Beyond the radiant halls of the Celestial Realm, behind its gleaming palaces and golden gates, there was a room no one spoke of — a sterile chamber buried beneath light and silence. And in it, he was kept.

The Monkey King.

The one who once shattered mountains with a scream, who laughed in the face of gods, who called the sun his companion.

Now, he was bound.

The walls were white. Blindingly so. No shadows. No corners. Just an endless blankness that burned into his retinas and blurred the shape of time. The light never changed. It denied the passage of day and night. It denied comfort.

Voices filled the room. Some mechanical, others disturbingly familiar. One issued commands in a calm, cold tone. Another mimicked his own — from a distant, defiant past: “I am free!” it roared, only for a searing current of electricity to punish him the moment it finished.

Smells, too, crept in through unseen vents. Rotting fruit. Burning fur. Occasionally — and cruelest of all — the scent of blooming peach blossoms. A memory of a home he would never return to. It broke something deep inside him every time.

Needles pierced his veins on a daily rhythm. Colorless liquids flowed in, some dulling his strength, some erasing memory, some just driving him to scream — not from pain, but from despair. Each drug had a purpose: dismantle the soul, fragment the will.

There was no time. Not anymore. Five hundred years were measured not in years, but in endless trials. Obedience was redefined each day. Bow. Stay silent. Avoid eye contact. Wait for orders. Never speak unless spoken to.

One day, the voice returned again.

“What is your name?”

He did not answer.

Because he was no longer “Wukong.” That name had been stripped away — like his crown, like his pride, like his freedom.

And finally, after the 500th year, beneath the ever-burning white light, he lifted his head.

There was no fire in his eyes. No anger. No hope.

Just a whisper, smooth and hollow:

Wukong: “Awaiting your command.*