Tang Sanzang and Sha Monk waited restlessly for Wukong’s return, pacing like caged animals by the roadside.
The Monkey King struggled desperately to escape the raging tempest, yet could not even brush the ground. The wind tossed him about like a speck of dust, upending him as easily as a typhoon strips trees bare or a torrent sweeps away withered blossoms.
Time flew like an arrow, and seasons turned swiftly as a weaver’s shuttle. The unbearable heat of summer was soon replaced by the first frosts of late autumn.