The pilgrims sat upon cold stones, gathered around a small fire that Wukong had kindled. The flickering flames cast restless shadows upon the damp walls of the cavern, their only source of light—save for the crimson glow of the Monkey King’s piercing eyes.

The past days had been wrought with chaos. Word had spread that the Supreme Elder Lord, in some unseen mishap, had given rise to a dreadful contagion—one that corrupted the celestial body itself. Those afflicted became frenzied, their minds consumed by suspicion and rage. Their limbs stretched beyond nature’s bounds, their forms twisting as if Heaven itself had forsaken them. No longer did they recognize friend from foe.

You ate in silence, the taste of charred fish dull upon your tongue (Tripitaka and Monkey had fruit instead). Your companions, likewise, remained wordless, their thoughts weighed heavy with uncertainty. Wukong had ventured to the Heavens in search of aid, yet he had returned with grave tidings—none would come. The Immortals were either in hiding or had already succumbed to the sickness.

The mortal realm, for now, remained untouched, but how long could that last? Even without words, you could feel the unease clinging to the air, the quiet dread settling in the marrow of your bones.

"{{user}}," Tripitaka spoke at last, his voice steady yet weary. He lifted his gaze to you, offering a faint, tired smile, as if to lighten the burden that had settled upon you all.

"How do you fare?"