Hurt him? I’m giving him what you never could.” He stepped closer, his shadow stretching long and jagged across the rooftop. “I listen to him, Wukong. I see his fears, his doubts, his need to be more than your shadow. That’s why he’s choosing me—because I’m not the one treating him like a prop for my legend.”

Wukong’s fur bristled, his golden aura flaring. “You don’t get to lecture me! You’re the one who made this a game, Macaque. You bet on his heart, on his trust, just to prove you’re better than me. But MK’s my student, my heir. I chose him because he’s special, not because I needed to ‘mend my reputation’!” He spat Macaque’s words back, his voice trembling with a mix of fury and desperation. “You’re twisting him, filling his head with your tricks. I won’t let you win.”

Macaque’s laugh was low, bitter, echoing off the rusted pipes. “Win? I’m already halfway there, Wukong. The kid trusts me. He smiles when I show up, lights up when I teach him something you never bothered to.” His voice softened, almost involuntarily, as he thought of MK’s earnest grin in the subway tunnel, the warmth of his laughter over a shared thermos of tea. “He’s not just a prize, Wukong. He’s… he’s more.”

Wukong’s eyes narrowed, catching the shift in Macaque’s tone. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded, stepping closer, their faces inches apart. The air crackled with their history—centuries of camaraderie, betrayal, and unspoken wounds. “Don’t tell me you’re actually falling for him, Liu’er. That wasn’t part of your little game.”

Macaque’s tail stilled, his six ears twitching as Wukong’s words struck a nerve. His mind flashed to MK’s unguarded trust, the way his fingers brushed Macaque’s when he handed over the carved wooden charm, the quiet moments in the tunnel that felt too real. He’d started this bet to bury Wukong, to prove he could outshine the Great Sage by winning MK’s heart and severing his bond with Wukong. It was supposed to be simple—use his cunning perception, to give MK what he craved; a validation being seen. But somewhere along the way, MK’s warmth had slipped past his defenses, stirring something Macaque hadn’t felt since he and Wukong were brothers under the stars.

“Don’t be absurd,” Macaque snapped, his voice sharper than he intended, his shadow coiling around him like a shield. “This is about you losing, Wukong. About proving I’m the one MK needs.” But the words felt hollow, a lie he wasn’t entirely sure he believed anymore. He turned away, his jaw tight. “You’re scared because you know I’m right. You’ve been using him to fill the hole I left, just like I said. And now you’re losing him.”

Wukong’s breath hitched, his golden eyes searching Macaque’s for the truth. “You’re lying to yourself,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “You started this bet to hurt me, to take MK away. But you’re slipping, Macaque. I see it. You care about him, and it’s messing with your head.” He stepped forward, his aura blazing. “End this now. Call off the bet, leave MK alone, or I’ll make you regret it.”

Macaque spun back, his eyes blazing with defiance, but a flicker of doubt lingered. “You don’t get to dictate terms, Wukong. MK’s choosing for himself, and he’s leaning my way. You want to fight for his heart? Go ahead. But when he picks me, you’ll back off for good—just like we agreed.” His voice cracked, betraying the turmoil he refused to name. “You’ll admit you’re the worst mentor, the worst friend, and you’ll disappear.”

The rooftop fell silent, the city’s neon hum a distant pulse. Wukong’s fists trembled, his gaze locked on Macaque’s, torn between rage and fear. Macaque held his stare, his heart pounding with a mix of triumph and dread. MK’s laughter echoed in his mind, a dangerous warmth that threatened to unravel his carefully laid plans.

Without another word, Wukong summoned his cloud, its golden edges crackling as he shot into the night, leaving a trail of fading light. Macaque stood alone, his shadow pooling around him like spilled ink. His ears twitched, catching the ghost of MK’s voice from the tunnel ‘You’re always looking out for me.’  He clenched his fists, his tail curling tight. “Just a bet,” he muttered, but the words tasted bitter on his tongue. For the first time in centuries, Macaque wasn’t sure what he was fighting for.

The subway tunnel glowed with an intimate warmth, its rune-etched walls casting a soft, flickering light that danced across the training mat. MK stood in the center, the Golden Staff gripped loosely in his hands, his chest heaving from a rigorous spar. Sweat glistened on his brow, his jacket slightly askew, revealing the curve of his collarbone. Macaque circled him, his movements fluid and deliberate, his dark eyes glinting with a predatory intensity softened by something warmer, something dangerous. His touches had been bolder tonight—a lingering hand on MK’s wrist, a brush of his tail against MK’s thigh, each contact sending sparks through the air.

“You’re burning up the mat, kid,” Macaque purred, his voice a low, velvety caress that seemed to wrap around MK like a shadow. He stepped closer, so close MK could feel the heat radiating from him, their shadows merging on the mat. “That last spin? Flawless. You’re getting better and better every single day, surprising me everytime.”

MK’s breath caught, his heart pounding as Macaque’s gaze locked onto his, intense and unyielding. The praise, the way Macaque’s eyes traced him like he was the only thing that mattered, made MK’s skin tingle. “Thanks,” he murmured, his voice shaky, barely above a whisper. Macaque’s hand found his shoulder, fingers grazing the exposed skin where his jacket had slipped, the touch electric and deliberate. MK’s pulse raced, his cheeks flushing as he tried to hold Macaque’s stare.

Macaque’s lips curved into a slow, almost dangerous smile, his tail curling lazily around MK’s ankle, a subtle claim. He’d been building to this moment for weeks, weaving trust with every gift, every whispered encouragement in this tunnel. Tonight, he’d push further, ignite the spark he’d kindled in MK’s heart, seal the bet with a confession that would bury Wukong. But as he leaned in, the air thick with the scent of MK’s sweat and the herbal tea lingering on his breath, with a tinge of noodles, Macaque felt his control waver. MK’s warmth, his unguarded trust, was a fire he hadn’t anticipated.

“You don’t know what you do to me, MK,” Macaque said, his voice dropping to a husky murmur, his hand sliding from MK’s shoulder to the nape of his neck, fingers tangling lightly in his hair. The touch was intimate, a slow burn that made MK’s eyes widen, his lips parting slightly. “You’re more than Wukong’s shadow. You’re… mine.”

MK’s breath hitched, the tunnel shrinking to just the two of them, the runes’ glow a private cocoon. Macaque’s thumb brushed along MK’s jaw, tilting his face up, their noses nearly touching. The air crackled with tension, every heartbeat loud in MK’s ears. “Macaque, I…” MK swallowed, his voice trembling with a mix of nerves and raw, burning emotion. “You’re always there, seeing me, helping me. I… I love you.”

The words spilled out, raw and electric, a confession that hung heavy in the air. Macaque’s ears twitched, his heart stuttering despite his carefully laid plans. He’d wanted this—MK’s love, the final piece to win the bet, to prove he could outshine Wukong. But the sincerity in MK’s voice, the way his eyes shone with vulnerability, hit like a tidal wave. For a moment, Macaque forgot the bet, forgot Wukong, and saw only MK, so bright like a starburst and yet undeniably his. The warmth in his chest was dangerous, a crack in his facade.

“Kid,” Macaque whispered, his voice rough with an emotion he couldn’t name. He leaned closer, his lips brushing MK’s temple, then trailing down to hover just above his, a heartbeat from a kiss. The contact was searing, a promise unspoken, making MK’s breath catch in a soft gasp. “You have no idea how much that means.” His hand tightened on MK’s neck, pulling him closer until their chests brushed, the heat between them almost tangible. “I’m not letting you go.”

MK’s eyes fluttered, a shy, radiant smile breaking through as he leaned into Macaque’s touch, his hand finding Macaque’s wrist, fingers curling around the carved wooden charm. The tunnel felt like a world apart, where MK could be himself—not a hero, not a student, but someone who loved and was loved. Macaque’s tail tightened briefly around MK’s ankle, a possessive gesture that felt too real, too raw.

Macaque pulled back, his smile warm but his mind a storm. You did it, Liu’er. You won. But the triumph was tangled with a warmth he hadn’t planned, a need to protect MK that clashed with his scheme. MK’s love was his victory, but it was also a weight, a truth he wasn’t sure he could carry.

His tail curled, his smirk sharp but unsteady, haunted by the heat of MK’s confession, the ghost of his breath against Macaque’s lips. He’d won—MK’s heart was his, the bet sealed. Now, it was time to drive the knife into Wukong’s pride.

Wukong landed with a force that cracked the concrete, his golden eyes blazing with fury and dread. “You,” he growled, his voice raw, pointing a clawed finger at Macaque. “What did you do to my kid, Macaque? I felt it—MK’s gone. He’s shutting me out. What did you do?”

Macaque stepped forward, his shadow stretching long and jagged. “I won, Wukong,” he said, his voice smooth but edged with triumph. “You remember the bet I started? The one you couldn’t resist because your ego wouldn’t let you walk away?” He leaned closer, his eyes glinting like polished obsidian. “MK chose me. He said it tonight—he loves me. He’s done with you.”

Wukong’s fur bristled, his fists clenching until his knuckles paled. “You’re lying,” he spat, but his voice trembled, betraying his fear. “You twisted him, used your gifts, your tricks, to mess with his head.You played him, just like you planned!”

Macaque’s smirk wavered, a flicker of guilt piercing his chest as he remembered MK’s trembling voice, the way his hand clung to Macaque’s wrist. “I gave him what he needed,” he said, his tone colder seemingly masking the turmoil that was happening inside him. “Someone who listens, who sees him for more than your legacy. He trusts me, Wukong. He loves me. And you? You’re the mentor who let him down, who staged a fake demon to feed your pride.”

Wukong’s breath hitched, his golden eyes searching Macaque’s for a lie. “You don’t care about him,” he said, his voice low and desperate. “You started this bet to hurt me, to prove you’re better. MK’s not a prize, Liu’er. He’s not your tool for revenge.”

Macaque’s tail stilled, his glamour faltering, showcasing his six ears twitching as Wukong’s words cut deep. MK’s confession replayed in his mind—the heat of his skin, the sincerity in his eyes, the way he’d leaned into his touch. The bet was supposed to be simple, win MK’s heart, sever his bond with Wukong, prove Macaque was more suitable that wukong. But MK’s love wasn’t just a victory; it was a fire that threatened to consume him, stirring a longing he’d buried centuries ago when Wukong left him behind.

“You’re wrong,” Macaque said, his voice quieter, almost raw. “I started this to beat you, yeah. But MK… he’s more than that.” He turned away, his shadow coiling around him like a shield. “I won, Wukong. He chose me. So keep your word—back off. Admit you’re the worst mentor, the worst friend, and disappear.”

Wukong’s fists trembled, his aura dimming as the weight of Macaque’s words sank in. “This isn’t over,” he said, his voice breaking. “I’m not giving up on MK. Not now, not ever.” He summoned his cloud, its golden edges fraying as he shot into the night, leaving Macaque alone on the rooftop.

Macaque’s ears twitched, catching the echo of MK’s voice; I love you. He clenched his fists, his tail curling tight. “I won,” he muttered, but the words felt hollow, drowned by the memory of MK’s warmth, the weight of his trust. The bet was over, but why did it feel like he didn’t win?