My name is Six-Eared.
Because I have six ears.
They grow along the sides of my head, behind the skull and near the base of the neck, unevenly placed—like static left behind by an unfinished choice. When I was young, I did not think this strange. They grew with my body. There was no pain, no abnormality. They merely allowed me to hear a little longer than other monkeys.
I could hear the wind changing direction beyond the ridgeline, the faint cracking sound of moisture shifting within bark, and even certain thoughts before they were spoken—hesitating, retreating deep in the throat.
At the time, I believed this was simply how the world was.
Only later did I understandthat it was not.
That day, the weather was unusually fine—so fine it felt unreal.
Sunlight filtered through the forest like scattered embers, illuminating shadows that were usually indistinct. As I did every day, I searched for peaches, following familiar scents for a long while, only to find nothing. Just as I turned toward the deeper woods, a disturbance arose from the west.
It was not the sound of footsteps, but something unnameable—like many voices murmuring at once, or a song without rhythm. In a daze, I realized the sound was moving toward me.
I stopped and looked up.
Within the light, a golden radiance slowly appeared. It did not glare or spread; it simply existed, steady and contained, as though gently pushed out from the clouds. It was overwhelming, yet unsettling.
Instinctively, I turned to flee.
At that moment, a voice descended.
"Do not fear. Stay."
The voice was not loud, yet it allowed no resistance.
And my feet—truly stopped.
I turned back in confusion and saw a figure—
He sat upon a golden lotus, suspended in midair. His body was broad, his expression relaxed, his features marked by a calm that required no response. What drew my attention were his ears—long lobes hanging down to his shoulders.
Though he was a stranger, an inexplicable familiarity arose within me.
"Who are you?" I asked, craning my neck. "Why call me?"
He did not answer immediately, merely observing me, as if confirming a judgment already made.
Impatience rose in me. I turned to leave.
A soft chuckle sounded behind me.
"A monkey, after all," he said. "Do not rush. Listen first."
That day, he spoke at length.
He said I was a spiritual monkey born of Heaven and Earth; that my constitution was exceptional; that if I followed him in cultivation, I could be spared the hardships of the wild. To me, these words were no more convincing than the wind.
Until he said:
"There will be immortal peaches every day."
I stopped.
In that moment, I realized that the world does not run on reason.
To fill one's belly—that is truth.
That day, I went with him.