BOOK I — CHAPTER 1
Scene I — Ash Mornings
The sun had not yet risen over the slums of Eastern Tenebrae, but the world was already awake in all the worst ways.
Cold fog clung to broken rooftops like a blanket that refused to comfort. Narrow alleys breathed out smoke and rot. Market stalls sagged under patched tarps tied to rusted poles. Yesterday's rain clung stubbornly to the ground, unable to wash anything clean.
A stray dog growled at shadows.
A drunk cursed at the sky.
Somewhere, a child cried—then fell silent.
And in a cramped room above an abandoned smithy, Muchen Zhao jolted awake.
He'd had that dream again.
The one where a monkey lounged on a throne of clouds.
The one where fire danced under his skin.
The one where a playful, ancient voice whispered:
"Wake up, little Infant."
Muchen sat up sharply. His breath staggered. Sweat chilled his skin despite the cold. Golden sparks flickered between his trembling fingers—brief, frightened, then gone.
Muchen: "Not again…"
Before he could steady himself, a kettle whistled from the tiny kitchen.
Seraphon: "Muchen?"
The old voice was gentle.
Warm.
Tired.
He slid a cup of tea onto the table. No food today. Not unusual.
Seraphon: "You dreamed of him again."
It wasn't a question.
Muchen rubbed his face.
Muchen: "I don't… even know what I
dreamed. It was just… loud. Like it was too big to fit in my head."
Seraphon chuckled softly.
Seraphon: "With a brain like yours it
usually is."
Muchen frowned.
Muchen: "You always talk like you know
something. About this."
Seraphon (gently): "And someday, when it
is safe… you'll understand everything."
Safe.
Muchen hated that word.
Safe meant packing before sunrise.
Safe meant leaving behind anything he cared about.
Safe meant Seraphon lying to him "for his own good."
Muchen: "Can't we just stay here? Just
this once?"
Seraphon didn't answer immediately.
Seraphon: "Hopefully, but maybe one day we
will find a place to stay."
The words struck Muchen like cold iron.
He looked toward the fog-drenched alley
outside their cracked window—where shapes sometimes lingered too long, where
whispers echoed when no one was there, where eyes watched him from nowhere and
everywhere.
He hated it.
Hated the fear.
Hated the secrecy.
Hated not knowing why he was always the one being hunted.
Muchen grabbed his jacket. "Fine. I'll go
do morning rounds."
Seraphon's voice sharpened, quiet but
commanding.
Seraphon: "Muchen. Stay away from the
northern alleys. It gets dangerous when it's dark out"
Muchen chuckled.
Muchen: "...When isn't dark out?"
Seraphon: (with a serious tone) "People
are out there that want to steal lives they did not earn. And they would take
yours without hesitation."
A cold shudder crawled up Muchen's spine.
Muchen exhaled slowly, bitterness creeping
in.
Muchen: (in a joking manner) "Seraphon,
who'd even wanna take my life, why not take a loaf of bread instead."
Seraphon stepped close, placing a steady
hand on his shoulder.
Seraphon (softly): "Your life is worth
more than you know."
Silence hung between them.
Then Muchen pulled away and pushed out
through the rusty door into the cold morning.
He didn't see Seraphon watching him go.
Didn't see the sorrow in the old man's eyes.
Didn't hear the whispered prayer:
"May my wings be enough to shield
him."
Scene II — The Boy Who Runs
The shack door groaned as Muchen stepped
outside. The slums of Grey-tooth District were already alive—vendors shouting,
engines coughing, metal clanging, and the sour aftertaste of rain-soaked trash
drifting through the alleys.
Muchen adjusted the bandages on his hands,
rolled his shoulders, and stepped into motion.
But before he ran, he paused atop a tall
stack of crates and looked across his home.
Grey-tooth stretched endlessly crooked,
broken, loud, stubborn.
A place everyone tried to escape.
But for Muchen… this was the one of the
only places that ever felt honest.
He climbed quickly up a rusted ladder onto
the rooftops, until he stood on the highest point in sight. Fog licked at his
ankles, wind tugging at his jacket.
For a moment—just a moment—the chaos below
felt distant.
Muchen (internal): Up here… I can
almost pretend I'm not afraid.
He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling
the faint thrum of something hot, restless, wrong.
Muchen (internal): Who am I really? Why can I run like the world weighs nothing? Why do I feel something inside me trying to wake up… or break out?
The slums moved beneath him.
Life continued.
People shouted, animals barked, metal clanged.
And Muchen breathed.
Muchen (internal): I run like there is always someone chasing me—dreams, hunger, fear, the Danger—None of them can keep up.
He crouched.
Muchen: "Alright… time to move."
He kicked off the rooftop—
—and the world became motion.
He sprinted straight toward a low wall, planted a foot, and vaulted upward. His fingers grazed a rusted balcony railing; he rolled over it and landed without a sound.
He wasn't running like a street rat.
He moved like someone with purpose, like he had something to live for.
Twisting midair with reflexes he never trained for.
Moving at speeds that startled even him.
Muchen (internal): Some kids call it talent. Others call it freakish. Me? I call it fun.
He dropped three stories, tucked, rolled, and came up sprinting.
A merchant shrieked as he vaulted over his crates.
Merchant: "BOY! Use the street like a normal human, you brat!"
Muchen (mid-run): "Your cat stole my breakfast last week! We're even!"
He bounded between two walls in rapid steps and shot himself onto a higher roof. Wind whipped his hair. His heart stayed calm.
Muchen (internal): People like me don't get miracles. We get hunger. We get fear. We get told to stay low, stay quiet, stay grateful for scraps.
But I'm done staying low.
He swung across rusted beams of an unfinished construction site. Below, two thugs watched in disbelief.
"That's the monkey kid."
"Man's not human."
"Secretly a monkey or something."
Muchen smirked.
Muchen (internal): They're wrong.
If they lived my life, they'd move like this too. Probably.
He reached the crooked tower of stacked shacks and climbed it in seconds—windows, pipes, bricks, all part of the rhythm.
At the top, he stood again over Grey-tooth.
His maze.
The only place he knew how to survive.
Muchen (internal): I don't know what I am… but I know what I have to do.
Survive today. Then survive every other.
Scene — Shadows in the Waking City
The wind tugged at Muchen's jacket as he stood on the tallest roof in Grey-tooth. For a moment — a rare, fragile moment — he allowed himself to breathe.
Below him, the slums churned with their usual chaos. Vendors shouting over dented pots. Scavengers arguing over scrap. A dozen cheap engines stuttering to life like dying animals. Nothing peaceful… but familiar. Predictable.
Muchen (internal): Here… at least here, I understand the rules.
His fingers drummed restlessly against the metal railing. The city felt different today — heavier somehow. As if something enormous had exhaled over the district.
A ripple of cold slid down the back of his neck.
Muchen frowned.
Muchen (internal): …Someone's watching me.
He scanned the maze of rooftops. Nothing. No figures. No movement besides tarps fluttering and laundry lines swaying in the breeze. But the feeling didn't go away.
It sharpened.
Pressed.
Like invisible fingers closing around his ribs.
Muchen: "Alright, knock it off…"
His voice came out shakier than he meant. He cleared his throat, forcing a laugh.
Muchen: "If some creep is stalking me, I swear I'll—"
He stopped.
A shape stood on a far-off rooftop. At first glance, it was just a silhouette in the fog — thin, tall, motionless.
But Muchen's chest tightened. Because silhouettes weren't supposed to glow.
A faint crimson shimmer pulsed around the figure, like embers breathing in the dark.
Muchen blinked—
And the figure vanished.
Not walked away.
Not ducked.
Not ran.
Simply ceased to exist.
Muchen staggered back a step, nearly slipping on loose gravel.
Muchen (internal): No. No, no, I didn't just — I didn't imagine that. I didn't.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to steady his breath. His pulse thundered in his throat. His palms were damp. His stomach churned.
Muchen (internal): Seraphon's right. I shouldn't have come here. Something's weird.
He rubbed his arms, trying to shake the sudden chill.
Muchen: "Okay. It's fine. Everything is cool. I'll just turn around, pick up the stuff for the smithy and just avoid here."
But his voice cracked.
Muchen clenched his jaw.
Muchen (internal): I am so tired of being afraid.
He took one last look across the rooftops…
…nothing but fog.
His muscles finally loosened. He exhaled.
Then—
Something soft thumped onto the rooftop behind him.
Muchen spun around.
A single stone rolled to a stop at his feet.
On it, written in smudged black ink:
"Found you."
Muchen's blood ran cold.
Muchen (Breathlessly): The hell. I-is that blood, why is it black.
From the alley below, a low, wet growl drifted upward. Too deep for a beast. Too hungry for anything normal.
Then came the scrape of claws on brick.
Then a second growl.
A third.
Muchen backed toward the rooftop edge, pulse exploding.
The fog thickened like a living thing, swallowing the building walls below. Shapes moved inside it — slithering, prowling, circling.
The city noise faded.
The world went quiet.
Muchen swallowed hard, breath trembling as he whispered to himself:
Muchen: "I'm not ready for this… I don't want to die like this."
And then, from within the fog, something enormous took its first step into the waking world.
Scene V — The Fog That Hunts
The fog swallowed sound.
Not muffled it.
Not softened it.
Swallowed it.
As if the world itself were holding its breath.
Muchen's heartbeat was the only thing he could hear — fast, uneven, frantic. The kind of rhythm that belonged in prey, not people.
Muchen: "Okay… okay, think…"
He inched backward along the rooftop, eyes darting to every shadow. The fog below churned unnaturally, like something massive was moving inside it… rubbing against the walls… scraping claws along the brick.
Then a whisper rose from the depths.
Not a voice.
Not words.
Something between them — a thought slithering along the edge of sanity.
Bring. Him. To. Me.
The Vessel must awaken.
Muchen's breath hitched.
Muchen (internal): Someone is hunting me… Shit, shit where is that thing.
Something surged upward in the fog — blotting out the alley, the wall, the light.
Muchen stumbled back as a monstrous limb slammed onto the rooftop's edge. It was lean but impossibly long, shaped like a human arm stretched far beyond reason, skin blackened and cracked like burnt clay. The fingers ended in curved bone claws that scraped sparks off the metal railing.
The creature's second arm followed.
Then its head lifted into view — a skull-like mask of bone, with empty sockets lit by faint, twitching red embers.
Muchen froze.
His lungs refused to work.
Muchen: "What… what are you?"
The mask tilted, cracking open down the middle. Inside, darkness writhed like a nest of worms.
And then it spoke in a voice layered with dozens of others:
Vessel.
Golden-blooded.
I see you.
The creature climbed onto the rooftop. Behind it, two more silhouettes rose from the fog — smaller, but no less warped.
Muchen stumbled backward until his heel hit the rusted railing.
Muchen (internal): I can't fight this. I can't outrun this. I can't—
His vision blurred as panic surged through his body. Every inch of him screamed to jump, to flee, to survive.
The lead creature lunged.
Muchen flinched—
—and the world exploded.
Then the creature lunged at Muchen, at a speed so fast it was as if it teleported.
Muchen couldn't even react and was impaled in the stomach by the creature's long claw.
As it retracted the claw, Muchen dropped to his knees, with desperation in his eyes he cried out for help, to Seraphon, to the parents he thought abandoned him, to the one who haunted his dreams, anyone.
Then a burst of golden force erupted from his chest, raw and violent, like a second heartbeat detonating outward. The shockwave hurled the creature backward with a shriek that cracked the rooftop tiles.
Muchen stared at his own hands.
Golden light flickered beneath his skin — frantic, unstable, surging without control.
Muchen: "what is this …"
But the light didn't falter.
It pulsed harder. And a sound came with the light, a sound powerful and uncontained, the laugh of an ancient being forced to be forgotten
The monsters recovered. Their bone masks snapped toward him as if smelling prey.
Awaken it.
Break the seal.
Take the Vessel—
It charged.
Muchen tried to move, to run, but he couldn't, then golden aura erupted again with a laugh even more reverberant, this time blasting him off his feet. He smashed into a vent pipe and rolled painfully across the rooftop.
His breath burned. His arms shook. His fingers spasmed, leaking sparks.
Muchen (choking): "Seraphon… I need you—!"
The lead creature leapt.
Time seemed to slow.
Muchen saw claws glinting.
Saw the darkness inside its mask reaching for him.
Saw death — not abstract, not distant, but inches from his throat.
He raised his arms in a useless gesture.
Muchen (internal): I don't want to die. I don't—I don't—
Golden fire tore out of him like a scream.
This time, it wasn't a burst.
It was a wave.
A brilliant, blinding surge that illuminated the entire rooftop, casting long shadows across Grey tooth. The creature shrieked it's their form blistered, burned, and cracked under the light.
It then retreated, twitching and screeching as it crawled back into the fog.
And then—
Silence.
Muchen collapsed to his knees, gasping as the last of the golden aura flickered out. Pain throbbed through every bone. His vision swam. Tears collected in the corners of his eyes — not from sadness, but sheer terror.
Muchen (broken whisper): "What is happening to me…?"
A soft thud hit the rooftop behind him.
Bootsteps.
Not monstrous.
Human.
Muchen collapsed to his knees, shaking, breath tearing in and out of his throat. The golden light sputtered out of his skin in weak flickers, like dying sparks.
The rooftop was a ruin — tiles cracked, metal railings melted at the edges, pockets of ash drifting away on the breeze. The fog below receded as if pulled by invisible strings.
But Muchen barely noticed any of it. But noticed that his wound closed not healed completely but closed, as if a desperate attempt to survive.
He was staring at his hands.
Muchen (bare whisper):
"…What did I just do?"
His chest refused to steady. His heart clawed at his ribs. His vision swam in and out of focus.
The creatures were gone. No bodies. No blood, not even his. Nothing left but blackened claw marks on the concrete.
He staggered forward, peering down the alley.
Nothing.
Stillness.
Silence.
Then—
A distant bell rang.
Somewhere far off, a flock of metal wings screeched and took flight.
The city slowly began to breathe again, unaware that anything had happened.
Muchen's legs gave out, and he sank onto the rooftop, pressing his palms to his eyes.
Muchen (shaking whisper):
"I can't… I can't keep doing this. Seraphon— you knew. You knew something was coming."
He forced himself to stand.
Barely.
Every muscle ached. His breathing wavered. His body felt wrong — like some enormous force had ripped through him and left him hollow.
Muchen:
"Gotta… go home. I have to go home."
He took one step—
His vision blurred.
Golden sparks burst from his arm like static.
Pain lanced up his spine.
Muchen gasped and dropped to one knee.
Muchen (internal): No— no, not again— stop, stop—
The aura pulsed once, violently, then died completely.
A cold sweat drenched his skin.
Muchen staggered to his feet, gripping a rusted vent pipe for balance.
He looked over the city — his city — and for the first time in years…
…it didn't feel like home.
It felt like a trap.
A cage tightening around him.
A hunting ground.
Muchen's voice cracked as he whispered to the empty air:
Muchen:
"Seraphon… please be there…"
He forced his trembling legs to move.
He didn't see the last trace of fog slip into a sewer grate far below.
He didn't hear the whisper carried on the wind:
The Vessel wakes.
The hunt begins.
Scene VI — The Old Man's Lie
The descent through Grey-tooth was a blur.
Muchen didn't remember climbing down the stacked shacks.
Didn't remember crossing the rusted beams.
Didn't remember slipping through the alleys as vendors opened stalls and machinery coughed awake.
He only remembered the trembling in his legs.
The phantom sensation of claws reaching for him.
And the burning echo of gold beneath his skin.
By the time he reached the abandoned smithy, he was barely holding himself together.
Muchen shoved open the door.
The rusty hinges screamed.
Seraphon looked up from the small stove where he warmed a dented pot of water. His expression shifted instantly—
from calm
to concern
to dread.
Seraphon: "Muchen?"
Muchen slammed the door shut behind him.
He didn't speak.
He couldn't.
His chest was heaving too fast. His torso stabbing in pain.
Seraphon stepped forward.
Muchen stepped back.
Seraphon froze.
Muchen: (strained) "Something, whatever it was, a thing came and I almost died."
Seraphon's face drained of colour.
Muchen's voice shook harder.
Muchen: "The things you warned me about something hunted me."
Seraphon: "Muchen your wounds come let's talk about his after you're better."
Muchen's hands balled into fists.
Muchen:
"No.
No more riddles.
No more avoiding the truth.
You tell me what THEY are."
Seraphon exhaled slowly, the air trembling with something like… resignation.
He moved to the chair.
Sat down.
Old.
Exhausted.
Beaten by knowledge he never wanted to carry.
Seraphon:
"I… I don't even know what attacked you, but I do know who was supposed to capture you"
Muchen's pulse spiked.
Muchen: "Then why didn't you ever tell me what was after me? maybe I wouldn't have been so reckless, maybe I wouldn't argue with the move, maybe I would have just stayed home."
Seraphon:
"I did it to keep your calm.
To keep you safe."
Muchen: "Safe?!"
The word ripped out of him like a wounded animal's cry.
Muchen:
"Well you sure did a good job on that part! A-and what was that light that came out and that laugh, it's the same laugh as the one from my dreams"
His breath broke.
Muchen: "Seraphon… who am I?"
The old man closed his eyes.
Silence stretched between them.
Not peaceful.
Suffocating.
Seraphon finally opened his eyes, and the weight inside them nearly crushed Muchen's anger.
Seraphon:
"You are caught in a legacy you never asked for."
Muchen stiffened.
Seraphon continued.
Seraphon:
"The Concord of Ascendancy has most likely felt your awakening.
The moment your aura broke the surface of the seal… they sensed it."
Muchen felt cold.
Very cold.
Muchen: "The Concord…? Wow gramps, you really have a sense of humour even in this moment huh, why would they hunt for a lowlife like me?"
Seraphon shook his head.
Seraphon:
"Because you have something they want gone, something that caused a catastrophe."
Muchen stared at him.
Muchen: (quiet, horrified) "Catastrophe…?"
Seraphon looked away.
Muchen:
"…What happened to the last person like me?"
Seraphon didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
Muchen's breathing hitched, his fear twisting into something sharper, hotter.
Anger.
Muchen:
"You should have told me.
You should have warned me.
Instead you drag me city to city like some cursed package and say it's for my OWN GOOD?"
Seraphon's jaw clenched.
Seraphon:
"If I told you the truth, you would have tried to control your power.
And that would have gotten you killed."
Muchen: "I ALMOST GOT KILLED ANYWAY!"
The words cracked.
His voice broke.
Tears stung his eyes but didn't fall.
Muchen:
"I don't even know what I am or who I am.
I don't know why I can run like that.
Why I heal fast.
Why something inside me keeps waking up trying to— to destroy everything around me!"
Seraphon stood.
Slowly.
Softly.
As if approaching a frightened animal.
Seraphon:
"Pohou…"
Muchen flinched back.
Seraphon stopped immediately, pain flickering in his eyes.
Muchen (shaking):
"No. Don't call me that.
Not when you've lied to me this much."
Seraphon's hands trembled slightly.
Seraphon:
"Then hear this truth…
even if you hate me for it."
The room seemed to shrink.
Muchen couldn't breathe.
Seraphon:
"The power inside you is older than any kingdom.
Wilder than any storm.
It belongs to a being whose Champions have shaped and shattered nations."
Muchen swallowed hard.
Muchen:
"…Who?"
Seraphon stared straight into him.
Seraphon:
"The Monkey King.
Sun Wukong."
Muchen's heart stopped.
Seraphon:
"And the Concord has not forgotten what He or his Champions can do."
The room fell silent.
Not peaceful.
Shattering.
Scene — Fractured Acceptance
Muchen's chest heaved, his fists still trembling from the adrenaline and fear.
He stared at Seraphon, words caught in his throat, emotions tangling in knots he didn't know how to untangle.
Muchen: (shaking his head, voice sharp)
"You… you lied to me all this time?"
Seraphon flinched, silent.
Muchen:
"Safe. All these years… you've been telling me I'm 'safe' while I'm… I'm nothing. A nobody. A… a target. And you—"
His voice cracked, half-anger, half-astonishment.
He ran a hand through his hair, raking it down his face, trying to steady himself.
Muchen:
"But… wait."
The words caught him by surprise. He froze, realizing his voice wasn't full of rage. It trembled… with something else.
Muchen:
"You said I'm a champion?"
His golden eyes flickered to the fading shimmer still clinging to the walls.
He traced the memory of the aura, the explosion, the impossible, furious heat that had saved him.
For a moment, awe cut through the panic.
Muchen: (whispering, almost to himself)
"So… someone chose me… me."
Seraphon's expression softened.
The lines of worry didn't vanish, but the old man allowed himself a small, quiet relief.
Seraphon:
"Yes. And that choice isn't a curse, Muchen. It's the beginning."
Muchen's fists unclenched.
He slumped slightly against the wall, breathing heavy but differently now—less panic, more tension releasing, more something like hope.
Muchen:
"So… all this fear. All this running… all this…"
He gestured vaguely at the room, at the alleys outside, at everything that had kept him barely alive.
Muchen:
"…It's because of Him?"
Seraphon nodded.
"Yes. And because of that, you're not powerless. You're more dangerous than anyone has realized. Even the Concord fears what you could become."
Muchen let out a shaky laugh.
It wasn't a joyful laugh—too raw, too tangled with disbelief—but it wasn't bitter either.
Muchen:
"So… I'm dangerous. I'm supposed to be afraid. And yet… I finally belong somewhere."
His voice dropped.
"But… if I belong somewhere… if I have an Apostle… then maybe I'm not just a street rat anymore. Maybe all of this… all of me… has a reason."
Seraphon stepped closer, keeping a careful distance.
"You're beginning to understand, Pohou. But understanding isn't the same as control. Not yet."
Muchen:
"I don't care about control. Not yet. I just…"
He paused.
Swallowed hard.
"…I just want to know him. The only other person to choose me. Finally."
The tension in the room shifted. Fear remained, but it no longer dominated.
Muchen's hands still shook, but the trembling carried exhilaration as much as anxiety.
He was scared. He was angry. But he was alive. And for the first time, he had a reason for all of it.
Muchen:
"Fine. Teach me. Train me. I'll survive. I'll get stronger. But… I'm done being the kid running in the shadows. I want to stand in the light—whatever that means."
Seraphon gave a small, approving nod, though his eyes still held the shadow of worry that had never left him.
Seraphon:
"Then let us begin. But remember, Pohou… the world won't wait for you to be ready."
Muchen smiled, faint but genuine.
A spark of fire lit behind his eyes.
"I wouldn't have it any other way."
The air seemed to hum around them—charged, expectant.
Golden light flickered faintly at Muchen's fingertips, a reminder that he had awakened.
And for the first time in years, he felt like he had finally stepped into a story worth living.