Would he remain dead and reincarnated or be revived? Would they have to restart the cycle again? Through what means do they go through to get the monk and recover the Scriptures? Sorry if this turned out to be a barrage speculative questions😅 I had done no prior research (I will though!) and wanted to hear your take on it

Btw, I love the extensive research that you have compiled to make such informative articles!! they make excellent references and there's literally a well-written article for just about everything. it's nice to read something that was done with so much passion overall

Thank you for the kind words. The novel is my passion. Now onto your questions.

Not counting the Ginseng Fruit that gives Tripitaka a nigh-immortal, steel-like body, Guanyin or even the Buddha himself would prevent the monk from being killed. However, for the sake of argument, there are a number of ways to bring him back, but the methods used depend on the state of his body. For example, if his vessel is destroyed, his disciples could mimic this trick:

Ch. 11 - The soul of a Tang official's long-dead wife is given new life in the form of a recently dead princess. The soul is wed with the new vessel at the request of underworld officials.

The pilgrims would just need to find him a newly deceased body. But if his form is whole enough, there are a few methods:

Ch. 9 - Tripitaka's deceased father, who had been murdered by bandits and thrown into a river, is brought back to life by simply reuniting soul with body. His vessel was preserved with a magic pearl and, along with his self-aware spirit, kept in the undersea dragon kingdom. The Dragon King orders that the two halves be reunited some 18 years later.

Ch. 39 - Monkey brings a foreign king, who had drowned in a well, back to life by placing a magic pill (bestowed by Laozi) into his mouth and blowing the primate's immortal breath into his lungs.

Ch. 97 - Wukong goes to the underworld and asks permission from Boddhisatva Ksitigarbha to take the soul of a recently murdered foreign householder back to earth. He then reunites soul with vessel.

These are the only methods that come to mind. I hope this helps.

Going crazy for the new dragon king series, I love everyones new designs maybe Zim’s less so.

Because you can't unhear/see Mal saying "I don't know what love feels like" and Ben responding with "Maybe I can teach you"….

You can't unsee Ben risking his life for Mal and Mal being willing to doom the kingdom for Ben….

You can't unsee Mal running into Ben's arms in D3 like he's the only person that matters….

Betrothed to the Dragon

King

Dragon King AU | Arranged Marriage |

Slow Burn | Enemies to Lovers

Part I The Dragon Throne

Synopsis:

You were promised to him before you could even walk—engaged to the Dragon King himself since you were three. Years passed, letters unread, portraits hung on palace walls… but now, for the first time, you’re standing face to face.

The air reeked of fire.

Not the pleasant kind, the hearth-warmed smoke curling from a winter chimney, but ancient fire—raw, scorched earth and sulfur, molten rock and ash. It clung to your throat as your carriage trundled along the black stone road that led to the heart of the mountain: Draconfell, the capital of the Eastern Dragonlands.

You lifted your veil to peer outside, swallowing against the weight of the heat. The world beyond the window was carved in obsidian and steam. The sun, so bright when you left your homeland, was nothing more than a red smear behind plumes of smoke that rose from unseen vents. Lava flowed like rivers through the canyons below—tamed only by ancient magic and even older power.

Your hand clenched in your lap.

Today, you would meet your betrothed. For the first time in your life.

You had been promised to Katsuki Bakugou, Dragon King of the East, since the age of three. A bond struck between bloodlines to end the Crimson War. You had grown up with his name on your tongue, the way other children learned nursery rhymes.

You were schooled in dragon customs, in old draconian etiquette, in the handling of flame-touched politics. And, of course, in portraits.

Paintings of him—dozens, perhaps hundreds over the years—had been sent to your estate. Most featured him standing in armor atop a battlefield of bones, eyes glowing, smoke rising from his clenched fists. His expression had never changed: stone-carved, proud, utterly impassive.

He was the monster you were meant to marry.

He was also the king who had not written a single letter in twenty years.

The carriage slowed, and your heart quickened. Draconfell Palace loomed above you—an impossibly tall fortress, carved from the mountainside itself, its spires like jagged fangs piercing the clouded sky. Black stone. Red glass. Iron gates with sigils of fire and winged beasts.

The driver came to a halt and dismounted. You heard his boots crunch against the obsidian gravel. He opened the door with a bow.

You stepped out into a kingdom that did not want you.

The heat hit you like a blow to the chest. You straightened your spine regardless. A dozen guards waited in formation, dressed in scaled armor, spears like claws at their sides. None greeted you. None bowed.

“Lady Y/N of House L/N,” announced your steward behind you, his voice carrying. “Betrothed of His Majesty, King Katsuki of the Draconian Crown.”

Silence.

And then the great doors creaked open.

You stepped into shadow and flame.

⸻

The palace was alive.

That was your first thought. The black stone walls breathed heat. Torchlight flickered with unnatural steadiness—too still to be wind, too synchronized to be coincidence. Magic. The floors pulsed faintly beneath your heeled boots, as though the mountain’s heart beat far below.

Your footsteps echoed in the grand hall. Your retinue followed in silence. They would not stay long. Draconfell allowed no foreign servants to remain.

At the end of the hall, a figure awaited you.

He did not sit upon the throne.

He stood before it—one hand resting on the pommel of a curved blade at his side, his head slightly bowed, eyes unreadable beneath the gleam of a fiery red. He was taller than the portraits, broader of shoulder, and much, much more terrifying in the flesh.

Bakugou Katsuki.

He wore no crown.

He did not need one.

His hair was tousled in a wild, flame-touched mess, gold as firelight. His eyes—dear gods, his eyes—were not the golden-brown you’d expected, but blazing red-ringed amber, like magma frozen mid-boil. His skin bore faint scars, faded burn marks crisscrossing his arms. A long cloak swept behind him, black with a lining the color of blood.

He stared at you.

You stared back.

The room was silent but for the hiss of flame in the sconces.

And then, before you could stop yourself, the words slipped free, soft but clear: “Your portraits did not do you justice.”The silence deepened.

Something flickered behind his gaze—not surprise, not quite. Something sharper. He raised an eyebrow.

His voice, when it came, was low and rough. “That’s the first thing you choose to say?”

You inclined your head, refusing to look away. “You expected fawning?”

“I expected silence.” He looked you up and down. “Or tears.”

You smiled thinly. “Disappointment, then.”

He stepped down from the dais. Slowly. Like a beast circling prey.

“Do you speak so boldly to all your kings, Lady L/N?” he asked, voice edged with amusement—and something else.

“Only the ones I’m to marry.”

His lips twitched.

You couldn’t tell if it was irritation or intrigue.

“I suppose the years have done little to temper your kind,” he muttered.

You stiffened. “My kind?”

“Humans.” He said it like an insult. “Soft little things. Fragile. Foolish.”

“I am right here, you know.”

“Oh, I’m well aware of your miserable existence.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Speaking about someone like they’re not present is terribly rude.”

“You offend me by suggesting I might care.”

Gods. This man. Arrogance incarnate. But behind that venom-tipped tongue was a mind that gleamed like a blade in the dark—and it made your blood hum.

He circled you once before speaking again.

“You’re smaller than I thought,” he said, as though weighing a horse at market. “But there’s fire. I see it.”

You held his gaze. “Did you expect me to arrive trembling?”

He paused, then: “I expected you to arrive broken.”

The words hit harder than you expected.

You drew in a breath. “I am not broken.”

“Yet.”

You swallowed. “Tell me, is this your idea of a welcome?”

“I don’t recall asking for a bride,” he said simply. “But here you are. A peace offering from cowards who fear the fire.”

“I did not ask for this union either,” you replied, voice hardening. “But I will honor it.”

Something changed in his posture. His head tilted, expression unreadable.

“Will you?” he murmured.

You lifted your chin. “If it brings peace between our peoples, yes. If it eases the suffering of innocents, yes.”

A beat.

Then he laughed. Low and sharp. “That is—without question—the worst marriage proposal I have ever heard.”

You flushed. “What would you have me say?”

His eyes glittered.

“That you long for me,” he said quietly, mockingly. “That my face haunts your dreams. That you cannot live another breath without my flame keeping you warm at night.”

You froze.

The audacity. The sheer, maddening confidence—

But still, you forced your voice to remain calm. “Would that change anything?”

He blinked.

“What?”

“If I said it,” you continued, stepping closer, “If I told you I’d dreamed of this moment, of your eyes, your voice, your hands—if I said the silence of your letters haunted me more than your portraits ever did—would it change your heart?”

A pause.

Then, lower, rougher:

“…What would you have me say?” His voice was a rasp now. “That I love you? That I cannot live without you? That I have dreamed of this union since I was but a child, and have been too much of a coward to admit I wanted you?”

Your breath caught in your throat.

You had meant to provoke. You had not expected honesty. Not even a shred of it.

But something flickered in his gaze again—regret? Pain?

It vanished as quickly as it came.

He stepped back, expression stone once more.

“This union will go forward,” he said coldly. “You’ll be presented to the court at moonrise. Until then, you will be shown to your quarters. Do not wander. This palace is not kind to outsiders.”

You bowed, slow and deliberate. “As you command, Your Majesty.”

He turned his back to you.

But as you walked away, you could feel his eyes burning into you still.

Author’s note!

Helloo! This is my first official fanfic, so I’m both excited and kind of nervous to share it. I’ve had this story in my head for a while and finally decided to put it into words. Hopefully, it’s not as bad as I think it is.

Thanks so much for taking the time to read—whether you’re here out of curiosity, boredom, or genuine interest, I really appreciate it. Feedback is totally welcome (but please be kind—I’m in college for creative writing!).

Every time Ao Bing hid his cute horns I really just wanted to assure him he didn't have to. But I get it. They essentially mark him

I sometimes forget he’s literally only 3 years old. So it makes sense why his are so much smaller when his dad has been around 1000+ years. 

A one-shot idea I have is where a young Ao Bing just gets his horns gently and lovingly caressed by Ao Guang.

I feel like he’d find them to be so small and cute on him.

And he'd be looking forward to seeing him grow up and watching the horns get as big as his own.

Similar to how children measure their height as they age and grow taller.