A Journey to the West

Somewhere between a reckless six-year-old tree monkey and a half-naked forest menace with peach fuzz on his chin, Lin Yu grew up.

Sort of.

His legs got longer, his voice cracked occasionally like broken bamboo, and he’d learned to say things like “responsibility” and “inner cultivation” with a straight face (mostly). But make no mistake: he was still very much the same mischievous brat with enough Qi in his body to power a small village — or vaporize it, depending on his mood.

The Temple of Falling Leaves, now partially rebuilt from that one time he “accidentally” summoned a Qi storm to dry his socks, had finally admitted what everyone else already knew: Lin Yu wasn’t normal. His Qi wasn’t just potent — it was primal. Ancient. Wild. The kind of energy that made Monsters hesitate and priests have migraines.

He’d also grown more handsome. Not that he cared. But he did check his reflection in a bowl of water about ten times a day. “For health reasons,” he claimed.

And then one day, without warning or even a proper breakfast, he announced:

“I’m going west!”

Elder Wu blinked slowly, setting down his tea.

“To find your destiny?”

“Nah,” Lin Yu said, slinging his travel pack over one shoulder. “I hear the peaches out west are huge.”

“You could simply grow peaches here.”

“But then I wouldn’t get to punch Monsters in the face along the way.”

“You have chores.”

“I have a calling.”

“You have a goose to feed.”

“That goose bit me. It’s on its own.”

And just like that, Lin Yu — now fourteen, bold-eyed and stronger than ever — left the temple with nothing but a staff made from thunderwood, a bag of poorly packed rice balls, and a vague sense that something important was waiting for him beyond the mountains.

The villagers watched him go from a distance, some placing silent bets on how long it’d take before he returned riding a Monster like a mule or carrying a cursed artifact by the wrong end.

The monks just sighed. Elder Wu muttered, “He’ll come back. Or he’ll become a legend. Or he’ll explode. All of these are equally likely.”

As Lin Yu bounded off down the mountain path, he broke into a jog, then a skip, and then a full backflip because, in his words, “Why walk when you can somersault into destiny?”

He paused once on a ridgeline, looked out at the western horizon where sunlight painted the forest gold and the air buzzed with the hum of ancient things. Something stirred inside him — not fear, not excitement, but… curiosity.

And then he turned, looked directly at you, and smirked.

“Yes, I know what you’re thinking. ‘He’s not ready. He’s immature. He packed too many rice balls and not enough socks.’ But listen: socks can’t punch evil.”

He tapped his temple.

“Also — foreshadowing. You caught that, right? West. Journey. Temple brat with god-tier Qi? C’mon, if you don’t see where this is going, you’re not paying attention.”

He winked.

Then he ran off laughing, vanishing into the woods as the sun dipped low — the wind carrying his voice:

“Chapter Three complete! Try not to miss me too much while I’m gone!”

The trees rustled. The world shifted. And the west waited.

End of Chapter Three.

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