A name is a blade.
People treat it like a decoration—something you hang on a person the way you hang a bell on a doorway. But names don't simply identify. They bind. They summon. They carve a space in the world where a soul is forced to stand.
That's why monks are careful with them.
That's why I was trained to ask for a true name only when I was prepared to pay the consequences.
And that's why, with the night pressing in and the mountain watching like a judge, I did the only sensible thing—
I lied.
I let the syllable hovering on my tongue die there, trapped behind my teeth like an insect sealed in amber. Then I lifted my chin and looked at the man in front of me as if he hadn't just reached into my chest and tugged.
"You want me to call you something?" I said, mild as tea and twice as sharp. "How ambitious. Most prisoners start with water."
His gaze didn't move. That was unsettling. Most men, when confronted with my tone, either bristled or backed down. This one simply… endured, like he'd been enduring long before I arrived.
The golden pattern on his forehead throbbed faintly, a restrained pulse of light beneath the skin. He hid the pain well, but not well enough.
I saw the minute tension in his jaw. The way his shoulder rolled as if trying to shake off a chain that wasn't there anymore. The way his breathing stayed too controlled—too practiced.
Practice is another word for trauma, if you say it honestly.
"Call me what you called me," he said again, quieter, and the quiet made it worse.
Behind me, Zhu Bajie made a strangled sound.
"Master," he hissed, "why does he sound like he's—like you—like you two—"
"If you finish that sentence," I said without looking back, "I will make you carry the water and the luggage."
Bajie shut up. A miracle. I made a note to thank the heavens later, if the heavens deserved it.
Sha Wujing shifted beside him, steady as stone. He didn't speak, but I felt the weight of his attention like a hand on my spine. He was the sort of man who watched before he moved and moved before he spoke.
The kind of man I preferred on dangerous roads.
The kind of man who would have a question later.
I focused on the problem in front of me.
The problem was tall, wild-haired, and looking at me as if I'd stolen something that belonged to him.
"Step back," I ordered.
He didn't.
He took a half-step forward instead—close enough that I could smell the iron on him more clearly now, layered with something raw and bright that reminded me of storm air.
My chest loosened again. That same involuntary relief, sharp as a blade sliding cleanly into a sheath.
My stomach dropped.
So it wasn't imagination.
It wasn't fear making my body strange.
It was connection.
"What are you?" I asked, letting the question sharpen as it left my mouth.
His lips twitched. "A bad idea."
"I agree."
I lifted my prayer beads, not as a threat—monks threatening people is unbecoming—but as a reminder to myself that I had survived worse nights than this.
Probably.
I planted my feet. "You were sealed under this mountain by heavenly decree. You know that."
He watched me. Said nothing.
"When I recited scripture," I continued, "your… restraint activated. That means there is a mechanism in place, a condition tied to my words. That mechanism should not exist unless someone designed it."
His eyes narrowed slightly. Interest. Not confusion.
Good. He wasn't stupid.
I pressed on. "So either you're lying, and you're not what you appear to be, or you're telling the truth, and someone has tied your suffering to my tongue."
The wind shifted, cold and metallic.
I smiled, because smiling is sometimes the only way to show your teeth without frightening the innocent.
"Which is it?" I asked. "Are you an impostor with a talent for theatrics, or are you the most inconvenient prisoner Heaven has ever dropped on my path?"
He tilted his head, considering me as if I were a puzzle that annoyed him because it fit too well.
Then he said, simply, "You talk like you're afraid to be wrong."
A laugh tried to escape me. I swallowed it.
"I'm not afraid to be wrong," I said. "I'm afraid of being wrong at the expense of other people. There's a difference."
He stared at me for a moment longer. Something softened—no, not softened. Shifted. Like a blade rotating in a hand.
"Other people," he repeated, tasting the words. "Always other people."
I didn't like the way he said it. As if it was accusation.
As if he'd watched me sacrifice myself for "other people" before.
The old pain in my wrist flickered. A warning.
I lifted my sleeve a fraction, pretending it was nothing more than adjusting fabric. I wasn't sure whether I was hiding the scar from him or hiding it from myself.
"I asked you for your true name," I said, calm again. Calm is a weapon too. "Give it."
He exhaled through his nose. "Sun Wukong."
"Not good enough."
His eyes flashed. There it was—the storm. The animal fury that had survived a mountain.
"I just—"
"That," I cut in, "is a title. A story. Something people shout when they want to feel brave. I want your name."
He took another step.
My chest loosened.
I hated my body for reacting. I hated myself for noticing. Most of all, I hated the part of me that wondered what would happen if he came even closer.
I snapped, "Stop."
The word cracked through the air sharper than I intended.
He froze.
Not slowly. Not grudgingly.
Instantly.
Like the world itself had grabbed him by the collar.
His eyes widened a fraction. Surprise—genuine this time. He tested the space around him with his gaze, as if looking for a rope he couldn't see.
I didn't move.
My prayer beads went cold against my fingers.
Behind me, Bajie whispered, very softly, "Oh no."
I ignored him.
Because I could feel it now—the shape of the thing tying my words to his body. It wasn't a simple command. It was a rule.
A law.
A vow.
And vows have consequences.
Wukong's hands flexed at his sides, fingers curling as if they wanted to tear the rule apart by force. He couldn't.
His gaze locked onto my mouth.
"Do that again," he said, voice low.
"I'd rather not," I replied, because honesty is also a weapon when delivered without warmth.
He laughed once—short, humorless. "You don't remember."
"I remember plenty," I said instantly. Too instantly.
He didn't let it go.
Of course he didn't.
"Then remember this," he said, leaning forward without moving his feet—like a predator testing a boundary. "You're not the first monk to talk at me."
My stomach tightened. "What?"
His eyes didn't blink. "You're just the first one whose words matter."
The wind scraped the mountain again. Somewhere in the stone, something settled—like a door closing.
I forced my tone to stay light.
"You're telling me there were others?" I asked. "How unfortunate for them. Did you behave this badly for all of them?"
For the first time, he hesitated.
Not fear. Not confusion.
Something like… restraint.
As if he was holding back a truth that would burn.
"I didn't talk like this," he said finally.
My pulse tripped.
"You didn't talk at all," he added, eyes still on mine. "Not at first."
That made no sense.
I have always talked.
I talked my way out of trouble as a child. I talked my way into trouble as a novice. I talked through every fear I couldn't pray away.
Silence has always been my enemy.
"I don't believe you," I said, and the words came out harsher than intended. "And you don't get to decide what I remember."
He smiled, and the smile was a blade.
"I'm not deciding," he said. "I'm reminding."
My wrist burned—sharp, hot, as if a thread inside the scar had been pulled tight. I bit the inside of my cheek again to keep my face from betraying me.
Bajie cleared his throat behind me, trying to sound casual and failing. "Master, maybe we should… uh… take him and go? Before the mountain changes its mind?"
I did not turn.
"I haven't decided to take him anywhere," I said.
Wukong's eyes flicked past me for a heartbeat, toward the others. Then back to me. Possessive. Assessing.
"Your team?" he asked.
"My companions," I corrected automatically, because language is a battlefield and I refuse to lose on principle.
His eyes narrowed, then—very slowly—he looked down at my beads.
"You're going west," he said.
It wasn't a question.
"What makes you think that?" I asked, although it was obvious. My robes, my direction, my existence.
He inhaled once, like he was smelling the future.
"Because you always do."
The air went thin.
The night seemed to lean in, delighted.
I should have ended the conversation there. I should have turned away, told Bajie to stop gawking, told Wujing to be ready, told this feral stranger to follow or stay, because my duty is the journey, not the mystery.
Instead, I did what I always do when cornered by something I don't understand.
I talked.
"You keep saying 'always'," I said. "You keep saying 'before'. You keep saying 'remember'. If you're trying to frighten me, you're doing it badly. If you're trying to manipulate me, you're doing it worse. So I'll ask again—properly this time."
I lifted my chin. My voice dropped into the cadence I use when interrogating bandits and demons and overly confident officials.
"Who tied your restraint to my words?"
Wukong's gaze sharpened.
"Answer," I added, softly. "Or don't. But if you don't, I'll assume you don't know. And if you don't know, that means you're not in control of yourself."
A twitch at his jaw.
Good.
"Which means," I continued, still calm, "you are a danger to everyone here."
He exhaled through his nose. "You like control."
"I like survival," I said. "Control is how we get it."
His eyes lifted to the mountain behind him—dark, immense, watchful.
Then back to me.
"That mountain wasn't the only thing holding me," he said.
My spine tightened. "What was?"
He didn't answer immediately. His gaze drifted to my wrist—just the edge of it, where the sleeve hid the old scar.
"You," he said.
The word hit like a slap.
I felt heat flare under my skin.
I forced a laugh. "That's ridiculous."
He didn't laugh with me.
"You don't remember," he repeated, quieter now, not mocking—almost… frustrated. "You don't remember the way you looked when you said it. When you said—"
His forehead flared gold.
Pain tightened his features in an instant. He clenched his teeth, but he didn't look away from me.
And with the flare came the echo in my own chest—faint but undeniable. A ghost of pressure around my heart.
I sucked in a breath.
So it wasn't just him responding to my words.
It was me responding to his pain.
"Stop talking," Bajie blurted behind me, panicked. "Both of you! Please! I don't know what kind of—of romantic curse—"
"Bajie," I said, without turning, "I will bury you myself."
He went silent.
Wukong's lips twitched. Amusement. Brief. Dangerous.
"You threaten him," he said. "But you won't threaten me."
"I'm threatening you right now," I replied. "You just don't understand the language."
His gaze dropped to my mouth again.
"As if I don't," he murmured.
The scar on my wrist burned hotter, like someone had pressed a coal under my skin. Sweat pricked along my spine.
I took one step sideways—just enough to shift the angle, just enough to break whatever line my body had decided existed between us.
The relief in my chest lessened.
Wukong's eyes followed the movement.
"You feel it," he said.
I didn't answer.
Because denying would be dishonest, and admitting would be catastrophic.
Instead, I did what I do best.
I attacked with words.
"You want a name?" I said, voice cool. "Fine. Here's one. Prisoner. That's what you are until I decide otherwise."
His eyes darkened. "I'm not a prisoner."
"You were under a mountain."
"I was waiting."
"For what?"
He didn't hesitate this time.
"For you."
The wind stopped.
Even Bajie, who has never met a silence he couldn't ruin, stayed quiet.
My throat tightened, and for a heartbeat I hated myself for the way the words landed. Not because they were romantic. Because they were inevitable.
Waiting.
As if this had been arranged.
As if someone, somewhere, had written a script and expected me to follow it.
No.
I refuse.
My refusal has carried me this far. It will carry me farther.
I stepped forward—not closer to him, but into the space between us where rules become real.
"If you were waiting for me," I said, softly, "then you'll answer me. You'll prove you're worth unsealing."
His gaze flicked, sharp. "Unsealing?"
"I didn't just free you," I said. "Not fully. I don't believe in half-miracles. So either you're still bound, or I'm about to be."
He stared at me, and for the first time, something like respect stirred behind the fury.
"Smart monk," he said.
"Careful," I warned. "Compliments make me suspicious."
His smirk returned—thin, familiar in a way that made my skin prickle.
"You want my real name?" he asked.
"Yes."
He stepped forward again.
My chest loosened.
I hated it.
I held my ground anyway.
Wukong leaned in until his breath warmed the space near my ear—not touching, not quite, but close enough to make the air feel crowded.
And he spoke, very quietly, like a secret you only tell once.
"It's not safe," he said.
My pulse thudded hard. "What isn't?"
"My name," he replied. "Not in your mouth."
A chill ran up my spine.
He drew back a fraction, eyes searching my face as if trying to find an old door and the keyhole it belonged to.
"You used to know that," he said. "You used to—"
His forehead flared gold again.
This time, the pain hit him harder. His hand shot up. Fingers dug into his hairline. His teeth bared in a soundless snarl.
And in my chest, the echo tightened—sharp enough that my breath stuttered.
I swore under my breath.
Wukong looked at me through the pain, and the fury in his eyes shifted into something else—something almost savage in its focus.
"Say it," he rasped. "The restraint. The word."
I didn't know the word.
I shouldn't.
Yet my tongue—
My traitorous tongue—
found a syllable anyway, rising from the depths of my throat like it had been stored there.
A short sound.
Too intimate to be scripture.
Too familiar to be invented.
I felt it on my lips and froze.
Wukong's eyes widened slightly, like a starving man seeing fire.
"Yes," he breathed. "That."
My wrist burned so fiercely that I finally jerked my sleeve back.
The scar was visible now—pale and thin, but pulsing with heat as if it had fresh blood beneath it.
Wujing inhaled sharply behind me.
Bajie whispered, horrified, "Master… your wrist…"
I didn't look.
I couldn't.
Because Wukong's gaze had locked onto the scar like it was a map.
Like it was proof.
His voice dropped to something raw.
"There," he said. "That's where you held me."
My stomach turned. "That's absurd."
"It's not," he said. "You grabbed me there and you said—"
His forehead blazed.
My chest tightened.
The mountain groaned, deep and slow, like it was waking.
And from the stone behind him, the thin golden pattern on his skin brightened into a full ring of light—no longer a faint decoration, but a living band that recognized my presence.
Wukong swallowed, eyes never leaving mine.
"Now you remember," he said, not as a question, but as a verdict.
I forced air into my lungs.
I forced my voice to work.
I forced myself to do the one thing I feared most.
I spoke.
And the syllable I had tried to bury slipped free—soft, short, devastating.
"A… Kong."
The moment it left my mouth, the golden ring flared—
—and answered.
Not on his forehead.
On my wrist.
A thin line of light snapped into existence over the old scar, tightening like a vow made flesh.
Bajie let out a strangled yelp.
Wujing swore under his breath.
Wukong smiled—slow, fierce, and not entirely sane.
"Found you," he whispered.
And the mountain, as if satisfied, let out one final crack—
like a seal breaking—
and the night rushed in to claim what my mouth had just bound.