The years, like oxen yoked together, pulled the cart of time onward. Another decade had slipped by unnoticed.

Three years prior, the venerable Su Dao had breathed his last, succumbing to the relentless grip of winter. Even as his spirit, capable of unraveling the mysteries of heaven and earth, fought to endure, his mortal vessel could not defy the immutable cycle of life and death. As winter’s icy grip tightened, and snowflakes danced in the air above Su City, forming delicate lattices upon the river’s surface, he gazed upon the falling snow, his gaze seemingly lost to eternity.

Wang Lin, now approaching his fourth decade, exuded an aura of seasoned maturity. He guided the wooden chair that held his departed master along the streets of Su City, his white robes billowing softly in the wind.

This winter was unusually harsh, the swirling snowflakes whipped by biting winds, clinging to them both. As dawn broke, the distant chimes of Su Mountain Temple echoed through the city, their resonant tones capable of washing clean the very soul.

“Lin’er, my time draws near…” Su Dao’s voice, weakened by age, was carried on the wind to Wang Lin. “I leave behind no offspring of my own. Your three elder brothers inherited much wisdom from me, but it is you whose spirit resonated most closely with mine…

“I know you have begun to grasp the concept of Karma, though still veiled in mist. You will come to understand, and your pursuits shall extend far beyond the simple understanding of cause and effect.

“This estate, I bequeath to you.” The words were frail, yet filled with affection. Wang Lin remained silent, his eyes betraying his grief.

Su Dao had been his mentor for seventeen years, guiding Wang Lin from a boy of ten to a man of middle age. In Su Dao’s company, Wang Lin had learned much, understood much, and grown wise beyond his years.

The snow fell heavily, obscuring the path ahead, blanketing the heavens, Su City, and the very street they traversed.

The creak of the wooden chair’s wheels was barely audible, leaving only two faint tracks upon the snow-covered ground. These tracks resembled a lifetime: looking back, one could see the immense distance covered, but the final destination remained hidden until the moment of death.

Snowflakes continued to fall, soon burying the tracks until they became indistinguishable from the surrounding landscape.

“Take me…to Su Mountain outside the city…” Su Dao’s voice was even weaker, but his eyes shone with clarity, as if he could glimpse his final destination.

Wang Lin nodded silently, pushing the chair forward, the rhythmic creak marking their slow progress towards Su Dao’s final resting place.

The snow fell thicker now, swirling in the wind, stinging their faces, clinging to their hair, melting into icy rivulets that trickled into their hearts. Wang Lin guided the chair out of the ancient street, beyond the walls of Su City, until, in the distance, he saw the silhouette of Su Mountain.

The mountain was not high, but it possessed a spirit.

Though invisible to the naked eye, one could close their eyes and conjure its image in their mind, feel its breath in the frigid wind. That alone was enough.

Reaching the summit via a winding path of flagstone, Su Dao began to slowly close his eyes, his strength fading. Yet, in the depths of his drooping eyelids, there was the same bright light as seventeen years before.

For the eyes are the windows to the soul. Su Dao’s body might decay, but the imprint of his thoughts, the path of his life, once created, could never truly vanish.

“Carry me…there…” Su Dao’s voice was almost a whisper. Wang Lin knelt, gently lifting Su Dao onto his back, and following his master’s directions, he stepped off the flagstone path, venturing into the untrodden snow-covered wilderness of the mountain.

In the distance, a lone grave stood sentinel, as if patiently awaiting this moment for decades.

Wang Lin walked towards the tomb, where Su Dao sat before it, his gaze fixed upon the weathered stone, his eyes devoid of tears, filled instead with gentle affection.

“I have come…you wished to watch over me always, and so I buried you here, so you could ever see the land below me.” Su Dao murmured, touching the tombstone with a trembling hand, his ancient face pressed gently against the cold stone.

Or perhaps, the stone’s chill transformed into warmth within his heart.

Slowly, he closed his eyes, a peaceful smile gracing his lips, and breathed no more.

Su Dao had returned to the void.

Wang Lin remained standing for a long time, turning to gaze back at Su City, nestled below in the valley. From this vantage point, he could make out Su Dao’s estate.

A profound sense of loss and uncertainty washed over Wang Lin. He was lost, wondering, what world did they really exist in.

Was this his past life, his fate, or nothing more than a dream? Yet none of these offered a satisfying explanation, like an endless circle, impossible to discern the starting point from the end.

Seventeen days later, on the slopes of Su Mountain, beside the lone grave, another stone was erected. They were no longer alone.

Three years after Su Dao’s death, Wang Lin turned thirty-nine.

His parents, whom he had brought from their mountain village many years before, had found the bustling city of Su too overwhelming. After a few months, they had returned to their tranquil home in the hills, content to live out their days in peaceful obscurity.

In the winter of his thirty-ninth year, as snow fell softly in his courtyard, Wang Lin received an imperial decree from the Emperor of Zhao.

It was the fifth such decree he had received since Su Dao’s passing.

Each decree was similar in content, though progressively more florid in its praise, beseeching Wang Lin to journey to the capital to become the Imperial Tutor.

For twenty years, Wang Lin’s name had risen among the scholars of Zhao. Though he had never left Su City during that time, the most promising candidates each year sought him out to seek guidance.

This was partly due to Su Dao’s legacy, but also to Wang Lin’s own talent. Over the decades, many powerful officials and aspiring scholars had been captivated by his insightful and profound words.
‘Tis known throughout the land that Wang Lin bore the mantle of the Great Confucian Su Dao, a truth etched deep into the hearts of men, especially after Su Dao’s passing.

Yet, as with all things, not all held this belief as gospel. A considerable faction refused to acknowledge Wang Lin, deeming him unworthy of the title of Great Confucian. Chief among these doubters was the Emperor of Zhao.

Whispers of dissent had been mere scattered breezes before Su Dao’s demise, but in the three years since, they had swelled into a rising gale. During Wang Lin’s silence, these murmurs transformed into a unified chorus of condemnation.

Wang Lin, however, paid no heed. He lived a life of quietude, finding solace in the companionship of his old servant, Da Fu.

His silence emboldened his detractors, who conceded that Wang Lin had been a student of Su Dao, yet branded him a charlatan, undeserving of the Confucian title. Fueled by hidden hands, this sentiment intensified, eventually engulfing the entire kingdom of Zhao.

Still, Wang Lin remained unmoved. He observed the daily dance of the sun and moon, the cyclical march of seasons, contemplating the universe, discerning cause and effect, seeking the essence of life, death, truth, and illusion, pursuing the origin and the end of all things.

Though himself lost in the fog of understanding, he relentlessly sought the meaning of existence. The petty squabbles of men were beneath his concern, and he desired no accolades, for they held no significance, akin to children bickering over trinkets.

But his very silence only amplified the outcry against him. Most devastatingly, two of Su Dao’s other three disciples, apart from the aged and ailing Su San, rose to challenge Wang Lin’s claim.

The scholars of Zhao were thrown into disarray, their confusion spreading like wildfire to the common folk. The cacophony of voices became a storm that swept across the land.

Some even unearthed Wang Lin’s examination papers from twenty years past, when he had merely achieved the title of Scholar, using this to fuel their vitriol, branding him an arrogant fraud.

Amidst this clamor, missives from the Imperial Court in the Zhao capital descended like snowflakes, six, seven, eight, nine times, all directed towards Wang Lin.

The injustice deepened as it touched Wang Lin’s aged parents. They, who deserved a peaceful and revered old age, now found themselves targeted by the relentless storm. Even the humble villagers in their remote hamlet had become aware of the controversy. Whispers and pointed fingers followed them, kindling a fire of anger in their hearts.

The strain proved too much for Wang Lin’s father, and he fell ill.

That winter, Wang Lin stood in his courtyard, a letter clutched in his hand. It was penned by his mother, delivered by his fourth uncle’s hand.

The letter assured him that his father was recovering.

He read the missive again and again. A spark of fury ignited in Wang Lin’s usually serene eyes.

“This has gone too far,” Wang Lin murmured, folding the letter and tucking it into his robe. He gazed at the falling snow, and spoke softly. He had no desire to prove himself, and the clamor of Zhao would not have stirred him. The title of Confucian was an empty honor that he did not crave.

Like an old sage, he only sought to contemplate the workings of the world.

But there were boundaries that could not be crossed. His parents were his line in the sand. Their anger, their pain, their sorrow, were his own.

“Da Fu,” Wang Lin called, “make preparations. I shall hold a ten-year lecture. From this day forward, for ten years, let all who desire come to Su City and debate with me. If even one man can prove himself superior to me in wisdom, then he may take this estate from my hands.” With a dramatic sweep of his sleeve, he turned and strode away.

Behind him, Da Fu, though aged, displayed the same enthusiasm he had held twenty years before. The past three years had been galling, filled with the gradual abandonment and scorn of those who once treated him with reverence.

Upon hearing Wang Lin’s words, he could not contain his expectation. “Ha! That is more like it. A ten-year lecture, eh? I can’t wait to see the faces of those yapping curmudgeons after they’ve been proven wrong again and again.”

And so, another decade passed.

Three years prior, Su Dao had passed away in winter. He had struggled to live just a few more months, so he could see the willow branches sprout.

While he could understand the world through his mind, his body had failed to keep up with the changing of seasons. He stared at the falling snow from the sky, as if for all eternity.

Wang Lin pushed his teacher’s wooden wheelchair on the street. Though only forty years of age, Wang Lin carried a sense of maturity and world-weariness. He wore a white robe, pushing the chair silently.

That winter was especially cold, and the snow was blown by the wind. It landed on both people. In the morning, the distant bells from Su Mountain Temple rang and washed over everyone.

“Lin, I am passing on soon… I never had any children. Your three brothers inherited much from me, but only you seem to understand my way of thinking… I know you have understood much about fate, though your understanding is still blurry, but you will understand it. What you seek is more than fate.” Su Dao’s voice was weak and barely audible, and Wang Lin’s eyes were full of sadness.

“I’m giving you this estate.”

Su Dao had been with Wang Lin for seventeen years. During that time, Wang Lin had grown from a boy of ten to a man. Wang Lin had learned so much, gained so much, and understood so much.

The snow was heavy and hid their eyes, covering the land, Su City, and Wang Lin and Su Dao’s road.

The squeaking of the wheelchair wheels was too quiet to notice, but the two lines on the ground from them were like a life. When looking back, you can see how long it has been. However, you could not see the end until you die.
The snow fell, each flake a silent shroud, softening the two sets of footprints that marred the pristine earth. Slowly, inexorably, the white blanket consumed them, until even the faintest trace was lost to the swirling tempest.

“Take me…to Mount Su, beyond the city walls…” Su Dao’s voice, aged and frail, barely carried upon the wind. Yet his eyes, though dimmed by years, held a spark, a luminous gaze fixed upon the heavens as if he already stood at the edge of his final journey.

Wang Lin nodded silently, his expression unreadable. He grasped the handles of the wooden chair, the creaks and groans of its aged frame a mournful counterpoint to the whistling wind, and began to push, each footfall carrying Su Dao closer to his destination.

The snow intensified, a relentless assault. Wang Lin did not flinch, allowing the icy crystals to sting his face and cling to his hair. He felt their frigid touch seep into his very being, a chill that mirrored the sorrow in his heart. He pushed on, guiding the chair through the ancient streets of Su City, and then beyond its walls. In the distance, he saw it: Mount Su, a modest rise in the otherwise flat landscape.

The mountain was not grand, yet it possessed a spirit, a silent power. Though unseen, it thrummed with an energy that resonated deep within the soul. Closing one’s eyes, one could conjure its image, the intricate tapestry of its trees and grasses, the rhythmic sigh of the wind as it whispered through its ancient stones. That alone was enough.

They ascended the winding path paved with time-worn flagstones, reaching the summit. Su Dao’s eyelids fluttered, heavy with the weight of his failing body. He seemed on the verge of succumbing to the embrace of slumber, yet behind those nearly closed lids flickered a light as bright as the one that had shone in his eyes seventeen years before.

For the eyes are the windows of the soul. Su Dao’s flesh would wither and crumble to dust, but his spirit, the essence of his being, the path he had carved through the tapestry of existence, would remain, etched into the fabric of eternity.

“Carry me…to that place,” Su Dao rasped, his voice fading with each word. Wang Lin stepped before him, gently lifting the frail form and cradling it in his arms. Following Su Dao’s whispered directions, he stepped off the flagstone path, venturing into the heart of the mountain, into a place where few, if any, dared to tread. Each step crunched in the deep, untrodden snow.

At the journey’s end stood a solitary grave, a lonely sentinel cloaked in white. It stood vigil, as if patiently awaiting a reunion, a vigil that had spanned decades, until this very day.

Before the weathered headstone, Wang Lin gently lowered Su Dao to the ground. The old man gazed upon the marker, his eyes dry, but filled with a profound tenderness.

“I have come… You desired to always watch over me, and so I laid you to rest here, that you might eternally observe my home, myself, in the valley below,” Su Dao murmured, his voice lost in the wind. He reached out, his aged hand trembling, and caressed the cold stone. His withered cheek pressed against its frigid surface, oblivious to the biting chill.

Or perhaps, the chill was not cold at all. Perhaps, in the depths of his heart, it was a warmth that only he could feel.

Slowly, his eyelids closed. A gentle smile graced his lips. His breath ceased… Su Dao, returned to the void.

Wang Lin stood motionless for an immeasurable time, a silent sentinel beside the grave. Then, he turned, his gaze sweeping down the mountainside. He could see Su City nestled in the valley, and within it, Su Dao’s ancestral home.

A profound sense of longing, a bewildering melancholy, washed over Wang Lin. He was lost in contemplation, pondering the very nature of existence, the meaning of this fleeting world.

Was it a glimpse of a past life? A mere turn of the Wheel of Reincarnation? Or was it all a dream, a fleeting illusion? No explanation sufficed, no answer could fully encompass the complexities of reality. He felt trapped within the ancient, eternal circle of truth and illusion, unable to discern the beginning from the end.

Half a month later, as the seventeenth year drew to a close, another grave was dug beside the solitary mound upon Mount Su. They were no longer alone.

Three years after the passing of Su Dao, Wang Lin reached his thirty-ninth year.

His parents, whom he had long ago brought from their simple village, had since returned. Though touched by his generosity, his mother had found herself ill-suited to city life. After a brief stay in Su City, she and his father had returned to their mountain village, to live out their days in simple peace.

In the winter of his thirty-ninth year, Wang Lin stood in his courtyard, watching the ethereal dance of the falling snow, when a messenger arrived bearing the Emperor’s decree from the Kingdom of Zhao.

It was the fifth such decree since the death of Su Dao.

The five edicts were largely the same, each couched in increasingly elaborate rhetoric. All implored Wang Lin to travel to the capital city, to serve as the Emperor’s personal tutor.

Over the span of two decades, Wang Lin’s name had risen to prominence amongst the scholars of Zhao. Though he had never left Su City in all that time, the most promising candidates of each year’s imperial examinations made the arduous journey to seek his wisdom and counsel.

This ascendance was due, in part, to the legacy of Su Dao, but also to the inherent brilliance of Wang Lin himself. Over the years, dignitaries, officials, and scholars alike had visited his humble abode, and all were captivated by the depth of his knowledge and the eloquence of his words.

It was common knowledge that Wang Lin was the rightful heir to Su Dao’s vast intellect and vast erudition. Since Su Dao’s death, that conviction had only deepened.

Yet, as in all matters, there were dissenting voices. There were those who doubted Wang Lin’s worthiness, those who refused to acknowledge him as a true scholar. Amongst these detractors was the Emperor of Zhao himself.

Before Su Dao’s passing, such whispers were few and far between. But in the three years since his death, they had grown in volume and ferocity, until Wang Lin’s silent withdrawal had become an affront, a blasphemy, a chorus of doubt that reverberated throughout the entire Kingdom of Zhao.

Wang Lin paid them no mind. He was content with his quiet life, surrounded by his books, and the contemplation of nature.

But the more he retreated, the bolder and more vitriolic his detractors became. They conceded that he was a student of Su Dao, but dismissed him as a charlatan, unworthy of the title of scholar. With deliberate orchestration, the matter escalated, threatening to engulf the entire kingdom.

Still, Wang Lin refused to be drawn in. He watched the sun rise and set, marked the changing of the seasons, pondered the mysteries of the universe, and sought the elusive truth of life, death, and the boundary between reality and illusion, searching for a way to reconcile beginnings and endings.

Though lost in his own labyrinthine thoughts, he continued to experience life to its fullest. He had no desire to engage with the petty squabbles and pointless arguments of the world. To him, it was all meaningless, like the idle chatter of children at play.

Yet, his very silence fueled the flames. More damning still, two of Su Dao’s other three students—apart from the aged and ailing Su San—had joined the chorus, openly questioning Wang Lin’s claim to the mantle of their master.

The kingdom’s scholars were thrown into disarray, and even ordinary citizens found themselves caught up in the turmoil. A cacophony of voices, a tempest of opinions, swept across Zhao.

Some even unearthed Wang Lin’s examination papers from two decades past when he had achieved the modest title of Licentiate. They were subjected to fierce criticism, as Wang Lin’s detractors seized upon his humble beginnings to launch a furious assault on his character.

Amidst this tumultuous din, the Emperor’s decrees rained down upon Wang Lin, the sixth, seventh, eighth, and ninth edicts arriving in rapid succession.
Yet darker tidings still reached Wang Lin, for the clamor now snaked its way to his aged parents. Once revered elders, destined for a peaceful twilight, they were now caught in the storm of whispers. Even the humble plowmen of their mountain village, for reasons unknown, were privy to the swirling rumors. Scornful glances and muttered accusations pierced the hearts of Wang Lin’s parents, kindling within them a righteous fury.

Their years weighed heavily upon them, and the father, stricken by the venomous air, fell ill.

That winter, Wang Lin stood within his courtyard, a missive clutched in his hand. His mother, frail and worried, had commissioned a scribe to pen the words, entrusting it to his fourth uncle’s messenger for delivery.

The letter spoke of his father’s recovery, assuring Wang Lin that he was mending.

He read the missive again and again, and within Wang Lin’s placid eyes, a flicker of rage began to ignite.

“This has gone too far,” he murmured, folding the letter and tucking it away. The snowflakes danced around him as he spoke.

He had no desire to prove himself. The deafening pronouncements of the Zhao kingdom held no sway over him; the title of Confucian was but an empty echo, and he cared not for it.

Like a sage of old, he sought only to slowly unravel the mysteries of heaven and earth.

But all things have their limits, and Wang Lin’s unyielding boundary was the sanctity of his parents. Their anger was his anger, their pain his pain, their sorrow his sorrow.

“Da Fu,” Wang Lin commanded, with a sweeping gesture of his silken sleeve, turning away from the swirling snow. “Make arrangements. I shall hold court for ten years, inviting all under the heavens to come to Su City and debate the mysteries of knowledge. Should even one amongst them prove their understanding surpasses mine, then they may claim this estate as their own.”

Behind him, Da Fu, now bowed with age yet retaining the fervor of two decades past, felt a surge of joyous anticipation. These past three years had been fraught with vexation; those who once fawned upon him now shunned him, their words laced with cold contempt.

Hearing Wang Lin’s words, he felt a triumphant glee mixed with expectancy, and he hastened to enact his master’s will.

“Hmph! Still the boldest of men, my young master! Ten years of lectures, eh? Hahaha, I shall relish the looks on the faces of those rabble-rousers after they have been humbled time and time again!”