On the march, dust billowed.

Mo Hua rode the new barbarian horse trained for him by the Chuiyun Tribe, and Dan Zhu also rode a horse, following behind him.

All the way, Dan Zhu couldn’t help but look at Mo Hua’s back, deep in thought. After some time, Dan Zhu finally couldn’t help but speak:

“Xiansheng…”

Snow fell like catkins, silently covering every ravine of Zhongnan Mountain. The short flute trembled slightly in the blind child’s hands, as if alive, responding to the softest corner of the youth’s heart. The wisp of melody, as delicate as a spider’s silk, did not come from his lips, but rather rippled from the depths of his heart, spreading out in circles, hitting the roof beams, the stove fire, the pine branches outside the window, even piercing through the wind and snow, reaching the Wuyin Cliff of Nanling thousands of *li* away.

In the Shouwang Hall, the giant brush suddenly bowed its head, and seven threads of light trembled simultaneously, as if sensing something. The ink bamboo forest rustled, and written fish leaped from the stream, tracing an arc in the air, forming two characters: “Lái le” (Here).

At the same time, on the top floor of the Cangshu Ge in Guiming Academy, *Xin Jiyuan Zhi* (Annals of the New Era) turned another page. The page that read “I am no longer afraid” began to yellow and curl at the edges, and the ink slowly spread, extending into new sentences:

“They are starting to hear.”

“Not with their ears, but with their souls recognizing each other.”

The young lecturer on the podium gazed at the blind child, who was playing the flute with his eyes closed, and a deep ripple flashed in his eyes. He remembered that when he was six, he had also woken up holding the flute from his dream, humming an out-of-tune “Gui Qu Lai” (Returning Home), astonishing his grandparents into silence for a long time. At that time, he did not yet know that the three words “Lún dào nǐ le” (It’s your turn) were not just a dream murmur, but an edict of inheritance, a relay spanning three hundred years, quietly continuing in him.

Now, he stood at the boundary of light and darkness, teaching a group of children who could not see the world how to “see” longevity with their hearts.

“Lǎoshī,” another blind child timidly began, “If I’ve never heard a sound, then… will my heart sing?”

The lecturer was silent for a moment, then gently squatted down and placed his hand over the child’s chest. “Your heartbeat is the first song,” he said. “As long as it’s still beating, you haven’t been abandoned by fate. And as long as you still ask ‘Can I?’, it means you are still alive and unwilling to accept your destiny.”

As his words fell, a sudden gust of wind swept through the trees outside the house, swirling snowflakes and forming a blurred human silhouette at the window. It stayed only for a moment before dispersing into the cold snow. But in that instant, everyone, including the blind children, seemed to hear a sigh, extremely distant yet extremely close, like relief and also like a solemn instruction.

This was not an illusion.

At the bottom of the Huangquan Well, a black flute floated above the ink spring, its entire body glowing faintly, as if a living creature breathing. The reflections on the well walls no longer merely replayed past lives, but instead showed the inner whispers of thousands of people across the land at that very moment: a farmer picked up a brush to write, “I want to learn to read”; an old woman burned her book of fate before her deceased husband’s spirit tablet, whispering, “This time, let me choose the path for you”; a border general folded a family letter into a paper kite and released it, the three characters at the end of the letter starkly visible: “Wǒ guī lái” (I will return).

These thoughts, like sparks, ascended along the ink threads and converged into the giant brush in the Shouwang Hall. The brush tip trembled slightly, and a drop of thick ink fell into the heart of the well. Instantly, the entire well vibrated violently, the black spring water churned as if boiling, and from it rose a phantom—the already ruined main hall of the Duoyun Sect, now entangled with vines, its inscriptions eroded, its doors wide open, empty.

Wind and sand swept through. On a stone platform within the hall, a tattered volume lay silently, its cover charred, but four characters faintly discernible: “*Ming Chang Juan Zhong*” (The End of the Scroll of Longevity).

No one went to retrieve it. And no one dared.

Because everyone knew that the true *Ming Chang Juan* was no longer on paper, but in the choices written by the hands of millions of ordinary people. The cries of “Wǒ yuàn” (I wish), “Wǒ yào” (I will), “Wǒ bù zài” (I no longer) were the laws of the new era, the foundation of the path to longevity.

On this very night, the twelfth star descended again, its pillar of light three-tenths brighter than usual, piercing directly through the Wuzi Stele of Guiming Academy. New text appeared on the stele’s surface, not carved by stars or by human hands, but condensed from the thoughts of a hundred thousand students:

“If those who hold the brush are many, then fate is not controlled by Heaven.”

“If those who speak are many, then the Way becomes a river.”

“As long as a human heart is not dead, longevity is imperishable.”

The next morning, the academy welcomed its one hundred and first “Wanyuan Ji” (Festival of Ten Thousand Wishes). Unlike previous years when wishes were burned, this time, a hundred thousand students gathered in the square, each holding a piece of paper and ink, writing in silence. They no longer prayed for divine protection, nor did they question their destiny; they simply wrote down the truest voices of their hearts:

“I want to be an honest official.”

“I want my daughter to go to school.”

“I don’t want to live by seizing others’ fortune anymore.”

“I want to forgive the person who once betrayed me.”

“I want… to live again.”

As the last stroke was completed, a hundred thousand pieces of paper simultaneously ascended into the sky, fluttering like white butterflies, converging into a vast cloud of paper. They circled above the academy, gradually merging, transforming into a white crane with a wingspan of a thousand *zhang*, its wings woven from characters, its eyes like torches, its cry silent yet striking the soul directly.

The white crane flapped its wings and flew south, soaring over the still-burning battlefields of the Northern Region, sprinkling a shower of ink rain. Soldiers put down their swords and cried, burying their faces in their hands. It flew over famine-stricken lands, dropping countless paper leaves. Children picked them up to find they were long-lost agricultural diagrams. Passing over the ruins of the former altar of fate, the crane let out a cry, and tender shoots sprouted from beneath the scorched earth, blossoming into ink-colored flowers, their petals revealing the last wishes of those long gone.

Finally, the white crane descended upon Wuyin Cliff, hovering before the Shouwang Hall. It did not land, but suddenly exploded, transforming into countless specks of light that all surged into the giant brush. The brush roared, and the seven threads of light suddenly surged, piercing through heaven and earth, connecting the hands of all those who were writing across the Five Continents and Four Seas.

At that moment, regardless of wealth or status, whether literate or not, anyone who wished to change their destiny felt a warmth in their fingertips—as if an invisible brush was gently settling into their palm.

In the great desert of the Western Regions, by the Huangquan Well.

The woman in white, who appeared every Qingming Festival, arrived early today. She stood by the well, the wind and sand unable to conceal the loneliness and resilience in her brows. She slowly knelt down, took an unsent letter from her bosom, and gently dropped it into the well. As soon as the paper touched the ink spring, it instantly dissolved, transforming into a line of blood-colored characters that floated on the water’s surface:

“Mo Gui, I have waited for you for three hundred years.”

“I know you have scattered into stardust, but I still want to tell you—”

“This world, finally, is a little better, just as you said.”

As her words fell, a dull heartbeat sounded from the bottom of the well, clearer than any time before. Immediately after, the black flute slowly rotated, and from its holes, a crystalline tear flowed out, falling into the water and stirring up a strange ripple. Where the ripple spread, the reflections no longer showed the past, but fragments of the future:

A young girl stood at the former site of the Duoyun Sect, a brush in her hand, with a hundred students behind her chanting in unison: “Mìng zì wǒ lì!” (My fate, I create!)

A chain broke, and “Mingsuo Dao” (Fate Lock Island), which had locked countless destinies, completely collapsed and sank into the sea.

A green light rose from Guiming Academy, piercing the sky and resonating with the twelfth star, forming a bridge of light spanning heaven and earth.

And at the end of the bridge, a figure in a green robe could be vaguely seen, standing with hands behind his back, a smile on his lips, as if waiting for someone’s arrival.

The scene cut abruptly.

By the well, the woman in white slowly rose and turned to leave. Her footprints were still erased by the wind and sand, but a wisp of her hair was quietly lifted by the ink spring and wrapped around the black flute, like a vow.

Days later, a strange phenomenon occurred in Nanling. The entire Wuyin Cliff glowed at night, and the ink bamboo on the rocks collectively bloomed. The flowers were indigo blue and emitted a faint fragrance. Herb gatherers discovered that those who inhaled this fragrance could temporarily recover lost memories, and even dream of unfinished matters from their previous lives.

Moreover, woodcutters claimed to have seen an old woman with several young girls walking in the mountains under the moonlight. Although they conversed silently, the drawing papers in their hands fluttered in the wind, and the characters appearing on them automatically strung together into a poem:

“The mute are not without words, the voice of the heart is an essay.”

“The blind are not without sight, there is a homeland in dreams.”

“With the stroke of a brush, wind and rain are stirred; why wait for the light of day?”

This poem spread across the Five Continents overnight and was carved onto the walls of schools everywhere. People began to understand that “longevity” was not the immortality of the body, but the imperishability of the spirit; and “zhen wen chang sheng” (inquiring about longevity through formation) was not asking heaven and earth about the span of life, but rather building a city to resist the oppression of fate, with the human heart as its core and will as its foundation.

This city had no walls, yet it was indestructible; it had no emperor, yet everyone was their own master.

One day, Guiming Academy received an anonymous letter. The paper was rough, the handwriting shaky, clearly written by a beginner. The content was just one sentence:

“I also want to write a book, called *Wǒ Bú Shì Mìngshū Shàng Xiě De Nà Ge Rén*” (I Am Not The Person Written In The Book of Fate).

After reading it, the dean made no annotations, only instructed it to be included in the “Shouwang Diancang” (Watchtower Collection), numbered 100001.

On the same day, the academy announced the establishment of the “Minjian Zhuzuo Jiang” (Commoner’s Literary Award), encouraging ordinary people to record their lives. Regardless of social status, anyone who sincerely wrote could be selected for the collection. The news spread, shaking the world. Countless common people picked up their brushes to write essays, some recording hardships, some narrating dreams, some repenting the past, some envisioning the future.

Within ten years, the collection館 added over a million volumes. Among the most touching was *Zaotai Bian De Sanshi Nian* (Thirty Years by the Kitchen Stove), dictated by a blind old woman and penned by her grandson. The book read:

“My whole life, I was told I ‘cursed my husband and son.’ I lost my husband at seventeen, my son at thirty. My clan wanted to bury me alive to sacrifice to the well. But I didn’t die. I fled to the mountains, washed clothes and cooked for others, saving copper coins to send a neighbor girl to school. She later became a teacher and returned to teach all the children in the village to read. That day, I sat in the sunlight and heard all the village children chant in unison: ‘Wǒ xuǎn, wǒ yuàn, wǒ zuòzhǔ’ (I choose, I wish, I decide).

I cried. It turned out I wasn’t a harbinger of disaster; I was a spark.”

This book was translated into eighty-one dialects and widely circulated. It is said that whenever someone read to the end, their stove fire would inexplicably become stronger, burning brightly even with damp firewood.

And in this wave of “everyone holding a brush,” the most astonishing change occurred in the once most stubborn families of fate interpreters.

The Jiang clan of Donghai, who had worshipped the books of fate for generations, had elders who could use blood as a guide to glimpse others’ destinies. For a thousand years, they had judged countless people to be “prematurely deceased,” “solitary,” or “forever unsuccessful,” thereby manipulating court affairs and trading destinies. However, on a certain winter solstice, the Jiang ancestral hall was suddenly struck by lightning, and all ninety-nine volumes of the books of fate were incinerated.

Chaos ensued in the clan, and the elders denounced it as divine punishment. But the next morning, the clan leader’s only daughter publicly tore up her family’s fate judgment documents, announced her withdrawal from fate-reading practices, and instead founded a girls’ school. She declared to the entire clan:

“You said I was destined for an early death, but here I stand, living more lucidly than anyone.”

“You said I would never marry, but the person I love is waiting for me outside the door.”

“If the books of fate are inaccurate, then by what right do they control us?”

“From now on, the descendants of the Jiang family will only learn to write, not to inquire about fate!”

Her words caused a sensation throughout the world. Within three days, seventy-two families who had been oppressed by the Jiang clan’s fate judgments jointly appealed, demanding the destruction of all private fate records. The imperial court, pressured by public sentiment, finally issued the “Jìn Mìnglìng” (Prohibition of Fate Records): apart from official archives at Guiming Academy, possession of private books of fate was considered a crime against heaven.

Thus, the thousand-year-old system of fate books formally disintegrated.

However, the path to freedom was never smooth.

Certain remnant forces secretly gathered, calling themselves the “Shoujiu Meng” (Old Guard Alliance), lurking between the jianghu and the court. They did not openly oppose Guiming Academy, but secretly spread rumors, claiming that “everyone holding a brush” was actually meant to delude people and would lead to widespread chaos. Even more, some forged “Jia Yuan Lu” (False Wish Records), fabricating false wishes to confuse the public and attempting to erode popular trust.

An invisible war quietly began, fought with words.

Facing the challenge, Guiming Academy did not send troops to suppress, nor did it prohibit speech. The dean gathered a hundred thousand students and launched the “Zhensheng Xingdong” (True Voice Campaign), encouraging people to listen to and witness each other. Whenever someone wrote a wish, another person would step forward to witness and sign for them.

Thus, a strange sight appeared in the streets and alleys: one person wrote, “I want to open a teahouse,” and immediately someone came forward to put their handprint: “I will be the first customer”; a girl wrote, “I want to learn medicine,” and an old doctor voluntarily took her as an apprentice: “I will teach you”; an old soldier wrote, “I want to be buried in my hometown,” and strangers volunteered to carry his coffin with him: “I will accompany you home.”

These “Jianzhen Shu” (Witness Certificates) were posted on town bulletin boards, layer upon layer, as dense as a spiderweb, eventually forming a “Wanren Nuo Qiang” (Wall of Ten Thousand Promises) that stood in the center of the capital. Wind and rain could not erode it, fire and knives could not destroy it. Legend has it that if a lie approached this wall, red characters of warning would automatically appear on its surface.

With public sentiment aligned, heretical doctrines naturally crumbled.

Members of the “Shoujiu Meng” successively defected, exposing the masterminds. It was ultimately revealed that their leader was the last surviving elder of the Duoyun Sect, hidden in the extreme northern ice plains, attempting to rebuild the order of fate-power by manipulating dozens of literati through puppetry.

Guiming Academy sent students to suppress them, but without a single soldier, only carrying a hundred thousand copies of *Minsheng Lu* (Records of the People’s Voice). They built temporary schools in the ice plains, teaching the frozen residents to read and write. In just three years, the formerly ignorant and isolated tribes produced their first local poets, historians, and judges.

When the elder was finally captured, he clutched a broken fate-brush in his hand, murmuring, “I don’t understand… why words could defeat fate?”

A female student squatted down and calmly replied, “Because what you wrote were rules that bound people. And what we write is the courage that allows people to stand up.”

Hearing this, the elder laughed uproariously, then burst into uncontrollable tears, finally closing his eyes in regret.

After the war subsided, that ice plain was named “Qizhi Zhou” (Continent of Enlightenment). Every spring, children would write on the snow with charcoal sticks, and the first sentence was always: “I am not a slave of destiny.”

Time flew, and another thirty years passed.

Guiming Academy welcomed its one hundred and thirtieth entrance ceremony. In the square, a new batch of students stood in formation, the youngest only five years old, the oldest already past sixty. They came from all corners of the land: former fate-slaves, former death row inmates, former puppet theater performers, and even former disciples of the Duoyun Sect.

The dean slowly ascended the stage, no longer asking about aspirations, but only handing out a brush.

Everyone who received a brush would write three characters on the roster: “Wǒ yuànyì” (I am willing).

On the night the ceremony concluded, the sky split open again, and starlight condensed into an ancient maxim that lingered for a long time:

“Longevity is not in the heavens, but at the tip of the human pen.”

And in the small house at the foot of Zhongnan Mountain, the lecturer who had once received the black flute was now a white-haired old man. He sat by the fire, teaching his last student—a girl born deaf and mute—to “hear” the flute music through sign language.

He held her hand and placed it on his chest, letting her feel the rhythm of his heartbeat.

“This is ‘Gui Qu Lai’,” he said. “You can hear it without your ears.”

Tears welled in the girl’s eyes, and she tremblingly raised her right hand, drawing an arc in the air, as if holding an invisible flute.

At that very moment, the snowflakes outside the window suddenly froze in mid-air, the wind ceased, the fire quieted, and heaven and earth held their breath.

At the bottom of the distant Huangquan Well, the black flute gently vibrated, emitting its first clear note in a thousand years.

It was not to summon anyone, nor to announce anything.

It was merely to respond—

To that brush that was never truly lost, to that song that always whispered deep in human hearts, and to that vow that traversed life and death, piercing through time and space:

“It continues.”