Chapter 3:The Hundred Bamboo Demon
The spider-like monstrosity loomed amidst the ancient forest, its hundred bamboo limbs twitching like a choir of dead fingers seeking rhythm in madness. It pulsed—its grotesque body a mix of a spider like abomination and bamboo like skin and limbs—as if the earth itself had vomited it out in revulsion. Each movement cracked the ground beneath it, bamboo splintering in wet, fleshy snaps that sounded too much like bones breaking, like nature protesting the demons presence.
As if the very breath of the forest was caught in its throat, watching.
And in the middle of it all, in a small clearing kissed by dappled light and shadow, Monkey King stood. Casual. Unbothered. His black robe caught no dust, his golden blonde fur with traces of red gleamed like a mocking sun, and the staff slung across his shoulders balanced without effort, without urgency. He stood with one foot bent slightly at an angle, the other lightly rooted to the earth, his weight resting more on his heel than his toes. Like he was deciding whether to nap or have fun.
The trees dared not whisper.
The wind held its breath.
Even the stones seemed still, as if they'd gone blind.
"You don't belong here," he said finally, his tone light, conversational. He rolled his shoulders lazily. "This forest doesn't like you. I can tell. Trees gossip, you know. So do stones. Hell, even moss grumbles now and then."
The demon stopped, twitching its limbs in jagged motions, as though testing its body for the right shape. Its head—or what passed for one—tilted unnaturally. From beneath its coiled ridges of bamboo skin, dozens of blinking, wet eyes opened and shut in random rhythms. Each blink sounded like lips smacking over broken teeth.
"Perceptive," the creature rasped, its voice a mixture of dry wind and chewing flesh. It took a step forward. One leg pierced the soil with a sound like wet parchment tearing. "But what are you, then?"
Monkey King snorted and tilted his head back. He cracked his neck once—pop. Then the other side—crack. The sounds echoed too loudly for such small movements, like distant mountains mimicking thunder.
"I'm bored," he said, simply. "That's what I am."
Then he vanished.
The ground where he stood exploded in a puff of leaves.
Behind the demon, a sound like a thunderclap rang out—WHACK!
The monkey's staff met the demon's bamboo-laced side in an upward arc, striking like a landslide channeled through a god's fist. The demon was launched into the air, limbs flailing, its mass dragging a trail of ruined earth behind it as it landed in a brutal crash. Trees shattered. Roots screamed. Dust and blood-colored spores rose in clouds.
But the demon didn't roar in pain.
It laughed. A long, ragged, teeth-on-metal sound that twisted the silence.
Recognition had bloomed in its mind.
Wukong grinned.
He blurred again—two steps, three—his feet barely touching the earth. He was airborne before the demon could recover. His staff spun above his head in golden rings. Then it slammed downward with divine fury.
The demon dodged.
Just barely.
The staff missed by inches and shattered the earth where it landed. The ground cracked open like a fractured skull. Trees trembled. Birds exploded from branches like panicked thoughts. But the monkey didn't even pause. He pivoted in the air, flipped, and landed with feline grace.
From above, the demon came crashing down—its body unfolded like a collapsing tower, limbs stretching out in spiraling chaos. Bamboo legs stabbed at him from every angle, and Wukong spun his staff in a blur of gold and crimson, parrying six strikes in a single rotation. Sparks danced like fireflies. The seventh leg scraped across his shoulder, but the wound healed before blood could touch the ground.
"Fast," muttered, eyes narrowing.
The demon's massive form twisted and hissed, its limbs weaving in arcs, legs scraping against themselves in irritation.
"You speak boldly," it hissed again, "for one so… small."
He chuckled. "Small? That's rich, coming from a coward stuffed inside a puppet made of glorified chopsticks."
He lunged.
The forest roared.
Their battle became a symphony of chaos. Monkey's strikes were like rainstorms clashing against mountains—savage, rhythmic, relentless. His staff shifted sizes mid-swing, lengthening into the air, shortening in tight clashes, spiraling like a serpent through the demon's limbs. He moved like lightning filtered through acrobatics—spins, flips, vaults that blurred the line between dance and slaughter.
But the demon was no mere brute.
Its bamboo limbs bent with impossible angles, snapping into spear shapes and whips. It blocked with a centipede's fluidity, struck with a cobra's precision. Each movement was a stanza of violence, a hymn of old forest hatred.
Every clash shook the world. Roots tore from the earth. Stones cracked. The heavens above turned dark with birds fleeing in flocks.
Then—a pause.
Their weapons locked. Wukong's staff braced against six bamboo limbs pressing down in a crushing rhythm.
Their faces inches apart.
Wukong was panting—but grinning. Always grinning.
"Hey," he said, voice light, almost bored. "Do you even have a name? Or do I just call you… Spider Chopsticks?"
The demon hissed.
"I am known..." it growled, eyes flaring, "as the Hundred Bamboo Demon. Born from the rot of the world. Molded by their spilled blood. I am the hunger of ancient trees. I am the echo of roots devouring ruins. I am the crawling curse beneath—"
"—you're very dramatic," Monkey King interrupted, yawning mid-sentence. "A touch too poetic for someone I'm about to beat into mulch, don't you think?"
With a shout, he pushed off—breaking the lock—and flipped mid-air, landing atop a tree branch that bowed beneath his weight but didn't break.
Then he straightened.
And the grin faded.
In its place was something older. Something regal.
The light caught his eyes, turning them golden.
He stood tall, his silhouette framed by the sun bleeding through the leaves, and he raised his staff with one hand, letting it rest against his shoulder like a sword of old.
"Listen well, insect."
"I am The Monkey King. Born of stone.I am in search of immortal life.I am The King of The Monkeys of Flower Fruit Mountain and I am very annoyed right now...."
He took a step forward on the branch. It didn't creak.
"I am the One Who Will Kill You Now."
His voice grew louder, deeper, echoing with an ancient majesty.
"The One Who's Vision Reached Heaven."
He pointed his staff directly at the demon.
"Bow."
The world stopped breathing.
The demon froze. Its limbs tightened. Its body tensed as if gravity had grown heavier. The forest hushed in awe. Leaves refused to fall. The sky held its light.
"…What did you say?" the demon asked, voice quiet. Dangerous.
Monkey tilted his head. His tail flicked once.
"You heard me."
He began to walk again—one step, two, still balanced on the narrow branch as if it were a royal road.
"I told you to bow. You're in the presence of someone higher than you. Someone royal. Now, kneel like the worm you are. Or I'll grind your limbs down to kindling and feed you to the flies."
The demon screamed. A sound of pure wrath. It lunged—every limb aimed to crush him.
The branch shattered beneath the impact.
But Monkey was already falling, spinning midair, his staff descending like the hammer of gods. It slammed onto the demon's skull.
CRACK.
The sound echoed underground. The forest shook. Bark peeled from trees in waves.
The demon reeled, shrieking, and lashed out with every limb—striking in blind fury. Monkey was hit—once, twice—sharp bamboo slicing into his side and thigh. Blood sprayed.
He didn't fall.
He grinned wider.
"There you go! Now we're fighting!"
"Arrogant ANIMAL!" the demon shrieked, retreating into the dark canopy like a blur. Its form weaved between trees like a storm of shadows and limbs.
"We are both animals...."
He stood still, watching the dark.
The wind stirred again.
His staff spun in his hand.
"Nobody escapes the King," he said.
Then he vanished—chasing after the blur.
And the forest held its breath once more.