Someone spoke suddenly by his ear, startling the mysterious and eerie black-robed cultivator. He looked up to see a pair of eyes, bright as stars in the night, gazing deeply at him, making him feel like an ant.

Fear rose from the depths of his heart.

The black-robed cultivator’s hand trembled, his brush slipped, and his painstaking…

The night was as dark as ink, but the snow on Zhongnan Shan had stopped falling. A profound silence enveloped heaven and earth, as if even the wind held its breath. The short dizi lay quietly in the blind boy’s palm, its body slightly warm, as if lingering echoes remained. The old lecturer sat by the hearth, his gaze fixed on the frozen snowflakes outside the window, unmoving for a long time.

He knew this was no ordinary silence.

This was heaven and earth awaiting a sound.

The deaf-mute girl’s hand still hovered in mid-air, her fingertips trembling slightly like a butterfly trying its wings for the first time. She could not see the snow stop, nor hear the pervasive quiet, but her heart beat rapidly—not from fear, but from an unspeakable resonance that surged from deep within her chest, reaching her limbs and bones. She slowly turned to look at her teacher, her eyes full of questions.

The elder gently clasped her wrist, placing her hand against his own chest. “Do you hear it?” he whispered, his voice hoarse like rubbing autumn leaves. “Not with your ears, but with this.”

The girl closed her eyes.

In that instant, a melody appeared in her mind—unharmonious, yet as familiar as a fetal movement. It was the opening phrase of *Gui Qu Lai*, the last tune hummed by its first writer on their deathbed three hundred years ago. It had never been fully recorded, existing only in the dreams of those with “a heart’s belonging.”

And now, it rose from within her.

She suddenly opened her eyes, clasping her hands together, then slowly spreading them apart, making a writing gesture—this was her own language: I want to write.

The elder smiled, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes unfolding like layers of paper. “Good,” he said. “Then write.”

As his words fell, the frozen snowflakes outside plummeted abruptly, like a thousand soldiers kneeling simultaneously. At the same time, in the Shouwang Dian on Wuyin Ya, the giant brush’s seven threads of light vibrated in unison, and a drop of clear dew fell from its tip, but instead of hitting the ground, it floated upward, transforming into a thin line that pierced the clouds and connected directly to the Star River.

The twelfth star shone again, three parts brighter than before.

And beneath this radiating light, countless sleeping people across Wuzhou and Sihai suddenly awoke. They were strangers, from different regions and walks of life—some were frontier herders, some were street vendors, some were hermits in deep mountains, and even death-row inmates in iron cells—but all at the same moment, dreamed of a brush.

A brush with a jade handle and black feather bristles, floating quietly at the center of the dream, surrounded by countless characters swirling like dragons and snakes. Whenever someone gazed at the brush, a voice would echo in their ear:

“It’s your turn.”

Upon waking, these people, without prior arrangement, got up and frantically searched for paper and ink. Some homes had long been without brushes, so they drew on walls with charcoal sticks; some were imprisoned, only able to carve words on stone walls with their fingernails; even more, bit their fingers, using blood as ink, and wrote the first line of text on their garments.

The content varied, but all came from the heart:

“I wish to vindicate the wrongly deceased.”

“I want to teach the village children to recognize all five hundred characters.”

“I will no longer alter destinies for the powerful.”

“I want to bury my mother on a hill full of wildflowers.”

“I… want to start anew.”

Though these writings were not gathered, they simultaneously vibrated at the bottom of the Huangquan Jing. The black dizi slowly rose, detached from the ink spring, and hovered in mid-air. A faint glow flowed from its holes, spreading throughout the underground spiritual veins, quietly seeping into every inch of land once permeated by the *Mingshu*.

The earth began to hum.

Three days later, Guiming Shuyuan received an urgent eight-hundred-li express report: the Ink Bamboo Forest in Nanling had withered overnight, but new bamboo nodes had grown on the dry branches, each embedded with a jade slip inscribed with unfamiliar characters. After identification by the Elder Council, they were found to be lost fragments of the *Xinsheng Lu*—an ancient text rumored to record “sounds not heard by the ear.”

Another day, news arrived from Xiyu: the water level of the Huangquan Jing surged, and the surrounding oases, dry for years, sprang back to life. The spring water was sweet and clear, and those who drank it could briefly glimpse their deepest desires. Some herders even claimed to hear songs from the well at night; the lyrics were incomprehensible, but brought listeners to tears.

The world was shocked.

Rumors spread among the populace: “The array of longevity has been activated; the wielder is a fated person.”

“The black dizi has awakened; the destiny tribulation is nigh.”

“A new Shouwangzhe is on the way.”

Facing the chaotic public opinion, Guiming Shuyuan neither refuted nor suppressed the news. The dean convened all lecturers and announced the revival of a ceremony sealed for three hundred years—the “Xindeng Hui.”

This gathering originated at the beginning of the destruction of Duoyun Zong, founded by the first dean, to select true inheritors capable of bearing the “Bihun” (brush spirit). Its method was highly unique: participants had to sit alone in a lightless chamber for seven days, without food or water, maintaining a sliver of lucidity purely by willpower. During this period, if a “Biying” (brush shadow) descended, it was considered a divine selection; if willpower collapsed, they were automatically eliminated.

Over one hundred thousand people registered, encompassing all social strata of the land. There were scions of aristocratic families, as well as beggars and wandering monks; white-haired old scholars and young children with braided hair. The academy opened all its lecture halls and quiet rooms for people to undergo secluded cultivation.

On the seventh night, a fierce storm raged.

In nine hundred and ninety-nine secluded rooms, lights extinguished one by one, with only three still burning.

Under the first lamp was a young woman, formerly a student of the Jiang clan’s private school, now a recipient of a folk literary award. Her eyes were tightly closed, sweat beaded on her forehead, and her hands were clasped as if writing. Suddenly, her lips moved slightly, uttering a line of poetry:

“Words are bones, thoughts are blood; the human heart endures, the brush never ceases.”

As her words fell, a crack appeared in the roof, and starlight spilled down, illuminating her palm, revealing a faint brush mark.

The second lamp was deep in a cellar, where a former Duoyun Zong disciple sat, hunted for years for betraying his family. At this moment, his body trembled, as if resisting some invisible pressure. Suddenly, he roared, tearing open his robes to reveal the brand on his chest: “Nimingzhe” (Fate Defier). He bit his finger and drew a fourth character on his chest:

“I!”

As blood flowed, the lamp flame surged three feet high, and a phantom appeared in the air—the title page of the *Ming Chang Juan*, which had been burned down that year. But this time, it was blank, with only a small line of text appearing in the center:

“Yourself.”

The third lamp, and the last, was in a small house at the foot of Zhongnan Shan.

There was no secluded room there, nor protective talismans. Only a deaf-mute girl sat cross-legged before the hearth, her hands constantly changing sign language, as if conversing with someone. The old lecturer watched her quietly, his eyes filled with both satisfaction and reluctance.

He knew she was the only one who didn’t need to “see” or “hear.”

Because she had already perceived everything with her soul.

At the third quarter of midnight, the three Xindeng simultaneously burst into dazzling light, then extinguished.

Almost at the same instant, on Wuyin Ya, the giant brush vibrated with a thunderous roar. Its seven threads of light simultaneously snapped, then instantly regenerated, changing color from white to cyan, then from cyan to gold. The entire Shouwang Dian soared into the sky, hovering among the clouds, corresponding remotely with the twelfth star, forming a bridge of light spanning the heavens.

The bridge surface was paved with characters, each step tread upon “I wish,” “I decide,” “I no longer.”

Immediately after, three figures appeared out of thin air, standing at the head of the bridge.

The first was the Jiang clan woman, her palm brush mark glowing;

The second was the former Duoyun Zong disciple, the blood characters on his chest not yet dry;

The third was the deaf-mute girl, behind whom floated a dizi made of light, gently rotating.

The three were strangers to each other, yet at the same moment, they looked up at the end of the bridge.

There, a figure in a cyan robe stood with hands behind his back, his face blurred, only his smile as gentle as spring sunlight.

“You have come,” he said, his voice not loud, yet resounding through heaven and earth.

Then, he raised his right hand, and in his palm appeared a brush—the very jade and black feather brush seen in the dream.

“Three hundred years ago, we made the first stroke.”

“Thirty years ago, you lit the first Xindeng.”

“Today, it is your turn to wield the brush.”

With that, he gently tossed it.

The brush streaked across the sky, not falling to any one person, but suspending between the three, slowly splitting into three brushes, each flying into their glabella.

In an instant, heaven and earth changed color.

In the ruins of the Nanling Ink Bamboo Forest, new bamboo shoots broke through the earth, growing taller node by node, quickly forming a forest. On each bamboo stalk, different characters appeared—neither seal nor clerical script, but “Xinsheng Ti” (Voice of the Heart Script), legible only to those who wrote with sincerity.

By the Huangquan Jing in Xiyu, the black dizi finally landed, plunging into the sand. Its body rapidly petrified, transforming into a towering stone pillar. Inscriptions flowed across the pillar’s surface, a microcosm of the wishes written by millions of common people over the years. As the wind passed, the stone pillar hummed, like a chorus of thousands reciting together.

On the Ten Thousand People’s Promise Wall in Jingcheng, all signatures glowed simultaneously, coalescing into a giant banner that soared into the sky, flying towards Wuzhou. Wherever it went, old altars of fate crumbled, and shackles spontaneously broke.

And on the shores of the Donghai, a fisher girl squatted on a reef, writing on the sand with a seashell. She couldn’t read or write, merely tracing sentences she remembered seeing in the schoolhouse. When she finished the last character, the sea surface suddenly calmed, the waves receded, revealing a path paved with coral and pearls, leading directly into the depths of the ocean.

At the end of the path, a crystal palace stood quietly, with four large characters carved on its lintel:

Gui Zhen Dian

The hall was empty, with only a table, an inkstone, and a brush. Ink flowed in the inkstone, rippling like living water. The girl timidly entered and reached out to touch the brush.

The brush body trembled slightly, and a line of text appeared:

“Welcome back, eleventh generation Shouwangzhe.”

Meanwhile, in the small house on Zhongnan Shan, the old lecturer slowly stood up and walked to the window. He pushed open the wooden window, gazing at the receding light bridge in the distant sky, and softly said, “Children, go. The path has been paved.”

The girl walked to his side, took his hand, and signed:

“Teacher, are you going too?”

The old man shook his head, smiling. “My mission is complete. This dizi, it should be yours now.”

He placed the short dizi into the girl’s hand. At the moment of contact, the dizi emitted a faint golden glow, as if responding to an ancient pact.

The next morning, ten thousand students gathered in the Guiming Shuyuan square.

They discovered that the blank, un-inscribed stele from yesterday was now covered with dense characters. These were not carved by stars or by human hands, but had spontaneously appeared, growing slowly like breath. The inscription had three sections:

“In the past, destiny was determined by heaven; today, destiny is established by myself.”

“In the past, the brush resided in the imperial court; today, the brush is among the common people.”

“In the past, longevity sought extended life; today, longevity resides in the heart.”

And at the bottom of the stele, a new small line of text was added:

“Shouwangzhe change, but the spirit is immortal. A new generation of brush-wielders has appeared; the array questioning longevity continues.”

The crowd was silent for a long time. Then, someone, it is not known who first, softly uttered three words:

“I am willing.”

Then came the second, the third… until finally, ten thousand voices converged into a torrent, echoing through the clouds:

“I am willing!”

As the sound wave spread, the sky cracked open again, and starlight poured down, transforming into a gentle rain. Each drop of star rain that fell gave birth to a small ink-colored flower. Its petals unfurled, revealing a person’s name—those who had once written their wishes and persevered.

One of them was particularly bright.

Two characters were written in its heart:

Feng Qi.

The flowers swayed, as if nodding.

And in the distant snowfields of Qizhi Zhou, a group of children sat around a bonfire, learning to write with their female teacher. Charcoal sticks scratched on slate, making rustling sounds.

“Today we learn three characters,” the teacher said. “They are…”

The children chanted in unison:

“I! Am! Who!”

The firelight illuminated their young faces, and also the crooked yet firm characters on the snow.

Night after night, year after year.

The brush never stops, the lamp never extinguishes, the wish never fades.

Longevity is not in heaven, but at the tip of the earthly brush;

The array questioning longevity is not in asking, but in writing.

As long as there are still people who want to change their fate,

As long as there are still hearts not cold,

As long as there is one child willing to pick up a brush and write “I am willing,”

It continues.