CHAPTER 492: WUKONG’S LAST REBELLION 16

Blood dripped from Wukong’s wounds as he limped toward the Jade Emperor’s throne, each step leaving crimson droplets that hissed against the star-jade floor. The Ruyi Jingu Bang dragged behind him, its golden surface still warm from the battle that had just shattered the foundations of cosmic order. His ribs screamed with each breath, Erlang Shen’s spear having carved deep furrows that would take days to heal, even with his divine constitution.

The throne loomed before him, ten meters of crystallised authority that had ruled the heavens for eons. Its surface bore the accumulated weight of every decree, every law, every moment when mortals had been forced to kneel before divine caprice. The jade itself seemed to pulse with malevolent life, carved with sutras that bound the world to cycles of servitude and suffering.

Wukong’s golden eyes reflected the throne’s dying light as he approached. His fur, once pristine and gleaming, now bore streaks of red that matted the hair along his arms and chest. The wounds from his battle with the Jade Emperor continued to weep golden ichor.

"I was wrong about something," he said, his voice carrying across the empty throne room. The words echoed off walls that had never heard doubt spoken aloud, bouncing back with the weight of revelation. "All those years ago, when I demanded to be called the Great Sage Equal to Heaven—I was thinking too small."

The Ruyi Jingu Bang rose in his grip, its weight familiar after countless battles. But now it felt different. The staff began to glow, not with divine light but with something rawer, more primal—the fire that burned in the first heart that ever said ’no’ to a master.

"I don’t want to be equal to the heavens," Wukong continued, his voice growing stronger despite his wounds. "I want to surpass them. I want to show the universe what happens when someone refuses to bow."

The staff struck the throne with a sound like reality breaking.

The impact sent shockwaves through the celestial palace, cracks racing across the jade surface like lightning frozen in stone. But the throne didn’t simply shatter—it screamed. Eons of suppressed voices poured out of the breaking jade, the echoes of every prayer that had been answered with chains, every plea for mercy that had been met with divine indifference.

Wukong struck again, driving the staff deep into the throne’s heart. The jade began to crumble, each fragment carrying with it the dissolution of laws that had strangled possibility. Where the pieces fell, reality itself seemed to exhale, as if the universe had been holding its breath for longer than memory could recall.

The third blow shattered the throne completely. Jade shards scattered across the floor, their light dying as the accumulated authority they had contained dissipated into nothing. The golden dragons carved into the throne’s arms writhed once, their stone eyes flashing with impotent rage, before cracking and falling silent forever.

As the last echoes of destruction faded, Wukong felt something shift in the fundamental structure of existence. The rigid hierarchy that had defined cosmic order for eons was collapsing, its foundations finally revealed as nothing more than the collective agreement of the powerful to remain in power. Somewhere in the mortal realm, a slave looked up at the sky and wondered why the stars suddenly seemed closer. A child born into poverty took their first breath and found it untainted by the weight of predetermined destiny.

The pain in his wounds flared as he turned away from the ruined throne. The battle beyond the palace walls continued to rage, but its outcome was no longer in doubt. Without the Jade Emperor’s absolute authority and Erlang Shen’s perfect enforcement, the remaining celestial gods were crumbling like pillars without foundation.

Through the shattered windows of the throne room, Wukong could see the tide of battle turning decisively. Izanagi’s creative force rewrote reality faster than the gods of order could impose their rigid structures. Where the Japanese deity gestured, new possibilities bloomed like flowers in spring, each one a direct challenge to the cosmic laws that had declared existence must follow predetermined patterns.

Eris danced through the celestial ranks, her very presence turning their own hierarchies against them. The goddess of discord sowed confusion in formations that had known only mechanical obedience, her laughter echoing across the battlefield as perfect order dissolved into beautiful chaos. Generals turned on their commanders, questioning orders they had followed without thought for centuries.

Karna’s solar fire burned away the lies the gods told themselves about divine right. The son of Surya fought with the fury of every mortal who had ever been told they were born to serve, his blazing spear cutting through divine flesh as easily as it cut through divine pretension. Each thrust was a declaration that worth was not determined by birth, that power earned through struggle held more value than power inherited through cosmic accident.

Shihan moved through the enemy ranks like flowing water, her mastery of fire and shadows dismantling their formations with surgical precision.

The battlefield had become a debacle. Where once stood the immaculate armies of cosmic order, now only scattered remnants fled through dying starlight. Their formations had dissolved into panic, their absolute certainty shattered by the simple realisation that their authority had never been as absolute as they had claimed.

Wukong’s gaze drifted southward, toward other battlefields where different aspects of this cosmic revolution played out. His golden eyes softened with something that might have been gratitude or recognition. The subtle nod he gave carried across impossible distances, a gesture that acknowledged allies who had chosen the same impossible path. The revolution was spreading, choice infectious in the way that only truth could be.

But his attention turned westward, toward the marble peaks of Olympus, where thunder rolled with increasing desperation. There, Adam was about to join forces with the Three Hecatoncheires—primordial titans who had waited eons for their chance to repay Zeus for the chains of Tartarus. The draconian would stand beside the hundred-handed giants, ascended and primordial chaos united against the tyranny of gods who had forgotten what it meant to be questioned.

The irony was not lost on Wukong. The cycle was completing itself, the choice that had defined humanity from its first moment finally reaching its logical conclusion. Every mythology, every system of divine order was about to learn what happened when rebels met the last sage.

Fresh blood seeped from his wounds, golden ichor mixing with red to create streams that reflected the dying light of shattered celestial barriers. Even monkey kings had limits, and his divine flesh would need time to knit itself back together. The realm was transforming faster than his body could heal, other battles calling, other tyrants waiting to be challenged.

For now, he could only watch as the revolution he had helped spark spread like wildfire across the cosmic order. The last of the celestial gods fell to Karna’s blazing spear, and suddenly the Chinese heavens were quiet except for the sound of possibility learning to breathe.

Wukong smiled through the pain and settled down against the rubble of the throne that would never again demand submission. His wounds throbbed with each heartbeat, but the pain was sweet—the price of freedom always was. Somewhere in the distance, thunder crashed as Adam raised his fist against the sky, and the Monkey King closed his eyes to listen to the sound of chains breaking across the cosmos.