“Wang Ping… is it truly you?” The woman of middling years spoke, her voice a whisper upon the wind.

Wang Ping approached, drawing near to the woman. He gazed upon her countenance, noting the fading bloom of her youth. A gentle smile graced his lips. “Zhou Ruotong,” he said, his voice a soft echo of remembrance.

The woman bit at her lower lip, her eyes wide with astonishment as she beheld Wang Ping. After a long moment, a delicate smile bloomed upon her face. “The instant I saw you,” she breathed, “I knew… After all these years, you have returned.”

Wang Ping felt a pang of bittersweet nostalgia as he gazed upon the woman before him. Standing at her side was a young girl, scarcely more than a child, whose features bore a striking resemblance to the Zhou Ruotong of years long past.

“Is this your daughter?” Wang Ping inquired, his voice tinged with a quiet wonder.

The woman nodded, then turned to the girl. “Pay your respects to the uncle,” she instructed gently. “He was a childhood friend of your mother.”

“Uncle…” The girl, seemingly shy and unaccustomed to strangers, hid behind her mother’s skirts, her voice barely audible.

Several among the villagers gathered nearby recognized Wang Ping, though dimly, through the mists of time. Yet, upon seeing the soldiers clad in gleaming armor who accompanied him, they dared not approach him.

Wang Ping turned his gaze upon the young girl and offered her a kind smile. “What is your name, little one?” he asked.

The girl pressed closer to her mother, offering no reply. Her eyes, wide with apprehension, betrayed her fear.

Wang Ping sighed softly, then turned to Zhou Ruotong. “I shall go to the hill behind the village to pay my respects at Grandfather Sun’s grave.” The woman offered a fleeting smile, never once meeting the gaze of Qing Yi, who stood at Wang Ping’s side. She drew her child closer and stood beside her husband, a stout man, broad of shoulder and strong of arm. It was clear he had inherited the hunting prowess of his father-in-law. Though, had Wang Ping lingered for a moment, he might have discerned a familiar glint in the man’s eyes.

Wang Ping turned and began to ascend the path towards the verdant hill. Qing Yi cast a lingering glance at the young woman, now occupied with smoothing her daughter’s hair, then fell into step beside Wang Ping.

He had scarcely taken a few paces when the young girl, peeking out from behind her mother, called out in a clear voice, “Uncle, my name is Xu Nianping!”

“Nianping… Nian Ping…” Wang Ping paused, a silent sigh escaping his lips. Without turning back, he continued his ascent.

Long after they had departed, long after the villagers had dispersed, the stout man standing beside Zhou Ruotong sighed, a world of weariness etched upon his face. “Why did you do it?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.

“Brother, say no more,” Zhou Ruotong replied, lifting her gaze to meet his. A radiant smile bloomed upon her lips, and a flicker of joy danced within her eyes. “To see him once more is enough.”

The grave of Sun Tai was clear of weeds, a testament to the care it received. Wang Ping stood before it for a long while, then silently turned and departed.

“Qing Yi,” Wang Ping spoke, his voice barely audible above the rustling leaves. “I believe that before too long, I shall go to see my father. Twenty years have passed since I last beheld his face.”

Qing Yi offered no reply, but remained silently at his side. It was as if, in this life, she would follow Wang Ping to the ends of the earth, even to the shadowed realm beyond. This was not merely a matter of ancient vows, but a deep and abiding companionship. “And there are matters that must be clarified…” Wang Ping murmured, casting a final glance back at the village of Falling Moon before it faded from view.

In the city of Qi Shui, Wang Lin no longer frequented the inns. Instead, he sat within his courtyard, waiting for Wang Ping’s return.

Leaves, in their time, must return to the earth. And so too, the wandering son would one day return to the embrace of his kin.

Three months hence, the city of Qi Shui was steeped in an atmosphere of war. One by one, the servants within the manor departed, save for one old retainer, loyal and without kin, who chose to remain.

The city of Qi Shui was emptying as its inhabitants fled before the looming conflict. Although the armies of the Tian Xing Empire passed without harming the common folk, fear, nonetheless, gripped their hearts.

Qi Shui was claimed by the Tian Xing Empire, and its armies pressed onward. Wang Ping stood outside the city gates, yet did not enter. Instead, he accompanied the armies as they continued their march.

“Father,” he murmured, his voice lost to the wind, “I have yet to fulfill the promise of my youth. When I have done so, I shall come to see you.”

The turning wheel of time continued its inexorable course. Seasons turned and years passed, and in five years, the kingdoms of Da Qin and Chen Yun had bowed before the might of the Tian Xing Empire, leaving it the sole power upon the star of Ran Yun.

From the day he departed at the age of twenty-seven, to this very moment, twenty-five years had flown by. Wang Ping had attained the power he sought, though many events remained shrouded in mystery, and the speed of his ascent seemed beyond comprehension.

Yet, Wang Lin had uttered but a single word – “Permitted” – and so all had come to pass.

Having conquered the land, Wang Ping did not hasten to seek out Wang Lin. Instead, he gazed out across his newly won empire, feeling the vastness of the world beneath his feet.

Wang Lin remained, as always, seated in his courtyard each morning, accompanied by his aged servant. He lived a simple life, and his heart had, in those fifty years, grown calm and serene.

Ten years passed in peace and quiet.

Wang Ping, now sixty-two, appeared weathered by the passage of time. Ten years as the supreme ruler of men had weighed heavily upon his soul, filling him with a deep longing for his childhood, for the eight years he had spent wandering the lands. Most of all, he yearned for the twenty-eight years he had spent by his father’s side.

Qing Yi had become an elderly woman, her face lined with wrinkles. Yet, the love in her eyes burned brighter than ever. Though the years had passed, they remained without children.

On this day, an autumn evening thirty-five years after Wang Ping had left his father, as leaves danced in the wind, Wang Ping abdicated the throne, bestowing his empire upon a son who had been loyal to him. He left with nothing but the memories of those years, and Qing Yi by his side. They boarded a carriage bound for Qi Shui, seeking his father.

The carriage traveled along the road, the autumn leaves swirling around it. Wang Ping passed, a wind rose up pushing the leaves around, the location never changing, seeming to always circle back to the tree. The carriage rolled on as Qi Shui grew closer.

For leaves, must eventually return to the earth. And a wanderer must return to their kin. As surely as the falling leaves find their resting place, so too would Wang Ping soon be reunited with his father.
In a secluded courtyard, Lord Wang resided. His sole companion, an aged servant, had departed this life three years past, leaving him the solitary inhabitant of the sprawling estate.

Before him rested a simple table, flanked by two stools. Upon the table sat an assortment of humble dishes, a flagon of wine, and three pairs of chopsticks. The victuals still steamed gently, their fragrant aromas carried on the breeze, wafting beyond the walls of the manor.

The rhythmic cadence of approaching hooves punctuated the air, accompanied by the grinding of wheels upon the road. The sounds grew ever louder, until finally, a carriage drew to a halt before the gates. A long, mournful neigh echoed through the courtyard, announcing the arrival of the conveyance.

From the carriage descended Wang Ping, offering a warm smile to the fair Qing Yi. Taking her hand, he led her through the gates. Above the entrance, a plaque of faded crimson letters against a sea-green background proclaimed, “Wang Manor.” The paint, worn and weathered, bore testament to the passage of time, the green dulled, the crimson revealing streaks of white.

Lord Wang raised his head, a gesture he seemed to have been awaiting for thirty-five long years. A gentle smile graced his lips as he spoke, his voice soft, “Come, sit. The food is still warm.”

His words, simple and unadorned, resonated with quiet warmth. There were no questions, no accusations, no excessive formalities, as if Wang Ping’s return were a frequent occurrence. In Lord Wang’s eyes, a tender light shone.

Wang Ping stared at his father, transfixed. Thirty-five years had passed since his departure, and he had not laid eyes upon his sire, save in the fleeting visions of dreams.

“Father…” Wang Ping whispered, kneeling upon the ground, his tears soaking the fabric of his tunic.

Qing Yi knelt beside him, her voice equally soft, “Father…”

Lord Wang rose, gently lifting Wang Ping and Qing Yi to their feet. “Eat,” he urged softly.

The meal stretched long into the afternoon, a forgotten sense of belonging blossoming within Wang Ping’s heart, a sensation lost to him for thirty-five years.

During her three and a half decades alongside Wang Ping, Qing Yi had long suspected Lord Wang’s true identity. She knew this venerable elder to be none other than Xu Mu, the legendary figure who, years ago, had single-handedly stormed Thousand Illusion Star, astonishing the cultivators of the Northern Domains of Luo Tian. Yun Wufeng himself had spoken the name of Xu Mu in days gone by.

Even now, she could scarcely believe her eyes. She found it impossible to reconcile the gentle, benevolent patriarch before her with the fearsome, awe-inspiring Xu Mu.

Qing Yi had never divulged the tales of Xu Mu to Wang Ping. The events of those distant years had transpired before her birth, and all she knew was gleaned from rumor and hearsay. She dared not speak of what she could not be certain.

As the moon ascended and the autumn wind swept through the courtyard, Wang Ping laid down his chopsticks. He gazed at his father, his heart overflowing with unspoken sentiments, a thousand words trapped upon his tongue.

“Ping’er, what do you wish to ask?” Lord Wang inquired, his voice calm and steady.

“Father, I wish to know about my mother…” For over six decades, from the moment his memories began to form, Wang Ping had asked but once. On that occasion, he had witnessed his father’s profound sorrow. Now, he spoke the question a second time.

Lord Wang grew silent, lost in thought. After a long pause, a wistful expression crept into his eyes as he gazed at the moonlit sky. “I will tell you a story,” he said softly. “In a place far from here, there existed a cultivation star known as Vermillion Bird…”

Lord Wang’s voice resonated with the weight of ages as he recounted the tale of a young man named Wang Lin, and his journey through nearly nine hundred years of life.

From his first steps into the world of cultivation at Heng Yue Sect, to his time at Heaven Dao Sect, the story unfolded like a scroll, revealing the tapestry of Wang Lin’s life before the eyes of Wang Ping and Qing Yi.

The tale was long and intricate…

But woven within its fabric was an indescribable essence, a certain quality that stirred the hearts of its listeners and left them utterly spellbound.

Wang Ping listened, enthralled, while Qing Yi sat beside him, her eyes wide with wonder. She was fully aware that the protagonist of this extraordinary story was none other than Wang Ping’s father, the aged man sitting before them.

“That female cultivator… her name was Liu Mei…”