With a serene smile gracing his lips, he, Sun Tai, burned the last embers of his life force.

Hearing Wang Lin’s promise, Sun Tai gazed deeply into his eyes, etching into memory this man with whom his fate was intertwined. A haze seemed to fall over his vision, transporting him back centuries to the Rain Immortal Realm…

A series of images flashed before him, finally settling upon the calm yet weathered face before him.

“Life and death… such fleeting moments,” Sun Tai murmured, a smile playing on his lips as he closed his eyes. The aura of death that clung to him reached its zenith, only to vanish in the next instant like smoke in the wind.

“Grandfather Sun…” Tears streamed down Wang Ping’s face as he gazed upon Sun Tai’s peaceful countenance, his voice choked with sorrow.

Wang Lin sighed softly, stroking Wang Ping’s head. His eyes held a distant gaze, having seen beyond life and death, glimpsed the turning of the wheel of reincarnation. Such events were like wisps of smoke, seen yet not held.

Sun Tai’s grave lay on the mountainside behind Falling Moon Village, where all who passed from this world were laid to rest.

The headstone, carved by Wang Ping’s own hand, bore the simple inscription: “The Grave of Sun Tai,” signed by his adopted grandson, Wang Ping.

It was in Wang Ping’s twelfth year that Sun Tai had taken him as his grandson, a decision Wang Lin did not oppose. Sun Tai was old enough to be Wang Ping’s grandfather.

As for his own relationship with Sun Tai, they were equals, though perhaps, as Wang Ping sensed, Sun Tai held a deep respect for Wang Lin.

Within Sun Tai’s grave lay not a body, but a jar of ashes, kept safe within Wang Lin’s storage bag, as he had promised.

At sixteen, Wang Ping was a handsome youth, while Wang Lin seemed to grow ever more aged.

The relentless passage of time stole Wang Lin’s youth while simultaneously causing the village matchmakers to lose interest in him. Instead, as Wang Ping matured, they focused their attention on the young man.

Wang Ping, however, inherited much from his father. Though handsome, he was remarkably composed, his words few, but his eyes gleaming with intelligence.

A year after Sun Tai’s passing, Wang Lin sat in the courtyard of their home, meticulously carving wood. Wang Ping sat nearby, watching his father, whose face was etched with wrinkles, the weight of years heavy upon him.

“Carving requires the heart,” Wang Lin said without looking up. “Each stroke is etched into memory. Only then can one call himself a craftsman.”

Wang Ping nodded and picked up his own piece of wood, beginning to carve with careful precision.

As the sun began to set, the father and son were outlined in the long shadows. Their movements were similar, even their expressions nearly identical. As the sun dipped below the horizon, the shadows faded, but the essence of their spirits remained, eternal…

“Have you decided?” The sun finally vanished, and darkness blanketed the land. A lantern was lit in the courtyard, casting its glow upon the scene. Wang Lin spoke calmly.

Wang Ping put down his unfinished carving and fell silent. Wang Lin did not press him. Instead, he picked up Wang Ping’s carving, examining it closely. It was rough, but captured Sun Tai’s spirit.

The wood carving depicted Sun Tai, his face proud, eyes gazing at the heavens, hands forming intricate seals. An otherworldly aura emanated from him, and clouds swirled beneath his feet, creating a remarkably vivid portrait.

“Father, why won’t you let me learn the magic left behind by Grandfather Sun?” Wang Ping asked quietly, his head bowed.

Wang Lin sighed inwardly. Sun Tai had ultimately disregarded his wishes, taking advantage of his position as Wang Ping’s grandfather to secretly impart the arts of cultivation.

Nothing escaped Wang Lin’s senses. Had Sun Tai not stirred his life force to teach Wang Ping, he would not have departed four years earlier than anticipated.

As a father, Wang Lin was not one to dictate. He looked at Wang Ping, who had inherited his mother’s beauty and, after sixteen years by his side, had learned his own quiet nature.

As the light of intelligence flickered in his eyes, Wang Lin saw a reflection of himself.

“Because the life of a cultivator is not for you,” Wang Lin said softly, averting his gaze.

A faint smile touched Wang Ping’s lips. He looked up at his father and said, “Father, I have never practiced the cultivation techniques Grandfather Sun taught me. Never.”

Wang Lin nodded, for he knew this. Despite Sun Tai’s efforts, Wang Ping had never pursued the path of cultivation.

“Father… are you… are you an immortal?” Wang Ping asked, his head bowed.

“Not an immortal, simply a cultivator,” Wang Lin replied, his eyes filled with weariness.

“Father means for me to live an ordinary life, rather than follow in his footsteps as a cultivator, is that it?” Wang Ping asked after a moment of contemplation.

The moon slowly rose, its soft, cold light bathing the land. A gentle breeze stirred the lantern, causing the flame within to flicker, its light mingling with the moonlight in the courtyard.

“Yes,” Wang Lin said, his voice drifting like the wind as he turned his gaze to the night sky.

“But what if… what if I don’t want to?” Wang Ping looked up at his father, the first time in sixteen years he had spoken to him in such a way.

Wang Lin fixed his gaze on Wang Ping, saying nothing, simply looking at him.

Time passed slowly. Wang Ping’s head gradually drooped, as though he couldn’t meet Wang Lin’s gaze.

“The life of a cultivator is not for you! Speak of this no more!” Wang Lin’s voice, though soft, was resolute. However, in his eyes, unseen by Wang Ping, was a profound sadness…

Wang Ping said bitterly, “Yes, Father. I will not cultivate.”

Wang Lin turned and walked back into the house. As he crossed the threshold, his voice floated back, “Ping’er, take your medicine.”

Wang Ping remained silent for a long time, then sighed softly. He rose and entered the house, his silhouette cast in the moonlight, a picture of quiet sorrow…
The weight of the Father’s will, though unspoken, loomed vast in Wang Ping’s heart. Against such silent authority, he could not strive, and resigned himself to walk the path laid out for him, a life of humble obscurity.

“All that this world holds, save the path of cultivation, I can bestow upon you!” Wang Lin’s voice, gentle yet firm, drifted to Wang Ping as the youth lay upon his bed, having taken the draught offered to him.

Wang Ping closed his eyes, offering no reply.

In the deepening gloom, Wang Lin sat alone in the courtyard, his gaze fixed on the impenetrable darkness before him. A familiar pang of sorrow flickered in his eyes.

The passage of years, like the moon’s unseen ascent, steals upon the world unheard, unnoticed, until its silver light spills upon the land. Three years had passed since the passing of Sun Tai.

Wang Ping was now nineteen years of age, a young man grown to striking handsomeness. A trace of youthful softness lingered, but only the keenest eye could detect it. More and more did his features echo those of his mother, Liu Mei.

Wang Lin, by contrast, bore the deeper marks of time. The nineteen years spent in this secluded village had etched themselves upon his face. In this nineteenth year since his arrival in the village of Fallen Moon, he gathered their few belongings, and with Wang Ping at his side, prepared to depart.

As they readied to leave, childhood friends, those with whom Wang Ping had grown, gathered to bid them farewell. A great number amongst them were young women, their eyes filled with a wistful yearning as they gazed upon Wang Ping. Amongst them, the second daughter of the Zhou family displayed the most profound melancholy.

But Wang Ping seemed oblivious to their affections. He had inherited his mother’s beauty, yet his temperament was his father’s own; he regarded matters of the heart with a detached indifference.

Nineteen years had seen life and death come and go in Fallen Moon Village. One generation aged and withered, while another blossomed in its place. Of those neighbors who had greeted Wang Lin’s arrival, a third, perhaps even half, had passed beyond the veil.

The stout Zhou patriarch, though still hale and strong, bore the undeniable signs of advancing years. Standing beside Wang Lin, he spoke with heartfelt sentiment. “Brother Wang, nigh on twenty years have flown by, it seems but yesterday you arrived, cradling young Ping in your arms! And now, you are leaving us.”

Wang Lin smiled gently. “Brother Zhou, you have borne with us these many years. But my son is grown, and I would have him see the world, the vastness of the heavens and earth.”

The Zhou patriarch sighed deeply, his gaze lingering on Wang Ping, who was surrounded by the village girls. He chuckled ruefully. “It seems my Second Daughter is not destined for such happiness.”

Wang Lin shook his head, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Nay, it is my son who lacks the fortune to win her heart.”

Nearby, Wang Ping, his face impassive, spoke softly, “Take care…” With these words, he turned toward Wang Lin.

Just then, a young woman broke from the group and ran to him, her cheeks flushed crimson. “Wang Ping,” she cried, her voice trembling. “Will… will you ever return?”

Wang Ping paused in his stride, but did not turn. “I think not…” he replied, his voice low.

Tears welled in the girl’s eyes, and she seemed to hear the shattering of her own heart.

“I hate you, Wang Ping!” she sobbed, turning and fleeing.

Wang Ping frowned and rejoined his father’s side, offering no further word. The Zhou patriarch sighed, clenching a fist in salute to Wang Lin. “Brother Wang, fare thee well!”

Wang Lin, who held a genuine fondness for the boisterous man, smiled and returned the gesture. “Farewell!” With that, he turned and strode into the distance, Wang Ping following close behind. After a few steps, the young man hesitated, glancing back at the weeping girl fading into the distance. With a sigh, he followed Wang Lin into the unknown.

“Father, why are these girls so troublesome? Especially that Zhou Ruotong…” Wang Ping asked, frowning as he caught up to his father.

Wang Lin laughed, glancing back at his son. Inheriting the ethereal beauty of Liu Mei, Wang Ping possessed a striking, almost unnerving handsomeness.

“You do not favor the Zhou girl?” Wang Lin asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.

“It is not that I favor her. It is just… when she wept, a pang of regret touched my heart.” Wang Ping sighed.