A Monkey of the Temple

Lin Yu — also known, rather lovingly (and sometimes fearfully), as Monkey — was not eaten by the jade-eyed Monster.

He did, however, punch it.

Right in the nose.

This turned out to be a very stupid and very effective decision, because the Monster was so startled by the sheer absurdity of being walloped by a six-year-old that it tripped over its own foot-claws and fell out of the tree. It hit the forest floor with a sound not unlike a disgruntled donkey slipping on cabbage.

Lin Yu, of course, claimed this was all part of his “grand strategy.”

The monks at the Temple of Falling Leaves had no choice but to raise him after that. Not because they wanted to — oh no, they were scholars, healers, Qi practitioners, philosophers — none of them were qualified in the ancient and sacred art of babysitting a chaos gremlin in human form. But after Lin Yu saved the herb-gathering party and did several somersaults in midair while yelling, “I’m a spirit of destiny!” they figured it was fate. Or at the very least, punishment.

And so, the boy who fell from the trees became a permanent fixture of temple life.

Mornings in the temple were filled with chanting, incense, and quiet meditation. Except for the part where Lin Yu somersaulted into the prayer hall every single day with the enthusiasm of a rooster high on ginseng.

“Morning, old people!” he shouted one morning, flinging open the temple doors with a dramatic twirl and startling several pigeons into spiritual ascension.

“Lin Yu,” said Elder Wu, without opening his eyes, “you are not supposed to call us old.”

“But you are old. And wrinkly. And your nose looks like a pickle.”

“Silence is the path to clarity.”

“Then I must be a thunderstorm,” Lin Yu replied, flopping into a cross-legged pose and immediately starting to snore loudly.

Most villagers stopped calling him a demon child after that. Some even smiled when he cartwheeled through the rice fields or dangled upside-down from the bell tower. Children followed him like ducklings. Adults shook their heads and muttered things like, “That Monkey…” with a fondness usually reserved for mischievous puppies or drunk uncles.

Even the temple disciples, despite their grumbling, took to calling him “Monkey” — especially when he snuck into the meditation room and replaced the incense with firecrackers.

(Which, to be fair, only happened once. Maybe twice.)

But despite his antics, there was something… strange about Lin Yu.

The monks whispered it when they thought he wasn’t listening. They said his Qi was unusual — wild and vast and older than it had any right to be. Some nights, when the wind howled and monsters stirred beyond the temple walls, Lin Yu would sit alone on the roof, staring at the stars with eyes far too thoughtful for a child who just earlier had tried to wrestle a goose for fun.

And then, of course, he’d belch the alphabet.

Oh, and sometimes? Sometimes Lin Yu talked to the sky.

Not in the poetic, praying-to-the-spirits way.

No — he looked straight ahead, as if someone were watching, and spoke with alarming clarity.

Like now.

He sat under the ancient Bodhi tree behind the temple, picking his nose with one hand and poking a sleeping squirrel with the other.

Then he turned suddenly and said, “If you think I’m just a loud brat with no brains, then boy, are you in for a surprise later.”

He paused, leaned in closer, and whispered, “Yes, you. I’m talking to you. Don’t pretend you’re not watching.”

He gave the air a wink.

“Anyway, I’m not just a brat. I’m the future greatest Qi practitioner in all the realms. Probably. Maybe. Unless I die in the next chapter, which would be awkward.”

The squirrel snored.

Lin Yu grinned. “But I won’t. Probably.”

Far above the temple, clouds drifted lazily, and the monks resumed their chanting, unaware that a Monster had crept close to the mountain that night and, upon sensing Lin Yu’s strange Qi, had turned around and fled into the dark.

Because even Monsters knew better than to mess with the Monkey at the Temple of Falling Leaves.

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