Years, like shimmering threads of light, had been spun through the loom of time. Five more harvests had come and gone, painting the world in vibrant hues of emerald and gold, only to surrender once more to the stark, frozen embrace of winter.

This year, winter’s icy tendrils reached out with unusual haste. Before the final leaves had even relinquished their hold on gnarled branches, a heavy blanket of snow descended, encasing the stubborn foliage in a crystalline prison. A mournful gust of wind swept through the village, sending the brittle leaves and swirling snowflakes spiraling downwards in a silent, sorrowful dance.

Like the fleeting span of a mortal life, they clung to existence with all their might, yearning to remain. Yet, when the icy breath of winter blew, they were left with no choice but to surrender to the wind’s relentless will.

In these past five years, three old souls had departed from the village, their stories fading into the mists of memory. But in their place, three new lives had blossomed, tiny sparks of hope igniting in the heart of winter.

The great wheel of existence, unnoticed by most, continued its ceaseless turning.

Sun Tai, his face etched with the wisdom of ages, had grown even more frail. His humble dwelling stood beside that of Wang Lin, shrouded in an aura of twilight, much like a sage who had glimpsed the threads of fate. He cared little for the comforts of his room, preferring instead to sit in his courtyard, gazing at the heavens, his memories of past glories his sole companions.

Wang Ping, now ten years of age, was slight of frame, appearing more like a child of seven or eight. Yet, the pallor that had haunted his young face five years prior had given way to a delicate flush of color.

Even at such a tender age, Wang Ping possessed a captivating beauty. The villagers adored the gentle, handsome boy, the son of the village’s carpenter. Among his playmates, many a young maiden harbored a secret fondness for him.

The morning’s heavy snowfall intensified the chill in the air. Sun Tai sat serenely in his courtyard, bundled in a thick fur coat, gazing at the sky with a faraway look in his eyes, lost in contemplation of days long past.

Beside him, Wang Ping, similarly swathed in thick layers of cotton, stared at the heavens, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow.

“Ping’er, why are you not with your father? What brings you to this old man’s doorstep?” Sun Tai asked gently, his heart warming at the sight of the boy. Had Wang Lin not insisted that his son would not follow the path of cultivation, Sun Tai would have eagerly imparted all his knowledge to the child.

“I don’t want to go back,” Wang Ping pouted, his lower lip trembling slightly. “Auntie Zhang is visiting again.”

Sun Tai chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You worry too much, child. Your father will not agree.”

“Maybe not,” Wang Ping retorted, counting on his fingers. “Grandfather Sun, just look! Auntie Zhang has visited twelve times in the last three years! Twelve times! So many of the village sisters, even A’E, all seem to fancy my father!”

Sun Tai smiled, casting a glance towards the edge of the courtyard. “Don’t trouble yourself with your father’s affairs, Ping’er. Look, young Er’ya of the Zhou family seems to be looking for you.”

Wang Ping’s eyes widened in surprise. He looked towards the courtyard entrance and saw a small girl, no more than seven or eight years of age, standing on the snow-covered ground, her cheeks flushed red as she tentatively approached.

“Wang Ping, are you there?” Her clear voice rang out across the courtyard.

Wang Ping frowned and called back in a loud voice, “I’m not here! Go away!” With that, he stormed out of the courtyard, ignoring the girl with the tear-filled eyes, and ran towards his own home.

Sun Tai chuckled, his heart overflowing with affection.

Meanwhile, within his own home, Wang Lin wore a frown upon his face, his gaze fixed on a young woman who stood before him, her words tumbling forth in a torrent. A wry smile played upon his lips.

In the last five years, Wang Lin had aged visibly. As he had done during his mortal trials, his outward appearance had subtly shifted to avoid attracting unwanted attention. He had gradually relinquished his youthful vigor, entering the realm of middle age. Perhaps it was the depth of experience etched into his eyes, but even in his middle years, Wang Lin possessed a unique and captivating aura.

“Brother Wang,” the woman said, her voice laced with concern, “Ping’er is ten years old now. The poor child has no mother by his side. You must think of the boy, if not for yourself! The Zhao family’s daughter, a pure and untouched flower, is willing to marry you. She promises to treat the boy as if he were her own. What more could you ask for?” The young woman was quite comely. She looked at Wang Lin with a mixture of pity and admiration, her words filled with heartfelt sincerity.

Wang Lin’s smile widened slightly, but he replied in a tone of gentle reluctance, “I’m afraid that will not be possible.”

“Oh, Brother Wang, why do you make things so difficult?” she sighed. “I understand your devotion to Ping’er’s mother, and I know that is why you have not remarried, but life must go on! You have been here for ten years now, haven’t you? I remember when you first arrived, carrying an infant in your arms. Back then, I was not even married! But now, look at me, my own child is already eight years old!” The young woman was persistent.

Just then, Wang Ping burst into the room, scowling at the young woman. He sat down without a word.

Seeing that the young woman was about to continue, Wang Ping declared in a loud voice, “Father, I’m hungry!”

Wang Lin breathed a sigh of relief. “That matter is settled.”

The young woman sighed and shook her head. “Very well, if you are unwilling, I cannot force you. But Brother Wang, if you should ever find someone you fancy, please remember to tell me.” As she spoke, she cast a glance at Wang Ping and reached out to touch his head.

Wang Ping snorted softly and quickly dodged her hand.

The young woman chuckled. “That child has quite the temper! You should learn from your father. Your father has the most gentle disposition in the whole village. That is why so many young maidens have come knocking on his door!” She turned and left the house.

Once she was gone, Wang Ping spoke in a muffled voice, “Father…”

Before he could finish, Wang Lin smiled and said, “Don’t think too much of it, little one. Auntie Zhang means well. Come, take your medicine.”

Wang Ping stared at his father with wide eyes, his lips pursed. “But she wants to find a stepmother for me! Er’huzi’s father in the village found him a stepmother, and now Er’huzi is always hungry and gets scolded all the time.”

Wang Lin chuckled and stroked Wang Ping’s head. “Alright, I promise, I will not find you a stepmother, okay? Now, take your medicine.”

Wang Ping happily grabbed the bowl and gulped down the medicine in one go. This time, he didn’t even find it bitter. Instead, it tasted somewhat sweet, a sweetness that came from the depths of his heart, born of his affection for his father.

“Father, you won’t be lonely with Ping’er by your side. When Ping’er grows up, he will take care of you until you are old,” Wang Ping said earnestly, looking up at Wang Lin.

Wang Lin smiled, patted Wang Ping’s head, and left the room. He grabbed a broom and began to sweep the snow from the courtyard. Once the courtyard was clear, he retrieved his tools and began to work on his carpentry, his hands moving with practiced ease.
The boy, Wang Ping, gazed upon his father through the window, a moment of quiet settling over him. His memory was a marvel, exceeding that of any child his age. He remembered with perfect clarity the day, when he was but four summers old, that he innocently asked his father of his mother’s whereabouts.

His father’s countenance then was strange and unsettling. He could not grasp its meaning at the time, but now, a young man grown, he understood. The expression was sorrow, deep and abiding. He was a thoughtful child, and from that day forward, he never again spoke of his mother.

Winter’s icy hand tightened its grip, and snow fell thick and fast, one storm chasing the heels of another. The villagers, chilled to the bone, stirred less and less. The bitter days crawled by until, at long last, the breath of spring kissed the land, slowly banishing winter’s cruel dominion.

With the thaw came the opening of the village’s humble schoolhouse, where the children of the village gathered to learn their letters and numbers.

And so life unfolded, day after day, as calm and clear as a mountain stream, undisturbed by even the faintest ripple. Yet within this quietude dwelled a gentle warmth, a balm for Wang Lin’s weary soul.

As Wang Ping blossomed into manhood, Wang Lin’s fervent pursuit of heavenly enlightenment waned. He became, simply, a father, watching over Wang Ping with a quiet devotion.

For ten years, save for the nightly ritual of warding off malevolent spirits from Wang Ping’s sleep, he summoned no arcane power, spoke no incantation. It was as if he had forgotten all the wonders he once wielded.

Yet, within this forgotten magic, a profound understanding of the cycle of life and death began to coalesce within Wang Lin’s heart, deepening with each passing year of Wang Ping’s growth.

He held a deep understanding of death and its myriad forms, yet the vibrant spark of life remained elusive. But as the seasons turned, his Dao heart, now rested, slowly crept towards completion.

With the completion of life and death comes the karmic cycle. Wang Lin’s Dao spirit, nurtured by this tranquility, underwent a subtle but momentous elevation. Such a transition would have stunned any cultivator of great power, for it was not merely a simple evolution, but a radical shift in intent.

Intent, forged from the fragments of a shattered immortal realm, was the wellspring of a cultivator’s unique power. Indeed, the very path a cultivator walked was but an expression of intent. Thus, intent was thought to be immutable. Rarely did it undergo such profound transformation. It was the very hint of such an evolution in Liu Mei that had drawn the attention of the elder of the Illusory Clan. He had abandoned his search for the Sky-Defying Pearl in the Cultivation Alliance to claim her, fearing such a treasure would be stolen away!

Wang Lin now trod this path himself. Yet, because his comprehension of the life element within the cycle of life and death remained incomplete, this burgeoning shift towards the path of karma remained tantalizingly out of reach.

Thus, this transition was perhaps the most critical juncture in Wang Lin’s long cultivation, holding within it the very key to his future achievements.

These cosmic truths remained veiled, understood only in glimpses. And yet, could he have chosen, Wang Lin would have gladly relinquished this opportunity, so coveted by all cultivators, in exchange for his son’s peace.

Years turned into decades. Then, one autumn, the thread of Sun Tai’s life seemed to fray early. His time had come.

As he lay dying in his humble dwelling, only Wang Lin and his son were there to see him pass.

Like the early snows of six years past, Sun Tai’s passing swept away the last lingering leaves of life, carrying with it a homesick soul.

Wang Ping was now sixteen, his features ever more reminiscent of Liu Mei. Such beauty, bestowed upon a young man, was breathtaking.

Yet his eyes, like Wang Lin’s, were clear and unwavering. Sixteen years of growing wisdom had taught him much. He knew that the old man, Sun Tai, had known his father long ago, and held him in deep reverence, a respect unspoken but palpable, woven into the very fabric of his being.

“Sun Tai,” Wang Lin said, his face etched with time, “I will keep the promise I made to you.” He gazed calmly upon the dying man.

The author notes that some readers may dislike these quiet, reflective scenes, but that such moments are unique to this world, and are a reflection of life itself.