Wu Yueshu stared blankly, then asked puzzledly after a moment, “Why would she hit you? How can anyone hit people casually?”
The joys and sorrows, love and hate, laughter and scolding of romance in the mortal world—how could they be explained in a few words?
Mu Daoying thought and gave the most mundane answer. “You’ll understand when you grow up.”
Traveling with little Yueshu, he could no longer sleep in the wild as before.
Upon reaching a nearby city, Mu Daoying booked two upper rooms at an inn.
The inn waiter, seeing they were travelers, kindly said, “Tonight is the Ghost Festival. The city is releasing lanterns—very beautiful. If you guests have nothing else, why not go see?”
Mu Daoying thanked him politely but felt utterly indifferent inside, unable to muster interest.
Ever since gazing at the weak water, his heart seemed forever stopped at the shore of Nameless Weak Water.
No wind, no waves, the water unmoving.
Nothing in life could stir his emotions anymore.
Love or hate.
Joy or anger.
Life seemed just like this—neither here nor there, passing slowly day by day.
Daytime was bearable, but nights dragged on endlessly in quiet loneliness, hard to endure. He could only burn the lamp late into the dawn.
The inn’s dishes were mostly coarse. Considering Yueshu was still growing, Mu Daoying ordered extra.
He ate a little himself, then set down his chopsticks.
Be it rice or water, eating mouthful by mouthful, drinking sip by sip—hungry or full, it all tasted of nothing.
Though Mu Daoying had no interest in the lantern festival, little Yueshu was clearly very curious, her eyes full of longing yet afraid to speak.
Seeing this, he offered to take her to see the lanterns.
To him, it was all the same—better to fulfill the child’s small wish.
Wu Yueshu cheered happily and prepared to go with great joy.
Only then did his deadened heart flicker faintly. Sometimes, he would be infected by others’ happiness.
But the feeling passed quickly, like a dragonfly skimming water.
It was as if an invisible barrier separated him from the crowd, yet this did not stop Mu Daoying from feeling a trace of solace.
Nightfall descended, and lanterns hung high in front of every household.
Paper lanterns, silk lanterns, glazed lamps, gauze lanterns, bamboo lanterns, horn lanterns.
Hundreds of lanterns gathered into a bright river of lights.
People walking amid the river of lights also carried or cradled small lamps in their hands.
They arrived at the riverbank, burned paper money, and set down lotus lamps one by one.
Mu Daoying thought that Liu Qiao’e might have loved such lively scenes, so he simply cradled her small lamp in his palm and took her along with Little Yueshu, strolling and stopping along the way, looking around.
He truly had not expected this remote little city to celebrate the Ghost Festival so grandly. Out of curiosity, he asked a passerby nearby.
That person said, “Wasn’t it because demons and monsters wreaked havoc in the past couple of years? Every household lost people! It’s only recently that they’ve started celebrating on such a grand scale.”
Mu Daoying paused, and tender emotions silently surged like tides in his heart, rising and falling with the river lamps.
Little Yueshu thought of her own parents, and her expression visibly dimmed.
Seeing this, Mu Daoying bought some incense, candles, and paper money from a roadside vendor with his money and let her burn them for her family.
What about him? Burn them for Liu Qiao’e?
She still had a strand of her divine soul residing in the soul-returning lamp, so that would seem rather inappropriate.
Yet he still did not know when she might awaken.
What if that day never came?
This thought was too ominous. Mu Daoying shivered lightly, gathered the incense and candles, and dared not think further.
Drumbeats sounded from across the water, and the stage on the opposite bank began singing a grand opera with drawn-out tones.
Mu Daoying and Little Yueshu stopped to listen for a while before realizing that the opera was actually about Liu Qiao’e.
Qin Xiandu knew she admired fame and glory, so he had proclaimed her deeds to the entire world.
The lone hero wandering in the darkness—ordinary folk might not have seen her and might not fully understand immortals or demons, but that did not stop them from loving to sing such tales.
He watched as the drums and gongs opened the show. The young dan actor playing Liu Qiao’e flung her sleeves and emerged with drawn-out tones, speaking in a flowery, polite manner.
He found it somewhat wondrous and kept smiling. He could not help nodding to the glazed lamp and whispering softly.
Praising, “This is good here.”
Or shaking his head, “This is wrong; it’s too different from you.”
He did not dare say it aloud: she was far from as gentle and refined, virtuous and kind, able with both pen and spear as portrayed in the opera.
As the grand opera ended, Little Yueshu clapped until her palms turned red with excitement, and Mu Daoying felt a bit of lingering reluctance too.
The war had passed, after all. During these years of wandering, he had personally witnessed spiritual energy slowly recovering bit by bit. Spring rain moistened the parched land, and new rice seedlings sprouted along the roadsides.
People rebuilt new homes upon the ashes of war and cheered this hard-won victory.
He thought of her again—it was she who had ended this war.
Her name now spread throughout the world, and the efforts she made in the darkness were known to all.
People praised her and commemorated her.
Yet she had no chance to witness this peaceful world.
He watched it all, his eyes filled with tender warmth, but in a certain instant after the opera ended, in an almost imperceptible moment, a faint hidden pain stirred in his heart.
Such emotions always appeared, like a butterfly fluttering its wings—arriving lightly and gracefully, never intense.
This moment of dimness flickered on and off in his later days, weaving into the fabric of his life.
He passed through the celebrating crowds, gradually leaving behind the singing, dancing, and clamorous drums and gongs, and walked into the quiet darkness where lights were sparse.
Back at the inn, Mu Daoying tossed and turned, unable to fall asleep.
In the middle of the night, a pattering drizzle began outside the window. The lantern paper was soaked by the rain, glowing with clusters of damp, blurry light.
For once, he had a dream in which she appeared.
But upon waking, he remembered none of the dream’s content, only a faint regret and a melancholic shadow lingering in his heart.
The sky had already brightened greatly. Mu Daoying composed himself, no longer indulging in spring sorrows or autumn griefs.
He picked up the umbrella from the corner, pushed open the door, and went to call Little Yueshu to set off.
They passed through winding alleys where the night rain had knocked down the blooming wood hibiscuses in front of homes.
–
That rich merchant couple was overjoyed at Little Yueshu’s arrival. She was young and adorable, naturally clever and spirited. They adopted her and cherished her like a treasure.
Mu Daoying stayed for a few days and saw that they got along harmoniously, so he set down the weight on his heart.
He had not cared for Little Yueshu purely out of kindness; he had his own selfish motives too.
Perhaps because of Liu Qiao’e’s childhood experiences, he hoped that any girl like her or Little Yueshu could receive proper care.
He politely declined their whole family’s attempts to keep him and packed his bundle, setting off once more on his wandering life.
Along the way, through wind, frost, snow, and rain, he mostly held firm to his resolve, his mind steadfast.
He stubbornly believed in his heart that doing more good deeds would make up for her regrets in life and accumulate merits for her, bringing blessings from heaven.
Much later—Mu Daoying could not even quite remember the time anymore. Since she left, his days had passed in a blur, day after day, indistinguishable.
Later, Little Yueshu grew up too. The rich merchant couple arranged a marriage for her, a perfect match with her childhood sweetheart.
He attended the wedding banquet and drank a bit too much on the way back. Passing by the Yangtze River, with sheer cliffs on both banks.
He climbed high and gazed afar, seeing the eternal flow under the moon and hearing thunderous waves. It was hard not to feel like a mere speck, an ephemeral mayfly in the vast heaven and earth.
Yet he wished the ancient river waters could slow down just then, even slower.
All these years, he had kept walking without stopping, afraid that halting would let the immense sorrow drown him.
The oncoming river wind scattered the flush on his cheeks. He took out the glazed lamp and quietly listened to the river sounds all night, unknowingly falling into a deep sleep with the lamp in his arms, pillowed by the river.
The next day, he woke in a daze and felt something soft and furry on his face.
Mu Daoying gently opened his eyes and reached out, actually grasping a low-hanging peach blossom branch.
It had bloomed overnight.
Only then did he realize, belatedly, that it was spring once more.
The hard, lumpy bluestone pressed uncomfortably against his whole body, leaving his back sore and weak.
Mu Daoying sat up straight. His Daoist crown also fell into his palm, his hair scattered down, and his collar loosened.
He gathered his loosely open collar and rubbed his temples, aching from the hangover. He silently savored the lingering emotions from last night.
He had truly gotten drunk. The suppressed sorrow, pain, resentment, and even hatred of these years erupted in one night.
He clearly remembered coldly pointing at the sky and cursing lightly, cursing heaven and questioning its unfairness. But heaven gave no response; the river waters roared on.
He slowly closed his eyelids, bit by bit, gradually, and with effort swallowed the unwillingness, sorrow, and fear in his heart, chewing them to pieces.
He scooped up a handful of river water. After a simple cleanup and rinse, Mu Daoying shouldered his bundle again, leaving the peach blossoms behind.
The river flowed onward, peach blossoms bloomed.
Branches brushed the glazed lamp, new swallows skimmed the river surface with mud in their beaks. But beyond the unkempt Daoist’s unnoticing view, the dim lamp light inside suddenly flickered faintly brighter.
—
Liu Qiao’e also seemed to have had a very long, long dream.
The dream was deep; she felt trapped in a nightmare, her consciousness hazy, sometimes clear, sometimes muddled.
Until one day, she suddenly opened her eyes and discovered she was trapped inside a lamp.
Yes, a lamp.
It took her several days to piece together the whole story.
It must have been that strand of divine soul she had left behind beforehand, preserved in the lamp and slowly nurtured with fragments of the soul-returning lamp, keeping a thread of her life intact.
Liu Qiao’e had never thought she could survive.
Before throwing herself into the water, she had not dared to die.
After waking from drowning, she surprisingly did not want to live much either.
What was there to live for? She had done all she needed to. In this life, whether love or hate, she had experienced it all. Such intense love and hate were too exhausting; better to die and sleep in oblivious peace.