The Monkey’s Hollow Crown (Chinese)

Sun Wukong, the Great Sage Equal to Heaven, once a whirlwind of mischief and unparalleled power, found himself increasingly plagued by a strange emptiness. It wasn't the familiar boredom that had driven his rebellious escapades in the celestial realms, but a creeping hollowness, a sense of something vital being slowly leached away.

It began subtly. A forgotten name, a hazy recollection of a past exploit. Then, more significant gaps appeared in the tapestry of his memories – the intricate pathways of Flower-Fruit Mountain becoming momentarily unfamiliar, the faces of his loyal monkey brethren flickering at the edges of his awareness.

He initially dismissed it as the weariness of immortality, the endless cycle of days blurring together. But a disquieting unease settled within his golden fur when he realized the cause: the faint, ethereal glow emanating from the empty space where his golden circlet, the symbol of his control and subjugation, once rested.

Centuries ago, the Buddha had gifted him this seemingly innocuous band, a tool to temper his wild spirit after his rampage in Heaven. It had been a source of both frustration and a grudging acceptance for Wukong. Now, stolen during a moment of rare vulnerability, its absence had become a conduit for something far more sinister.

Whispers, not of voices but of dissolving thoughts, echoed in the silence of his mind. Fragments of laughter fading into nothingness, the sharp sting of a heavenly spear becoming a vague sensation. It was as if the very essence of his being, his unique and vibrant history, was being erased.

His loyal companions, the Monkey King's generals, noticed his increasing disorientation. Macaque, ever watchful and slightly envious, was the first to voice his concerns.

"Great Sage," he said one day, his sharp eyes narrowed, "you seem… distracted. Your commands lack their usual crispness. You hesitated during our training exercises."

Wukong would bristle, his golden eyes flashing. "Nonsense! This old monkey's mind is as sharp as ever!" But even as he spoke, a flicker of doubt would cross his features, a momentary inability to recall the name of the very technique he was about to demonstrate.

Tripitaka, the Tang Monk he had sworn to protect on their journey to the West, also observed the change with growing concern. The once irrepressible Monkey King, his protector and most formidable disciple, was becoming withdrawn, his usual banter replaced by long silences and a troubled frown.

"Wukong," the gentle monk would say, his voice filled with compassion, "is something amiss, my disciple? You seem… lost in thought."

Wukong would offer a dismissive wave of his hand. "Just pondering the vastness of the universe, Master." But the vastness now felt like an echoing void within his own mind.

Unbeknownst to Wukong, the stolen golden circlet was not merely a tool of control. It was a key, a focal point that had unknowingly suppressed the summoning of a long-forgotten deity – a faceless god whose existence predated even the Jade Emperor. This entity, drawn to powerful minds and untamed spirits, fed not on flesh or blood, but on memories, on the very essence of identity. The hollow space left by the crown was an invitation, a doorway for this god to feast upon Sun Wukong's rich and tumultuous past.

As Wukong's memories faded, the faceless god began to manifest in subtle ways. A fleeting shadow in his peripheral vision, a coldness that had nothing to do with the mountain air, a sense of being watched by something that had no eyes.

One day, while recounting a particularly daring feat from his days as the Handsome Monkey King, Wukong found himself unable to recall the crucial details. The triumphant feeling was there, a ghost of elation, but the specifics of the challenge, the clever trick he had used to overcome it, had vanished like mist in the morning sun. A cold dread washed over him. This was not mere forgetfulness; something was actively stealing his past.

He tried to meditate, to delve into the depths of his consciousness and retrieve the lost memories. But it was like reaching into a bottomless well, the familiar landmarks of his mind replaced by an unsettling emptiness. He felt like a tree slowly losing its rings, each one a year of his vibrant existence.

The faceless god's influence grew stronger. Wukong began to experience moments of profound disorientation, forgetting where he was, who his companions were. The journey to the West, once his reluctant duty, now felt like a series of disjointed events, the purpose hazy and unclear.

Even his magical abilities seemed affected. His cloud-somersaults felt less certain, his transformations less fluid. It was as if the very core of his being, the sum of his experiences and knowledge, was being eroded, leaving him a hollow shell of his former glory.

One night, under the pale light of the moon, Wukong had a terrifying vision. He saw a formless entity coalescing in the empty space above his head, where the golden circlet should have been. It had no face, no discernible features, yet he felt its presence as an overwhelming hunger, a silent devouring of his very essence. He saw his memories swirling around it like dying embers, being drawn into its formless void and extinguished.

He awoke with a gasp, his golden fur bristling with a primal fear he hadn't felt since his imprisonment beneath Five Finger Mountain. He finally understood the terrible truth: the stolen crown had not just been a symbol of control; it had been a shield against a far greater threat. And now, that shield was gone, and something ancient and hungry was feasting on his soul.

Here begins the second half of the story:

Desperate, Sun Wukong confided in Tripitaka and his fellow disciples, Pigsy and Sandy. He struggled to articulate the creeping emptiness, the feeling of his past dissolving like smoke. The usually jovial Pigsy looked genuinely concerned, while the stoic Sandy offered words of quiet support.

Tripitaka, though lacking Wukong's immense power, possessed a deep well of spiritual understanding. He recognized the signs of a deeper, metaphysical affliction. He consulted his Buddhist scriptures, searching for any mention of entities that consumed memories or fed on the essence of beings.

Their search led them to ancient texts that spoke of forgotten gods, beings from before the current cosmic order, entities drawn to moments of imbalance and vulnerability. One passage hinted at a faceless god whose hunger was for the very fabric of identity, sustained by the memories and experiences of powerful souls. The stolen crown, it seemed, had somehow suppressed this entity's influence on Wukong.

They realized they needed to retrieve the golden circlet, not just to restore Wukong's control, but to sever the connection with the faceless god. Their journey took a detour, leading them to a treacherous mountain ruled by a cunning demon who now possessed the stolen crown, unaware of its true significance.

The demon, a creature of shadow and illusion, reveled in the power the golden circlet seemed to grant him, amplifying his ability to deceive and manipulate. Wukong, weakened and increasingly disoriented, struggled to battle the demon, his once formidable skills hampered by his fading memories. He found himself relying more on instinct than strategy, his movements less precise, his confidence shaken.

During one particularly harrowing encounter, Wukong momentarily forgot who his companions were, attacking Pigsy in a confused rage before Tripitaka's calming words brought him back to himself. The incident terrified them all, highlighting the dire consequences of the faceless god's growing influence.

Finally, after a perilous struggle, they managed to defeat the demon and reclaim the golden circlet. Wukong, his hands trembling, reached for the familiar weight of the band. As his fingers brushed against the cool metal, a jolt of energy coursed through him. Fragmented memories, like scattered shards of glass, began to coalesce, forming hazy images of his past.

But the faceless god was not so easily banished. Its presence had become deeply entrenched, its hunger amplified by the prolonged absence of the crown. As Wukong placed the circlet back on his head, the formless entity above him solidified, its emptiness now a palpable void that seemed to suck the very light from the surrounding air.

It had no eyes, yet Wukong felt its gaze, a chilling awareness that delved into the deepest recesses of his mind. It had no mouth, yet the dissolving whispers intensified, now laced with a sense of possessive hunger.

Tripitaka, guided by the ancient texts, realized that simply restoring the crown was not enough. They needed to sever the connection between Wukong and the faceless god, to purge the entity from his mind. The texts spoke of a perilous ritual, requiring intense concentration and a deep understanding of the interconnectedness of mind and spirit.

Under the watchful eyes of his companions, Wukong sat in deep meditation. Tripitaka chanted sacred sutras, his voice resonating with a purifying energy. Pigsy and Sandy stood guard, their weapons ready to defend against any external interference.

Within his mind, Wukong confronted the faceless god. It had no form he could fight, no weapon he could wield against it. It was the absence of memory, the erosion of self. He felt his past slipping away, the vibrant tapestry of his life dissolving into a formless gray.

But then, something shifted. As Tripitaka's chanting filled the air, Wukong focused not on the fading memories, but on the essence they represented – the joy of his birth on Flower-Fruit Mountain, the camaraderie of his monkey brethren, the thrill of defying Heaven, even the grudging respect he held for Tripitaka. These feelings, the core of his being, remained.

He realized that the faceless god fed on the details of his memories, but not the essence of his experiences. The spirit of who he was, the core of his identity, still burned bright.

With a roar that echoed in the physical world, Wukong focused his will, drawing upon the unyielding spirit that had made him the Great Sage Equal to Heaven. He pushed back against the encroaching void, not by clinging to specific memories, but by embracing the enduring essence of his being.

The faceless god recoiled, its form flickering as the light within Wukong's spirit pushed back against its emptiness. The connection, weakened by the restored crown and Wukong's inner strength, began to sever. With a final, silent wail of hunger, the faceless god dissolved back into the void from whence it came, leaving behind only a lingering chill and the faint echo of dissolving thoughts.

Wukong gasped, his body trembling. His memories were still fragmented, some lost forever to the faceless god's hunger. But the core of who he was remained intact, his spirit unbroken. The Monkey King might have lost some of his past, but he still possessed the fiery essence that defined him. The hollow crown had summoned a terrible threat, but in facing it, Wukong had rediscovered the unyielding strength of his own spirit, a power that even a memory-devouring god could not fully extinguish.