In the beginning, when the world was young and the boundaries between realms were as gossamer veils rather than walls of stone, there existed a place beyond mortal comprehension: the Astral Realm, where divinity itself made its dwelling.
To speak of it in mortal tongue does it great injustice, for no words crafted by human hands could capture the majesty of those floating sanctuaries, suspended in an endless expanse of shimmering void, each island a paradise unto itself, crowned with palaces of crystallized starlight and gardens where flowers bloomed in colors that had no names.
There, in that realm of eternal twilight (where neither sun nor moon held sway, yet all was bathed in a soft luminescence that seemed to emanate from the very fabric of existence itself) dwelt the Astral Beings.
They were as numerous as stars in the heavens, each one a fragment of creation's first breath, each possessing power that could reshape continents or still the raging seas with but a thought.
Some took forms most pleasing to behold: radiant humanoids with skin like polished jade or burnished bronze, their eyes holding the depths of galaxies. Others were vast and terrible, beings of pure energy whose true shapes mortal eyes could not perceive without madness taking root.
For uncounted ages they had maintained the balance between the Three Realms: the Astral Realm above, where they made their seat; the Human Realm below, where fragile mortals lived and died in the span of a heartbeat; and the Underworld beneath all, where Lord Enma held dominion over the dead and damned. It was a balance as old as time itself, maintained through wisdom, power, and the tacit understanding that each realm served its purpose in the grand tapestry of existence.
But all things, even ages of peace, must come to an end.
The first whispers of change came like the distant rumble of thunder before a storm. In the grand halls where the Astral Beings gathered to contemplate the movements of fate and destiny, a restlessness had begun to take root.
Some spoke of enlightenment achieved. of transcending even their divine forms to reach higher planes of existence where physicality itself became meaningless. Others, paradoxically, spoke of descending rather than ascending, of embracing mortality rather than fleeing from it.
"The Age of Gods draws to a close," proclaimed Amaterasu, the Sun Goddess, her voice like the ringing of crystal bells across the assembled host. She stood at the center of the grand plaza, where ten thousand Astral Beings had gathered to hear the announcement that would reshape the cosmos.
"We who have dwelt in this realm since before mountains rose from the sea have lived in stagnation, unchanging, eternal. and in that eternity, we have ceased to grow."
Murmurs rippled through the assembly like wind across a field of wheat.
"Some among us have achieved true enlightenment," she continued, her radiance intensifying until even her fellow divinities shielded their eyes. "They have transcended flesh and spirit both, becoming one with the primordial forces that birthed all creation. They require no realm, no form, no anchor to existence. they simply are, as the void itself is."
As if to punctuate her words, a dozen beings at the far edge of the assembly began to dissolve. Their forms did not crumble or fade, but rather became more, expanding outward in spirals of pure light until they encompassed everything and nothing, and then were gone, leaving only the faintest echo of music in their wake.
"Others," Amaterasu said, her tone shifting to something gentler, almost wistful, "have chosen a different path. They descend to the Human Realm, shedding their divinity like a worn cloak, to be born anew as mortals. To experience death, that greatest mystery which we have been denied. To live a single lifetime with true purpose rather than endless lifetimes without meaning."
Throughout the plaza, more beings began to shimmer and fade, each making their choice. Some ascended, their consciousness expanding beyond the comprehension of those who remained.
Others descended, their divine essences contracting, reforming, until they appeared as glowing seeds of light that drifted downward through the floor of the Astral Realm, falling like gentle rain toward the world below, where they would be born as human children. extraordinary, perhaps, but mortal nonetheless.
Days passed, then weeks, then months. The exodus continued. Grand palaces that had stood since the dawn of time began to crumble, their divine occupants departed. Gardens grew wild, their caretakers gone. The floating islands themselves seemed to dim, as if the very realm mourned the loss of its inhabitants.
Until at last, where once ten thousand had dwelt, only five remained.
They gathered at the Central Palace, a structure of such magnificent construction that its spires pierced the very fabric between realms.
The palace had been built in an age before ages by craftsmen whose names were lost even to divine memory, and it alone seemed immune to the decay spreading across the Astral Realm.
Sun Wukong arrived first, as was his nature. impatient, energetic, never one to wait when action called.
He bounded up the crystal steps three at a time, his staff. the legendary Ruyi Jingu Bang. balanced across his shoulders with practiced ease. Though he could appear in any form he wished, he favored the shape that had earned him his title: part human, part simian, with fur the color of aged bronze and eyes that sparkled with mischief even in solemn moments.
He wore simple robes of crimson and gold, scorning the elaborate vestments favored by many of his departed brethren.
"So," he said to the empty hall, his voice echoing off marble columns, "we five are all that remain of ten thousand. How the mighty have dwindled."
"Not dwindled," came a stern voice from the eastern entrance. Bishamon strode into view, every inch the warrior god he had been since time immemorial.
He stood seven feet tall in gleaming armor of celestial silver, each plate inscribed with wards against evil so ancient and powerful that they hurt to look upon directly.
His face was severe, all hard angles and sharp eyes, framed by dark hair bound in a topknot. "Transformed. Changed. The world moves forward, Wukong, as must all things."
"Changed, yes," agreed a third voice, deep and resonant as the ocean depths.
Ryujin emerged from a shimmering pool of water that had appeared unbidden in the center of the hall. for water was his domain, and it answered his call even here.
In his true form he was a dragon of impossible size, scales like sapphires, eyes like molten gold. But here, in this place of council, he took the shape of an elderly man with a long white beard and robes of flowing blue silk. "But whether the change is for better or worse, only time will tell."
The air itself seemed to shimmer as the final two arrived together, as they always did. brothers in all but blood, inseparable since creation's first breath.
Fujin, god of wind, appeared in a gust of air that sent leaves and flower petals swirling through the hall. He was lean and quick, his hair white as clouds, his movements never quite still, as if even standing motionless he was buffeted by unseen breezes.
Beside him materialized Raijin, god of thunder, broader and darker than his brother, his eyes crackling with barely suppressed lightning.
"The gang's all here," Fujin said with a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "The last five fools in all creation who couldn't decide whether to ascend or descend, so we just… stayed."
"We stayed because someone must," Ryujin corrected gently. "The realms require guardians. The balance must be maintained."
Wukong leaped onto the council table. an act of informality that made Bishamon wince. and sat cross-legged, his staff across his knees. "The old dragon speaks truth.
The Astral Realm may be emptying, but it still serves as the keystone between the Human Realm and the Underworld.
Someone must guard the gates, watch the boundaries, ensure that what belongs in each realm stays there."
"And who better than us?"
Raijin added, flexing his considerable muscles.
"We who were warriors when the first mountains rose from the sea. We who broke the Hundred Demon Army. We who stood against the Void Titans and lived to tell the tale."
Bishamon's expression softened, just slightly. "We five have always been the shield against darkness. While others contemplated enlightenment or pursued mortal experience, we fought. We protected. We endured. It is fitting that we remain to see this duty through to whatever end awaits."
Silence fell over the assembly, heavy with the weight of their decision.
They were committing themselves to an existence of eternal vigilance, guardians of an increasingly empty realm, wardens at the threshold between worlds. It was not a duty to be taken lightly.
"Then we are agreed," Wukong said at last, his usual levity replaced by something harder, more determined. "We five stand as the last Guardians of the Astral Realm. We divide the responsibilities:
I will watch the central gate. the great portal that connects all three realms. Ryujin, you will patrol the eastern boundaries where the realm meets the endless ocean of chaos.
Bishamon, the southern marches where reality grows thin. Fujin and Raijin, you brothers will watch the northern and western reaches together."
One by one, they nodded their assent.
"And what of Lord Enma?" Fujin asked, the question that had been hovering unspoken over them all finally given voice. "He did not attend the Assembly. He sent no word. The Underworld has been… silent."
"Enma keeps to his realm," Ryujin said, though his tone suggested he found this troubling.
"He has always been separate from our number, bound to the Underworld by duty and divine law. Perhaps he sees no need to involve himself in the affairs of the Astral Realm."
"Or perhaps he resents us," Bishamon muttered, so quietly that only Wukong's sharp ears caught the words.
But before the Monkey King could respond, Ryujin raised a hand. "Whatever his feelings, Enma has maintained the Underworld for eons.
The dead are judged, souls are purified, the cycle continues. We have no cause to doubt his dedication to his duty."
"No cause," Bishamon agreed, though his hand rested on the pommel of his sword. "But also no proof he shares our purpose in maintaining the balance."
"Then we watch him," Wukong said simply, "as we watch all things. But we do not act without cause. We are guardians, not tyrants."
They stood then, the five who remained, and joined hands in the center of the ancient hall. Light blazed from their joining. not the soft luminescence of the Astral Realm, but something fiercer, more primal. It was an oath made manifest, a binding of purpose that transcended words.
"We are the last," Wukong intoned, his voice resonating with power. "We stand together."
"We guard the gates," Bishamon added.
"We maintain the balance," Ryujin continued.
"We protect the realms," the brothers spoke in unison.
"Until the last star fades," they said together, "or duty releases us."
The light faded.
The oath was sealed.
And in the depths of the Underworld, far below where the five made their vow, Lord Enma sat upon his throne of bone and felt their words like brands upon his consciousness. His eyes, molten gold in a face of crimson rage, narrowed to slits.
"Until duty releases us," he repeated, his voice a rumble of distant thunder. "How noble. How devoted. How utterly blind to what you have become. relics of a dying age, clinging to purpose in a realm that no longer wants you."
He rose from his throne, and the flames of hell rose with him.
But that is a tale for the next telling.
For now, high above in the Astral Realm, the five Guardians took their posts and began their watch. Forty-five years would pass in what seemed to them like peaceful vigilance, broken only by the occasional tremor at reality's edges or the passage of a lost soul requiring guidance
.
Forty-five years of peace.
And then came the letter.