Meditation

The road to the Zhu estate stretched long beneath Yang Lin's weary steps, dust clinging to the hem of his plain scholar's robe. His thin frame swayed slightly, as though each breath carried both hope and weakness. A week spent drowning in poems, essays, and lofty arguments on morality had left him hollow.

For now, he only wished to breathe in the life of the capital—just a brief month to find his footing before the examination results arrived. Fortune had been kind enough to grant him shelter, though not his own, in a generous acquaintance estate.

Yang Lin had been born in poverty, a fragile child in body and in fate, with only one companion to anchor him: his sister. The two of them, abandoned by fortune, had made family of each other. Yet even in his love, there lingered guilt. What kind of guardian was he, a scholar with weak lungs and trembling hands? Still, he prayed he might carve a better standing for her before his candle burned out.

The familiar gate loomed into sight, and he felt his chest loosen. Surely she would be waiting, her bright voice chasing away the weight of the day.

"Brother Yang!" Mr. Zhu a broad-shouldered man in his early thirties with the steady bearing of one used to responsibility called out warmly, his features softening with relief. "How fared your search for a physician?"

Yang Lin forced a thin smile and a polite bow, his eyes roaming restlessly. "I had little luck. Still… I've found a lead. Tomorrow, perhaps, will bring better news." His tone wavered, distracted, as his gaze swept the courtyard, searching for the one face that always greeted him first bounding toward him, teasing him for his usual lateness. Instead, only silence.

Mr. Zhu noticed. "That's promising. May fortune favor you."

"As do I," Yang Lin murmured, his voice absent, his brow furrowed. He hesitated, then asked, "Brother Zhu… has my sister, Wan'er, wander out today?"

The older man sighed softly, already expecting the question. "Yes. My lady tells me she overheard a conversation about Ji Xiang Si—the temple said to grant wishes. She left for it this afternoon, with two of my daughters. They should return soon."

Yang Lin stiffened. His chest tightened as he turned toward the empty street beyond the gate his thin fingers curling against his sleeve. "The temple? At this hour? Brother Zhu, the sun has nearly set."

Zhu waved a hand lightly. "They are good girls. I am sure they'll be fine."

Yang Lin's lips pressed into a thin line. "I… I am not comfortable with this. Once the sun sets, the road is no longer kind. Who knows what they might face?" His voice trembled with restrained urgency.

Mr. Zhu studied him. The younger man's face was pale, his eyes sharp with worry. At last, he gave a short nod. "You make a fair point. Let's not risk regret. We'll go and bring them home."

The two men left at once. Zhu, broad-shouldered and sure of stride, led the way through the winding paths of the city. Yang Lin followed close behind, his hands clenched in his sleeves, each uneven step betraying his unease. Little was spoken between them, save for Zhu's occasional directions. The younger man's anxious glances toward every shadow spoke louder than words.

By the time they reached the temple gates, the night was deep and the moon faint, its light stretching thin across the cracked stones.

Yang Lin slowed, his breath catching."Senior Brother Zhu…" His voice uncertain leaking dread. "Are you certain this is the place? The temple—" his eyes swept over the wild grass, the broken steps, the buildings sagging with age—"it looks abandoned."

Zhu's brow furrowed. Even he seemed startled. "I… do not know. My wives and daughters speak often of this place, but I've never stepped foot inside myself."

Yang stepped closer, his scholar's eyes sharp despite the gloom. "No one has lived here for years. At least five… perhaps a decade." His tone trembled between disbelief and fear.

Was it the shadows that played tricks, or had Zhu indeed led them true? Yang shook the thought away. There was no time to waste in doubt.

"Whether lived in or not," Yang Lin said, his voice rising with sudden urgency, "we must find the girls."

Yang Lin quickened his steps, climbing the worn stone his shoes scraping against stone, his heart thudding louder than his feet. He pushed through the doorway of the main hall, where darkness pressed thick and heavy. Only a frail wash of moonlight filtered through the cracks in the roof.

Then—suddenly—flames flickered to life. Candles, dozens of them, flared in sequence as though an unseen hand had commanded them. A golden glow spilled across the chamber, revealing what lay within.

At the center loomed a colossal statue, its bulk dominating the hall. It was a Buddha—or something meant to resemble one—but its features were eroded and strange, unfamiliar even to Yang Lin's modest studies. Its body gleamed faintly with the dull sheen of tarnished gold, yet its luster had long since faded, leaving it hollow and forsaken. Seated cross-legged on a lotus, three times the height of a man, it exuded a quiet, oppressive majesty.

Yang Lin's unease wavered for a moment, replaced by a scholar's curiosity. He stepped closer, studying the figure. The statue's right eye was gouged out, a jagged hollow where stone and gold had once been. From within that cavity, he glimpsed something impossible—an ember of golden light, pulsing faintly, as if alive.

He lokked at it entranced.

"Magnificent, is he not?"

The voice, aged and rough, echoed through the chamber, snapping Yang Lin back to himself.

Both he and Zhu turned sharply. In the shifting glow of the candles, a figure emerged—a monk, robed and stooped, the lines of age carved into his face. He must have been the one who had lit the candles.

"It is… impressive," Zhu admitted, his tone solemn. Yang Lin glanced at him, surprised by his sincerity. He had assumed Zhu would flatter out of politeness, but there was genuine awe in his voice. And perhaps it was warranted—though withered, the statue's sheer scale and the gold that clothed it spoke of immense wealth and effort.

Yang Lin inclined his head, though his thoughts tugged elsewhere. "Master, may I ask you something urgent?"

The monk's gaze settled on him, unblinking. "If wisdom is mine to share, I will not withhold it."

"Have you seen three young girls? They would have come to pray here, not long ago."

The monk did not answer immediately. Instead, he studied Yang Lin's face as though measuring the weight of his words. Then, finally:

"Girls come often. Men and women too. They seek what their hearts crave most. Their wishes… are written on the very walls."

Yang Lin's brow furrowed, frustration breaking through his fragile composure. He had asked for his sister—not parables. He opened his mouth to press further—

—and froze.

A laugh. Soft, lilting, distinctly feminine. It brushed his ear like a breeze.

He spun toward the eastern wall.

Murals stretched across the stone, vast and unbroken. Women adorned every span of it, painted with impossible vividness. Each figure radiated a beauty that seemed to breathe from the walls—eyes that sparkled, lips that curved with secrets, postures alive with grace. It was as if they could step forth at any moment.

His breath caught. Among them, one figure called to him: a young woman with almond-shaped eyes, lips like crushed cherries, her black hair tied into double buns adorned with a single peony petal. The vitality in her gaze was startling—alive, radiant.

Yang Lin's chest tightened. The world around him dulled: the flickering candles, Zhu's distant voice, even the monk's watchful presence—all faded. Only she remained.

Step by step, he drew closer, though it felt less a choice than a summons. Invisible threads tugged at him, pulling him to her as though his soul recognized something his mind could not.

He blinked.

And the temple was gone.

Sunlight bathed him. The air was bright, filled with the chanting of monks whose voices thrummed with unfathomable power. Before him stretched ranks of saffron-robed figures, led by a towering monk who bore the same features as the statue he had just seen.

Yang Lin stood at the edge of the assembly, dwarfed by its gravity. The chants resonated in his chest, pulling him forward. He might have stepped closer—

—but a hand seized his own.

Startled, he turned. It was her—the girl from the mural. Her almond eyes met his, warm and arresting, her black hair flowing like silk. She smiled, and in that instant he could not look away.

"Come," she whispered, tugging him urgently.

Before he could protest, she was running, pulling him with surprising strength. They darted through the chanting monks, unseen, untouchable, until they emerged into a quiet grove. A plum blossom tree bloomed nearby, its pale petals drifting like snow. A small house sat just beyond.

Panting, they stopped beneath the blossoms. Her hand was still in his, delicate yet firm.

Yang Lin caught his breath, confusion flooding back. "Miss… why were we running?"

Her lips curved into a playful smile. "Because you nearly ruined an enlightenment session. Those monks—" she gestured vaguely back toward the chanting—"they were invoking words older than the mountains. If you'd made one wrong move, well…" Her voice dropped into a teasing lilt. "It would have ended very badly."

Yang Lin blinked, confusion knotting his brow. "What?"

She laughed lightly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "I'm Mei. That's all you need to know for now. Come—would you like some tea?" She pointed toward the little house beneath the blossoms.

He opened his mouth to respond, but a sharp spasm tore through his chest. He staggered, clutching his side as violent coughs wracked his body.

His vision blurred. Warmth trickled over his lips—blood.

When Yang Lin opened his eyes, he was no longer beneath plum blossoms or within the chanting halls. He lay in his narrow bed, the lantern extinguished, the night silent save for his own shallow breaths.

Moonlight poured faintly through the lattice window, silvering the worn wood. Across from him, his sister Yang Wan slept in a chair, her small frame slumped in exhaustion. Her head tilted sideways, lips parted slightly, the stubborn crease on her brow still present even in dreams. She had watched over him again, as always.

It was a sight he knew too well: she watching over him until sleep conquered her. A pang tugged at his chest—not from sickness this time, but from guilt.

Perhaps it was nothing but a dream, he told himself. A strange vision conjured by weakness. He shook his head, gathered Wan'er gently in his frail arms, and carried her to her own bed before returning to collapse on his. His breath was shallow, his body trembling. Sleep reclaimed him.

But when dawn came, the dream walked into his waking world.

The girl from the mural.

She appeared in Mr. Zhu's household, introduced as a physician. More startling still—she claimed to have been the one who saved him the previous night.

Yang Lin's breath caught. Was what he had seen mere illusion, or had the gods truly placed her in his path?

Yang Wan, her eyes wide with excitement, explained eagerly. "Brother, she's disciple of the Medicine Saint himself. The one hidden away from the world!The very master you've been searching for!"

At those words, Yang Lin fell silent. For weeks, he had schemed of ways to secure a physician's mentorship for his sister—gifts, connections, the weight of his exam results. Yet now, standing before him, was proof that Heaven had its own plans. A female disciple. A possibility that had never even crossed his mind.

But was she real? Or a phantom that had stepped out from his fever?

Before his doubts could spiral further, she moved closer. Her robes brushed against the floor, her steps light. Yang Lin inhaled, catching the faint fragrance that seemed to follow her—sweet, calming, intoxicating.

Her slender fingers pressed against his wrist. "Your pulse is weak," she said softly, her voice like water over silk. "But… it is stable."

Yang Lin's gaze wandered to her face despite himself, his heart tightening as memory of the mural returned. She was too vivid, too real.

The physician turned then to Yang Wan, lowering her voice. Yang Lin could not catch the words, but he could guess—they spoke of his illness, his dwindling years. A familiar heaviness pressed against his chest, not from the sickness, but from longing. Longing for a life he would never hold: a wife at his side, two children at play. For an instant, the fantasy shaped itself with her face.

The taste of iron snapped him back. He coughed blood into his palm.

Both women rushed to his side, worry written across their faces. He raised a trembling hand. "I am all right," he insisted. "Wan'er… step outside for a moment. I need a word with the physician."

His sister resisted, confusion clouding her eyes. But at last, she obeyed, leaving him alone with the young woman.

Yang Lin drew a deep breath. His voice was calm, though his hands trembled. "I know my time is short. Do not waste your skill chasing my cure. Instead… I ask one thing only. Take my sister as your disciple."

The physician blinked, startled. "What?"

"The only reason I sought a physician was to fulfill her yearning. She longs to learn the art of healing."

Mei fell silent, studying him.

"I will give you whatever I can in return," Yang Lin pressed. "Though my hands are empty, I will find a way."

She let out a quiet breath. "Do you not see? Her yearning perhaps is not for herself, but for you. To heal you."

Yang Lin rose shakily to his feet, pacing as if words alone could keep him upright. His voice rose, filled with a desperate brilliance.

Spring wind glides, yet I lie in shadows,
My chest bound fast by lingering clouds.
The world is vast, the scholar's road untraveled,
Books pile high, their pages call in vain.

I am but a youth, yet marrow feels withered,
Others chase honors while I cough at dawn.
How shall I build a hall for sons and daughters,
When even a sparrow's nest eludes my hand?

River flows east, unheeding of frailty,
Mountains stand firm while flesh betrays.
If Heaven grants me but one clear season,
Let ink and heart together blaze.

Yet if my vessel must sink too early,
I entrust the oar to my sister's hand.
She heals for me, but her art is boundless,
Through her, my hope shall walk the earth.

His voice cracked on the last line. Silence fell heavy.

The physician's eyes lingered on him, reading the sorrow hidden behind his trembling smile. In his words, she had felt the raw ache of a soul tethered to the world by duty and love, even as his body slipped from it. He had already made peace with death—but not with leaving his sister helpless.

At last she spoke. Her tone was quiet, but resolute. "I understand. I will think on it." She turned, walking toward the door. At the threshold she paused, glancing back. "I will return tomorrow."

"Wait," Yang Lin called, his voice trembling. "Your name. Tell me your name."

Her lips curved faintly. "Mei."

The name echoed through him like a bell. Mei. Just as in his dream. Was this fate? Or a divine jest?

That night, he lay awake long after Yang Wan returned to tend him, his mind circling endlessly around that name, that face, that presence he could only liken to a fairy descended to earth.

The next morning, the physician returned to Yang Lin's chamber. She placed her fingers gently against his wrist, her brows furrowing ever so slightly as she listened to the sluggish pulse.

"He is stable for now," she murmured, almost to herself. "But the thread of life is still fragile… like a candle in the wind."

Yang Lin's lips curved faintly. Even on the edge of life, his voice held a quiet strength."Then let me borrow your flame, Physician Mei. A candle may flicker, but if I can burn long enough to leave behind a verse, I will not regret it."

With a trembling hand, he reached for the brush and ink beside his bed. Before she could stop him, he scrawled another poem—lines steeped in melancholy beauty, marveling at the transience of existence.

For a long while, Mei said nothing. Her eyes, clear as mountain springs, softened. At last she sighed and tucked the poem away carefully, as though it were something precious.

"Very well," she said at last. "I will take Yang Wan as my disciple. But only if you promise me this—" Her gaze pinned him with unexpected force. "Promise me you will not give up. Live. Live, even if it is for her."

In the days that followed, Mei returned not only as a healer but also as a teacher. Each visit brought a different welcome from Yang Lin. Like for example, the next day, Physician Mei returned, Yang Lin was waiting—not just in bed, but with the room arranged. Petals were scattered across the floor in patterns of flowing rivers and rising mountains, a fragile echo of the landscapes he longed to see.

When Mei entered, her brow furrowed. "This… what is the purpose of this?"

Yang Lin gave a faint smile. "To greet my physician with beauty, so she does not waste her efforts on someone unworthy."

She shook her head, though her eyes lingered a little longer than she wished. "Frivolous," she muttered, yet she did not step around the petals, but over them carefully.

On her next visit, he tried something else. A painting rested on a wooden stand beside his bed—her likeness, rendered with trembling brushstrokes but painstaking care. The lines were not perfect, but the devotion within them was unmistakable.

Mei paused, startled. "You… drew me?"

"Every time you leave, I fear I dreamed you," Yang Lin admitted, his voice hoarse. "So I paint, to remind myself you are real."

She looked at the portrait for a long time before sighing, her composure cracking for just a heartbeat. "Your energy is wasted on such things. You should rest."

And then came the poems. Scrolls of verses filled with yearning, with imagery of stars, rivers, and blossoms—yet all circling back to her. He would press them into her hands with trembling fingers, watching for any shift in her expression as she read.

She accepted them silently, her face unreadable.

But it was not until one evening, when he placed before her a tray of warm buns and delicate pastries, that her composure faltered completely.

At first she gave the same protest. "You think recovery is found in flour and sugar? You are ridiculous." Yet her gaze lingered on the cakes, and when he urged her to take just one, she relented.

The first bite made her eyes widen. She quickly tried to mask her reaction, but Yang Lin caught it—the way her lips curved, the faint hum of contentment in her throat.

He laughed softly. "So, it is not poems or petals that please you most, but sweetness."

She gave him a sharp look, cheeks faintly colored. "Do not be presumptuous. I only… appreciate good craftsmanship." Still, she reached for another, and another.

From that day, his offerings shifted. Flowers and paintings remained, but now they were always accompanied by trays of confections, fragrant dumplings, roasted meats glazed with honey. And he noticed how she lingered longer, how the sternness in her gaze softened each time taste lit a spark of joy within her.

It was then Yang Lin knew—her heart might be locked behind many walls, but food was the key that gently, irresistibly, loosened them.

Mei's mask finally broke. Their conversations stretched long into the evenings.

He told her of his past: a child abandoned, raised by Wan'er's father, promising to guard his sister's future even as his own body failed. She, in turn, revealed her scars: a childhood sold to a wealthy house, years spent as a shield for another, her escape in the dead of night, and her salvation under the Medicine Sage, who had made her his last disciple.

The more Yang Lin listened, the deeper his yearning grew. She was not only healer, not only beauty—she was strength carved from suffering, light shaped from shadows.

He continued to sketch her likeness obsessively, wrote poems that failed to capture her, prayed that Heaven might grant him time enough to confess his heart.

Yet always, beneath the tenderness, lingered one truth: his body was crumbling. And he did not know whether Mei's heart stirred for him—or only for the pity of a dying man.

A month passed in a blur of ink and medicine. Yang Lin's health improved under Mei's care, and when the imperial examination results arrived, his name shone bright upon the golden list. Court awaited him.

But fate, ever cruel, struck before he could take his first step into the palace halls. His sickness surged back with a vengeance, dragging him into a coma so deep that even Wan'er's cries could not reach him.

Mei's hands trembled as she watched his shallow breaths. Her heart, once cautious, now ached with fear. She had grown too accustomed to his presence—his poems, his earnest eyes, the quiet way he smiled even when coughing blood. The thought of his silence becoming permanent was unbearable.

"I may have a way," she whispered to Wan'er. "The Returning Spring Essence Method. But the cost…"

Wan'er's eyes, wide and wet, clutched at her sleeve. "Please! Save my brother!"

Mei did not hesitate further. Silver needles flashed, piercing vital points across Yang Lin's frail body. Her palms pressed against him, and energy surged—warm, luminous, otherworldly. The chamber filled with an aura Wan'er could not name, the air heavy with the scent of blossoms though none were near.

Yang Lin stirred. His lips parted, a ragged breath drawn in. His eyes opened, and life, once thought extinguished, returned.

But Mei sagged, her own face pale as frost, sweat beading her brow. She pressed a scroll of prescriptions into Wan'er's hand. "Boil these herbs. He will live." Her gaze lingered on Yang Lin for one long, unreadable moment—then she turned and walked out of Zhu's estate.

She never returned.

Yang Lin soon recovered enough to leave Zhu's estate. With his name now spoken in court, his rise began in earnest. His sharp mind and earnest heart won him the favor of superiors, and step by step, he carved a place among the capital's officials.

But in quiet moments, his thoughts never strayed far from Mei. He searched, sent letters to his network, asked after her until finally, after months of persistence, he found her again.

Standing before her, he spoke without hesitation: "Marry me."

At first, Mei refused, her lips firm, her gaze downcast. Her identity shackled her. "I am not fit for such a life. You should not waste your future on me."

But Yang Lin pressed on, returning day after day with the same plea, not with youthful impatience, but with great devotion. Slowly, her walls crumbled. At last, she whispered her answer, and their wedding followed soon after.

Together they built a home. The emperor granted Yang Lin an estate. Mei and Wan'er opened a clinic, their hands healing rich and poor alike. A son was born, and Mei's belly soon swelled with another child. For a time, the world seemed merciful at last.

One afternoon, he walked the familiar streets toward the clinic, his thoughts drifting. A new marriage prospect had been presented for Yang Wan. This one was promising—a young man from a good family, moral and hardworking. Surely his sister could no longer refuse? He resolved to convince her today.

The sun was bright overhead when he left court. Yet midway, the sky darkened. Clouds gathered with unnatural speed. A low rumble of thunder shook the ground.

A chill crawled up his spine. "This… feels familiar." His mind flashed to his wedding day, when storm clouds had also gathered, though he had brushed it aside then.

He forced the unease down and pressed on.

When he reached the clinic, his body tensed. The air was wrong. The familiar fragrance of herbs was faint, smothered by the iron tang of blood.

He stepped inside.

Blood. Streaked across the floorboards, smeared on the shelves.

"Wan'er? Mei?" His voice broke as he followed the crimson trail. It led to the far wall. He froze, remembering Mei once showing him a secret passage—an escape route should enemies strike.

Hands trembling, he fumbled among the medicine jars until a hidden mechanism clicked. The wall shifted open. Darkness yawned before him.

He plunged in. The passage was narrow, oppressive, lit only by the faintest glow ahead. He stumbled toward it, his heart pounding.

At last, he emerged—into the ruined temple hall.

On the floor lay his son. Still. Pale. Cold. Blood pooled beneath his tiny body.

Yang Lin staggered forward, fell to his knees, arms scooping up the lifeless child. His cries ripped through the chamber, raw and broken. "My son! My son!" He clutched him to his chest, rocking as if warmth might return if he only held him tighter.

A shrill scream tore through his grief. He lifted his gaze—

—and saw them.

On opposite sides of the hall stood his wife and his sister, both bloodied. Mei staggered, a blade buried deep in her chest. Yang Wan stood frozen, her hand still gripping the weapon's hilt. Mei's knees gave way, her eyes dimming as she collapsed.

Yang Lin's world shattered.

"No…" He clutched Mei's fading body, his tears soaking her robes. Rage and despair twisted his face as his gaze rose to his sister.

"Why?" His voice was ice, laced with anguish.

Yang Wan's lips trembled. Tears welled, spilling down her cheeks. "I… I'm sorry, Brother."

The betrayal crashed over him. Something primal broke loose. He surged forward, his hand seizing her throat, squeezing. Her coughs echoed, her face paling, but she did not resist. She only stared at him through tears, her body limp beneath his fury.

"I trusted you!" His voice cracked as his grip tightened.

But then… a memory struck. His adoptive father's words. His promise to protect her.

His grip faltered. Slowly, with shaking hands, he let go.

But even as his hands fell away, Yang Wan coughed violently, clutching her throat. Yet before Yang Lin could speak, her body convulsed. Her feet lifted from the ground, suspended by some unseen force.

Her voice came broken, yet soft: "I'm sorry, ge… I love you."

Her neck snapped with a sickening crack.

Her body fell lifeless to the ground.

Yang Lin stood rooted, his wife's body in his arms, his sister's corpse at his feet, and his son's blood staining the temple floor.

The storm outside thundered, as if Heaven itself mourned with him.

The air grew crushing, as though a mountain pressed down from all directions. Each breath Yang Lin drew was thinner than the last, the very air squeezed from his lungs.

From the shadows, a towering figure emerged—bulky, clad in iron plates that gleamed faintly with ancient inscriptions. Not a single inch of flesh was visible; even his face was hidden behind a grim, impassive helm.

"You are fortunate."

The man's voice rang like a great bronze bell struck in a cavern—deep, heavy, resonant. The sound made Yang Lin's bones quake. His knees buckled, sweat beading on his brow as his body nearly collapsed under the oppressive weight of the words.

"You lured a celestial into two grave sins," the armored giant continued. His tone was neither cruel nor kind—merely a judgment that brooked no denial. "She defied the natural order… for you. But now that her thread is severed, the balance is restored. You should thank her."

He raised a gauntleted hand and pointed.

Yang Lin's eyes followed the gesture, landing on his sister's lifeless body. The sight hollowed him further. His lips trembled, but no words escaped.

The armored man turned without pause, approaching Mei's blood-stained form. With surprising gentleness, he lifted her body into his arms.

Golden light surged from him, brilliant and pure, filling the hall until it was hard to keep one's eyes open. His voice thundered one last time:

"Never entangle with a celestial again. If you do… your very existence will be forfeit."

Then, like the flare of a divine star, he vanished—Mei's body with him.

Yang Lin staggered to his feet, dizzy, desperate. He turned back toward where his son had lain, toward the blood that had painted the floor. Nothing.

His sister's body—gone.

The crimson trails—gone.

Even Mei's last breath—gone.

It was as if the horror had been scrubbed from reality.

The temple was silent, whole.

He blinked. The murals on the eastern wall shifted. The woman who had once enchanted him was gone, replaced by another face, another unfathomable beauty eyes profound as the sea, gazed down at him, smiling faintly from painted stone.

His gaze drifted to the Buddha statue. Once cracked, weathered, missing an eye… now restored. It gleamed as if freshly cast, whole and immaculate. The empty socket was filled, no trace of ruin left behind.

"What is this…" Yang Lin's voice cracked. His chest heaved as he stumbled backward, trying to grasp the shifting world.

And then—

A voice reverberated, not from outside, but from the marrow of his bones.

"Have you learned your lesson?"

The hall fractured, shattering like glass. Darkness consumed all.

Within it, a lone boy appeared—his skin radiant, his eyes ancient though his face was young. He hovered effortlessly, glowing like a star against the void.

"Have you learned your first lesson, Chen Xiao?" the boy asked, his voice calm yet filled with immeasurable weight.

The name struck him like lightning. Memory surged—Yang Lin's struggles, joys, betrayals—all of it unraveling into threads. The illusion fell away.

He was not Yang Lin. He was Chen Xiao.

His breath steadied as he looked down. In his lap lay a sutra, its page glowing with two characters: Right View. The words pulsed as if alive, pressing into his heart.

Chen Xiao bowed his head. "Yes. Even if mortal life is veiled in suffering, I accept it. To endure, to see clearly—that is my path."

The words rang true. His eyes opened.

And the world was different.

The dim chamber flickered into sight—yet layered atop it were threads of aura, veils of spirit, the whisper of qi. His vision pierced the unseen.

From the corner, a figure lingered. A woman—not quite visible, yet not absent either. Her body blurred, ephemeral, yet her presence pulled at his chest. Her form shimmered like smoke and moonlight, her presence undeniable though her body was formless. She lingered before him, silent.

Chen Xiao's hand lifted instinctively, reaching toward her. But before his fingers could brush the outline of her being—

A surge of qi ripped through the horizon. Violent, sharp, irresistible.

Both he and the spectral woman turned, drawn by the disturbance.

They rushed toward it.

The scene that unfolded froze Chen Xiao's blood.

Amid a field of snow and ice stood Shen Yueqing, her beauty twisted with cold stillness. Frost spiraled from her like a living storm. Her figure stood amidst a chaos of blood and snow, her expression serene as death. Women screamed as they fell around her. At the center of the carnage—Chen Yichen, his brother, gasped as her hand pierced clean through his chest. His body convulsed, eyes wide with disbelief blood blossoming across the frozen ground.

The image was too familiar—too much like Yang Wan driving her blade into Mei.

"No!" Chen Xiao's voice cracked as he stumbled forward.

Shen Yueqing's gaze snapped toward him. Her eyes glimmered with cruelty. Without hesitation, she struck.

Pain erupted as her power tore through him, her icy palm piercing into his chest—this time on the right side.

Cold spread instantly through his veins, drowning his strength. His knees buckled, vision blurring as snow swallowed the world.

The last thing he saw was Shen Yueqing's figure, tall and terrible amidst the blizzard, before darkness devoured him whole.