Clang.

A dull impact, and a throbbing pain spread across his forehead.

The young man made every effort to suppress the irritation and frustration rising in his heart, doing his best to appear as calm and detached as ever.

On the worn meditation cushion before him — the padding already poking out in tatters — sat an old man with a naturally smiling face and a wild, unkempt beard.

The old man held a bronze bowl in his hands. The dull sound just now had been that bowl making intimate contact with the young man’s head.

“Does A’Wei prefer tea or plain water?”

The same simple question, and already he had lost count of how many times it had been asked today.

The young man’s hands clenched silently into fists. He answered as calmly as he could:

“Plain water.”

Clang.

Another merciless strike.

The young man finally snapped. The emotions he had kept bottled up surged out like a beast breaking free of its pen.

“Choosing something I dislike is wrong, and choosing something I like is also wrong. What exactly do you want from me?!”

The old man showed no anger, his expression unchanged as ever. He extended his left hand, three fingers pressed together pointing straight up.

At the far upper end of the darkness, where it crept ever upward, there was a small window. Through the window was a chaos of day and night blurred together.

“Does A’Wei prefer day or night?”

Night, of course.

Night was so quiet, so hidden, so all-embracing, so unobtrusive — it allowed him to tuck away all of his shame and dark impulses without having to exert much effort at all.

Hearing his silence, the old man drew in his index finger and shaped it into a lotus gesture, sweeping it to encompass the surroundings.

The barely-visible boundaries in the darkness were formed from countless ancient stone bricks. Within those bricks: a solitary self, and an unfeeling master.

“Does A’Wei prefer to be alone, or to be together with his mother?”

Together with his mother, of course.

His mother was the only light he could see in the long night — as long as that light existed, he could use its shadow to peel himself free from the darkness that devoured all things.

He remained silent still. The old man withdrew his left hand, picked up the two clay teapots nearby, and refilled both the water and tea on the stone table.

“Tea or plain water, day or night, solitude or company — they are all the same. When you understand this principle, you may leave this tower.”

A principle? What principle was this? And even more bewildering — why this principle in particular?

Years of bitter cultivation, countless days and nights — he had been alone in this darkness, contending with the entire world. He had read the scriptures and classics thoroughly; the essentials of Buddhist doctrine he knew forward and backward. How could he not find the answer to such a simple question?

Perhaps these questions had no answers at all.

Perhaps his master had never intended for him to leave this tower.

Perhaps all the supreme teachings and wisdom and enlightenment were nothing but excuses for constructing this square prison — a curse to confine him for the rest of his life.

He suddenly swept his arm across the stone table. The water and tea were overturned in an instant, spilling across the floor.

“How can tea be water? How can day be night? How can solitude be the same as having someone by one’s side?”

His master was always benevolent and compassionate toward the people of the world, yet uniquely strict with him alone — as though he were not the man’s disciple, but a demon the man had devoted his entire life’s energy and wit to combating.

Yet he had always considered himself skilled at endurance. Unlike physical suffering, groping through this narrow, dark, sunless void in search of the void itself was far more shattering than the cruelest torture in the world.

But he had managed it well. Until now.

This was the first time he had lost composure in front of his master, and he knew perfectly well what that meant.

All his years of patient tempering had crumbled overnight. Would he never be able to leave this prison built specifically for him, never pass his master’s test? But even so, he would demand an answer. If that answer turned out to be nothingness, then he would abandon this entire cultivation, tear apart the nothingness that imprisoned him, and release the beast in his heart completely.

Water spread to the edges of the stone table, dripping in ticks and drops onto the old monk’s worn robe.

The old man looked at the young man.

The way the young man had hardened bore the spirit of that person from years past, yet those brows and eyes were shaped after his mother, and no matter what expression he wore, a few traces of purity and softness always remained. Beneath that surface, however, danger stirred restlessly — those jet-black eyes seemed always capable of concealing surging tides and sudden squalls.

The old man half-closed his eyes, the smile still on his face, but the fingers stroking the bronze bowl moved faster and faster.

“Tea and water both come from the heavens and earth, and both will return to the heavens and earth. Day will always turn to night, and night will always come back to day. You were born alone from the void, and you will return alone to the void. You have always been solitary — so where is the loneliness of which you speak?”

The young man could not find the words.

In debate of scripture or doctrine, he had never once bested his teacher.

But if his teacher was so clear-eyed and learned, and had poured so much effort into passing on his legacy — why would he refuse to tell him the answer to this question?

“If one wishes to truly know, of all the Buddhas of the three worlds, one must observe the nature of the Dharma realm: all things are created by the mind alone.”

Was his mind not steadfast enough? Or had his understanding simply reached its limit here? He had believed there was a world beyond the void — but perhaps his world was destined to end at this withered tower, nothing more.

“When the mind arises, all things arise; when the mind ceases, all things cease.”

No.

That could not be.

It should not be like this.

The overturned teacup still lay on its side. The spilled plain water and tea slowly merged and mingled together, as though they could no longer be told apart.

He stared at those fine, slowly flowing rivulets creeping forward — and the reflection frozen deep in his pupils suddenly went still.

“What confines you has never been this tower, but the choices within your heart.” The old man’s voice seemed real, seemed illusory — now a man’s, now a woman’s; now aged, now young. “Because you love water, choosing tea breeds resentment; because you love the night, daylight fills you with restless dread; because you love your kin, losing them plants an obsessive attachment born of suffering. Yet you were born with a capacity for love and hate and longing that runs deeper than ordinary people. Where others weep for three days, for you it becomes three years of mourning. Where others feel sorrow for a few years, for you it is as though the sky has collapsed and the world has ended. Conversely, if you had never made a choice, neither resentment, nor bewilderment, nor obsessive attachment would exist — and the peace within your heart could then endure.”

The young man’s lashes, fine and clear as cicada wings, drifted gently downward. When they rose again, the chaos in the depths of his eyes transformed in an instant.

On the stone table, the plain water and tea each flowed back to their own side, the boundary between them perfectly clear.

Inside the stone tower, light and shadow divided. Day and moon were split apart in the blink of an eye.

Before the meditation cushion, the seated old monk’s face dissolved into a shifting light that at one moment resembled his long-unseen mother, and at the next, the apparition that had appeared in the tower for three days.

“Since I was born into this world, I must bear this world’s suffering. Without tasting the sweetness of pure water, how can one know the bitterness of tea? Without indulging in the sweet drowsiness of the long night, how can one know the toil of daylight? Without experiencing the warmth and coldness of human feeling, the joy and sorrow — how can one know what loneliness truly is?”

If one has always been alone, where are all living beings? Without knowing the suffering of living beings, how can one cultivate compassion? If the people of the world knew no love, no parting, no sorrow — then even if he attained Buddhahood, whom would he be there to save?

Plain water and tea are simply different — they will not become one just because he makes a choice, nor will they cease to mingle just because he refuses to choose.

He already knew all the answers.

He would make his choice. He could make his choice. He was willing to make his choice.

The figure on the meditation cushion gradually receded into the distance, and only a powerful, aged laughter echoed on in the darkness.

“Remember the answer you have found today. If one day you face this question again, be sure to recall what choice you made here.”

Clang.

The bronze chime struck its final note, and the heaven and earth returned once more to nothingness.

When his eyes opened again, what greeted him was the great canopy of night and the sweep of the Milky Way.

A cold wind brushed over him. He sat up and looked back at the ruins behind him. The main hall was reduced to nothing but a fragment of foundation — only the surrounding courtyard walls remained to give any hint of what had once been here. Amid the dust of rubble and fallen beams, a worn meditation cushion sat alone, and on it someone was seated — a deep scar across that person’s face, the blood not yet dry.

Su Wei rose to his feet. Tiny motes of dust slipped from his hair. He walked step by step toward the figure on the cushion.

Yikong was still seated where he had been, seemingly holding something in his hand. At the sound of movement, he raised his head and slowly opened his clenched palm.

“I had just found this last bead and strung it back on when you arrived.”

The wound on his face was rather frightening to look at, yet his eyes were as clear and gentle as ever.

The man looked at the familiar string of prayer beads in the monk’s hand for a long moment without extending his hand.

“There is no need. The cage is broken — the tiger has left its enclosure. With one bead already missing, it is better not worn at all.”

“It is only one bead short. If Your Majesty does not mind, this little monk would be willing to sacrifice himself as a righteous act and offer his body to become the twenty-first relic — what do you say?”

The man sighed. The depths of his jet-black eyes held an emotion impossible to name or see clearly.

“Could it be that the Abbot would rather give his life for the Dharma than send me back to my prison?”

The monk shook his head, his expression completely serene.

“Your Majesty treads upon rivers and mountains, and holds heaven and earth in your grasp. Your body may go wherever it wishes, and your heart may reach whatever state it seeks. Where is the prison of which you speak?”

Slender fingers picked up the string of prayer beads — then gently set them down again.

“If there is no prison, then what use is this thing?”

Yikong finally rose to his feet as well.

He always carried himself with a humble posture, but now he straightened his spine for the first time, and found himself standing at the same height as the man before him. The gentle smile he habitually wore had faded away, and in its place was a severity that recalled the dharma-protector kings enshrined in the main hall. Fine dust fell from his blue-gray monk’s robe, spiraling between the two men’s feet.

“The eighteen relics my master gathered on his wanderings throughout his life — each one came from a high monk who had attained enlightenment — together with the three he left behind after his passing, that is twenty-one bone relics in total, every one of them given to his junior disciple. The power contained within them holds in balance the power in your bloodline. His intentions, you surely understand.”

Though young, the monk had always presented himself as slippery and roundabout with others — and he had maintained careful boundaries in his frequent dealings with the man before him. Yet today, for reasons unknown, he suddenly stopped addressing him as “Your Majesty” and instead spoke to him as one fellow disciple to another, adding yet another layer of pressure to his words.

But the man he faced was no ordinary person. From the corners of his eyes to the arches of his brows — not one flicker of wavering.

“Did Elder Brother bring the demon-subduing staff when he went to Buxu Valley — was he entertaining thoughts of killing?”

The young monk answered a question with a question.

“Has Junior Brother forgotten all the teachings our master devoted his life to giving you? Knowing full well that leaving the mortal world is the only true liberation, you still chose to plunge deeper into it. Knowing full well that all living beings would suffer as a result, still you refused to turn back. Even now, standing at a dead end, still you press further into the abyss.”

Su Wei understood what Yikong meant by “the mortal world.”

For him, the mortal world was only that one person.

“You should thank her. If I had never met her, I would not have known what it means to cherish and to sacrifice. Without love for a single person, how could I come to love all people? Without love for all people, how could I ever save anyone?”

The dust drifting around them fell in scattered points upon his brows, like the first snow falling into a lake not yet frozen over. Those eyes were as still as ever.

Yikong finally withdrew his gaze, lowering his head slightly — as though speaking to himself.

“Why did that one bead have to go missing? If it had not, perhaps things would not have come to this.”

The man across from him gave a soft, quiet laugh, and deflected the blame without leaving any trace of effort.

“If Elder Brother wishes to apportion blame, blame Zou Sifang of Huozhou. I once made a vow at my mother’s grave to my father that I would put an end to the old grievances of the former dynasty. Zou Sifang was the only lead to the secret seal, and at the time, only I could have saved him. If he had not been saved, all of it might have remained unresolved forever. Such is the nature of circumstance.”

The young monk laughed as well. He raised his hand to touch the scar on his face, then winced belatedly and wrinkled his brow.

“Had that one bead not gone missing, Your Majesty might never have developed feelings for Miss Xiao. On the day Your Majesty inquired about Pu Huna, this little monk took notice, and thus went against our master’s wishes by not disclosing everything. Yet one must know that blocking a flood creates a dam that must eventually break. What has come to pass is the karma this little monk must bear. Such is the nature of cause and effect.”

The drifting dust gradually settled. The night lay still around them.

After a long while, the young emperor finally turned away.

“I am going to see her.”

The young monk brushed off his robes, apparently not intending to follow.

“There are still many matters in the temple that need this little monk to attend to — I will not see Your Majesty off. However, there is one thing—”

The figure ahead paused, then turned — and found himself looking directly at that gold-and-green bronze bowl.

“This alms bowl has been enshrined in the temple for many years. Last month, when Elder Qu came to the temple to light incense, he caught sight of it and said its placement was interfering with the feng shui. Your Majesty is the true dragon in his mortal form — surely such things do not trouble you. Consider it a small keepsake, then, gifted to Your Majesty.”

The man touched the lump on his forehead. In a rare moment, he smiled at the monk, and took it readily.

“In that case, many thanks, Elder Brother.”

The young monk pressed his palms together and resumed his humble bearing.

“The road ahead is long — Junior Brother, take good care.”

* * *

In the western side courtyard of Yongye Temple, beside the kitchen, there grew a golden camellia tree.

It was a sickly sapling — weak in branch and leaf, having seen little sun — and with the first onset of winter, it had already shed all its leaves.

But it was the last golden camellia tree in Yongye Temple now.

The young chief attendant stood before the plum tree, gazing at the figure standing at the door of the side room. A faint sense of parting melancholy welled up within him.

Year after year, flowers part from their branches — always we say spring will come again and wrap the world anew. But who can know whether, when spring comes again, those branches that have survived the bitter cold will be able to bloom once more?

The young emperor had changed into clean, soft black everyday robes. He stood quietly for a while outside the gauze curtains of the inner room, and then — after a time none could say — he finally took that step forward.

The female physicians waiting by the bed heard the sound, and hurriedly turned to bow their greetings.

A gust of wind slipped in. The thin gauze curtains were carried spinning through the air, and through them his gaze caught one fleeting glimpse of her.

She lay quietly there, as though sleeping. Perhaps she truly was only asleep — perhaps she had entered a dream too beautiful and real to leave willingly, and so refused to wake.

The sleeping couch beneath her was one he had had moved from Qinghuai Marquis Mansion — along with the canopy overhead, and the lotus-embroidered duvet stitched by Dujuan.

He thought: perhaps she simply could not sleep comfortably on the cold hard bed of this temple, and was deliberately refusing to get up out of stubbornness. He thought: if when she woke, the first thing she saw was not bare rafters but everything familiar to her, would she smile and say something to him?

The wind passed. The gauze curtains fell. She vanished from his line of sight again.

The young emperor stood in silence, saying nothing, doing nothing.

But word of what had happened in the main hall had evidently spread. The palace servants kneeling in rows had no peace in their hearts — every one of them trembling with dread. The low-bent bodies had begun to shake. The sound of suppressed breathing echoed through the room.

At last, the man spoke — his voice as calm and even as always.

“Everyone has worked hard. Please go and rest for a moment.”

The servants stood frozen where they were, until the chief attendant standing at the doorway quietly urged them — only then did they move their stiff bodies and hurry out.

The room quieted. He walked forward step by step, passed through the gauze curtains, and came to her side.

Her hair was loose, and she wore only an inner garment — just as she had appeared to him in the main hall. Only she seemed far too still. She was always vivid, bright, and warm — when she spoke, her emotions danced along her brows; when she was quiet, her thoughts were written plain upon her face.

He wanted to see that again — but she had learned his expression, and lay as peaceful as a still lake, without a trace of the ripples and waves that had once moved across it.

“Xiao Nanhui, have you forgotten the promise you made to me?”

She did not speak. Even her lashes lay perfectly still.

He leaned down, and his lips fell softly upon her brow and eyes.

“You are so lazy — you would rather linger in bed than come find me?”

Still she did not speak. Her lips were lightly pressed together, holding even in sleep a trace of stubbornness.

He sighed, and that kiss fell again at the corner of her lips.

“It does not matter. Since you will not come to me, this time I will be the one to come to you. From this day forth, we will not be apart for even a moment. What do you say?”

She gave no answer.

He took her silence as her reply. The final kiss fell on her forehead — gentle and solemn — and lingered a long while before it lifted.

He rose and leaned against the side of the bed, quietly closing his eyes.

“The册 I asked you to prepare — has it been drawn up?”

Beyond the gauze curtains, Dan Jiangfei was silent for a moment before finally nodding and replied:

“In reply to Your Majesty — it was drawn up early this morning, and I have kept it on my person ever since.”

“Since it is ready, bring it here. Append a few words — you will write them for me.”

Shortly after, the chief attendant’s voice rang out again.

“Your Majesty, please dictate.”

The emperor’s deep voice carried each word clearly through the room.

“I was born cold and without sentiment, unable to perceive the suffering of others. In the decades I have sat upon the throne, I have never once wished to share in the joy of my people, nor have I ever felt gratitude or pride toward the realm beneath my seat. In name I was a king — in truth I was a prisoner. Year upon year, alone, the mortal world beyond reach, medicine of no use. Then came a spring wind into my life, burning away the rotten and giving rise to flesh and blood; with every journey shared side by side, I became capable of feeling and being moved, and found the illness lifted…”

Before dawn, the sky had turned a pale blue-gray — making the room feel cold and dim.

The candles in the room had gone out, and no one came to replace them. The chief attendant and the emperor he had served all his life sat thus across the gauze curtains from each other, keeping watch together from night until the light of day.

The sun rose gradually. The voice within the gauze curtains finally ceased, and the册 face, stamped with three official seals, now bore three or four columns of densely written small characters.

Dan Jiangfei set down the brush and waited for the ink to dry.

“I must take a trip far away. The date of return is uncertain. If I have not returned within three months, proceed according to the arrangements I spoke of before.”

His Majesty had always been taking trips far away. He had heard these words a thousand times. But this time felt somehow different from all the others.

Dan Jiangfei paused, and for once took the initiative to ask:

“Where is Your Majesty going?”

“Wherever there is a chance to save her — I will go and look.”

He stared at the ink slowly taking form, and there was something suppressed and trembling in his voice.

“Will Your Majesty come back?”

This time, the emperor gave no answer.

Just then, sounds came from outside the room — Ding Weixiang’s voice.

“His Majesty is inside — you cannot go in.”

“I have come specifically to find His Majesty—”

Hao Bai was still arguing outside when the voice from within the room rang out.

“Let him in.”

The white-robed physician hurried inside. Catching sight of the figure within, his legs trembled involuntarily again.

“My not holding you accountable does not mean I wish to see you right now.”

Heaven have mercy on him — he did not want to see the emperor at this moment either. If he had never waded into this muddy water, he might still be in some border-town right now, living the carefree life of an idle wandering physician.

Hao Bai made every effort to compose the misery from his face, and said quietly:

“My great-grandfather just sent word, and has asked me to relay a message to Your Majesty.”

The person behind the curtains clearly paused — then waved a hand. Dan Jiangfei gave Hao Bai a glance, gathered the册 and withdrew.

“Speak.”

The white-robed physician stepped forward and recited word for word:

“Though Miss Xiao’s vital channels of the heart have been severed, because the site of the wound has mingled with divine blood, one final breath has not yet dispersed. Your Majesty has one month’s time. You might try heading to the high plateau of the northwest.”

“The northwest? To seek whom?”

“To seek the descendants of the Qu family.” Hao Bai paused here, and realized there was something odd about his own phrasing. After a moment’s hesitation he added quietly: “She — she is not really considered part of the Qu family anymore. My great-grandfather has not seen her in many years, and refused to tell me even her name. He only said she is a descendant of the Qu family.”

The emperor had no desire to examine this baffling explanation further, and his voice remained cold.

“The Qu family head is powerless to help — what could this person do?”

“This humble physician does not know. My great-grandfather only said: if there is one person left in this world who could bring Miss Xiao back, it might be her. Only—”

“Only what?”

“Only this person lives upon the Gelute Plateau. That is the territory of Xuancheng. If Your Majesty wishes to find her, you may only bring Miss Xiao and go alone. The northern lands are harsh and cold, and the journey is long—”

“Scorching heat or bitter cold, a journey of ten thousand li — all of it is better than sitting here as I am, in each and every passing moment.” The voice behind the curtains gave a quiet, serene smile. Gently, he took hold of the young woman’s calloused hands on the couch. “Just the two of us — exactly right. Whether the road is open or blocked, whether we live or die — there will be no regrets.”