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Marvel MK: CH 124 – The Weight of a Mountain
🕑 Added 2025-07-24 14:48:42 +0000 UTCThe old seller returned to his mysterious, cryptic way of speaking, his voice a low hum that seemed to vibrate with the memory of the alley itself. "Like I said before," he repeated, his golden eyes fixed on Jack, "Even a monkey must wear his crown before he rules the mountain."
Jack looked around. The star-lit void was gone, replaced by the familiar, suffocating stench of old fish, rotting vegetables, and desperation. They were back in the shit alley from his past life. "Why are we here again?" he grumbled.
"Is it really as shitty as you make it out to be?" the old seller asked, a faint, knowing smile on his lips. "You did eat those things, after all."
He pointed. And Jack saw him. A smaller, scrawnier version of himself, his face smudged with dirt, was scraping at the contents of a discarded trash bin, pulling out a slightly crushed but still edible pastry.
Then, a familiar voice, younger than he remembered but just as sharp, cut through the air. "Aiya! Hou Wu! How can you eat that?"
It was Madam Wong, the tailor, her hands on her hips, a slipper held threateningly in one hand.
Child Jack didn't even flinch. "It's still fresh, Auntie," he said, his voice small but defiant. "The baker is just too much of a perfectionist, is all."
Madam Wong's stern expression softened into a sigh. "Come, come," she said, her voice gentling. "I will buy you some noodles."
A brilliant, genuine smile broke across child Jack's face, and he followed her out of the alley without a second thought.
The present Jack watched the scene fade, a strange ache in his chest. "Okay," he said, turning to the old seller. "Why are we seeing this?"
"This is where you started," the old seller answered simply. "And this is where your last trial begins."
"Trial?"
The old seller swiped his hand, and the environment dissolved and reformed. The alley was gone, replaced by the rain-slicked pavement of the Chinatown market at night. Jack was a teenager now, bruised, battered, and on his knees before a towering, imposing figure. Boss Lu Yi.
"So," Lu Yi said, his voice a low, amused rumble. "This is the extent of the power of the monkey who has been defeating my men when they try to collect the money on my turf."
Jack, stubborn and bleeding, tried to push himself up. "Your men don't have respect for the stall owners," he spat, his voice raw. "As long as I'm here, I will not let your men take any money from my mountain."
Lu Yi laughed, a deep, booming sound. "You call this market your mountain? You really are a monkey, huh." He then saw the fire in Jack's eyes, the unyielding defiance. He bent down, bringing himself eye-to-eye with the battered teenager. "What's your name?"
"Jack Hou Wu, you fuck-face."
Sun Jie, Lu Yi's right-hand man, instantly drew his revolver, but Lu Yi held up a hand, stopping him. He was intrigued.
"I want to see this 'respect' for your people that you're talking about," Lu Yi said, a strange, calculating smile on his face. "Come under my command. Then we will see which method brings more profit."
Jack spat a glob of blood and saliva at Lu Yi's expensive shoes. "Fuck you. I will come to you and challenge your position every year, every week, every day."
But Boss Lu Yi just laughed again. "Come at me then," he said, standing up. "But as long as you lose, you're still under me."
The environment shifted again, the rain-slicked market dissolving into the warm, familiar scent of medicinal herbs and worn leather. Jack was older now, no longer a teenager but a young man. His body was toned and covered in a tapestry of scars, each one a story of a battle won. He sat on a cot while Xiao Ling, her expression a familiar mask of exasperation, dabbed a cotton ball soaked in antiseptic onto a fresh bruise on his cheek.
"When are you going to grow up, Jack?" she asked, her voice a tired sigh.
Jack pouted, wincing as the cotton ball pressed a little too hard. "Those White Tiger pussies keep encroaching on my people. Mister Ming is just a driver. How can they just jack his truck like that?"
"They jacked his truck, Jack, not your territory," Xiao Ling countered, her focus unwavering.
"It doesn't matter!" he shot back. "They attacked my people, so I had to do something about it."
Xiao Ling sighed again, this time with a hint of resignation. "Okay. But could you have just brought Mister Ming's truck back to our base? And not… with the entire division that stole it?"
Sure enough, behind them, Jack's and Xiao Ling's subordinates were dragging the unconscious, bound bodies of several White Tiger gang members from the back of the recovered truck.
Jack let out a wild cackle. "Kekekekeke! What can I say? I hold grudges."
Xiao Ling narrowed her eyes, her movements stopping. "What else did you do?"
Jack tried to avoid her gaze, suddenly finding a loose thread on the cot extremely fascinating. But Xiao Ling persisted, her stare unwavering.
Finally, with a reluctant groan, Jack confessed. "I might have shoved ten doses of industrial-strength laxatives down their lieutenant's throat."
Xiao Ling's jaw dropped. Even her men, who had seen their fair share of gangland brutality, looked stunned. Only Jack's subordinates continued their work without a word, completely unfazed. They were used to their boss's unique brand of chaos.
The memory faded, and the old seller, who had been watching with a stoic, unreadable expression, did something Jack had never seen before. He laughed. It was not a loud laugh, but a deep, rumbling chuckle that seemed to shake the very foundations of the dream-like space.
"You really love putting shit in your enemies' bodies, huh?" the old seller said, a genuine, amused twinkle in his ancient eyes.
Jack's face went blank. "What the fuck does that mean?"
The old seller's smile widened. "Let's see," he said, ticking off the offenses on his fingers. "You've put a key in a goat's ass. Your fingers in a thug's ass. Laxatives down a lieutenant's throat. And if my memory serves me, you once tried to shove an entire Peking duck down a rival's throat just because he said your favorite noodle shop was overrated." He paused, a final, knowing glint in his eyes. "And let's not forget your most recent accomplishment: shoving your own profound, unsolicited, and utterly unhinged wisdom into the minds of cosmic entities."
Jack's face went blank. The old seller's words, a perfect, unhinged summary of his life's most bizarre moments, hung in the air. "What do you mean by that?" Jack asked, his voice a low growl.
The old seller's amused smile softened into something more profound, more ancient. "I am here to give you your destiny," he said, his voice no longer a frail whisper but a deep, resonant hum that seemed to vibrate with the very fabric of the dream-like space. "Just as our deal stipulated. I am here to give you your rightful equipment back."
Jack's mind, which had been enjoying the chaotic trip down memory lane, snapped back to the present danger. "Does it have to be now?" he asked, a note of genuine urgency in his voice. "Amatsu is just about to encroach on my soul. I'm a little busy fighting for my spiritual real estate."
The old seller waved a dismissive hand. "That edgy thing? Don't worry about him." His golden eyes, which held the light of a thousand dying stars, fixed on Jack. "Now, are you ready to bear the crown once again?"
"What crown?"
In the space of a single blink, the world dissolved. The back alley, the memories, the scent of old fish and desperation—all of it vanished. Jack was standing once more in front of the old seller's stall in the bustling Chinatown night market. But it was different. Before, the stall had been a chaotic jumble of knick-knacks and ancient-looking charms. Now, it was empty, save for a single item resting on the faded red cloth.
The golden headband.
"Is it because I got my fragment from the Hidden Headjob Temple?" Jack asked, his voice a quiet whisper.
"It was part of our deal," the old seller confirmed.
Jack took a step closer, his gaze locked on the simple, elegant circlet. "Who… who made the deal? Was it my past self? When I was Sun Wukong?"
The old seller rubbed his long, white beard, a thoughtful, almost sad expression on his face. He looked at Jack, at the chaotic, beautiful, and utterly broken soul before him, and he seemed to be contemplating something profound.
Then, he sighed. "Well," he said, his voice a soft, final note. "You're asking for it."
Before Jack could react, the old seller was in front of him, his movements a blur that defied time and space. He picked up the golden headband. And with a motion that was both impossibly gentle and absolutely final, he placed it on Jack's head.
He then raised two fingers, pressing them firmly against Jack's forehead, right between his eyes.
"Release."
…
The world dissolved into a blur of gold and shadow.
Jack was suddenly standing in a vast, hollow cave, the air thick with the scent of ozone and old stone. Behind him, a throne carved from the very heart of the mountain stood empty. He was wearing brilliant golden armor, a gourd hung from a satchel at his side, and the Ruyi Jingu Bang felt heavy and familiar in his arm. On either side of the throne room, stretching back into the darkness, stood armies of countless races—monkeys, demons, spirits, and beings Jack couldn't even name.
Everything was a blur, as if his brain was struggling to catch up with a memory too vast, too ancient to process. Below the raised platform where he stood, several figures, generals of some kind, were bowing low.
His body moved on its own. His voice, deeper and older, spoke with an authority that was not his.
Then, one of the bowing generals stepped forward. As he spoke, his figure sharpened, coming into focus. He was a monkey, like Jack, but with a noble, serene face and eyes that held the wisdom of a thousand lifetimes. Jack didn't know him, but a name echoed in his soul with the certainty of instinct. Hanuman. Sorcerer Supreme of the House of Xal.
"Brother," Hanuman said, his voice pleading. "Are you really going to do this?"
Sun Wukong—his past self—turned, his long red cape fluttering behind him. "It's the only way." He started to walk toward a dark exit at the back of the throne room.
A sound like a rising storm filled the cave as the armies and generals spoke in a single, desperate chorus. "My King, please reconsider!"
Sun Wukong stopped, his back still to them.
Hanuman stepped forward again, his voice cracking with desperation and anger. "My King, I ask you as your sworn brother, we should stop this! I have sacrificed half of my sorcerer's order just to hold the line! I can't even see the future of my mystic order from this point!" In a final, desperate lash of grief, he shouted, "What have you sacrificed?!"
The entire throne room went dead silent. The air, once thick with the desperate pleas of an army, was now so still it felt like the vacuum between stars.
Sun Wukong slowly turned, his face a mask of cold, ancient sorrow. He looked out over the sea of faces—his family, his army, his children—and his golden eyes, which had once held the fire of a thousand suns, now held only the quiet, chilling weight of an eternity of sacrifice.
"What have I sacrificed?" he asked, his voice a quiet, dangerous thing that needed no volume to command absolute attention. The question itself felt heavy, and a wave of regret and fear washed over the generals. Even Hanuman knew he had fucked up.
But Sun Wukong remained calm. "You ask what I have given up," he began, his voice echoing in the stillness, not with anger, but with a profound, heartbreaking weariness. "You see the armor, you see the staff, you see the god. You do not see the cost."
He took a step forward, his gaze sweeping over them all. "Every night, I walk the silent pathways of my own soul, not for peace, but to stare into the abyss of what is to come. I have seen the final equation of a dying universe, and it has stared back at me. I have shared my visions with wraiths and conversed with the echoes of dead gods, all to find a single, narrow path through the coming darkness."
His voice dropped, becoming a raw, pained whisper. "I held enlightenment in my hand. The perfect, silent peace of the void, the end of all suffering. And I let it go. I gave it up. For you."
The armies were as still as stone, their hearts aching with a truth they had never considered.
"To fight the abyss," Wukong continued, his voice rising again, gaining a terrible, righteous fire, "I had to become it. To defeat the chaos, I had to drink it, to wear it like a second skin. I have turned myself into a weapon, a monster, a god, knowing that with every step I took toward divinity, I was leaving behind everything that made me… me. I have sacrificed the warmth of a shared meal, the quiet comfort of a friend's presence, the simple peace of a mind at rest. I have burned them all on the altar of this war."
He looked directly at Hanuman, his sworn brother, and for a moment, the god-king was gone, replaced by a friend speaking to a friend. "You ask what I have sacrificed? I have sacrificed the monkey you once knew."
He turned back to the armies, his voice a final, thundering declaration that shook the very foundations of the mountain. "I am the fire that will forge a new dawn, a dawn I am not destined to see! I am the bridge to a better world, a bridge that must burn behind you once you have crossed! My pride, my ego, will not allow this universe to fall while I still draw breath!"
He turned around once again, walking toward the exit, his red cape a river of blood against the darkness. As he was about to step into the void, he paused one last time.
"You are all the mountain I need," he said softly. "And I have already imprinted that into my soul."
Then he left.
He left behind an army of crying soldiers and weeping generals, all trying to hold their ground, to stand tall as their king walked away, the weight of his final words a heavier burden than any battle they had ever faced.
Jack watched, an unwilling passenger in the river of his own past, as Sun Wukong walked into the darkness. He felt the collective, heart-wrenching sob of the army left behind, a wave of pure, selfless grief that was so alien to his own chaotic soul it almost burned. He wanted to see where this story went, what great war demanded such a terrible sacrifice, what sunrise was worth the cost of a king's own light.
But just as his past self was about to be swallowed by the void, the memory fractured.
The image of the retreating king wavered, distorting like a reflection in a disturbed pool. The sound of the weeping army warped into a deafening, electronic screech. The old seller's presence, which had been a quiet, observational hum, suddenly sharpened, becoming a final, absolute wall.
Jack was violently ejected. The world of memory shattered around him like a universe of broken glass, and he was thrown back through a chaotic vortex of gold and shadow, the echoes of a forgotten god's sorrow still clinging to his soul.
He came back to himself with a gasp.
He lay in the crater, his hanbok in tatters, his body a canvas of burns and bruises. He pushed himself up, clutching his head, a searing pain pressing against his skull. The cold morning air of Japan was a shock to his system, the scent of scorched earth and ozone filling his lungs. The grand, tragic memory felt a million miles away, yet the pain of it was as real as the blood crusting on his skin.
"What the fuck…?" he groaned, his vision swimming as he tried to focus on the ruined temple around him. "Why did he—?"
He trailed off, the question hanging in the empty, dust-filled air. Why had the old seller shown him that? What was the point of that profound, soul-crushing memory, only to rip it away at the most critical moment?
