Life is a river with no visible end, winding through a hundred turns and a thousand curves, flowing along the long river’s ten bends, never ceasing.

When he awakened once more, three hundred years had already passed. Everything in the Qingmu Hall remained as it was yesterday – gentle breeze caressing, forest leaves swaying, the fragrant scent of scrolls, the quiet elegance of orchid grass. He slowly sat up, feeling as though he had merely taken an afternoon nap. The scenery outside the window was still beautiful, even the few white rabbits in front of the bamboo grove seemed to be the same ones he had fed all those years ago. Time had never flowed here – falling petals drifted down, the clear breeze leisurely, all things serene.

The descendants of Shangqiu slowly retreated from the room, maintaining their generations-old reverence, humility, and loyalty.

Green cloth soles stepped upon the rings of years as he pushed open the pale green bamboo door. Before him stretched a row of blue stone brick pathways, lined on both sides with tiny yellow flowers blooming in the wind, resembling children’s innocent smiling faces. Bamboo leaves rustled with a torrential sound, delicate and whispering. He sat in the bamboo chair beside the stone platform, beginning his first meal in three hundred years.

Clear porridge and simple dishes, a pot of cloudy wine – drinking alone and pouring for himself, what flowed through his fingertips was three centuries of peaceful slumber.

Many times, he thought that perhaps none of it had ever happened, just like those six years when he had left. As long as he stepped outside, he could see that beloved smiling face he cherished so deeply. However, reason constantly reminded him that time passed swiftly, years flew by like a shuttle, and merciless dust had already covered the past. Even if he had the courage to leave, what he would face would be nothing but the bitterness of dramatic changes in the world. If that was the case, it would be better to remain here, continuing to weave dreams and sleep soundly, just like Master Liang – a great dream lasting a thousand years.

The clear breeze brushed his face when suddenly crisp bell sounds rang out. His heart startled, and he turned his head.

High on the bamboo branches, a chain that had already turned black hung there, swaying in the wind, its sound tinkling.

Like a thunderclap suddenly exploding in his heart, he involuntarily set down his wine cup, stood up, and walked to the base of the tree, only to discover that even reaching out his hand, he could not touch the chain’s end.

Time, it turned out, was truly so merciless. Years upon years had passed in an instant, bamboo joints had grown tall, branches and leaves had flourished. Yesterday’s person was no longer there; unchanged was only him.

At that moment, he suddenly felt an impulse to get thoroughly drunk. It turned out he was not as strong as he had thought himself to be. Once the heart was moved, one could never again achieve calm detachment. Hidden beneath indifference was such deep, deep powerlessness.

Because he could not grasp it, he pretended not to care. But who knew that in those dark, low-hanging nights, in those wine cups drunk alone, what kind of bone-deep, heart-engraved self-reproach for his own inadequacy lay there?

Yima’er, his eternal life…

Since they could not stay together, it would be better for both to forget each other. Before falling asleep once more, he only hoped not to fall into another three-hundred-year nightmare, watching her departing figure again and again, tears soaking his lapels in the rolling yellow sand.

When he awakened again, the Shangqiu clan members informed him that the toxins in his body had been cleared. Master Liang had awakened once a hundred years ago, instructing that if he wished to leave, they need not obstruct him.

There was no excessive joy; suddenly, there was a bewilderment about where to go. He had spent his entire life in the company of this ailment. Without it, he might have died six hundred years ago, turning to ash. He had once hated this body so much, yet now, faint reluctance settled in his heart. With the world’s great changes, everything had already roared past. Now, even this frail body was no longer there.

With a desolate smile, what would be the point of going out? His eyes were too weathered, settled with the lonely wind and ancient paths of millennia, no longer suitable for viewing the green willows and red flowers of the outside world.

Time passed in a flash, seas transformed into mulberry fields, mountains rose from ravines. He still remembered one morning when Master Liang personally awakened him, telling him he was about to journey far away.

Hearing these words, he suddenly knew that over two thousand years had passed swiftly, and this brilliantly talented man had finally decided to abandon this lonely, long immortality. Even that obsession he had held in his heart for a thousand years, that dream, he would no longer persist in. With historical upheavals and great tides rising one after another, perhaps from the day he came a thousand years ago and changed the fate of Qin Er Shi Huhai, it was already destined that he would never be able to return. The Qingpeng Seven Divisions, commanded throughout their lives to pull history back on track, ultimately became nothing but an absurd joke. What should have changed had already changed; there was no longer Han or Tang in the world, let alone Ming and Qing. This homesick wanderer who had yearned to return home had finally become an abandoned child of time and space. He gave up such endless, beginningless slumber and was leaving.

The day Master Liang departed, the imperial mausoleum opened wide. He stood in the ancient corridor, watching that gradually receding figure, suddenly smelling the scent of desolation in his nostrils. Master Liang’s appearance was still so young, but somehow, he felt his back had bent somewhat.

In the vast imperial mausoleum, only he remained. Liang Sihuan, the emperor who had waited for two thousand years, would die before the steam engines of the first industrial revolution in a few decades, or perhaps just over ten years.

Three days later, he continued to fall into slumber. This time, it would be a relatively long period.

His awakening five hundred years later was perhaps a kind of helpless compromise. The Shangqiu clan had guarded the imperial mausoleum for three thousand years, and by today’s generation, they could finally no longer continue. With material circumstances scattered and population sparse, looking at the lone white-haired elderly person before him, he suddenly felt that perhaps he had been too selfish.

The old man feared that after his death, with no one to care for him, he would continue sleeping forever. So he boldly awakened him, not following the previously set time.

Thus, he finally made the same decision as Master Liang. That very afternoon, he left the Qin Mausoleum.

The moment he saw sunlight, he suddenly wept. Tears flowed down from the corners of his eyes as he tilted his head slightly back, wetting the hair at his temples. That day was his twenty-fourth year of conscious living in the world, but if the time spent sleeping was added, it was exactly fourteen hundred years.

The changes in the world shocked him. Descendants of the Seven Divisions waited for him outside the mausoleum. He followed them all the way to headquarters, underwent five months of learning, then set out alone on his journey.

He was not wandering aimlessly without a plan. He wanted to walk once more along the path she had once traveled, just as she had once searched for him. Only, what had once separated them was merely the distance of space, while what now blocked his steps was the vastness of time.

The desert had expanded, the oases that once existed had long since vanished. In the renamed Longya Desert, he finally saw that longevity tower. Though now riddled with holes, it had become a famous tourist attraction, carved with the life story of Flying Lian General Lu Huayang. This tower was also said to have been built by local people in gratitude for Huayang’s benevolence, and had been repaired many times by the government. Many tourists stood there taking photos. The tour guide repeatedly recounted Lu Huayang’s life achievements, calling her and General Xichuan Zhaonan the twin jewels of their time, the peerless pair second only to Empress Darong. Those earth-shaking military accomplishments were, in the eyes of later generations, merely an exciting and thrilling story. Sounds of admiration constantly arose, like gentle wind inappropriately echoing in every corner of the great desert.

He stood at the periphery, watching for a long time. The dry wind blew against his face, and the sand that had been scorched by the sun for over a thousand years was like a forest on fire, radiating intense heat. The pale-faced man remained silent, letting the long wind blow through his windbreaker, through his white collar, through his black hair. The sky gradually darkened, minibuses disappeared one by one at the desert’s edge. As the sun set in the west and the sunset glowed red, he ultimately did not walk over, but slowly turned away, leading his camel, step by step gradually moving away.

Time was both so hurried and so long. He walked along the way, solitary and alone, his silhouette thin.

In the blink of an eye, five years passed swiftly. Jiangnan water towns, Nanjiang wasteland, northern ice plains, western desert wilderness – following the Silk Road from Yumen Pass all the way to Kashi Lake. Only, the once prosperous and bustling ancient Jingjue City had disappeared, and the spirited alert horses had also been buried in the river of time. The former Daxia had been renamed Afghanistan, and the Roman people no longer lived in turmoil. He went to the Persian Gulf, to the Indus River mouth, to Pakistan. He left the great desert, sailed across waves to distant Northern Europe, South Africa, and the extremely cold northern lands she had once spoken of, meeting blue-eyed Caucasians, black-skinned Africans, cold-resistant Eskimos…

He met so many people, so many beautiful mountain and river landscapes, so many different customs and cultures. Yet ultimately, he could never again see that delicate face that repeatedly entangled his mind. Merciless time had severed a huge chasm between them – he could not cross over, and she could never return.

That day, at the Persian Gulf mouth, he finally saw the white tower that Empress Darong had personally sent troops to build. The tower body was over eighty meters high, entirely built with white stone, simple and unadorned, clean and pure. Besides its commemorative value, this white tower had now been requisitioned by the government to serve as a lighthouse guiding distant ships. At night, bright lamps burned high atop the tower, shining like stars.

He stood beneath the tower, head tilted up, quietly watching. An elderly Indian man shuffled over, seeing him and enthusiastically striking up conversation. The old man told him this tower was personally supervised in construction by Empress Darong after she led troops to attack Daxia, named Xi Luojia, which was Jingjue language, translated to Uyghur as Yima’er, and in Chinese called Changsheng (Eternal Life).

The Xi Luo White Tower, watching over eternal life. Though ancient times were lost, the white tower remained, but his eternal life could never be found again.

He removed his backpack, crouched on the beach where waves could not reach, lit a campfire, and took out the contents of his backpack.

It was a thick stack of yellowed white papers. If seen by a knowledgeable archaeologist, they would immediately recognize these as precious cultural artifacts preserved for over a thousand years through secret methods. The white papers were covered with slightly hasty brush calligraphy, and looking carefully, one could still discern the written content.

Sea wind carrying the fishy scent of waves blew toward him, passing over his weathered, weary brow and eyes, carrying a heartbreaking flavor. Fine sand was crushed under his feet, making soft rustling sounds. They seemed to still remember that many years ago, also on this land, there had been a thin, gaunt woman who came here from ten thousand li away and collapsed in great weeping.

Who exactly wronged whom? And who could not let go of the past, stubbornly living in memories? Though ancient time had passed, Yima’er, have you forgotten me?

“Zhiyan, today is the sixty-ninth day since leaving you. I finally have the courage to write down your name and embark on the journey to find you. I don’t know how far this road will stretch, how many years it will consume. Though the world is vast, there is no place two feet cannot reach. I firmly believe that as long as I want to search, there will surely be a day when I find you. You once said I was the strongest person in this world, that no matter what happened, I would never be defeated. I will not give up like this, and neither can you. I will definitely bring you back to our home. Don’t go too far – just stand where you are and wait for me.”

“Zhiyan, today is the 194th day of separation. I reached Dongting Lake. It’s autumn now, and the local people are all busy harvesting wheat. The scenery here is beautiful – clear mountains and waters, peaceful and serene. The old gentleman by the lakeside mountain is very kind. He agreed to let me leave letters, which he will preserve and show to passing travelers, helping to search for you. Yesterday I went to town, and on the way back I met a white little dog that looked very much like Da Huang, just as fat. Since you left, Da Huang hasn’t wanted to exercise and has gotten fatter and fatter. Half a month ago when I passed through Pengyang City, I went in to look but didn’t go home – just glanced from afar. I saw Cheng Xiao carrying it to the rice shop, but when she came back she wasn’t carrying it, but rather holding a bag of rice. Da Huang was too much – it was so lazy it would rather bite onto Cheng Xiao’s skirt and hang in midair than come down and walk by itself. Cheng Xiao still indulged it. If it were me, I would definitely kick it hard twice. Zhiyan, when you come back in the future, you must discipline it properly – lock it in Lian Zhou’s stinky boots and suffocate that guy.”

“Zhiyan, I reached Shangjing. Maple leaves are red as fire, falling petals colorful. I think you would definitely love it here. I carved many characters on the maple trees of Tianlang Mountain. I thought perhaps one day when you pass by here and see these characters I carved, you might suddenly think of me and then go home to see me. Boss Yuji in Shangjing City promised to help deliver letters, but I don’t know when you’ll be able to see them. Zhiyan, it’s been a year already. Where are you?”

“Zhiyan, I’m now writing to you from the house by Pengyang Lake. It’s been two years. I’ve traveled almost everywhere within the passes, but still haven’t found half a trace of you. That day in Pianjiuzhai of Nanjiang, I suddenly thought you might be waiting for me in Pengyang, so I rushed back at full speed. When I got home the door was open, and for a moment I really thought you had returned, but it turned out to be Cheng Xiao cleaning the house. Zhiyan, I’m still not strong enough – I cried again. Since you left, except for the first day, I hadn’t cried in a long time. Tears never solve any problems, but sometimes I really can’t control them.”

“Zhiyan, I’ve decided to leave the interior passes and go to the Western Regions. Cheng Xiao says I should wait for you here rather than wandering aimlessly everywhere. But there’s always a voice clamoring in my ear, saying that if I just go forward a little more, if I just persist a little more, perhaps I’ll be able to see you. Zhiyan, I’m going beyond the passes. Outside the passes the great desert is vast, sand yellow as the sea. Will you be there?”

“Zhiyan, it’s been three years and two months. Yesterday when passing Kashi Lake, I suddenly discovered a strand of white hair on my head. The desert’s sandstorms are severe, the sun merciless. My face has been roughened by the wind, my fingers are full of calluses. Last month I encountered a sandstorm and lost all my camels and luggage. If I hadn’t met a caravan, I might never have been able to write to you again. Zhiyan, your Yima’er ultimately cannot achieve eternal life – she’s gradually growing old. All the gods and Buddhas in heaven are watching her steps, but none can give her the slightest hint. Zhiyan, ahead is Pishan. Over that mountain, will I see you? Further ahead is Jingjue City – will you be there? Further ahead are Daxia, Rome, Persia… Zhiyan, will you be there?”

“Zhiyan, I miss you so much, I miss home so much. I miss that house where we lived together, I miss the bed at home, I miss Eastern rice, I miss Jiangnan spring water, I miss Da Huang who’s impossibly fat. I don’t want to eat dry naan anymore, don’t want to drink water with sand in it, don’t want to sleep on the cold sand. Zhiyan, I finally reached the Indus River mouth. The great sea is pitch black, the sea wind ice cold. I suddenly discovered this world is truly vast, that there really are places two feet cannot reach. My strength was originally just that small bit. Zhiyan, in the Bailue Desert, I walked alone for two months without meeting a single person. Today I met an old woman. I wanted to ask her the way to the Persian Gulf mouth, but discovered I had almost forgotten how to speak. Zhiyan, wrinkles are already beginning to appear at the corners of my eyes. I’m truly gradually no longer young. Exactly how many more years, how many more such roads must I walk before I can find you and bring you home?”

“Zhiyan, I’ve finally decided to go back. The road ahead is too long; I don’t have the strength to continue walking. I optimistically think that perhaps you’ve already returned long ago and are now in the house by Pengyang Lake, drinking clear tea, sitting in the rocking chair with eyes half-closed, basking in the sun, waiting for me to come back and open the door. Perhaps the moment I step into Pengyang City I’ll be able to see you – you’ll be in that bean juice shop eating breakfast, and seeing me, you’ll order a bowl of soy milk for me too. Zhiyan, I miss you so much. Yesterday at the Persian Gulf mouth, I saw a Han person wearing a green robe just like you. In that instant, I even thought I had found you. I ran forward like a madwoman, only to discover I had mistaken someone else. His name was Lu Chengsi, also from the Central Plains. He said his wife had been captured by the Xiongnu and he had come all this way searching, walking to here and still planning to continue looking. How wonderful – his wife is missing and he still has a goal to search for. But me, I don’t know which direction to go. East, south, west, north – all are roads, but which should I choose? Zhiyan, I haven’t cried in a long time, but today I truly can no longer suppress my exhaustion and disappointment. Tears fell like July rain, large drops falling into the Persian Gulf waves. Zhiyan, if you saw me so sad, saw me so struggling, would you have even a trace of regret? Would you have even a drop of heartache? Would you no longer leave? Would you stay by my side and face together whatever storms life might bring? Would you?”

“Zhiyan, I returned to Pengyang. I saw Zhixiang. The day I got home, he was sitting in the reclining chair you usually leaned against, drinking the clear tea you liked, reading the books you often read. Sunlight shone in from the window corner, illuminating his face. Those features were so similar to yours, yet he was ultimately not you. Zhiyan, I’m leaving again. I want to set sail across the sea, I want to find you. Don’t be angry, don’t blame me for being willful. They all say you’re no longer here, but only I know you won’t die. You’re such a clever person, you can definitely think of ways to protect yourself. You must be in some place, quietly waiting for me, waiting for me to find you and bring you home – it must be so. Zhiyan, you must wait for me, wait for me to tell you: Qin Zhiyan, I miss you so much, I want to live with you forever, want to be cared for by you, pampered by you, protected by you. With you there, I won’t suffer wind and rain, won’t be bullied, won’t be sad, won’t cry, won’t be hurt. I can always smile happily and live joyfully. I want to follow you to travel famous mountains and great rivers, to build a hut in places with beautiful scenery. I want to have a beautiful child with you and watch him slowly grow up. I want to see what you look like when you’re old, when you lose your teeth, when you grow white hair. I want to lie under the sunlight holding your hand, having you fan me. I want to grow a yard full of vegetables with you, fertilizing and watering them ourselves. I want to teach you to make pastries, wait for you to wake me up every morning, eat the breakfast you make with your own hands. I want to accompany you through a lifetime, and when we’re old, tell you that being with you in this life, I truly have no regrets.”

The great wind howled over, with a whoosh lifting up the papers whose tails had caught fire. He tilted his head up watching, his expression desolate, carrying the loneliness of millennia and powerless vicissitudes. All the papers bore the same text, only the signatures at the end differed slightly, inscribed with place names: Guici, Dayuan, Gaoli, Wusun, Daxia, Rome, Xinluo…

No one knew how he had passed through those days spent hovering between life and death. That broken body confined him within the Qingmu Hall of the imperial mausoleum. Even walking out of the bamboo house required someone to support him. How did he blame himself and rage at his own inadequacy?

Heaven had played an enormous joke on him. He possessed aspirations reaching to the sky and world-shaking talent, yet lacked a body sufficient to support completing his great undertakings. In the end, even his wish to live peacefully and steadily – just to live – could not be fulfilled. When the Chu Emperor dispatched heavy troops to follow her to the ends of the earth, he could only use all his heart’s strength to arrange those shadows following from afar, quietly watching over her, protecting her from a distance, collecting those blood-and-tear-written words bit by bit, forging them into his only belief and hope during these difficult years.

If it were possible, Yima’er, I would rather be just an ordinary man. Even with nothing, at least I would have the position and right to strive and struggle, unlike this – only able to watch helplessly as you grew sad and wept, watch as you bore wounds all over, yet standing in place, powerless to help. The most fortunate and proud thing in my life was having the courage to fight for you, yet the thing I most regret and blame myself for is also this very thing. There were too many unexpected changes in the world. What I thought I could accomplish ultimately became like the moon reflected in water, a flower in a mirror – only harming you, leaving you desolate for half your life, treading across green mountains.

He stood beneath the pitch-black sky, slightly raising his head, closing his eyes, tightly knitting his brow. The burning paper ash was like black butterflies, dancing through the sky with the sea wind, swirling around him in profusion. Enormous waves crashed layer upon layer against the cliff shore. The ice-cold massive stones had remained silent for over a thousand years, lonely witnesses to historical changes and the passage of time, together with that white tower standing quietly for a millennium, serving as witnesses of time for this transformed landscape.

Others’ separation ultimately achieved his eternal parting.

If it were possible, how he wished to drink a mouthful of the River of Forgetfulness’s spring water, to completely forget this floating, magnificent life – a great dream, a thousand years of solitude.