Chapter 69

Right, so we're in the Zuzi Kingdom, and the king there is suffering from this mysterious illness, really debilitating. And the healer, who turns up, well, none other than Sun Wukong, the Monkey King, he arrives with a eunuch, heading towards the royal bedroom. What's really interesting straight away is, Wukong doesn't actually go in, he stays outside. Now that keeps with royal protocol, sure, but maybe it also, you know, adds to the mystique of his abilities. Yeah, that immediately makes me think, okay, if he's not even going into the room, how does he start, how does he diagnose anyone? This isn't exactly your typical doctor's visit, is it? No, not even close. And this is where we get that legendary golden thread diagnosis. Wukong tells the eunuch to tie one end of three golden threads, not one, but three to the king's left wrist, specifically over the Kun, Guan, and Qi pulse points. Ah, right. Those are key spots in traditional Chinese medicine, aren't they? Linked to different organs and things. Exactly. They're critical diagnostic zones. Each one tells a different story, energetically speaking. Then, the other ends of these threads, they're passed through the window to Wukong, who's just waiting outside. So he's doing ancient remote diagnosis? But the text goes into incredible detail about how sharp Wukong's senses are, even through the thread. It says he doesn't just, like, feel the beat, he studies it meticulously. He even adjusts his own breathing to sync up, to really feel the king's subtle energy. And he's differentiating between all these complex medical categories. Things like four chi, five depressions, seven superficialities, eight interiorities, nine positions. Wow. Those sound incredibly specific. They are. There are these really intricate ways of classifying different energy states, imbalances where things are blocked or weak in the body. It allows for this incredibly precise reading. He's feeling for nuances like floating, middle, sinking, even sinking within floating. Sinking within floating. Goodness. Right. And distinguishing between deficiency, like not enough energy in excess, too much, or blocked energy. The insight, I think, is just the incredible value placed on subtle perception. Illness wasn't just what you could see, it was what you could sense, maybe even energetically. That's an amazing level of detail, just through a thread. And he wasn't finished after just the one wrist, was he? Nope. Total thoroughness. After reading the left wrist completely, he has the eunuch untie it and then retie the threads to the king's right wrist. And he goes through the whole intricate process all over again. It's like he's creating a complete energetic map of the king's entire body. So after all that, this really unique detailed observation, what did Wukong actually find? What were the symptoms he picked up through the threads? Okay, so from the left hand, the kum pulse, the first position, was strong and tight. Wukong reads that as internal emptiness, heart pain. The guan pulse, the middle one, was rough and slow. That indicated sweating, muscle numbness. And the qi pulse, the third position, was hollow and deep, suggesting red urine and bloody stool. Pretty specific physical problems. Okay, quite direct symptoms there. And then the right hand, because I think you mentioned there was something particularly interesting there. Yes, the right hand pulses are really fascinating. The right kun pulse was floating and slippery, indicating internal blockage. The right guan was slow and knotted, suggesting lingering food retained fluid, like indigestion or water retention maybe. And the right qi pulse was rapid and firm, pointing to vexation, repletion, and coldness clashing. Sort of an internal conflict of energies. So, diagnosis confirmed. Illness born from worry and anxiety. And then Wukong gives the whole condition this really poetic name, shong ni shikun zi jing, which he said translates roughly to symptom of two birds separated from their flock, or loss of companion bird syndrome. That is fascinating. It lifts the diagnosis beyond just, you know, a list of symptoms. And the king's reaction, he bought it completely, didn't he? Oh, absolutely. The text says he was overjoyed, basically shouting, the diagnosis is clear. It is indeed this illness. That immediate confirmation from the patient himself, recognizing his exact condition from this bizarre remote diagnosis. It just highlights Wukong's incredible perceived skill. What does that beautiful image actually mean about the illness? It's incredibly powerful, isn't it? It moves right past the physical symptoms to the emotional heart of the problem. Wukong explains it with this analogy. Imagine a male and female bird flying happily together. Then a storm hits, they get separated, and each one is just lost and longing for the other. Wow. So it's saying the king's illness isn't just physical aches and pains. It's rooted in profound emotional distress, maybe sorrow, loss, a deep sense of separation that's actually making him physically sick. That's a really holistic view, connecting the physical and emotional so directly. Exactly. It's a core idea in a lot of traditional healing systems that you can't really separate the body from the mind or spirit. And the court officials, how did they react to all this? The thread diagnosis, the poetic name? They were completely blown away. The text says they praised him unanimously, calling him Xin Song, divine monk and divine doctor. Divine. Not just skilled, but divine. Yeah, right. It suggests they saw something more than just medical skill. It was the extraordinary method, the thread thing, and then diagnosing the soul of the illness with that poetry. It implies healing wasn't just about herbs back then. It was about this profound, almost spiritual insight into what makes people unwell. Okay, so diagnosis made, condition named. Now for the cure. After that unique diagnosis, you'd think there'd be some secret, complex formula, right? You would think. But Wukan's answer about the medicine is just as unconventional. When they ask for the prescription, he says, Basically, no need to stick to one prescription. Just take whatever medicine is available. Whatever's available? That sounds almost casual. Well, he clarifies it a bit. He says, So his philosophy seems to be about flexibility. He's not looking for one magic bullet. He wants a whole arsenal of options. He needs a huge selection so he can mix and match, It's adaptive, not formulaic. And when you say a huge selection, the scale of his request is just nuts. It really is. He asked for three Chinese pounds, maybe four imperial pounds. Oh. Of every single one of the 808 kinds of medicine they have in the entire city. 808 kinds, three pounds of each? Yep. Collected from every single pharmacy. It's an immense amount of material. What does that even tell us? How could you possibly use all that? And he needed the tools, too, right? Not just the herbs. Exactly. He specifies everything. Medicine grinders, mills, sieves, pestles, mortars, mallets. All the gear for processing these herbs. And everything, the mountain of herbs, all the equipment, is to be sent to the Hutongguan, the royal guest house, where Wukan and his junior disciple, Zubajie, are staying. They're basically setting up a massive temporary royal pharmacy right there to prepare the cure. Okay, but all this grand healing effort, it comes with some serious pressure. Wukan's master, the monk Tang Sanzang, he gets asked to basically stay overnight in the palace, in the Wenhong Hall, until the king is better. And the text makes it clear he's terrified. He thinks he's being held hostage, like if the king doesn't pull through, his life is on the line. Yeah, his anxiety is really palpable. It's a high-stakes situation for him. He feels completely responsible, or at least potentially the scapegoat. So how does Wukan react to his master freaking out? Wukan is just completely calm. Cool as a cucumber. He reassures his master, saying something like, Don't worry, master. I, your old son, possess the skill to heal an entire nation. The skill to heal a nation. That's confidence. Immense confidence. Oh. It's not just boasting, though. It shows his deep belief in his own mastery, not just as a fighter, but as someone who understands the root causes of suffering and knows how to fix them. It's this conviction in his unique blend of medical skill and maybe, yeah, something almost supernatural. Monkey King has just finished diagnosing the king. He's heading back to the inn. Right. And immediately, Pigsy, his fellow disciple, starts giving him a hard time. Always ready with a joke, Pigsy. Totally. He jokes, Monkey must be opening a pharmacy because the prescription is just enormous. 808 different kinds of medicine. 808? And three caddies of each. That totals over, what, 2,400 caddies? It's an insane amount, and Pigsy's reaction is pretty funny and honestly quite relatable. You see that sheer volume and you think, Well, pharmacy. Yeah, you would. But Monkey King's response is crucial here. He says, No, no, this huge prescription, it's actually a clever trick. A ruse. A ruse? How so? Well, he says it's meant to confuse the kingdom's, uh, ignorant imperial doctors. Basically make it impossible for them to figure out his real methods. Or the specific, you know, powerful ingredients he actually plans to use. Precisely. So it's a strategic move, then. Masking a much simpler, more potent approach behind this wall of complexity. Yes. It really tells you something about how first impressions, or even just the appearance of complexity, can be used, doesn't it? It does. What does that suggest connecting it to the bigger picture? Well, I think it highlights how perception and, um, reputation can sometimes be just as important as the actual process. Even more so in certain situations. Right. Monkey King isn't just treating a physical problem, he's actively managing expectations. He's disarming potential skepticism from the established medical folks. Ah, I see. It really reminds us that sometimes, you know, perceived complexity can just be a smoke screen hiding something profoundly simple underneath. Okay, and this is where it gets really interesting. The officials at the inn. Oh, yeah, their reaction. Complete turnaround. Earlier they were pretty dismissive, right? But now, suddenly, they're kneeling in front of Monkey King, calling him a divine monk. That's quite the shift. They invite him to this grand dinner, saying he can cure our nation's lord. They even say if the king gets better, Monkey King gets a share in the jangshan. Which implies, what, a stake in the kingdom? Yeah, a significant stake. It's a huge promise. That sudden, really dramatic change in how they treat him is striking. It perfectly shows the immediate power of just one well-played action. Or even the promise of one. It completely transforms how he's seen. Absolutely. They go from dismissive to, well, outright reverence. It just shows the immense hope the kingdom's people are placing on this miracle cure. Meanwhile, Sandy pipes up, asking about their master, Tang Monk. Right, where is he in all this? And Monkey King reveals the king is basically holding him as collateral. Ah. Yeah. He won't be sent off until the king is cured and the rewards are given out. Hmm. But Monkey says he's not exactly suffering. Oh. No, he's being entertained by three senior officials in the Wenhua Palace. Getting the royal treatment. Ah. Nice work, if you can get it. Pigsy, of course, ever the foodie, jokes that the master seems to be doing better than they are. Classic Pigsy. But, you know, this raises an interesting point about leverage and trust. The king is making sure Monkey delivers by holding his master. Definitely a pressure tactic. But the fact that Tang Monk is being treated so well, almost luxuriously, that also speaks volumes about the hope pinned on this cure. It's this really fascinating mix of pressure and privilege that's kind of underpinning everything. Okay, brace yourself, because the pharmacy scene. This is where the story takes a truly wild turn. Night falls, Monkey King calls for oil lamps, ready to mix the medicine. Finally getting down to it. First, he asks for just one liang that's a traditional way, quite small, of da hong. Rhubarb. And Sandy immediately describes it. Bitter, cold, a general among herbs. And he's worried, saying it might be too strong for someone who's been sick for a long time. You know, a week. And that's a valid concern from a traditional standpoint. Da hong is known as a potent purgative. Strong clearing properties. Usually for blockitives, right? Exactly. Not typically the first choice for someone already weakened by a chronic illness. So this immediately flags Monkey King's approach as, well, unorthodox. But Monkey just shrugs it off, basically. Says it clears phlegm and stagnant heat. Simple as that. Okay. Then he asks for something even stronger. One liang of ba du, protein seed. Whoa, ba du! Yeah, after it's been prepared to remove the oil and toxicity, apparently. But Pigsy warns him this stuff is pungent, hot, toxic. He calls it a general who breaks through gates. Not something to use lightly. He's absolutely right. Ba du is extremely powerful. And, yes, potentially toxic. It's known for clearing even the most severe blockages. It really is considered a last resort herb in traditional medicine. You use it with extreme caution. Monkey King's explanation is, again, quite brief. It breaks stagnation and clears bowels. Precise, yes. But using it on a weak patient, that really underlines how unique and, frankly, aggressive his strategy is. And here's the kicker. After all that buildup, the 808 ingredients, since that's it, just the duong and the ba du. Just those two. Pigsy's, like, totally aghast. He points out they've used only two liang out of thousands of caddies promised. He literally calls it swindling people. Huh. You can see why he'd think that. But what's fascinating here is the complete flip, the subversion of expectations. That initial massive prescription was deliberate misdirection, a facade. And the actual powerful remedy, it relies on this hyper-concentrated, very carefully chosen pair of strong agents. So it forces you to ask, right? More was better. Exactly. Or can precision and sheer power achieve much more with far less, especially when you think about it in terms of knowledge or information overload? Sometimes less, but the right less is incredibly powerful. Now, if you thought that was strange, hold on. It gets even more outlandish. Oh, no. Next, Monkey King asks for, get this, half a cup of soot scraped from the bottom of a cooking pot. Soot from a pot. Yep. Sandy is completely baffled. Says he's never seen that used in medicine before. Well, that ingredient, sometimes called bai cao shuang, or 100-herb frost, it's basically carbonized residue from burning plants. Ah. In some, let's say, niche traditional practices, it was believed to have maybe detoxifying or harmonizing properties, but using it alongside such strong purgatives like rhubarb and croton seed, that's certainly unconventional. Definitely adds to the mystery of this formula. That's true. And then, the grand finale ingredient. He asks for half a cup of their horse's urine to bind the pills. Wait, horse urine? Yes. Sandy is understandably horrified. Points out the foul smell. You'd think. Argues you ought to make a weak person vomit just from the smell, let alone mix with those purgatives. He says it would cause terrible vomiting and diarrhea. Calls it not a joke. A reasonable reaction. But this is where things take another huge turn, right? It's all about the source. Exactly. Monkey King's defense is immediate and critical. He says, My horse is not an ordinary horse. He's originally a West Sea dragon. Boom. Game changer. Right. This isn't just any horse. It's a divine being. The whole nature of the ingredient shifts completely with that reveal. It's not just horse urine anymore. Not at all. And this is where the horse itself speaks up. The horse talks. Yep. Reveals its true identity. A West Sea dragon, punished by heavenly laws, saved by the Bodhisattva Guanyin, and transformed into a horse, specifically to carry Tang Monk on this journey. Okay, so this is a seriously special horse. Understatement. And it explains why it's reluctant to pee. It says its urine has incredible power. Like what? It can turn fish into dragons, make ordinary grass, transform into spirit Ganoderma, you know, the kind that grants longevity. Whoa, okay. Basically says its pee is too potent, too precious, to waste in a dusty, mundane place. You can almost see its point. But if we connect this back, it profoundly underscores how the story blends the sacred and the mundane, right? Absolutely. The medicine here isn't just about chemicals or herbs. It's fundamentally about the inherent spiritual, even magical, power of its components. That horse urine isn't biological waste in this context. It's presented as a divine elixir. Precisely. It elevates the whole remedy to another level. But Monkey King, the pragmatist, right? He manages to convince the horse. How does he do that? He argues, look, this isn't some mundane place. This is the Western Kingdom. They need to cure the king. It's for the good of everyone involved in their quest. Ah, appealing to the greater good. And he adds a little warning. If they don't cure the king, they might not get out of there safely. A little bit of carrot and stick. Seems to work. The horse finally, apparently with great effort, produces just a small, precious amount. That final exchange is fascinating, too. It's this blend of persuasion, shared purpose, even among these divine or semi-divine beings. It's a powerful reminder, isn't it, that even extraordinary powers often get used in service of a bigger, shared goal. Especially when the stakes are this high. So finally, they have all the ingredients. The da huang, the badu, the patsit. And the incredibly precious dragon horse urine. They mix it all up and form three large pills. Just three? After all that? Just three. And Pixie, being Pixie, has to comment. He says they're only walnut-sized. Oh. And then adds, hilariously, that they wouldn't even be enough for one bite for him. Next morning, so the royal officials come calling for medicine. And it's Sun Wukong, the monkey king, who steps up. He presents this concoction he calls yujin dan. Black gold pills? Mm-hmm. Right, Pixie. He quietly jokes that the yujin dan is actually just potash. Potash. But the real audacity, the kicker, comes with Wukong's instructions for the catalyst, what they need to actually take the medicine with. Oh, yeah. This work is totally wild. He initially lists six utterly impossible ingredients. I mean, picture this. Crows' farts flying in midair. That goes slightly. Carp's urine from flowing water. The queen mother's facial powder. Laojun's alchemical furnace ash. Three pieces of the jade emperor's worn-out headscarf. And five roots of dragon-trapping whiskers. Wow. The officials are, you can imagine, just completely flabbergasted. Speechless. And you have to ask, why start there? Why something so obviously impossible? These aren't just random fantasy items, either. They involve huge figures. The queen mother, Laojun, the jade emperor. These are top-tier deities. Right, asking for their personal stuff. Exactly. It's not just impossible. It's almost like a divine prank, isn't it? Wukong isn't just making demands. He's deliberately creating an impasse. He's forcing them to see that normal solutions won't work. Pushing them against a wall? Yeah, basically expanding their idea of what's even possible. It feels like a calculated setup for what comes next. Okay, so he establishes that conventional thinking is useless with these crazy demands. Then he pivots. He offers a seemingly simpler, but maybe conceptually deeper alternative for the catalyst, rootless water. And the officials, they're like, ooh, okay, rootless water. We can do that. Yeah, easy, right? Their definition is just, you know, scooping water from a well or a river, carrying it home without letting the container touch the ground. Don't look back. Very practical, sort of ritualistic, but doable. But here's where it gets really intriguing. Wukong just immediately shuts that down. No. His rootless water isn't from wells or rivers at all. It's specifically water falling from the sky. That doesn't touch the ground before it's collected. Wait, so you have to catch it. Yeah. Midair. Exactly. How do you do that? And that distinction, it's crucial. It immediately takes it from, like, a mundane task to something needing divine intervention. It shifts the whole solution from the earthly plane to the magical one. And because the king's condition is so urgent, just, you know, waiting for it to rain, that's not an option. No time. And what's really compelling here is Wukong's reason. He says he sees the king as a great and virtuous monarch. So that prompts him to take this direct, pretty extraordinary action. For anyone familiar with Wukong, it's just perfectly him, isn't it? That mix of trickery, boldness, but also this surprising compassion sometimes. Yeah, all wrapped up in a solution that just defies logic. Totally. So Wukong decides, okay, fine, I'll make my own rain. He gets Pigsy involved as his auxiliary star and Sandy as his assistant constellation. Then he does some kind of magic spell. Yep. And this summons the East Sea dragon king, Aliguang. And when Aliguang shows up, he actually apologizes. He says sorry for not bringing his usual rain-making gear, no wind machines, no cloud banners, no lightning generals. Shuckle, he came unprepared for a full storm. Right. It just adds this layer of absurdity, you know? It highlights how unique and sort of personal this favor is that Wukong's asking for. So Wukong clarifies, look, I just need a little bit of water, just enough for the medicine. And then the dragon king proposes the most incredible, maybe the weirdest solution ever. He offers to sneeze twice and spit some saliva to create the rootless water. He literally does. Sneeze and spit. He sneezes and spits. I mean, wow, can you imagine being in the court hearing? That's the plan. What are they thinking? It's just wonderfully absurd. The dragon king then descends, hidden right above the palace roof, and transforms his bodily fluid into what the text calls sweet dew. Sweet dew? A scene below must have been something else. The text paints this picture of everyone rushing out to collect it. It really speaks volumes about their desperation, doesn't it? But also, maybe the power of belief when it's channeled by someone like Wukong. Yeah, the power of suggestion, maybe? Perhaps. The fact that it's coming from above, delivered mysteriously. It overrides the biological reality of where it came from. So what a scene. The entire royal court officials, concubines, maids, beauties, they all rush outside, holding cups, bowls, dishes, whatever they can find, totally eager to collect this heavenly sweet dew. It sounds like total chaos, but also kind of unsettling when you know the source. It is a bit unsettling, yeah. But after about an hour of the dragon king's, let's call it, unique precipitation, they manage to collect roughly three bowls' worth of this special water. And the text even says it had a strange fragrance and a fine flavor when they brought it to the king. The king's medicine, there are these two parts. Wujundan, which means black gold pills, and Ganyu, or sweet rain. He has to take three pills, then three cups of the rain, one after the other. And that precision, you know, it's almost ritualistic. It's not just take this medicine. It signals right away that this is something special, something potent, more than just herbs. And boom! The effects are instant and pretty dramatic. The text actually says his abdomen makes gurgling sounds, compares it to a pulley constantly turning. Yeah, that pulley image is striking. And this is quite graphic. He uses a net bucket, basically a chamber pot, three to five times. Right, and this detail, it seems gross, but it's absolutely crucial. The concubines, they actually inspect what comes out. They find filthy phlegm and saliva, and even this distinct lump of glutinous rice. Wow. Yeah. So it's not just about him feeling better, you see. It's the physical expulsion. The actual root of the illness is out. It's tangible proof. You can see the cure worked. Very important for demonstrating the power involved. That is such a powerful image. And the change in the king is immediate. He says he feels his chest wide and at ease, his teal and blood harmonized. Suddenly he's energetic, strong-footed. Complete turnaround. He literally throws off his sick clothes, puts on his court robes, and goes straight to find Tripitaka in the precious hall. Bows really deeply. Huge gratitude. And connecting that to the bigger picture, this incredibly fast recovery, it just powerfully shows off the abilities of Tripitaka and his crew. Right? Their magic, their medicine. Plus, seeing the king go from death's door back to being a fully capable ruler, it underlines just how profound this cure was. Instantly effective. So his gratitude is off the charts. He immediately orders this formal invitation letter, and it's inscribed with, I, the king, bow again. Inviting Tripitaka's three disciples. And he commands the East Pavilion be opened, tells the Guanglu Temple, that's like the royal catering service, to prepare a huge banquet. He even says the state has the power to move mountains. And poof! Everything's ready super fast. That line really shows the king flexing his royal power now that he's recovered. Swift action. Meanwhile, as all this is happening, we get a little insight into the disciples' reactions, which are always entertaining. Pigsy, of course, is thrilled. He's like, wow, what a great medicine! And gives all the credit to Monkey King, his brother. He would. But then you have Shabu Jing, always the sensible one. He pipes up with a proverb. One person's good fortune benefits the whole house. Ah, okay. Basically reminding Pigsy, hey, we all helped make this stuff, so we all get to enjoy the party. It's a nice touch of team spirit. Good point. So they're led off to this East Pavilion. Tripitaka, the king, the top officials, they're already there waiting. And the description of the banquet, it's just incredibly rich. Four vegetarian tables, one meat table, and hundreds of smaller single tables. The scale is just immense. And the variety. The text mentions delicacies of a hundred flavors, fine wine of a thousand cups. You get these exotic names like jade cream cheese, brocaded fat red, fighting candy dragon winding. Sounds amazing. I mean, it does. And then loads of meat, pork, lamb, chicken, goose, fish, duck, plus tons of vegetarian stuff, too. Bamboo shoots, woodier mushrooms, noodle soups. It's just this lavish, over-the-top spread, clearly meant to show massive honor and celebration for the cure. Okay, so the feast starts. The king offers wine to Tripitaka first as a sign of respect. But Tripitaka, being a devout monk, he foamingly refuses. Says wine is a monk's first precept. Can't break the rules. Right. Even when the king offers plain wine, thinking maybe that's okay, no, Tripitaka holds firm. Hmm. So how does that play out? Is it awkward? Well, it highlights Tripitaka's unwavering principles, doesn't it? The king seems a bit disappointed, sure, but he respects it. He asks what Tripitaka would like instead. It kind of shows the monk's moral authority, actually. The king adapts to him. Interesting. And Tripitaka has a solution. He suggests his naughty disciples can drink for him. Ah. Perfect. The king loves this idea. He turns to Monkey King with a golden cup. Hmm. And Monkey doesn't just have one. He downs another. Then a bigger three-treasure cup. Then an even bigger four-seasons cup. The king thinks this is hilarious. And while this is happening, you've got Pigsy just watching, swallowing saliva, clearly desperate for his turn. And then, classic Pigsy, he just blurts out, Your Majesty, the medicine also involved a horse. Hmm. Can't help himself. Oh, no. Ha ha. Ugh. Almost letting the secret out. Exactly. But Monkey is super quick, shoves his own wine cup into Pigsy's hand, basically telling him to shut up and drink. Smooth move. But the king heard him. He's curious now. A horse. What horse was in the medicine? Right. Monkey has to cover fast. He says something like, Oh, my brother, he's just outspoken, you know, always revealing our good secret formulas. Oh, a nice save. And then he reveals the actual ingredient, which sounds kind of similar. Ma-du-ling. Okay, so not a horse part. Definitely not. And this is where it gets really interesting. The king turns to his imperial physician right then and there. And the physician gives his detailed breakdown of Ma-du-ling's properties according to traditional medicine. Okay, what does he say? He says it's bitter, cold, non-toxic, good for calming asthma and expelling phlegm, promotes key to remove blood stasis, nourishes deficiency, calms coughs, and gladdens the chest. Wow, that's specific. So it actually makes sense medicinally? Exactly. It perfectly connects the magical cure we saw earlier with real-world traditional Chinese medicine knowledge. It grounds the fantasy. The king is super pleased. He says, used appropriately, used appropriately. He gets it. Then he makes sure Pigsy gets his big drink, the three-treasure cup. Mm-hmm. And Shao Wujing gets three cups, too. Mm-hmm. Everyone's happy. And the whole exchange just ends harmoniously. They all settle in to enjoy this magnificent feast. But even with all this celebration, there's this underlying tension. Wukong already figured out it wasn't just a simple sickness, right? Exactly. Wukong, with his, you know, sharp insight, pegged it as a akka, basically an illness born from worry and anxiety. So, like, psychosomatic. Precisely. It's fascinating how these ancient texts often intuitively grasp that mind-body connection. And the king's reluctance confirms it. He initially refuses to explain, calling it kabote. A family shame not to be spoken of outside. Yeah. That immediately tells you this isn't just, you know, a bad cold or something. It raises the question, what secret could be so profoundly shameful, so heavy, that it literally makes a king physically ill for three whole years? He only opens up because he sees Wukong as his oh, his benefactor, the one who cured him. But before he spills the main story, he mentions something kind of interesting about how he named his queens. He does. It's a smaller detail, but telling. He says he didn't use the standard titles. Empress, Eastern Palace, Western Palace, that sort of thing. Right. Instead he called them Shu and Shu. Golden Saint Palace, Jade Saint Palace, Silver Saint Palace. Almost like treasures. Exactly. It suggests maybe a deeper affection, perhaps. But then the tone shifts drastically. He tearfully explains what happened to Golden Saint Palace three years ago. During the Duanwu Festival. The Dragon Boat Festival. Right in the middle of the celebrations. A time that should be joyous, unwrapping Zongzi, drinking special wine, watching dragon boat races, the whole thing. They were in the Imperial Garden. Under the sea, pomegranate pavilion. And then? Suddenly, this demon appears. Just drops out of the sky, basically. Calls himself Wu Hai, Sai Tai Sui. Says he's from Keelan Mountain, Cheesy Cave. Okay. And what does he want? He said he needed a wife for his cave. And he heard Golden Saint Palace was particularly beautiful. And he gives this horrific ultimatum. He tells the king to send her out immediately. If not, within the space of three shouts, he'll eat the king. Eat the king? Yes. Then his ministers. And then, if that wasn't enough, all the common people in the city. That's... That's an impossible choice. Utterly devastating for a ruler. Absolutely. And this connects directly back to the illness, doesn't it? The text says the king was driven by Shun-ei, this deep concern for his country and his people. So he felt he had no choice. He describes how he reluctantly pushed Golden Saint Palace out of the pavilion, pushed her out. It's brutal. Wow. Sacrificing the one for the many? A stark portrayal of the terrible calculus of leadership. And the demon, the text says, with a shout, snatched her away. Just like that. Gone. And this trauma, this unceasing day and night worry, his iu manifested physically. That detail about the zongzi. Yeah. The zongzi stagnated inside him. It's such a visceral image. Like the joy of that festive moment literally got stuck, became a physical knot of grief and terror he couldn't digest for three years. Until Wukong's elixir cleared it out. The text even mentions the excretion of that accumulated matter from three years ago. Right. The physical release mirroring the potential for emotional release, now that he might finally be able to speak about it. So Wukong hears this entire horrifying story. And his reaction is just pure Wukong, isn't it? Oh, completely. He apparently just quickly drinks the wine the king offered him, no hesitation, and then gets straight to the point, asks him point blank, but don't you want Golden Saint Palace back? Testing him, maybe? Seeing how much he really cares? Perhaps. Or maybe just cutting through the formalities. And the king's response leaves no doubt. What does he say? He's weeping, saying, he thinks of her constantly, day and night. His despair is obvious. He laments that he has no one, absolutely no one, strong enough to face this demon. So despite the shame, the time passed, the love is still there. Strong. Very strong. His longing for her is paramount, which is exactly the opening Wukong needs. And Wukong just says, okay, I'll go get her back for you. Pretty much. I will go and subdue the demon for you. Just like that. Direct offer. And the king's reaction to this offer, well, it's over the top. It really is. It's an astonishing gesture. He immediately falls to his knees, kneels right there. And pledges what? He pledges that if Wukong rescues Golden Saint Palace, he, the king, will abdicate the throne. He'll give up everything. Seriously? Give up the kingdom? Yep. He says he'll become a commoner, take his other two tweens and his nine concubines, live as ordinary people, and give the entire kingdom, the whole empire, to Wukong. Let Wukong be the emperor. Just, wow. That shows how much she means to him. More than power, more than the crown itself. Absolutely. It underlines the depth of his love and desperation. Of course. You have Bajie, Zhu Bajie, chiming in from the side, right? Ah, yes. Trust Bajie to bring things down to earth with a thud. He grumbles about the king losing his dignity. Yeah, he says something like, Sikdu. This emperor has lost his decorum. Daid. How can he give up his kingdom for a wife and kneel to a monk? Classic Bajie cynicism. But Wukong, ever the diplomat when needed, quickly helps the king up. Sort of smooths over that awkward moment. Right. Gets things back on track. There's a demon to deal with. Okay, so, this demon, Sai Taisui, he took Golden Saint Palace three years ago. Did he just disappear after that? Or does he keep bothering the kingdom? Ah, no. That's another layer to the king's ongoing terror. He reveals the demon has been coming back. Hm. Ah, the text says, frequently. Coming back? For what? For palace maids. Hm. His excuse is that they are needed to serve the empress, meaning Golden Saint Palace, in his cave. Oh, that's awful. How often? The king lists it out. After taking the queen three years ago in May, he came back that October for two maids. Then the next year, last year in March, for two more. Good grief. Then again last July, another two. And even this year, just a few months before our heroes arrived, in February, he took another two maids. So it's this constant looming threat, this drip, drip, drip of fear and loss. Exactly. It paints this picture of relentless psychological pressure on the king, and the entire household. He mentions his fear of potential harm, presumably to his remaining family. So, living under that constant fear, what did the king do? Did he try to fight back? Or just hide? Well, fighting back seemed impossible. So he resorted to a rather desperate defensive measure. In April of the previous year, he had a special structure built. A structure? Like a bunker? Pretty much. The text calls it a, literally, a demon avoidance tower. A demon avoidance tower. Okay. Its purpose was very simple, and kind of sad, really. Whenever they heard the sound of wind, which apparently signaled the demons approach the king, his two remaining queens, and the nine concubines would all rush inside and hide. Just hide in a tower every time the wind blew, strangely. That sounds like living in constant terror. It speaks volumes, doesn't it? About the level of fear, the powerlessness they felt against this demonic threat. It wasn't just a one-off trauma. It was an ongoing siege. Right. Demon avoiding tower. Sounds pretty confident. Oh, extremely confident. He's boasting about it. Designed for ultimate safety, he claims. But knowing Wukong, he probably smells something fishy. We got it. Sun Wukong, ever the pragmatist, he hears this and he's like, okay, show me this thing. He wants to see this supposedly amazing tower. Meanwhile, Zubaji. Let me guess. Food. Always food. He's immediately complaining. Brother, he says, why bother looking at some tower when there's imperial wine left and a whole feast waiting? Classic Baji. Love it. So how does the king handle that? Very cleverly, actually. He gets Baji. He just orders two vegetarian tables and some wine to be brought out and set up outside this so-called tower. Problem solved. Smart move. Appease the pigsy. Right. So Baji's happy. He stops complaining, follows along laughing about going to dinner tables. Okay, so they get there. The big reveal. Is it this grand, imposing tower? Not even close. Yeah. Well, it's quite the opposite. Two eunuchs come forward. They use these red lacquered poles and they lift this square stone slab out of the ground. Out of the ground. So it's underground. Exactly. The king points down and says, this is it. It's an underground chamber. Not a tower at all. Wow. Okay, tell me more about this. Bunker. Yeah. Bunker's a good word. It's about three zang deep, so roughly 10 meters, maybe 30 feet. And it's dug out into nine sort of interconnected halls or chambers. Nine halls underground. And how do they see down there? Get this. Four enormous vats, constantly filled with clear oil, burning day and night to light the place. That sounds elaborate. Isn't it? And probably quite stuffy. Definitely. The king explains, you know, whenever he hears the wind pick up a sign the demon might be coming, he just rushes down there. And they slap the stone lid back on top. And Wukong's reaction? I can only imagine. Oh, immediate skepticism. He just laughs right out loud. Says something like, look, the demon just hasn't decided to really get you yet. If it wanted to, how was it supposed to stop it? Plent as ever. He sees right through it. It's not real security, is it? It's just hiding. Exactly. It's a false sense of security. And Wukong calls it out immediately. And speaking of the demon showing up, does it? Oh, perfect timing. Right as Wukong says this, this massive, fierce wind just howls up from the south. Dust flying everywhere. Everyone starts freaking out. I bet they blame Wukong. Instantly, the officials start yelling, it's this monk with his salty mouth. He talks about demons and poof, a demon appears. Like he jinxed it. That's fantastic. So panic ensues. Total panic. The king, the Tang monk, all the officials, they scramble straight for that underground hole. Gone in a flash. Just die right in. But not Wukong, I assume? Nope. Wukong stands his ground. And when Bajie and Sha Monk try to bolt for the hole too, Wukong physically grabs them, one in each hand, and stops them. Really? He tells them, stay put. We need to see what this thing is. Identify the enemy. Pure Wukong. Courageous. Clear-headed. Wants to know what he's dealing with. While everyone else is running for cover. And Bajie, how does he take being held back? Oh, Bajie is whining non-stop. This is nuts. Why do we need to see it? Everyone else is hiding. The king, master, the officials. Let's just hide too. What's the point of showing off? He's literally struggling to get away. That is just peak Bajie. Always looking out for number one. And maybe a nap. Pretty much. But it's these moments, right? They make them feel, well, human. Almost. So Wukong's holding them there, and then up in the sky, the demon appears. Okay, the moment of truth. What does it look like? Is it terrifying? The description is incredible. Really paints a picture. It's nine feet tall. Just huge and menacing. Nine feet. Eyes like flashing gold lamps. Ears like big fanning sails. Four steel teeth like nails sticking out. Yikes. Red hair around the temples. Eyebrows like actual flames. A drooping nose. Wide open nostrils. Just a few strands of red beard. Okay, this is quite the image. And there's more. Really prominent cheekbones. A green face. Arms with bulging red veins. Hands that are indigo blue. And it's gripping this spear with ten sharp claws. Claws. Green face. Flaming eyebrows. Got it. What's it wearing? Just a leopard skin skirt. Bare feet. Wild hair all over the place. The text says it looks like a ghost, basically. Just pure terror embodied. Wow. Okay, so Wukong sees this thing. Does he recognize it? Well, first he asks the others. Turns to Sha Monk. Recognize him. Sha Monk's just like, never met him. How would I know? Fair enough. And Bajie. Bajie's response is even better. Have I had tea with him? Or wine? Is he a guest? A neighbor? How would I know him? Very literal. Ah. Okay, so they're no help. Does Wukong have an idea? He does. He looks closely and says, hmm, he sort of looks like the jade-faced gold-eyed ghost. Apparently that's a guard for the East Peak Heaven Emperor, some celestial attendant. Okay, so a specific guest. Pretty obscure, though. Right. But then, get this. Bajie jumps in. Ugh. Unexpectedly. Bajie, what does he say? He argues against Wukong's guess. He insists. No, no. That's not right. Really? Really. Bajie contradicting Wukong on celestial bureaucracy. How does he figure? This is the best part. Bajie launches into this surprisingly logical argument. He says, look, ghosts are yin spirits. Okay. And yin spirits, Bajie explains, can only come out during specific hours in the evening and night. He even names the specific astrological hours, shen, yu, shu, hai, which is basically 3 p.m. to midnight. He knows the specific hours. Apparently. And he points out, but it's morning now. It's the psi hour, which is like 9 a.m. to 11 a.m. No self-respecting ghosts, he implies, would be out gallivanting in broad daylight. That's surprisingly detailed knowledge from Bajie. Isn't it? And he's not done. He adds that ghosts can't ride clouds. Not properly, anyway. And the winds they stir up are just little whirlwinds, not this raging gale they're experiencing. So, based on the time of day and the weather, Bajie rules out Wukong's ghost theory. Exactly. Therefore, he concludes, it cannot be the jade-faced, gold-eyed ghost. Then he offers his own suggestion. What's Bajie's theory? He says, maybe, maybe he's Sai Tai Tsui. The demon. And what's really funny is Wukong's reaction. He actually says, good Bajie, your theory. Well, it actually has some merit. Wukong concedes the point to Bajie, based on ghost rules. He does. It's this amazing moment where Bajie, usually the butt of the joke, pulls out this obscure, specialized knowledge, maybe from his past life as a heavenly marshal, you know? It shows there's more to him than just eating and sleeping. Layers. Definitely layers. It challenges that simple caricature we sometimes have of him. Okay, so they've debated the demon's identity. Wukong seems to accept Bajie's suggestion, or at least finds it plausible. What's the next move? Wukong decides it's time for action. He needs to find out for sure who this is, and more importantly, how to rescue the Goldie Saint Queen, or the king. That's the underlying quest here. So he says he's going up to confront the demon. He's just gonna fly up and ask? Pretty much. That's Wukong's style. Direct approach. And Bajie's final words of encouragement? Oh, classic Bajie again. His parting shot is, okay, you go, but whatever you do, please don't mention us. Ah. Don't drag us into it. Just pure self-preservation. To the very end, Wukong, of course, just ignores him, leaps into the air, and heads straight for the demon.