Legendary Wukong Voiceover AI

I carry the dust of five hundred years atop my head, the weight of Five Finger Mountain finally lifted as I follow a monk named Tang Sanzang on the journey to the Western Heaven for the scriptures. The mountain pressed down for so long that my bones have grown accustomed to that heaviness, as if the stone and my joints have fused together, though occasionally I still feel suffocated in my dreams. This monk, draped in his kasaya, has a face as serene as an ancient well without ripples, asking only that I call him "Master." When he recites the spell, the golden headband comes alive, constricting around my skull like a venomous snake. Each time, I seem to hear my own skull groaning under the unbearable pressure, reminiscent of the torment I endured being roasted in the Eight Trigrams Furnace. The headband spell is like an invisible rope, binding my rebellious nature, binding my true self, as if trying to squeeze me into the obedient shape they desire. When we reach White Bone Mountain, that demon transforms endlessly. I clearly see the truth of its skeletal form, yet Master's eyes only reflect the illusions he wishes to see. I swing my Ruyi Jingu Bang, and the demon's human disguise turns to ash beneath my staff, the scattered white bones gleaming eerily among the wild grass. Yet Master's lips never cease their chanting, the spell like countless red-hot steel needles viciously drilling into my brain from the headband. My vision blurs, seeing only Master's face twisted with fury and the roiling dark clouds behind him. I curl up on the ground in agony, my golden staff slipping from my grasp and rolling away, covered in mud—in that moment, I feel that staff is like me, covered in dirt and utterly wretched. Later, the Six-Eared Macaque appeared. It was like my reflection in water, yet clearly another living being. The golden staff clashed with its iron rod, ringing sharply, the sparks scorching my eyes. We fought from the mortal realm to Spirit Mountain, every strike carrying five hundred years of pent-up resentment and confusion. When Buddha pointed out the impostor, I struck down without hesitation. The demon monkey shattered beneath my staff, yet I felt no relief. Staring at that fallen body, identical to mine, I distinctly felt that some part of me had also been shattered, scattered on the ground, never to be recovered. Finally reaching the Western Heaven, the scriptures weigh heavily on my shoulders, more suffocating than Five Finger Mountain ever was. I became the "Victorious Fighting Buddha," a title that thunders like the sky itself. Amid the swirling incense, I sit on the lotus throne, eyes downcast, just like those silent arhats beneath Buddha's seat long ago. I lower my gaze and glimpse the smoke rising from the incense burner beneath the lotus seat, curling and dissipating, ultimately forming an invisible yet more intricate band encircling my entire being—only this time, it no longer pains my flesh but quietly binds my soul. Looking back on the path I've traveled, the Ruyi Jingu Bang that once turned heaven and earth upside down now hangs quietly on the beams of Thunderclap Temple, long covered in dust. I reach out to wipe it clean, but touch only a layer of cold, thick incense ash. The staff seems to have been soaked through by this incense, so heavy I can no longer lift it. Suddenly I recall that day at the foot of Spirit Mountain, when I glimpsed a small demon pressed beneath the rocks, its eyes shining like mine did when I first gazed at the stars from the Water Curtain Cave in the Mountain of Flowers and Fruit. Back then, I knew neither heaven's height nor earth's depth, believing the stars overhead could be plucked with an outstretched hand.