You won. The den is broken, the army scattered, and the one on the throne is cold. Now it's my turn to tell the story.
I am the Remnant of Havoc. The Havoc Demon is dead — properly dead, dead on his own seat, a more dignified end than his ancestor's. What am I? I am the last breath he squeezed out through his teeth before dying. A breath he'd been saving for three hundred years, and it refused to scatter.
You all know the ancestor's tale. Journey to the West, chapter 2: the Havoc Demon seized Water Curtain Cave, and the Handsome Monkey King cut him in two with one stroke.
In two.
Have you thought about what it feels like when both halves of a yao stay alive? I'll tell you: the left half thought of revenge; the right half thought of home. They soaked in the water seven days and nights before they were sewn back together. Sewn — but the seam—
The seam never again let the wind through.
So my descendants, my den, my three hundred years, have all been doing one thing: waiting. Waiting for that monkey to come back and cut again. Revenge? Not entirely. Let me tell you a truth —
We waited for him to come back so he could finish the sentence.
The year he left, before he went, he came once to our Water-Filth Cave. No fight. No killing. He stood at the cave mouth, looked at our ancestor's half-sewn body, and said one sentence. Then he left for the west, and never came back for three hundred years.
What was the sentence?
Our whole family has been chewing on it for three hundred years. The ancestor said it was only half. He'd spoken the first half when something in heaven called to him — he swallowed the second half, and walked away.
Now you understand, don't you? The night the stele cracked — the voice that called the stone from very far away—
Our ancestor heard it too.
The night he died, he gripped this breath of mine and poured one sentence into my ear. He said: the mad one called Tingchen was never mad — everything he heard was true. What called the stone wasn't from heaven above or the earth below — it was from inside. And he said: every evil he did in three hundred years — the stolen monkeys, the forged iron, the fed pool — all of it was waiting for the one inside to come out first.
The evil was a barricade. When the barricade failed, it was better the thing ate us first.
Weigh that. Even I was half-convinced. Pity he died right after — who the one inside is, he took into his bones.
Only one thing he didn't take with him.
His last words were: "That cub whose shadow lags half a beat — don't let him reach the ninth watch."
Friends, the ninth watch has arrived. The bell has rung, the banquet is set, and the guest is seated.
That cub — one of you, look at him for me: is his shadow still lagging?
If it still lags —
Who's moved into the lag? Think it through yourselves.
I'm in no hurry. I waited three hundred years; I can wait three hundred more. The den's swept clean now — perfect for listening to stories.
Next visitor, bring me a jar of wine. Monkey wine.
The kind he brews with his own hands.