Qian Xuelang returned to when he was eight years old.
The waterfall thundered like rolling thunder, while the pool below was as clear as the sky. Qian Xuelang lay across a great stone. Spray scattered like pearls, and several drops even landed on his face.
He Tianjun was playing the qin. The music was gentle and unhurried. Water mist drifted in the air and caught the sunlight in brilliant rainbow colors, yet not a drop touched his robes.
“If the divination was inauspicious,” Qian Xuelang asked, “then Master, why did you still go?”
This was not a question the eight-year-old Qian Xuelang should have asked. Nor had he ever asked He Tianjun this before.
The qin abruptly fell silent. Through the drifting mist and painfully bright sunlight, He Tianjun’s face was too dazzling to see clearly. His voice, unexpectedly warm and mellow, carried through the roar of the waterfall with perfect clarity, and among the countless threads of water sound came a soft laugh.
“My little Stone Man, why did you not ask me then?”
Qian Xuelang was silent for a moment. “Because… because at the time, I did not feel sad.”
“At the time, sadness was useless to you. Birth, age, illness, and death were all merely ordinary things,” He Tianjun said. “You knew that I did not wish others to interfere with the choices I made, so you simply felt there was no need to grieve. Is that right?”
Qian Xuelang said, “Yes.”
“In truth, the seven emotions do exist in your heart. They are simply fainter than in other people, and you see through them more clearly, which makes them easy to suppress,” He Tianjun said. “But now you wish to pick them up, and then put them down again. That is far less easy.”
Qian Xuelang said, “Master, I do not understand.”
“You have already reached a transcendent state. External things do not make you grieve or rejoice, and you no longer cling stubbornly to loving life or hating death.” He Tianjun seemed to shift slightly, though he did not turn around. His hand fell to the strings and plucked a single note. “Is that still not enough?”
His voice was gentle and his tone indifferent, as though he still stood on that bridge, guiding the child who sought to transcend the mundane world.
“Yes,” Qian Xuelang said. “It is not enough.”
He Tianjun casually plucked another string. At once, the roar of water surged like thunder. He turned and rose, his robes floating around him like those of a divine being, and walked toward Qian Xuelang with the sunlight at his back.
“Then go. It is your turn, Stone Man, to die once and grow flesh from stone.”
He Tianjun extended one finger and lightly touched Qian Xuelang’s chest.
Pain immediately clogged Qian Xuelang’s heart. He suddenly remembered that he had fainted because of this very pain. Now he was apparently going to wake because of the same pain. He could not help reaching for He Tianjun’s hand, wanting to ask why his master had never told him the answer, but his fingers passed through empty air.
There was nothing at his chest. No hand, no heart. Only pain.
Qian Xuelang slowly woke.
His vision was still blurred. At first he could only make out a haze of blue drifting before his face. After a long while he realized the mist-blue gauze curtains had been lowered. The mattress and bedding beneath him were soft as spring clouds, so familiar that he could not possibly mistake them.
It was his master’s bed.
When he was young, Qian Xuelang had lain on this bed several times, usually when he was ill or had injured himself by advancing too recklessly. His master would often sit beside the bed and watch over him.
He thought of his master again. So many years had already passed. Why was he only now beginning to feel the pain?
Sorrow surged in his heart. Qian Xuelang again tasted blood in his throat and felt his chest constrict. This time he truly could not control it. He rolled to the side and coughed a mouthful of blood onto the floor.
While Qian Xuelang continued coughing blood, a large warm hand pressed against his back and rubbed steadily to ease his breathing. Once he recovered a little, a cloth was brought to his lips and carefully wiped away every trace of dark red blood.
“Why have you started coughing blood?”
The voice was indeed Ren Yijue’s. After coughing up blood, Qian Xuelang still felt heavy-headed. He simply rested his face in Ren Yijue’s other hand, trying to recover while darkness pulsed across his vision.
“I… I…”
A rough sound came from Qian Xuelang’s throat. He forced himself to suppress the grief until the qi in his chest finally eased a little. He had intended to explain his present condition to Ren Yijue, but then a thought suddenly struck him like enlightenment poured directly into his head, and he forgot everything else.
“So that is it. So that is what Master meant.”
There was still bright red blood at Qian Xuelang’s lips. Ren Yijue was wiping it away when Qian Xuelang suddenly seized his wrist and struggled upright. His mist-like eyes lit up, as though even his blood had grown warm.
“‘All is empty. A hundred years, a thousand years, all are of no use.’ So this is what Master meant.”
Still gripping Ren Yijue’s wrist, Qian Xuelang was beside himself with joy. Grief and delight collided in his chest, nearly making him faint again. His body sank back onto the soft pillow as he panted for breath.
Ren Yijue had no time to ask what he meant. He quickly withdrew his other hand and rubbed Qian Xuelang’s chest to help him breathe. Qian Xuelang’s frost-white hair lay in disarray, his face pale as snow, making him look almost dead himself. Only the constant rise and fall of his chest proved he was still alive.
Ren Yijue might be angry with Qian Xuelang, but he had never intended to harm him. Seeing his condition become this severe, he could not help feeling deeply regretful.
“I… I am fine.” Qian Xuelang saw the guilt on his face and spoke softly. “This has nothing to do with you. It is only that I was born this way. Ordinary cultivators can injure themselves when their seven emotions become excessive. I have always felt little. If I experience great joy or great grief, the same naturally applies to me.”
Ren Yijue said, “So that is how it is.”
Emotion burned like fire, while Qian Xuelang’s temperament, sparing in emotion, was like ice. When the two met, each naturally wore away at the other.
Ren Yijue thought, What exactly did he think of? From what he said just now, probably He Tianjun. But what did he understand?
Qian Xuelang tried to rise from the bed, only to find his limbs weak and soft for a moment, almost like a newlywed bride’s. He lay down again and rested until a little strength returned, then slowly said, “Speaking of which, I should thank you.”
“Thank me?” Ren Yijue could not help staring. But seeing that Qian Xuelang was recovering and truly in no grave danger, the flirtatious streak in his nature immediately resurfaced. He teased, “May I ask what the Jade Beauty wishes to thank Ren for?”
“I do not know how it is for others, but the Emotionless Dao I cultivate has three stages: Forgetting Desire, Forgetting the Self, and Forgetting Emotion,” Qian Xuelang said calmly. “I did very well with Forgetting Desire. I did poorly with Forgetting the Self, yet I went on to cultivate Forgetting Emotion. If not for you, I would not even have known I had gone wrong.”
Ren Yijue folded the bloodstained cloth and considered his words. “The Jade Beauty gives Ren far too much credit. I was merely speaking nonsense in the heat of the moment…”
“Whether it was nonsense, I know perfectly well,” Qian Xuelang said. “Even if your cultivation realm is lower than mine, there is no need to be so modest and cautious. Beginners can possess great wisdom. Sometimes they may even see more clearly than those at the highest levels, because the more one learns, the more easily one becomes trapped within oneself.”
Ren Yijue, the lower-realm beginner: “…”
Qian Xuelang looked at him again. “That is not what I meant.”
Ren Yijue said dryly, “Ren understands.”
“I have already comprehended the answer you spoke of.” Qian Xuelang looked directly at him. “You and I are two separate people, our bodies apart. You cannot truly know me, and I cannot truly know you. Yet if human hearts can communicate, then even if you and I have no relation at all, you may still understand my suffering, and I may still feel your joy. Is that right?”
Ren Yijue smiled faintly. “Exactly.”
He was smiling, yet inwardly he was shaken beyond measure. He had thought he was already overestimating Qian Xuelang. Now he realized he had still underestimated him by far.
“I still… cannot do it.” Qian Xuelang sighed softly. “But I still thank you.”