In the second year following the departure of his father, Wang Lin’s mother, too, succumbed to an eternal slumber. Her face, serene in repose, bore a blissful smile, as if in dreams she had reunited with Wang Lin’s father, their reunion so joyous they desired no return.

There once was one who cradled you as an infant, singing lullabies despite her weariness, silencing your cries with gentle tones.

There once was one who, when your childhood dreams were marred by bedwetting, would sacrifice her own sleep, rising countless times each night to feel the dampness beneath you, lest you catch a chill.

There once was one who, throughout your youth, would rise before dawn, battling her own exhaustion, to prepare a nourishing breakfast, ensuring you did not go hungry on your quest for knowledge.

There once was one who, upon learning of your fondness for fish, would always consume the head and tail herself. When you, with innocent laughter, questioned her preference, she would declare her love for those parts, a truth you naively embraced.

There once was one who, throughout your formative years, meticulously mended your garments, her stitches often adorned with a faint crimson, a secret rarely glimpsed.

There once was one who, even as you blossomed into adulthood, would gaze upon you with eyes unchanged by time, silently rejoicing, quietly smiling, until at last, she peacefully closed her weary eyes for the final time.

That one was known as Mother.

And there was another who, when you were but a babe, would hoist you high above, your small form eclipsing the sun in his eyes, becoming his everything.

And there was another who, as you stumbled and fell while learning to walk, would grasp your hands, guiding you through those first steps, his laughter echoing with pride and joy.

And there was another who, amidst your delighted squeals, would hold your hand, leading you across mountains and valleys, showing you the wonders of the earth and sky. As you gazed up at his towering figure, you saw in him a mountain, a heaven itself.

And there was another who, upon hearing you declare that Mother adored fish heads, faithfully leaving them and the tails for her, would watch his wife with an expression of tender apology.

And there was another who, as you matured, remained a figure of sternness and unwavering gaze, a source of youthful frustration, yet as you grew older, you would discover beneath that hardened exterior a love you had once been blind to.

And there was another who, as his aged body lay upon his deathbed, his closing eyes betrayed a flicker of fear, of helplessness, yet your embrace, your soothing words, transformed him into a child once more, mirroring the joy he felt when lifting you high, and in warmth, he fell into your arms.

That one was known as Father.

Wang Lin knelt before his parents’ graves, tears streaming down his face, a bittersweet mixture of laughter and sorrow. Memories, both sharp and tender, pierced his heart. Though he had not partaken of wine, he felt as if in a drunken stupor.

In his other life, a life beyond reach, he had been unable to grant his parents a proper farewell, unable to cradle his father’s frail form or kiss his mother’s peacefully smiling, wrinkled brow.

But in this life, he had succeeded.

Perhaps, if a man possesses a wife and children, his grief for departed parents might be equally profound, equally searing, yet he retains a foundation. But for a man alone in this world, without spouse or offspring, his sorrow is a shroud that could eclipse the very heavens.

From that day forward, there would be no embrace to warm his weary soul.

From that day forward, there would be no smile to banish the shadows of his solitude.

From that day forward, his would be the lone figure silhouetted against the horizon, silently witnessing the endless dance of sunrise and sunset.

For three years, Wang Lin kept vigil at their graves. His hair, once dark, turned completely white. His frame, once erect, now bore a slight stoop, etched with the passage of time and the weight of sorrow.

“Thirty-eight years…” Wang Lin’s face was lined with wrinkles; he had become a man approaching sixty.

Da Fu, even more aged, leaned heavily on his cane, standing silently behind Wang Lin, his gaze fixed upon the aging man, then dropping to his own wrist, and after long silence he nodded slowly.

How many thirty-eight years does a life contain? I do not know for others but for me, surely there won’t be another. Wang Lin kneeled once more, bowing deeply before his parents’ graves.

“Do you remember the old temple…” Wang Lin stood, turning to face Da Fu, whose aged limbs seemed incapable of carrying him much further.

“In that old temple, I said I lacked a servant and you came with me.” A nostalgic smile played on Wang Lin’s lips as he gazed at Da Fu, who had remained by his side these past three decades.

“Da Fu can still be a servant.” Da Fu’s eyelids flickered, a toothless grin spreading across his face.

“You are old, and I am old… but I still have a wish unfulfilled… Da Fu, watch over my home, wait for me, until I return.” Wang Lin looked towards the sky, where he saw a flash of white bird soaring high.

“My comprehension of the heavens is still lacking. I shall spend my remaining days journeying through the many kingdoms of Suzaku Star. When I return, perhaps I will have gained nothing, or perhaps I will have achieved enlightenment.”

In the spring of his thirty-eighth year of mourning, Wang Lin departed the village alone. Da Fu remained, patiently awaiting Wang Lin’s return, be it in ten years, twenty, or a lifetime.

Wang Lin sat alone in a carriage, sipping wine as Heng Yue Mountain receded into the distance. Months later, the carriage reached the border of Zhao. Here, Wang Lin alighted, dismissed the driver, took a deep breath, cast one last glance back at Zhao, and stepped across the border.

This was the first time in his life that he had left Zhao. Where the future lay, Wang Lin did not ponder. He knew only that the path lay beneath his feet.

The moment he took that step, several streaks of light streaked across the sky, faintly passing over Wang Lin’s head. He did not look up but continued to walk forward calmly.

A soft exclamation echoed from within the streaks of light overhead. Among the cultivators who passed by was a woman of extraordinary beauty, the likes of which are rarely seen. In addition to her stunning beauty, she possessed a natural charm, utterly free of affectation.
She hovered, suspended ‘twixt earth and sky, her gaze drawn downward to the slowly ascending figure of Wang Lin. A delicate furrow etched itself upon her brow, her expression a canvas painted with puzzlement and a touch of melancholy.

“Is aught amiss, Sister Liu?” a voice inquired from beside her, belonging to a fellow cultivator.

“Naught of consequence. Return to the sect, I have… private matters to attend to,” the woman, whose beauty could rival the dawn, replied softly. Without another word, she turned and descended.

The cultivator who had spoken earlier hesitated, a hand instinctively reaching out as if to follow.

“I would be alone, honored Brother,” the woman’s voice echoed, gentle yet laced with unwavering resolve. It halted the cultivator in his tracks. After a moment of contemplation, he led his bewildered comrades away, their forms dwindling in the distance.

Wang Lin ceased his climb, turning to face the heavens, where a streak of vibrant color plummeted towards him. In the blink of an eye, the rainbow materialized before him, ten paces distant, resolving into a woman clad in robes of deepest violet.

Her beauty was an unmatched spectacle, surpassing even the memory of Zhou Rui from years gone by.

Yet Wang Lin remained unfazed. His spirit was anchored to the pursuit of cosmic truths, his mind a fortress against fleeting distractions. He perceived the woman’s loveliness, but recognized that beneath the surface, dust was just dust, no different than an ordinary woman’s.

The woman gazed upon Wang Lin, his face etched with the passage of time, his hair turned to snow, his eyes sparkling with profound wisdom. For an eternity, it seemed, she bowed her head in a gesture of quiet reverence.

“Venerable Elder,” she began, her voice like the chime of distant bells, “I believe I met you once, decades hence. This is our second encounter. Do you recall?”

Wang Lin met her gaze, his eyes narrowed in contemplation. At length, a gentle smile graced his lips, and he shook his head, his voice raspy with age.

“I… I have forgotten.”

“Then let it be forgotten, honored Elder. Yet, I confess, upon seeing you, I am struck by a strange familiarity, a sense that we have crossed paths before – not just now, but on that prior occasion. Tell me, what is your name?” Her face held a smile, and she had a soft voice.

“Wang Lin,” he answered, his voice a steady river of calm.

“Wang Lin?” she echoed, her brow furrowed in thought. After a prolonged silence, she voiced, “Could you be Wang Lin, the revered scholar of Zhao?”

“The same,” Wang Lin confirmed, his eyes reflecting the eons, a vastness that mirrored the cosmos itself.

“I must be mistaken…” she murmured, her mind wrestling with a sense of unease that pierced her very being. She could not fathom the source of this familiar ache, an affliction even more potent than it had been in her youth. Her heart quailed at his aged appearance, a sorrow intertwined with bewilderment welled up within her.

“Forgive my intrusion. Farewell,” she sighed, turning to depart, her eyes clouded with confusion and an inexplicable grief.

“What might be your name, fair maiden?” Wang Lin’s voice, a soft rasp, pierced the silence.

“Liu Mei,” she responded, halting her retreat and turning back towards him. The corners of her lips tilted upward in a smile that could sway the stars themselves. After a pause, her hand darted towards her storage pouch, extracting a single, luminous pill.

“Your years weigh heavy upon you. This elixir will replenish your vigor. Consider it a gift from our chance encounter. Farewell.” She set the pill upon the ground. A misty cloud billowed around her feet, lifting her gracefully into the air, a vision of ethereal beauty.

*Is this the echo of a past life? A cycle of endless rebirth? A mere dream, or… perhaps none of these things at all?* “Liu Mei… Liu Mei…” Wang Lin breathed, his thoughts lost in the labyrinth of his mind. *”The woman from the dream that pierced me awake…”*

He watched her fade into the horizon until her form was nothing more than a speck in the sky. Then, drawing upon the last embers of his strength, Wang Lin raised his head and cried out, his voice a ragged whisper.

“Liu Mei, remember this always! In this life, in the next, in a dream, or in a waking state: do not seek out one named Wang Lin! Do not know him, do not touch him!”

Liu Mei was long gone, her fate unbeknownst to him. He had spent the full strength of his voice. The vibrant rainbow had dissolved, leaving no trace of her presence.