Prologue

The moment he walked in, Jiu Jue was already loudly complaining about the cold — talking as he shoved himself into the sofa, and without any ceremony used his backside to bump Ao Chi out of the prime warming spot. Then, before Ao Chi could explode, hurriedly apologized, saying his eyes had failed him momentarily and he’d mistaken the small, round creature for a newly-bought sofa cushion.

Ao Chi flung the book in his hand aside, jumped onto the back of the sofa, and jabbed a finger at Jiu Jue’s nose, furiously cursing: “Are your eyes stuck in your nostrils or what? Look at how properly and dashingly I’m dressed — how do I look anything like a cushion? Hm? Where do I look like a cushion!”

Did he not look like a cushion? Even I couldn’t convince myself of that. He was already small and pudgy to begin with, and then he’d gone and put on a zebra-print thermal jacket with thick fleece lining that was completely the wrong size, and then curled himself up in the sofa — no matter how you looked at him, from any angle, he was a cushion! I’d warned him long ago not to go online shopping for clothes at random, but would he listen.

“Oh my, our esteemed Ao Chi has taken up reading!” Jiu Jue didn’t fight back at all, even picked the book up off the floor for him. “Eh? On the Origin of Species?“

Ao Chi snatched the book back, rolled his eyes enormously, jumped down, and crouched directly in front of the infrared space heater, resuming his reading.

Jiu Jue scooted over to my side, glanced at Ao Chi, who was absorbed in his book, then pointed to his own head and quietly asked: “What have you been doing to him? This is really not Ao Chi’s style!”

In order to one day transform back into the former Ao Chi — whose height, weight, magical power, and bad temper all surpassed mine — he had been trying every method available, including studying Darwin’s theory of evolution.

“Leave him be. Reading is better than going online and buying random things.” Buried in thick winter clothes until I resembled a plump, rounded polar bear, I clutched my warm hand-warmer pouch and lounged half-awake in the sofa, thoroughly lazy.

“Pfft!” Jiu Jue rubbed his hands together and complained: “You don’t have to be this frugal — turning on the air conditioning in the main hall wouldn’t kill anyone!”

“If a freeloader like you who eats without paying keeps coming around, Never Stop might not even be able to afford the space heater.” I let out a yawn. The moment the weather turned cold, I wanted to hibernate. Very few spirits feared the cold — after all, we were not human, without those fragile, sensitive sensory cells. Yet Jiu Jue and I, two old spirits, seemed to grow more and more cold-averse. The longer one mingles among mortals, the more one forgets one’s true nature, involuntarily conforming to the world before one’s eyes — having loves and hatreds, knowing cold from warmth. That, after all, is what being human looks like.

This past week, the temperature had actually dropped below zero — and this was March in the south! The howling of the north wind had drowned out all other sounds.

“When did you get a cobbler at your front door?” Jiu Jue suddenly remembered something and asked me with puzzlement. The moment I thought of the person at the door, my drowsiness evaporated by three or four parts.

Three days ago, maybe four — I was returning home, and from a distance I spotted someone sitting at the entrance of Never Stop. Before I’d even drawn close, a pungent smell of alcohol reached me. A man. Disheveled and grimy, a thick, dense beard covering half his face, his long and heavy dark blue down jacket wrapping him completely, the hem that dragged on the ground covered entirely in dust and ash. And he had only one leg.

He sat at my shop entrance as if no one else existed, absorbed in sorting out the things he’d brought: a wooden box, and a pile of shoes. All kinds — old-style embroidered shoes, modern leather shoes, men’s and women’s styles, everything.

This heap of worn-out goods plus him occupied nearly half my doorstep.

“You…” I began.

“Heh heh.” He looked up and gave me a dopey grin.

“This is my doorstep, sir.” I tried to be polite.

“I make shoes!” he answered me with complete non sequitur, then put his head down and spread out a pile of awls, hammers, files, rubber cement, and various other implements all over the ground, pulled out an unfinished shoe, and continued working.

“This is my doorstep!” My tone sharpened by two full degrees.

“Miss, my legs are tired.” He broke into a violent coughing fit. The twilight and lamplight wove together over him — cold and forlorn. “Your place is brighter than anywhere else. I’ll move along once I’ve had a rest, all right?”

I looked at the worsening weather, then looked at his hands, red and frozen. I silently consented. He gave me another dopey grin. But that rest of his had extended to today.

Chi Pian’er had peeked through the door crack and seen that at night he covered himself with a thin blanket, drank from his grimy gourd of wine, then murmured things about shoes and feet and such nonsense, propped himself against the wall, and slept. During the day he neither ate nor drank — just kept his head down, making shoes. The temperature kept falling. In weather where breath turned to ice, I truly feared he’d freeze to death outside my door one night.

I invited him to come inside — he refused, gave a dopey smile and said outside was better, more free. I offered him hot water and hot food — he refused, said he was neither hungry nor thirsty. I gave him a thick cotton blanket — he refused, said that if he were going to freeze to death, he’d have done it long ago.

A strange one. Though perhaps he wasn’t human. Through the heavy smell of alcohol, I faintly caught a different scent. No matter — I told Chi Pian’er to keep watch on the outside at all times, and the moment anything was amiss with him, have Zhao Gongzi carry him off somewhere else immediately.

Ao Chi had said this madman was trouble and wanted to go out and give him a lesson. The result: he came swaggering back wearing a pair of beautifully crafted cotton shoes that fit his fat little dragon claws perfectly, lavishing praise on what a fine fellow this was and what fine craftsmanship, saying the man had made him a pair of shoes on the spot the moment they met.

I asked the cobbler why he’d given shoes to Ao Chi, and he gave a completely unrelated answer: “How wonderful it is, to have shoes to wear!”

…There was absolutely no communicating with him. My thoughts drifted from the cobbler to Jiu Jue’s face, and I asked: “You’ve been talking for ages — what exactly did you come to my shop for?”

He pointed upward, blinked: “To warn you — someone may be coming to cause you trouble very soon.”

“Someone from the celestial realm, coming to cause me trouble?” I gave a cold laugh. “I’m nothing but a small-time spirit. Who would think me so worthy of their attention?”

“Liao Yuan. The War God.” Jiu Jue said slowly.

“Him?!“

Before the words had even finished falling, everyone present felt the temperature in the room suddenly shoot straight upward. A blinding ball of fire descended from the void — and within the fire, a towering silhouette flickered in and out of sight…

1

“Take me across that river.” Mifa stood on the wet green grass and spoke to the man behind her.

The river’s clear green waves stretched across before them. In the distance, morning mist drifted over the dark-blue mountain ranges like layer upon layer of mosquito netting that could never be fully lifted. He had looked upon this same scenery for countless years — today it struck him as particularly dull.

“I’ve already taken you across many rivers.” He smiled. “Do you want me to take you all the way to heaven?”

“Could you?” Mifa’s eyes went wide, and her rosy lips formed a cute, playful little ‘O.’ Every time Mifa wore this expression of innocent expectation, he would never refuse. But — not today, and from now on, never again.

“This is as far as I go.” He looked up at the sky. “Someone will be here to receive you shortly.”

The Goddess of the Five Grains was as punctual as always. This old woman who liked to stick millet stalks all over her hair descended from her realm in a halo of auspicious light.

The radiance of a celestial goddess was almost too much for Mifa to look at directly.

The Goddess of the Five Grains looked Mifa up and down, very pleased. She took her hand with gentle kindness and said: “Come with me. I have petitioned the Celestial Emperor and entered your name in the Register of Long Journey. From now on, you shall be a Wish-Fulfilling Immortal of the celestial realm, revered and worshipped by the people of the world, your merit beyond measure.”

Mifa nodded shyly. The Goddess of the Five Grains nodded at him and said: “You have performed your duties faithfully and served the celestial realm with complete loyalty. A reward will surely follow.”

He laughed coldly in his heart.

“Give it to me.” The Goddess of the Five Grains extended her palm, covered in wrinkles. Once, those hands had been so smooth and delicate, like condensed cream. Time — it spares not even the divine.

He hesitated for a moment, then drew from his chest a brocade pouch the size of a fist. Inside the pouch was a white thread. The Goddess of the Five Grains snatched it up, tucked it into her sleeve, turned, and took Mifa’s hand — gripping it tightly as one would grip a fish for fear of it slipping away.

From somewhere Mifa found the strength to break free and run back to his side, tugging at his sleeve: “You said that once I became an immortal I’d have feet. You said you’d make me a pair of embroidered shoes with your own hands. Next time, when I come to the mortal world to find you — you have to give them to me! Otherwise I’ll walk barefoot for the rest of my life!” She must have imagined some amusing scene, because she broke into a fit of giggling.

“All right.” He patted her head. “Go.”

But Mifa still would not let go. She stole a glance at the Goddess of the Five Grains, then whispered in his ear: “Didn’t you say the thread should be given to the person you trust the most?”

“Yes.”

She knit her elegant brow: “Then I want you to keep it! Don’t give it to her!”

Foolish girl. He gave a bitter laugh inside.

“You can trust her just as you trust me.” This kind of lie — he had told it countless times, so many times he’d almost begun to believe it was true. “She is the Goddess of the Five Grains of the celestial realm, governing the rise and fall of the five grains of the mortal world. She is a deeply respected deity. From now on, you must cultivate diligently under her, and fulfill the duties you owe.”

This time it was the Goddess of the Five Grains, last time the God of Illness, the time before that the God of the Four Seasons — or was it someone else, he couldn’t remember. In any case, he had repeated these same words many, many times over many, many years. And in all those many, many years, he had been just as he was today — sending away one “Mifa” after another.

“If I’m no good at being an immortal, can you come and bring me back?” Mifa just couldn’t bring herself to release his sleeve.

I cannot bring you back anymore. Your thread has been handed to someone else.

He smiled: “Of course.”

“And little Yue and Iron Head and the others — from now on you must urge them to cultivate diligently. They must be chosen next time! I’ll be waiting for them in the celestial realm!”

Little Yue, Iron Head… there would be no next time for them.

“Of course.” He continued to smile.

“Come along. Don’t miss the appointed hour.” The Goddess of the Five Grains grew impatient, stepped forward, and seized Mifa’s hand. The goddess’s auspicious light grew even brighter than before, swallowing the reckless little girl at her side.

He tilted his head back toward the sky. The goddess’s radiant trail lit up the oppressive heavens — a sight that would have sent any mortal prostrating and wailing in reverence. O gods — beyond kneeling devotedly and begging from you, what else can they do? But the sky in his eyes held no shape of a god — only a snow-white kite, rising helplessly upward, unable to stop.

He lowered his gaze and walked back. On his sleeve, Mifa’s warmth still lingered.

This year, the common people who had gone about with furrowed brows for two whole years finally smiled — for there was a harvest. From the year before last, no matter how their land was tilled, the yield had been meager, and famine had become everyone’s suffering. People brought out whatever grain they had left and prayed to the heavenly gods, hoping that the deity who governed the five grains would show a miracle and save them. Household by household, so devout that they wished they could offer up their own lives. Two years of praying — and at last the gods had heard.

He stood at the edge of the golden, abundant paddy fields, face expressionless, listening to the sounds of people’s joy and laughter, listening to them sing their hymns of praise to the gods again and again. A gust of wind blew past. The clouds in the sky slowly shifted. He tilted his head up to look at those countless white clouds, but his lips stubborn counted: “One, two, three…”

2

Tsk, tsk — Foster Father was being foolish again. Clearly built like a rough-and-tumble butcher, yet insisting on holding a pair of white embroidered shoes with a refined, scholarly air as he sat before the river at the back of the mountain — staring at the water for a moment, then at the sky. His vacant gaze only flickered with light in the moments when clouds drifted through the air — and that expression of his made him look like Dimwit from the next village.

Twenty years now, probably — every spring, when the orioles flew and the grass grew long, he always did the same thing. From behind an old locust tree, Three Moon hushed at Mu Sheng, who was sitting in meditation with his back against the trunk: “Look at Foster Father — same dead look every single year.”

“What is there to see — you’ve just said yourself he’s like this every year.” A breeze carried in a butterfly with bright green wings, which landed on Mu Sheng’s head and fanned its wings gently.

“Don’t move!” Three Moon stared delightedly at the butterfly on his head.

Mu Sheng opened his eyes. In his dark blue irises, a faint layer of red light flickered. The instant Three Moon’s fingers reached toward the butterfly, a streak of flame swept across out of nowhere and reduced this insignificant little creature to a handful of dust, scattering in the sparse sunlight.

“You!” Three Moon recoiled her hand, glaring furiously. “That was going too far!”

“Trifling amusements corrupt the will.” He did not look sideways. Three Moon turned away in fury.

“The selection trial is fast approaching. If you still refuse to cultivate diligently, this life of yours will have been squandered.” Mu Sheng closed his eyes again. His wide, elegant cyan silk robe always looked as though it had just been washed in the cleanest of water — not only spotless, but faintly misted, a haze hovering around him indistinctly. The light filtering through the tree branches held its breath and lingered on his finely sculpted, porcelain-pale and refined face, moving reluctantly. So this, presumably, was what those lofty, exalted gods of the celestial realm looked like? Perhaps even they were no match for Mu Sheng?

Then there was that other person — he was quite like Mu Sheng, no, even more outstanding. The moment she thought of that person, something like a little rabbit leaped into her heart, thump-thump-thump. Three Moon shot up into the tree, grabbed a few wild fruits, and lobbed them at Mu Sheng’s head as revenge.

“I simply won’t cultivate!” she said stubbornly, chin tilted up, pointing at the sky. “Tell me — what exactly is a god? What’s so great about becoming one?”

“If we don’t become gods, what else can we do?” Wild fruit juice was now smeared on Mu Sheng’s forehead. He did not wipe it off — like a breathing statue.

“Nothing — we’d just live like this. Go to the city with Foster Father for wine and meat, sing and play music with Yan Xia.” Three Moon gazed indifferently into the distance. From the direction of home, cooking smoke had already begun to rise. She wondered what delicious dinner Yan Xia had prepared today. Having a younger sister skilled in cooking — what happiness. Their eccentric foster father, their meditation-loving older brother, her idle-and-wandering self, and their capable younger sister Yan Xia — this was a family.

The four of them had lived in this place called Dantu for nearly twenty years. The old house beneath the second tree on Bamboo Leaf Alley — neither narrow nor wide, facing south, with a courtyard that had a disused well in the center, covered by a thick slab of stone. On sunny days it was all right, but when it rained, four or five basins would have to be set out to catch the drips. Foster Father, that old thing, clearly had money — yet he’d rather spend it on wine and meat, or even give it to the girls at Emerald Fragrance Tower, than spend a single coin repairing his own home. And he still had the gall to tell them, grandly, that this was cultivation! If you lived too comfortably, you’d turn lazy easily.

Whenever Foster Father said these things in his drunken stupor, Mu Sheng was almost invariably at the back of the mountain in meditation — he never concerned himself with anything beyond cultivation. And gentle, obedient Yan Xia had always done as Foster Father said — she’d cheerfully do her chores while listening to his rambling, make sure everyone’s food and drink were well taken care of, and then go cultivate in the mountain herself, diligent and conscientious, orderly in all things. Only Three Moon would point at Foster Father’s nose and call him a dead old thing, a wasteful spendthrift without conscience. Every time she scolded him, he actually seemed quite pleased, clapping his hands and saying: Good girl! Well said!

Of the three siblings, Three Moon was the most averse to cultivation, the laziest, the most unruly — yet Foster Father liked her best. When he was in a good mood he’d even take her along to feast and drink at the city’s most expensive wine house, and occasionally even permitted her to venture out on her own to nearby towns and villages for fun. Such treatment was something Mu Sheng and Yan Xia had never received. The household rules were: besides being allowed to wander the market on New Year’s Eve every year, the three siblings were ordinarily confined to the house and the back mountain. And the stone slab over the dried-up well was not to be moved. Ha — even if you wanted to move it, you couldn’t. It seemed fixed in place. Three Moon had secretly tried.

For nearly twenty years, Mu Sheng and Yan Xia had never once broken the rules. The outside world — Mu Sheng held no interest in it, while Yan Xia had interest but no courage. Three Moon, being the only one who had both interest and courage, had become the one who was punished most frequently. No matter where she snuck off to, Foster Father could always easily bring her back — in the blink of an eye, her body would involuntarily dissolve into a white vapor and return to the house from however far away she’d been.

Once, Foster Father got completely blind drunk and declared loudly to the three siblings: Run? Where can you run to? You are spirits with every last thing tied down! The drunk talk delivered, he toppled over with a thud and fell snoring to the ground. Right — even if they were spirits, Foster Father was stranger than any spirit! In all these years, no one had ever seen him shave. She truly feared that someday after a heavy rain, mushrooms might sprout from his dense, bushy beard. He wasn’t fond of bathing, either, and changed his clothes even less often — always wearing the same oversized, disheveled grey robe.

The enduring stains and grease marks on him, and the clinging strange smell, had long since ceased to bother them. After enough time, the siblings could even joke about it among themselves — saying wouldn’t it be nice if some woman took a fancy to Foster Father, because he was like a wild boar from the mountains: in need of managing.

On the subject of “women,” Foster Father never went near one — just as he never let them touch that pair of shoes. That pair of shoes was Foster Father’s annual “project.” This bear-rough man unexpectedly had a great love for making shoes. He would spend nearly an entire year on them — fine craftsmanship, stitch by stitch, as if sewing his own heart’s blood in drop by drop — all for the sake of producing this single, plain pair of shoes. Well, plain was perhaps all there was to say: white silk soles, the uppers embroidered in silver thread with the most ordinary of floral patterns. Then he’d treasure them away in a box, and wait until spring was in full bloom — choosing a clear, fine day — and take the shoes to the river.

Yes — what was now in his hands was last year’s result. Very soon, with no surprise whatsoever, Three Moon and Mu Sheng heard a splash — Foster Father hurled the shoes into the river with force. A cloud floated in the sky, reflected on the water below, and the white embroidered shoes landed at its center — two kinds of white merging into one — bubbles gurgling up as, slowly, the embroidered shoes sank into the water and drifted out of sight. Foster Father’s eyes then came alive, shifting from Dimwit back to his normal self, and he watched the water gradually settling, and walked home without a word. Every year, Foster Father repeated the same things: make shoes, watch the sky, watch the clouds, throw the shoes.

“Such a shame, a pair of shoes that beautiful.” Three Moon sat up in the tree, watching Foster Father’s retreating silhouette from afar. “Eh — he’s not going home to eat? Why is he walking west?”

Mu Sheng didn’t even lift his eyelids: “Your good friend is getting married today. Did you not know? He must have gone to Wan City for the wedding banquet.”

“Getting married?” Three Moon’s body gave a jolt. She jumped down from the tree in a hurry. “Marrying whom?”

“Da Qiao marries Sun Ce, Xiao Qiao marries Zhou Yu.” Mu Sheng slowly opened his eyes. “What’s the matter — so delighted you can’t even smile?”

Such news — she really ought to be very happy. So why couldn’t she smile? Her heart held only one thought: go to Wan City, go and see him… No, no — go and see them.

Three Moon hurried off. Mu Sheng remained seated, dignified as an idol. From behind him, a silhouette quietly appeared.

“Foster Father has most likely been waiting outside Wan City for some time already.” Yan Xia stood at his side and said softly.

If one had to find a natural enemy within the three siblings’ lives, that nameless old Daoist priest would fit the role without any rival.

At the root of it all — without the old Daoist, the three of them would never have become siblings.

They were kites — or at least, that was what they’d believed themselves to be at the time. Snow-white hexagons, the simplest of shapes. But they had never thought about where they came from — it was as though the moment their eyes opened, they had already been part of this world. The only thing they did every day was fly — fly without ceasing. They’d also seen other kites: colorful, in all different shapes. But the strings of those kites were held by the people below, rising and falling not by their own will.

They too had strings — just behind them, though very short, and black — like a comical little tail. No one was holding them.

Before the old Daoist appeared, the three of them had each lived in their own separate sky, entirely unconnected, strangers to one another. But on that rainy winter day, they were caught.

The old Daoist rode a cloud, waved his horsetail whisk, chanted his incantation — and they could fly no more. They fell and fell, all the way down into a black iron box. Before the lid was shut, in the last sliver of light, was the old Daoist’s wind-and-frost-creased face. He said just two words: Demon spawn.

The box was sealed heavily shut. How long it stayed shut — who could say.

The three of them met inside the box.

Long ages, confined from then on to that cold, narrow world.

Can’t fly, can’t move — then at least we could talk.

Three Moon had the most to say. Even the names Mu Sheng and Yan Xia were improvisations she’d blurted out on a whim. She said Mu Sheng must have been born of wood, he was so unwilling to speak. Yan Xia’s voice was the most beautiful — soft and light, like the misty haze of early summer rain. Because she herself loved the weather of the third month, she called herself Three Moon. She had absolutely no sense of being a prisoner, and sought entertainment by every possible means.

“She is very unlike us. Isn’t she?” Mu Sheng had never once opened his eyes — as though asking Yan Xia, as though asking himself.

“Foster Father said that the Wish-Fulfilling Immortal officials to be selected this time will serve under the War God’s command, and there are only two positions available.” Yan Xia’s gaze held a deliberately manufactured calm. “Compared to the War God, even the Goddess of Five Grains or the God of Illness are like mud against a flame. If we can succeed in being selected, we will have no regrets left in this lifetime.” She paused, the corner of her lips lifting in a cold smile. “Since Three Moon has no wish to become a god, let us help her fully get her wish — shall we, Brother Mu Sheng?”

Mu Sheng remained still as a sculpture, seated beneath his tree. He nodded.

3

The consequence of not cultivating properly: whether she could fly or not was a matter of chance. When there was no urgency, she could fly as far as she liked — but when there was urgency, she’d crash to the ground after barely three feet.

Three Moon angrily knocked her own head and called herself useless. Back when she’d been a kite, she could fly as high as she wanted. Had she known it would come to this, she’d never have chosen a human form. She disliked Foster Father even more now. This man who had appeared out of nowhere and released them from the old Daoist’s iron box.

If you wish to become an immortal, come with me, he’d said. At the time, everyone had still been dazed, and only had a vague sense that an immortal was a remarkable thing. He had placed them all into a bamboo basket and carried it on his shoulder. Through the gaps in the bamboo, they saw the world outside the box: a sealed chamber beneath a Daoist temple. In the chamber, besides themselves, there were many similar iron boxes, old seals pasted upon them.

Outside the temple, the old Daoist had one arm severed, and lay half-dead against the statue of a deity within.

“Who on earth are you?” the old Daoist demanded furiously.

“Someone you cannot afford to provoke.” Foster Father didn’t even glance at him. “These three I am taking. The others I haven’t touched — you remain the hero who rids the world of demons and evil, catching spirits and driving away monsters.”

“They are no ordinary demon creatures! Without suppression, they will surely bring calamity upon the mortal world!”

“Why you kept them — you know full well in your heart. Who is the calamity — I know full well in my heart.” Foster Father gave a cold snort. The old Daoist’s face went alternately green and white.

Foster Father brought them home. That night, Foster Father took a willow branch, dipped it in water, and flicked it over them — and they took on human forms, though still dragging a thin, long black tail behind them. Their threads still faithfully followed them.

Foster Father used three talisman papers to sever their tails. The black threads that fell away were each collected into a separate brocade pouch. When your threads turn golden or white, that means you are qualified to become an immortal, he said, and tucked the pouches into his chest.

Back then — Foster Father seemed in their eyes to be even more powerful than a god! He taught them to sit in meditation and circulate their breath, to absorb precious heaven-and-earth energy at the turning of day and night, and had them diligently train in all manner of magical arts, telling them: if their cultivation was good enough, once they passed the selection of the celestial deities, their names would be entered in the celestial Register of Longevity, and from then on they would join the ranks of the immortals and soar to the heavens. And so, gradually, they became different from before — not just outwardly.

Yet time also transformed Foster Father from a godlike man into a run-of-the-mill old scoundrel. In the beginning he’d been quite enthusiastic about supervising their cultivation. Later, he more or less left them to their own devices.

On that snowy night, Three Moon — who refused to cultivate properly — was again made to howl and wail by Foster Father. That old fellow never raised a hand himself: he’d just chant a bit, and the rolling pin from the kitchen would fly over on its own and land hard on her backside. It was agonizing!

She clutched her backside, half-crawling, half-rolling under the table, snot and tears flying: Does it have to be immortality? Can’t I just be a kite? Every time you hit me — I’m not livestock in a pen! If you’re going to treat me like livestock, you might as well sell me off tomorrow!

The rolling pin fell to the floor. Foster Father took his gourd of wine, reddened eyes, walked to the table, and stared at her for a long while. She pressed herself as far back as she could. Foster Father looked at her for a very long time, and then said: Go to your room and sleep. Then he let out a long, long sigh, and holding his gourd, sat down in front of the dried-up well in the courtyard for an entire night, drinking himself into a stupor. After that day, Foster Father never again managed their cultivation.

Even now, Three Moon had no clear idea of what Foster Father actually did. He understood the affairs of the immortals so thoroughly, and what he did was all connected to the immortals. She had once asked: Are you an immortal? And Foster Father said: No.

Are you human? No. And then Foster Father refused to let her ask any further.

Fortunately, life became much easier after that, and she had been too lazy to puzzle over what Foster Father really was — as long as he let her roam wherever she pleased and kept her well fed and well supplied, that was enough.

But right now, she couldn’t feel easy no matter what. Can’t fly — how was she supposed to get to Wan City? She tilted her head back at the tall branches nearby and had a bold idea.

4

“Have you lost your mind?! Jumping from that height?!”

Three Moon moved the hands covering her eyes and looked into a bewildered face, then cried out in delight: “Little Monkey?! What are you doing here?”

“Gathering firewood. I saw you standing in the tree from far away.”

The man who had caught her was the neighbor who had moved in the previous year. In truth he was young and handsome, fine-looking and talented — but once, Three Moon had caught a glimpse of him nimble and agile at the very top of a very tall tree, catching a cat for the neighbor’s son, and the nickname Little Monkey had stuck.

The nickname didn’t suit him at all, because this fellow was not only good-looking but also accomplished in both the literary and military arts, could cook and drink, and even Foster Father often came over to drink and grumble with him, praising him as a once-in-a-hundred good fellow. They were so familiar with each other that it seemed as though they’d known each other for several hundred years.

Three Moon also liked to find him — mainly to mooch off his cooking. He’d coat fish and shrimp with unusual seasonings and roast them, which was remarkably delicious. He also cut window decorations out of paper: his scissors danced with agility, and all manner of flowers, grasses, and animals took shape with lifelike vitality. He could also play chess, playing against himself, finding great enjoyment in it. Beyond all that, he wrote articles — writing them in one single flow, smooth and pleasing to the ear. When the mood struck, he would also take down the longsword hanging on the wall and drink and dance at once, from the ground to the rooftop, from the rooftop to the sky, fluid and vigorous.

Watching this neighbor, Three Moon would think: was there truly anything in the world he could not do? She never saw him go out to work. Most of his time was spent in his own home, living alone without being bored.

Once, though — Foster Father had returned dead drunk and she was dumping him back in his room — she heard him slurring: The fellow next door is an immortal. A real immortal. Cleaner and more noble than any immortal I’ve ever known.

Of course, once sober he remembered nothing and denied everything.

The next day, Three Moon went to watch him cut window paper and asked point-blank: “My foster father says you’re an immortal!” And Little Monkey answered just as point-blank: “I am.”

Three Moon was electrified — she was seeing a living immortal for the first time!

What kind of immortal are you?! She was too curious.

He said: I am a low-ranking immortal official who runs errands under the War God.

That day, Three Moon learned that the deity who oversaw warfare in the mortal world was one of the great gods of the celestial realm — the War God. Whether it was war or peace, who was king and who was bandit — the course of it all was set within the War God’s hands. In the War God’s Hall, there was an enormous chessboard: the battles on the fields of war, the yellow dust flying high, how many heads fell and how many heroes rose — it was all a matter of one move of a chess piece.

Sounded quite impressive. Oh, and it seemed Foster Father had said that if someone was selected this time to become an immortal, they would serve under the War God’s command as a Wish-Fulfilling Immortal Official. Three Moon had no idea what a Wish-Fulfilling Immortal Official actually did. Foster Father’s explanation had been vague — only saying it was a very respected position.

“You’re an immortal official — someone as impressive as you must surely be a Wish-Fulfilling official, right?” She felt that if Little Monkey really was an immortal, he was certainly the respected kind. Little Monkey paused, then shook his head — said he was just an ordinary low-ranking minor immortal, without even a proper title. He’d come to Dantu only to complete a task assigned from above.

Hearing this, Three Moon immediately lost interest. Someone this impressive could only be a “low-ranking” minor official under that War God — being an immortal really didn’t seem like anything wonderful.

Still — his presence at this particular moment was very wonderful indeed.

“Take me to Wan City. When I’m in a hurry I can’t fly.” She jumped down from his arms and gripped his sleeve tightly. “You can do it, can’t you?”

“What for, going to Wan City?” he asked. The brightness in her eyes dimmed slightly: “My good friend is getting married. I want to go see.”

“Isn’t that a happy occasion.” He tilted up her downcast chin. “How is it that you don’t look the least bit happy? Or is this just how you spirits look when you’re happy?”

“Take me there first, then I’ll tell you.” The more he said, the worse she felt inside.

“All right. I’ll take you.”

Little Monkey knew her true nature — Foster Father must have told him. That old thing, the moment alcohol went down, he couldn’t hold anything back.

In the mortal world — a spirit and an immortal living as neighbors, with neither side having any objection. Three Moon felt a quiet gladness in her heart for the peculiar yet natural tacit understanding between herself and Little Monkey.

5

The whole of Wan City was festive and jubilant. Old Qiao’s two daughters were both getting married at once — and to the two young heroes Sun Ce and Zhou Yu at that. Such a situation was truly the stuff of legend. The common people had been trembling at the name of Sun Ce when he conquered this place not long ago, but seeing his dignified bearing and love for his people, as well as the support of a fine minister and bold general like Zhou Yu at his side, with his army also strict in discipline — their fear had quickly transformed into joy. With the addition of this marriage, Wan City had double the happiness to celebrate, and even the heavens cooperated: sunlight shining bright, spring wind warm and gentle against the face.

Little Monkey’s ability to ride clouds was very fine. He carried her and they settled neatly and smoothly in a secluded spot. Past the city gate and one more street was the Qiao family’s residence. She walked a few steps toward the gate, then stopped, looking inside — the view was all festivity and celebration, lively enough to seem as though it might push her out.

“Still not going? Even for such a short walk you’re being lazy?” Little Monkey crossed his arms and leaned against some rocks nearby. “Better not ride clouds inside the city — too many people, easy to be seen.”

“I… I haven’t bought a gift yet.” Three Moon searched for a reason for her sudden timidity.

“What gift — if she’s your good friend, the fact that you came and offered your blessing is the best gift there is.” Little Monkey gave her a push on the back. “Go on. I’ll wait for you here.”

“Oh…” Three Moon kneaded her sleeve, hesitantly walking into the city.

He watched her slight silhouette disappear into the crowd, then quietly followed. One arm, he held across the path of an old Daoist with only one arm of his own, and asked with a smile: “Is the honored Daoist also here for the Qiao family wedding banquet?”

The old Daoist startled. In an instant, his arm was held firmly, half his body shot through with a pin-and-needle pain, unable to move.

“Who are you?” the old Daoist demanded furiously. “Stop impeding this Daoist’s great work! Step back at once, or don’t blame me for showing no mercy!”

“Could it be that the Daoist is hurrying to subdue a demon?” He looked around. “I don’t sense any demon aura here. Come, come — step aside for a word.”

The old Daoist was, against his will, dragged outside the city gate.

On the open ground of wild grass, the old Daoist’s whisk cut fierce arcs through the bright sunlight, every move aimed at taking Little Monkey’s life.

Little Monkey was in no hurry to strike back. He sidestepped and leapt onto an old tree, asking with a smile: “How did the honored Daoist know she would come to Wan City? Could someone have specifically informed you?”

“What business is it of yours! Twenty years ago this Daoist was careless, and a group of demon creatures managed to escape into the mortal world. Now she has walked into the trap herself — this Daoist will act on behalf of heaven’s justice!” the old Daoist shouted.

“Does the Daoist wish to act on heaven’s justice — or is it that you want to capture these Flying Heavens and keep them for private use?” Standing against the light, Little Monkey’s smile faded into shadow.

The old Daoist’s expression shifted sharply. Humiliated into fury: “This Daoist originally had no wish to lower himself to the level of a mere mortal like you — but since you’ve chosen to seek your own death, you have only yourself to blame!”

“Honored Daoist, perhaps first take a clear look at this mere mortal of yours, and then make your plans.” Several sharp beams of light burst from the tree. The gentle world bathed in spring sunlight was suddenly transformed into something else entirely. The old Daoist’s eyes went perfectly round. His one remaining left hand pointed at the tree, trembling violently: “You…”

Those words were never finished. And never would be.

Everything quickly returned to stillness. The sunlight continued to fall warmly. The old Daoist lay rigid on the ground, eyes wide open — his long, supple whisk had passed through his own heart.

Ahead, Little Monkey’s silhouette grew smaller and smaller, dissolving like smoke into the green mountains and water.

6

When Three Moon walked out of the city gate, half a silver moon had already moved to the other half of the sky.

She had a wine gourd in her hand, drinking as she walked, singing as she drank. Little Monkey walked up to meet her, saw her misty eyes and flushed cheeks, took the gourd from her, and drank a mouthful himself. Very strong wine — it felt like his throat might catch fire. And she had drunk more than half of it.

“Happy now?” He steadied her as she swayed back and forth.

“Happy!” She gave a heh-heh laugh, leaned toward his ear, and said: “Da Qiao was so beautiful! Bright red wedding garments, and her shoes — she made them herself! An absolutely gorgeous crimson rouge color, embroidered with a pair of birds. She said… what did she say those birds were called?”

“Mandarin ducks,” he said.

“Right, right — always in pairs, together until white-haired!” She was so happy she was hopping around. “Red candles burning high, a pair perfectly matched! She and Sun Ce are so well-suited!”

“Yes. Well-suited.” He grabbed hold of her as she kept hopping, wrapped an arm around her waist, and hoisted her efficiently onto his shoulder, striding forward.

“Little Monkey…” she called his name. “I want to wear shoes like that too! Will you give me a pair? You’re an immortal, aren’t you?”

“All right, I’ll give you some.” He walked steadily, as if afraid of jostling her.

Three Moon blinked her dazed, drunken eyes, then suddenly pounded his back with force and burst out laughing: “Ha ha! If you give me shoes, I can’t wear them anyway! I have no feet! No feet!” She reached behind her and lifted the hem of her long dress — below the knee: nothing at all. “Foster Father said — even if you take on a human form, you still don’t have feet!”

“Put your skirt down, you’ll catch cold.” He pulled her hand away and straightened her skirt.

Her voice grew smaller and smaller, and she stopped making a fuss. She murmured: “Little Monkey, Foster Father told me — me, and Mu Sheng and Yan Xia — he said we’re not kites, we’re Flying Heavens! Flying Heavens! Spirits who are born with the right to join the immortal ranks! He said the gods of the celestial realm — every one of them likes us. We can hear people’s wishes — the wishes hidden in their hearts!”

“Oh,” he answered softly.

She continued to babble: “The ones selected this time go to work for the War God! The War God is incredibly powerful! Mu Sheng wants so much to go. I’m not going — I’ll stay home, watch you cut window paper, eat roasted fish, all right?”

“Why don’t you want to go?” he asked.

She shook her head emphatically: “I don’t know. Foster Father said every Flying Heaven has a thread tied to them, and that thread changes color — when it changes color, you can hand it over to the celestial gods, and they can take us away. But why do we have to give it to them? I don’t even know them. If they take my thread, will they tie me up?” She suddenly shouted: “I don’t want to be tied up! I want to fly — fly to Qu’a, where he built a house, with a bridge and running water, and dewdrops hanging on bamboo leaves.”

He listened quietly, stepped across a stone bridge, set her gently down, and leaned her against a bluestone. He took off his own outer garment and draped it over her.

“Hee hee, let me tell you a secret. I’ve only told this secret to Mu Sheng and Yan Xia — you’d be the third to know.” Her head rested against his shoulder, a finger pressed to her lips. “That year in Qu’a, at his house — the one who fell into the pond was me, not Da Qiao!”

“Whether it was you or Da Qiao — does it matter?” He looked at her pursed lips and smiled a little.

Her head drooped lower: “It doesn’t matter. But he asked my name and asked where I was from. Da Qiao was right beside me, and he didn’t ask her anything.”

“Yes. He liked you, not Da Qiao.” He stated it plainly.

She smiled foolishly for a while, then her brow drooped again: “But Da Qiao is my good friend, and I heard the wish in her heart.”

She buried her head deeper, her voice growing smaller and smaller.

“Sleep,” he said, tucking the garment around her more carefully.

She shook her head: “Not sleeping.”

She wasn’t drunk. She could hear everything clearly, see everything clearly.

That was five years ago. Old Qiao had brought his daughters to visit Foster Father, hoping to persuade him to enter government service. Old Qiao came to lobby every single day, and even found a house nearby to stay in. They talked of the world and of politics. She couldn’t understand any of it — but she’d become good friends with his daughters, as pretty and lovely as flowers.

Girls in the tender years of early youth need no deliberate effort — the exchange of one or two small so-called secrets is enough to become sworn sisters. Da Qiao and Xiao Qiao were both filial, wise, and clever. Da Qiao especially — bright and open-natured, though she appeared delicate, her heart was broader than that of most men, and her understanding surpassed them as well.

Many nights with the moon and stars high overhead, she and Da Qiao would sit side by side in the courtyard, whispering the small private thoughts of girlhood — even the wind that passed seemed tinged with sweetness. Her secret of having no feet was exposed by a fierce gust of wind.

Da Qiao was surprised, of course — but she didn’t flee, nor was there any contempt or fear in her expression. She told Da Qiao: she was born without feet, and what appeared to be walking was actually floating, which was why her skirt was always so, so long. I am a spirit — she told Da Qiao plainly, even prepared herself for the loss of this friendship. But Da Qiao only smoothed out her skirt for her and said: Sisters are sisters. Spirit or not — what does it matter?

She stood in a daze for a long while, tears spinning in her eyes.

That period of time was the happiest. She learned how to ride clouds, and often slipped away behind Foster Father’s back to secretly take Da Qiao very far away to play.

She remembered one summer afternoon when they had landed at the foot of some mountain in Qu’a, and been drawn by curiosity — and by the sound of a guqin coming from the house before them — into sneaking inside. Following the sound, she was so clumsy that she tumbled straight into the pond, startling the person playing.

And so, in the most wretched moment of her life, she met that person. He lifted her from the pond. Through eyes blurred entirely with water, she saw a face she would never forget for the rest of her life.

A jade crown holding back his hair, a robe as black as ink. The beauty of his features needed no further words — but that singular air of heroic spirit between his brows alone was enough to outshine even the brightest and most blazing sunlight.

Attendants came running at the sound and called out for their master — he dismissed them with a word.

She scrambled away from him in a panic, desperately yanking at her skirt, terrified that the secret of her missing feet would be discovered. For the first time in her life, she was so afraid of someone knowing she had no feet.

“Whose daughter are you? What is your purpose in entering my estate?” He watched her with considerable interest.

“I… my name is Three Moon, and she is Da Qiao.” She pulled Da Qiao, too nervous to speak, to her side, and said in a muddle: “We were passing by, we heard the music here was beautiful, so… so we snuck in.”

He looked at her with a smile: “Fortunate that this is my Qu’a retreat. If this were my Jiangdu estate, I fear the two of you would have been seized as intruders before you even got inside. Bear this in mind: young ladies must not be so reckless. If you come again, have an attendant announce you, and enter through the front gate like proper guests.”

“Oh.” She flushed red and didn’t dare look at him.

“You like listening to me play?” he asked. She nodded her head foolishly.

“Ha! My technique is still far behind my brother’s.” He took her hand easily and openly and led her toward the pavilion where he played. “There is a saying among the common people: when a note is struck wrong, Zhou Lang glances. What a pity — he is far away today, so you’ll miss out on hearing him.”

She was so alarmed she immediately grabbed Da Qiao and went with them to that side.

“Your name is Three Moon?” He suddenly turned around.

“Yes.” She avoided his gaze.

And then that entire summer afternoon passed — in his flowing, effortless music, and in her and Da Qiao’s flustered, self-conscious discomfort.

She had secretly glanced at him many times — watched his slender fingers move nimbly over the strings, watched his intent and steadfast eyes, revealing in the music a limitless tenderness. This man was himself already the finest song in the world.

She also remembered his name: Sun Ce. And this afternoon had no Da Qiao in it — both she and he had forgotten Da Qiao’s presence.

Long afterward, Three Moon still felt as though she had been dreaming.

She’d secretly returned to Qu’a several times but never saw him again. His attendants said: the master’s father was buried in Qu’a, and every summer, if there were no military campaigns, the master would come to stay here for a few days. The master had now returned to Jiangdu.

And so she’d thought — the story ended there.

Old Qiao had ultimately failed to persuade Foster Father, and finally left with his daughters. Since he had not completed his imperial mandate, he did not dare return to court, and settled in Wan City instead. The parting words she and Da Qiao exchanged were the same: no matter how harsh the world becomes, make every effort to be a happy woman.

Happy… happy… she murmured the word, slowly opening her eyes.

7

“I was asleep for seven days?!” Three Moon shot up from the ground, a wave of dizziness hit her, and she sat right back down.

“That wine was too strong.” Little Monkey sat diagonally across from her, a bonfire burning before him, a branch with a fish speared on it in his hands, which he turned with practiced ease.

In a nameless, directionless mountain forest, a simple grass-thatched shelter covered her from above. Little Monkey’s outer garment and fallen leaves lay together at her side.

She rubbed her throbbing head, pulled a face: “Seven days… I’m done for. I must have missed the selection trial date. Foster Father is going to beat me to death.”

“Young ladies ought not to drink so deeply and so greedily.” He brought the fragrant fish to her. “Missing the chance to become an immortal — do you regret it?”

Three Moon tore off a piece of fish, and laughed out loud — her face suddenly bright as sunshine: “Hee hee. I’m thrilled. You know, Foster Father said only two could be selected. I missed it — that’s exactly Mu Sheng and Yan Xia, the two of them. Just right.”

“Indeed. The two of them, just right.” Little Monkey wiped his hands. “Eat well, then we go back.”

She bent her head and ate with gusto. The evening in Wan City — the red candles burning high, the beautiful wedding garments, the happiness flushing Da Qiao’s face a deep rose — and… him. Still that same heroic, commanding bearing; that gentleness with its undercurrent of authority — enough to shield his new bride from the harshest storms.

First bow to heaven and earth, second bow to parents… — in contrast to that afternoon in Qu’a, in the story of this night, she had been forgotten — and forgotten forever. Da Qiao and Sun Ce were, from now on, a match made by heaven. All right. It was all over.

She now understood why Foster Father loved to drink, and insisted on drinking until he was drunk. When drunk, things were very clear; when sober, they blurred, and were forgotten. That was fine.

Right now she only cared about the delicious fish before her. And — about how Foster Father was doing. At the wedding banquet, she’d seen Foster Father and old Qiao pouring wine on each other desperately, the two old men completely plastered, singing off-key songs at the moon at the top of their voices. She vaguely recalled old Qiao grabbing Foster Father by the arm saying: Jiao Guang, Jiao Guang — they all say you are the most extraordinary man in the world, even the Emperor himself remembers you — what sort of hermit are you being! Come out and do something for this chaotic age — why are you so impossible!

Foster Father pushed him off, slurring: Extraordinary man — pah! You know what — the way I’ve lived is absolutely disgraceful… absolutely disgraceful! Ha ha!

Right — Foster Father also had a name, though it was rarely used. Those who knew him called him an extraordinary man; those who didn’t thought him a wild drunkard from the mountains. The first time Three Moon learned his name, she’d laughed until she nearly fell over, and said the house would have to be very careful with fire from now on, otherwise they’d all burn up with a bright blazing light — all of them scorched bright.

The scattered memories collided with her supposedly-cleared-but-still-confused head. Little Monkey poked at the bonfire and stood: “Let’s go.”

They returned to Bamboo Leaf Alley. The sky had gone completely dark, lights burning everywhere — except her home, which was completely dark.

Three Moon’s heart thudded with guilt. She grabbed Little Monkey and wouldn’t let go: “You stand right at the door — if Foster Father goes crazy with rage and tries to kill me, you rush in and save me immediately!” Little Monkey couldn’t help smiling. He pried down her hand: “Go in. I’ll be right here.”

She crept inside, tiptoeing — silence all around, down to the last extreme, so quiet that even the sound of breathing seemed jarring.

Mu Sheng was not here. Yan Xia was not here either. Everything was cold and deserted.

“Back, are you.” The voice from the darkness made Three Moon jump out of her skin. She looked toward the sound. In the sparse moonlight, Foster Father was sitting before the dried-up well, several empty wine vessels tipped over beside him.

“Oh, back.” She instinctively stepped back. “Where are Mu Sheng and Yan Xia?”

“Asking when you know the answer.” Foster Father gave a wine-belch. “Yesterday, they ascended. Wish-Fulfilling Immortal Officials of the celestial realm. Twenty years of cultivation, and now it is only you left.”

“Really?!” She felt a secret thrill of delight, but didn’t dare let it show. “Oh my — will they come back? I didn’t even get to congratulate them.”

“They won’t come back. From now on, you are still a spirit, and they are immortals. The two paths are separated forever.” Foster Father spoke slowly, his back still to her.

“Oh…” Though Mu Sheng was quite annoying, and Yan Xia wasn’t particularly exciting either, to be forever strangers from now on — Three Moon felt a small pang. After all, they had lived under the same roof as siblings for decades.

“Well — I won’t disturb Foster Father’s drinking. I’m going to sleep.” She made to slip away.

“Three Moon.” Foster Father said her name very seriously.

“I’m here.” Three Moon didn’t dare move.

“Do you know what becomes of a Flying Heaven who is not selected?” He slowly turned his face to one side — half drunk, half awake. Three Moon shook her head. If I’m not selected, then I’m not selected — at worst I spend my whole life as a spirit. She didn’t dare say that out loud.

“Flying Heavens are tools that belong exclusively to the gods. If they cannot be used by the gods, they must be destroyed. This is the rule.”

Before the last word had even fallen, something like a great bell flashed before Three Moon’s eyes. She looked carefully — and a cold blade was already pressing at her throat. Foster Father had never even picked up a kitchen knife, yet he held this killing blade with such practiced ease. No, no — a spirit-killing blade.

“If I’m not selected, I get killed?” She still hadn’t quite entered this reality. Foster Father and his blade both felt somehow unreal.

“This dried-up well is full of Flying Heavens’ remains. Every one that was not selected.” His voice was calm.

“I… I don’t quite understand.” Three Moon’s gaze fell on that unremarkable dried-up well. The moonlight washed the stone slab on top of it very white — like the face of a woman in bitter suffering.

“From now on, you no longer have a foster father.” His gaze and his blade’s edge blurred together. No! Her cry hadn’t yet left her lips when the blade was knocked aside by another long sword.

“Killing your own foster daughter just like that — a bit harsh, isn’t it.” Little Monkey pulled the stunned, soul-scattered her behind himself, sword tip pointing at Foster Father.

“Then I’ll kill you first. How about that?” Foster Father gave a cold laugh.

8

In a nameless bamboo grove, the blade and the sword had both been cast to the ground. A shallow stream crossed through, singing its tranquil song.

“For you.” He drew out from his chest a brocade pouch, and pulled from it a fine, snow-white thread, surrounded by a faint luminescence. “Of the three, she has the highest gift. Mu Sheng and Yan Xia’s threads were only golden.”

Little Monkey hesitated for a moment, then accepted the pouch and asked: “When did you make this decision?”

“From the day Three Moon wept and asked me whether I was raising livestock.” He smiled. “I searched the mortal world for Flying Heavens, spent twenty full years cultivating them, then let them ‘ascend to immortality’ and contribute to the celestial realm. What a magnificent undertaking.” He turned his head, made a pig-ears gesture with both hands. “And those people who raise pigs and sheep — aren’t they doing the same thing? Raise them up, and then sell them.”

“How will you account to the people up there?” Little Monkey was quiet for a moment, then spoke. “This batch — you cultivated three Flying Heavens. Yet on the day of the selection trial, only two appeared. They probably have a sense of it.”

He lifted one corner of his robe and said: “If I want to play a trick on those old creatures, I still have my ways.”

Beneath the robe, he had only one leg. Little Monkey’s expression changed.

“Don’t forget — I was originally a Flying Heaven myself.” He blinked with sly cunning. “These feet were a special honor bestowed upon me by them. Now I used one to create a fake Three Moon — just right. My acting is not bad. Yesterday, in front of them, I ‘killed’ the disqualified Three Moon and threw the ‘body’ into the well. They were very satisfied and very relieved. Moreover, with Mu Sheng and Yan Xia, it is enough to let a certain someone continue eking out an existence for a while longer.”

“Why Three Moon, and not one of the others?” Little Monkey leaned against the lush bamboo, his gaze like starlight.

“I didn’t deliberately do anything.” He smiled. “You see — I taught them all the same skills, painted for them the same vision of the beauty and grandeur of immortality, gave them all the same things. Yet Three Moon still didn’t want to become an immortal, while Mu Sheng and Yan Xia were the complete opposite. What I did was simply follow each of their wishes.”

“Is this a small measure of freedom you are fighting for them — or for yourself?” Little Monkey’s lips curved upward. He looked at the pouch in his hands. “If you want to give Three Moon freedom, why then do you hand her thread to me? You and I both know — this thread represents everything to a Flying Heaven.”

“Because you can distinguish between manipulation and protection.” He watched the stream flowing into the distance. “If you are willing, you can continue to ‘keep’ her — or, on whatever day you judge to be right, return this thread to her herself.” He sighed. “In any case, I can no longer keep her.”

“Why?”

“I am going to retire.” He picked up his blade and hurled it far away. “Going to be a cobbler. I owe many people a great many pairs of shoes. I told many Flying Heavens — once you become immortals, you’ll have feet, and you’ll be able to wear shoes.”

“Mm.”

“But the old creatures up in the celestial realm won’t approve, so I’m bound to have to endure a rather unpleasant stretch of time. Having her along would be a burden.” He confessed, then turned and shot a look at Little Monkey, who was lost in thought. “Although you are only a minor immortal official under the War God, you are cleaner than any great deity I have ever known. That feeling has not changed.”

Little Monkey tucked the pouch into his chest and waved a hand at him: “Go. Until we meet again.”

“Remember — that girl can’t hold her drink at all. At the wedding banquet, I only swapped the wine she was drinking with what I myself was drinking — and it knocked her out for seven days.” He shook his head. “In future, she is not allowed near wine.”

“That wine of yours is too strong, far too strong. You’ve steeped your lifetime’s worth of love, hatred, and remorse into it. Ha.” Little Monkey picked up his sword and turned around. “Why do you throw a pair of shoes into the river every year?”

“For Mifa.” A rare longing rose in his eyes. “I liked that girl — but I still gave her to the gods.” He gave a pained smile. “They say that when a Flying Heaven dies, the soul becomes a cloud.”

Little Monkey let out a sigh.

“I am a Flying Heaven who can fly forever. I cannot touch Mifa’s soul — so I can only wait for a cloud to drift over the surface of the water, and then pass the shoes to her through that. Hmm — you are more than welcome to laugh at me.” He turned his back. “Go! When you see Three Moon, just tell her you’ve killed this unscrupulous foster father of hers. Best if we never meet again.”

“All right.” Little Monkey nodded.

The two men stepped in opposite directions. Bamboo leaves rustled softly underfoot.

9

The events in the bamboo grove were condensed by Little Monkey into a different version, which he relayed to Three Moon in brief.

“He’s a shameless old rascal, an old drunkard. But I think — even if you hadn’t appeared that day, he wouldn’t have actually killed me.” Three Moon lay sprawled across the table, eyes rolling about, watching him cut window paper with great concentration. “And I don’t believe you killed him either.”

“Do I not look fierce enough?” A nimble little cat took shape under his scissors.

“I just don’t believe either of you are the kind who kills people with blades.” Three Moon wrinkled her brow.

“Killing people doesn’t have to involve a blade.” He pressed the paper cat against her face. “Silly girl.”

“Where did he go?” Three Moon peeled the paper cat off and stuck it to the window.

“Only heaven would know.” He set down the scissors. “Is there any luggage to pack? We should get ready to leave — Bamboo Leaf Alley is no longer a safe place to stay.”

“Together?” She touched the red paper window decoration. “Or am I going alone?”

“Together.”

“Good.” After a long while she turned around, lifted the hem of her long skirt, and smiled. “I don’t even have feet — I really have no idea which direction to walk in.”

The next day, both neighboring houses in Bamboo Leaf Alley had their front gates locked.

In this run-down little alley, the run-down little houses — when people had been there and when they had not — went largely unnoticed by anyone.

What people cared about was the increasingly chaotic world.

Three Moon carried a small bundle and followed behind Little Monkey on the road out of Dantu. The bundle held very little — just a wine gourd, the one the old fellow had left in the house. After all, he was the one who raised me, Three Moon thought.

Little Monkey hadn’t said where they were going — only that wherever they felt tired, they would settle down.

Sometimes they walked. Sometimes they flew. The more places they saw, the less peace was visible. Warlords vying for power, war burning everywhere — the Han dynasty’s realm had gradually become a churning, furious sea, drowning more people than could ever climb out. Pity those white-haired fathers and mothers, the lonely wives and daughters — waiting and waiting, until hope ran out, and what came back from the battlefield was not a living loved one but a solitary, broken shade.

News of him also reached her now and then. Enfeoffed as Marquis of Wu, stabilizing Jiangnan, military achievements glittering, his reputation spreading wide — even the all-powerful Cao Cao regarded him with particular attention.

But none of that interested her much. What she thought of was Da Qiao — that woman glowing with happiness in the candlelight of her wedding night. Was she still smiling gently, like a bloom?

She could fly now — and fly well. Little Monkey had taught her. She could go anywhere. But there was one place she had firmly decided, in her heart, she would never go.

This year, she and Little Monkey’s home was in a small village, the fires of war still very far away. As a housemate, Little Monkey was home less and less. Three Moon would occasionally ask, and he’d only say he’d gone to watch people fighting their battles, and he’d mention in passing who was gaining the upper hand and who was utterly defeated. She always lost patience listening, and urged him to hurry and go roast some fish.

But today, she took every word Little Monkey said straight to heart.

He said: Sun Ce went out hunting and was struck by a poisoned arrow from an assassin’s hand. His life hangs by a thread. She was midway through cutting a good-fortune character — one wrong snip and the character split into two halves. That night, Little Monkey was home alone, pouring his own wine and drinking.

The following evening, Three Moon walked through the door, face drawn with exhaustion. Her eyes were as red as that torn good-fortune paper. She wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t drink — for three days straight she sat in the flower bed behind the house, staring blankly.

Sun Ce, the hegemon of Jiangdong, had been ambushed and died — at only twenty-six years of age. This news had already spread across the world. She tried carefully to recall the melody he had played that afternoon — but no matter how she hummed it, it didn’t sound right.

“Not hungry?” Little Monkey carried a steaming bowl of porridge, moved a little stool over, and sat beside her, eating on his own.

“I saw Da Qiao.” She propped her chin in her hand. “She didn’t see me. She was holding his body — she wasn’t crying. She’s still so young. Why does she already have white hairs?” Little Monkey said nothing, eating contentedly.

“He didn’t see me either. The arrow wound on his face was serious — it must have hurt terribly. He was gripping his brother’s hand, which wouldn’t stop trembling. He gave his territory to his brother, ordered him to protect Eastern Wu to the death and let the people live in peace.” She lifted her head, a glimmer of tears in her eyes. “But — who was he leaving Da Qiao in the care of?”

“What are you crying for.” Little Monkey set down his bowl. “For a woman — to have the person she loves die in her arms — is the worst, and also the best possible ending.”

“But — but it shouldn’t have been like this!” Her tears spilled out. She stared at him. “Do you know what I did for her?”

“You used your spirit magic to alter Sun Ce’s memory,” he said calmly, “making him believe that the girl he had been captivated by at first sight in Qu’a was Da Qiao — not you. After you returned from Qu’a, you heard the wish in Da Qiao’s heart: she said, if only it had been her that Sun Ce lifted in his arms that day. You thought — you’re her sworn sister, of course you should make it come true for her. You grandly thought: if one day Sun Ce sees Da Qiao again, he’ll surely marry her. Yet when Sun Ce conquered Wan City and truly saw Da Qiao again, when two people destined for each other were naturally brought together — why could you still not smile? Let me ask: was what you did for the sake of sisterhood, or did you lose to your own sense of inadequacy? You are a spirit without feet — how could you possibly be worthy of such an outstanding man?”

“You… how did you know?” she asked in shock.

“During the seven days you were drunk, you kept pulling at me and wouldn’t stop talking.” Little Monkey shook his head. “And yet — your sworn sister didn’t even let you know about something as major as her own wedding.”

“She was probably so happy she forgot.” She offered an explanation — but partway through, she suddenly grew furious and raised her voice: “I don’t mind any of that at all! I don’t even regret using spirit magic on him. What I was most devastated by was yesterday — even if I used every bit of spirit magic I have, I couldn’t make him live past the Battle of the Red Cliffs!” Her tears streamed down her face. She pounded her own chest. “What use am I, then?”

“Take care of your sworn sister. As long as Eastern Wu stands, her days ahead won’t be too hard.” Little Monkey took her hands and held her in his arms. “That land is his life too. You couldn’t save the man — but if the chance comes, save his home.”

She finally sobbed aloud, all her grievances and regrets dissolving in her tears. The weather was beautiful, the sky full of white clouds — a cloud or two pausing now and then to look curiously at this weeping girl.

10

This year marked the eighth year since they had moved to Chaisang.

Little Monkey had set up a roasted fish stall at the marketplace — business was brisk. Three Moon helped at the stall. With something to do, time passed faster.

Over the years, Sun Quan had governed Eastern Wu reasonably well and the people’s hearts were relatively stable. Da Qiao had moved into a Buddhist temple. Sun Quan treated his sister-in-law with great consideration — fearing that the ascetic life beside ancient Buddhas and incense smoke was too harsh for her, he had tried several times to bring her back to the residence of the Marquis of Wu, and was refused each time.

Three Moon would sometimes slip quietly to the temple to see her. Even in plain clothes and unadorned, her sworn sister was still beautiful. But every time Three Moon left, catching a glimpse of that lonely shadow cast against the wall, her heart would ache.

Lately, however, troubling news had been drifting down from the north like storm clouds. This peaceful, fertile land carried faint omens that war’s fires were about to burn again.

Cao Cao, who had already unified the north, wielded the Emperor as a puppet to command the lords, and under the pretext of suppressing rebellion, launched an army southward into the regions of Jing-Chu and Wu-Yue — his ambitions to proclaim himself emperor were plain for all to see. Under his eighty-ten thousand troops pushing southward like a breaking flood, Liu Bei fled in defeat, Zhuge Kongming journeyed to Chaisang and in debate after debate won over the wavering ministers, rallied the Marquis of Wu to raise an army, and formed a joint Sun-Liu force to resist Cao’s troops. At court, the two factions — one for war, one for peace — were in an uproar; in the streets, ordinary people whispered and speculated.

“Sun Quan won’t sit back and accept his fate.” Little Monkey and Three Moon sat facing each other: he was cutting window paper by lamplight, she was lost in thought. Time seemed suddenly to have wound back eight years, to that night before they left Dantu.

“Even if the Sun-Liu joint forces pool their armies, they have only a fraction of Cao’s forces. How can they resist eight hundred thousand of Cao’s troops?” Little Monkey often talked about the battles of the world, and having heard so much, she had gradually come to understand things she had not known before. “Cao Cao hasn’t put Sun Quan in his eyes at all. Many people say taking Eastern Wu would be effortless for Cao Cao, like reaching into one’s own pocket. They also say — sooner or later, the world will change its surname to Cao.”

Little Monkey frowned slightly and asked: “Even you think it is Cao Cao’s destiny to become emperor?”

“I only don’t want what he built to be destroyed by someone else.” She lifted her head. “What’s infuriating is that Cao’s army has won battle after battle — winning even battles they had no right to win, as though they have divine assistance.”

“There is indeed divine assistance.” Little Monkey gave a cold smile.

“What?”

“Nothing. Sleep.”

The days when they could sleep peacefully did not last long. The fire of war, just as everyone had feared, finally burned its way to Wu-Yue.

Cao Cao’s momentum and military might had already placed an invisible crown upon his head. His opponents surrendered far more often than they resisted.

The greater half of the world believed that given just a little more time, Prime Minister Cao would ascend to the throne, and the yellow imperial robes would be draped over his shoulders. Cao Cao’s victory seemed destined.

That night, the whole city was unusually still — even the stars in the sky were sparse. In the Buddhist temple, Three Moon stood outside Da Qiao’s window. Inside, Da Qiao knelt devoutly before the statue of Buddha, reciting long sutras for the land of Eastern Wu and its people, over and over again.

She wasn’t yet thirty. Beauty had not abandoned her — but what had whitened her temples and bent her once graceful, upright spine? Even those eyes no longer shone — still as dry water, motionless.

If Sun Ce had not married her — if another man who loved her equally had appeared in her life, a man who had remained alive, who had grown old with her hand in hand —

I gave you your wish, or I pushed you into the abyss. — No matter how harsh the world becomes, make every effort to be a happy woman — from how many years ago, in some courtyard, had those words come from those girls in the tender bloom of youth — where had they gone?

Three Moon wiped away a tear and quietly left her windowside.

Foster Father had said she was not a kite. Da Qiao was not a kite either. Everyone under the world who suffered in the fires of war was not a kite. Then why — why were they still held by strings, not the slightest bit their own masters? The feeling of being bound up — she hated it most.

She didn’t go home. She went straight to the Red Cliffs.

Cao Cao’s naval forces were already encamped on the northern bank, Sun Quan’s army on the southern. The decisive battle at the Red Cliffs was on the verge of eruption. She walked along the river, slowly. In previous years at this time, the south would be in full bloom, fishermen singing their evening songs, beautiful scenery at every turn. Now, all that drifted with the river current was relentless killing — the shadow of death.

If she were an immortal, could she make the fires of war die down? Then Da Qiao would be happy again, surely. And him — if his soul were still here on this land, he would also be happy, surely.

The Red Cliffs must be just ahead now. Countless warships locked across the horizon of sky and water, leaving not a single space to breathe. She looked up — the stars that should have been sparse were even fewer than before; the pitch-dark sky felt oppressive, as though it might fall.

Suddenly, a meteor-like streak of light appeared in mid-air, carrying with it a faint rushing sound, and landed in rather undignified fashion directly before her. She startled — then, recognizing what had tumbled before her, she couldn’t help exclaiming aloud: “How is it you?!”

11

On both banks of the Red Cliffs, tension was at a breaking point. The pitch-dark river seethed from its deepest depths. The soldiers of the Sun and Liu families were each resolved to fight to the death against Cao — every one of them had a final letter tucked against their chest.

Little Monkey found Three Moon standing among the rocks at the river’s edge, staring at the life-or-death battle about to erupt not far away.

“Little Monkey, who do you think will win?” Three Moon asked.

“The wind direction favors Cao’s army. Unless the wind reverses, Sun and Liu are certain to lose.” Little Monkey’s brows drew deep together. “If heaven does not aid Eastern Wu, this battle today will be the shining road that delivers Cao Cao to the throne.”

“Has Sun Quan’s side thought of a way to counter?” she asked.

“Zhuge Kongming is performing a ritual at an altar, intending to borrow an east wind from heaven.” Little Monkey sighed. “This is nothing more than a ploy to reassure the troops. Wind direction at any given time has long been predetermined. It is not something that mortals can casually alter.”

“If an east wind rises now, once a fire attack is deployed, there would be no hope of survival.” Little Monkey stated with certainty, and then let out another deep sigh. “But an east wind is impossible. In less than an hour, Cao Cao will have achieved a great victory — Eastern Wu will ultimately become a hell beneath Cao’s iron cavalry.”

The night wind stirred Three Moon’s long hair. In her dark eyes, more and more fires kindled and burned.

“Go.” Little Monkey drew from his chest a brocade pouch. “This is your thread. Your foster father probably never told you — a Flying Heaven’s power depends on their thread. In the beginning, every Flying Heaven’s thread is black. At this stage, apart from being able to fly endlessly through the sky, they have no other abilities whatsoever. But after twenty years of cultivation, their thread changes color. White is best; grey-white is second; pale gold is third. If it’s any other color, that Flying Heaven has no value.”

She took the pouch and looked at the thread inside — white as snow — and asked: “A Flying Heaven’s value?”

“Did you think that the Flying Heavens who were ‘selected’ and taken to the sides of the celestial deities truly became something called Wish-Fulfilling Immortal Officials?” He smiled. “That is nothing but a lie jointly fabricated by a group of unsatisfied old creatures in the celestial realm.”

She stared at him wide-eyed.

“Gods are neither omnipotent nor eternal. Though they dwell in the celestial realm — high, high above — they too have their day of decline. When they grow old, when they face the mortals who place them in the highest position in their hearts and beg for their protection and salvation — when they hear those prayers again and again — they can no longer satisfy their wishes with their own divine power as they once did. They are old. Their strength is gone. It is that simple.” Little Monkey looked up at the pitch-dark sky. “But they could not accept it. Being unable to bestow blessings upon the mortal world means not only losing the worship of humanity — it means losing one’s divine post in the celestial realm, to be replaced by younger successors. So those dissatisfied, aging deities banded together and began to ‘save’ themselves.”

“It’s connected to my foster father, isn’t it?” she said quietly.

Little Monkey nodded. “When they formed this united alliance, someone devised a plan. In the world there exists a rare and peculiar kind of spirit — the Flying Heavens. They are innately able to hear the wishes hidden in the hearts of mortals. If they are properly cultivated, the thread upon them will turn golden, or even white — and a Flying Heaven like this will possess the divine power to fulfill wishes. Not small, ordinary wishes — but causing the long-famished land of the world to bloom with harvest again, making a terrifying plague vanish overnight, even determining the succession of kings, the outcome of great wars.” He gave a disdainful smile. “Though this depends on which deity’s position it is who consumes the Flying Heaven. For instance — a Goddess of the Five Grains who consumes a Flying Heaven gains the ability to grant the mortal world abundant prosperity. Or, for instance…”

“Enough. I understand.” She was unexpectedly calm. She even managed to smile. “If it is the War God who consumes one — then he regains the ability to continue manipulating his chessboard, and determines victory and defeat as he pleases. Is that right?”

“Your brother and sister…” he hesitated.

“How long did Foster Father’s collaboration with the celestial realm last?” she asked.

“About a hundred years,” he answered. “To cultivate a qualified Flying Heaven takes at least twenty years of training. Your foster father was himself a Flying Heaven — but he was not consumed. The most cunning member of the alliance said: it would be inconvenient for celestial beings to always go searching for and cultivating Flying Heavens themselves. If outsiders learned that the gods were using spirits to replenish their own depleting power, that would be a grave offense. So they released your foster father, gave him a pair of feet, severed his ability to fly, kept him forever in the mortal world, and used his innate ability to seek out and raise Flying Heavens for them. And so he began searching everywhere for his own kind, raising them — and whenever someone in the alliance needed a Flying Heaven, the lie of selecting Wish-Fulfilling Immortal Officials would be used to carry away whichever qualified Flying Heavens were needed. Each time they required very few — never more than two — because consuming too many Flying Heavens would give a god demon aura. As for those Flying Heavens deemed unqualified, they were immediately destroyed, to prevent further complications.”

“About a hundred years.” She counted on her fingers. “Twenty years per batch — at least five batches. How many Flying Heavens were consumed by the gods? Hmm?”

“You must have some understanding for him. A spirit who survived a near-total destruction, with those who coerced him being all-powerful gods high above. And his thread was in their hands too. Unfortunately — though a Flying Heaven can serve as a supplement for a god’s power, they have no harmful effect on the gods whatsoever. If it were possible, your foster father could certainly have used a Flying Heaven’s power to make a grand wish and bring ruin upon all those old creatures.” Little Monkey sounded somewhat helpless. “But in the end, he still kept you. The wine at the wedding banquet that he used to get you drunk — he secretly switched it. He never had any intention of handing you over.” He looked at her pouch and added: “Even your thread — it was he who gave it to me. Do you know — whoever holds a Flying Heaven’s thread can control them completely, forever. And he did nothing with it — only asked me, at the right moment, to return your thread to you.”

Three Moon pressed her lips tightly together and said nothing.

“Go — find somewhere quiet. If you meet someone worthy of trust, give your thread to them. That way, you can never be parted from them again.” He jokingly teased, then immediately warned: “And — if any mortal or one of your own kind cuts your thread, your life will be exchanged for the fulfillment of that person’s wish. So, absolutely no more drinking. Otherwise your foster father’s leg will have been sacrificed for nothing.”

She laughed and nodded, then asked him: “You’re leaving?”

“I am an immortal official under the War God. Now with a great battle imminent, I must go back and report. Ha — my work is to come and go in every great and small battle, and record everything I see, handing it all to the War God. Pretty dull, isn’t it.” Little Monkey scratched his head. “The more chaotic the world below is, the more often we come to the mortal realm. But I think we would do better to come less frequently.”

“Then — let us say goodbye here.” She shook the pouch. “This is really mine now?”

“You are free.” Little Monkey smiled and nodded.

“Thank you, Little Monkey.” She showed him her smile one last time — as brilliant as it had been the first time she tasted the fish he roasted. “But I want to ask you one last question.”

“What?”

“What is your real name?”

“Liao Yuan.”

“All right. Farewell then, Liao Yuan — or Little Monkey.”

12

The war drums were already rolling, the battle banners snapping in the firelight.

Three Moon’s black hair and plain white skirt traced a beautiful trail across the night sky. She looked down at the river below — the soldiers’ battle cries were thunderous enough to seem as though they might shake the entire Red Cliffs apart.

She drew her thread from the brocade pouch. In her other hand — a bright pair of scissors. Make a wish, then — let myself become a gust of east wind, to blow peace across the world. His home will still be that tranquil, rich land of Wu-Yue. His people will no longer live in fear and dread. Those families who have sent someone to war will have a real living person come home — not a solitary, broken spirit. And you — no matter how harsh the world becomes, please make every effort to be a happy woman. I am a Flying Heaven. My fate is mine — not heaven’s to command.

She raised the scissors. Lightly — she cut.

In the year 208 CE, Cao Cao’s great army clashed with the joint forces of Sun Quan and Liu Bei at the Red Cliffs. Cao’s army — which had heaven’s timing, earth’s advantage, and men’s support — was defeated by a sudden east wind. Fire engulfed the linked camps. Cao Cao fled by way of Huarong Road, and from then on was forever shut out from the throne. Everyone said it was Zhuge Kongming’s extraordinary gifts — performing a ritual at an altar, borrowing an east wind from heaven, and snatching victory from defeat.

The Battle of the Red Cliffs. Three kingdoms dividing the world. A chaotic age drawing to its close.

Though there are also those who say: on the night of the great battle, someone in the night sky saw a woman like an immortal — white skirt streaming, her form dissolving into the wind…

13

The celestial realm. The War God’s Hall.

The War God sat before his chessboard. His aged coughing seemed violent enough to lift the hall’s roof. He stood quietly before the War God, without any deference.

The transition from old to new War God was not as grand or complex as others had imagined — no ceremony was required. Only one thing: the outcome of a contest.

For ten thousand years, the War God had governed the wars of the mortal world, once holding a heart of true justice and fairness — using the clash of arms and blood shed on the battlefield to assist the righteous and punish the wicked. Yet the long ages had ultimately clouded the War God’s eyes, deafened his ears, confused his mind. His original purpose was gradually forgotten. What he remembered was only how to hold on to the position of War God, and the awe of ten thousand people. War became his chessboard; the fates of mortals became his pieces. He no longer weighed who was righteous and who was wicked — whoever he designated to win would win. His aging, deteriorating body squandered and luxuriated in the privileges of being the War God.

As long as his power could still control the outcome of battles according to his will, no successor would be taking his position. Unjust wars grew more and more frequent.

“You are seeing the mortal world less and less clearly.” He walked to the War God’s chessboard and picked up the chess piece marked with the character for Cao. “Even having consumed Mu Sheng and Yan Xia — two Flying Heavens — to use your remaining strength to make Cao’s army advance unstoppably, you still cannot deliver the piece you have designated to the final victory.”

The War God turned his head and smiled. “Among my many subordinates, you were the least conspicuous — yet the most intelligent, and the most daring in staking everything on a single bet.”

“Thank you.” He gave a small nod.

“But you also had the greatest opportunity.” A cold smile surfaced in the War God’s murky eyes. “That girl had no defenses whatsoever against you.”

The depths of his always-composed gaze rippled — like a stone cast into still water — briefly, and then vanished.

“My greatest mistake was thinking too little of you. Ha ha.” The War God’s body wheezed. “If I had seen through your scheme earlier, you would have had no opportunity to draw close to Jiao Guang and gain that girl from his hands.”

“Your greatest mistake was your unwillingness to accept that you are no longer suited to the position of War God.” His voice was cold.

The War God shook his head with a smile. “You wished very much to pull me down from the position of War God. But you knew that a Flying Heaven can have no detrimental effect on a god — so you chose another method. You studied all the battles under heaven, analyzed the weak points of my chess pieces, and then spent so very long establishing a close bond with that girl, making her regard you as her closest confidant. You bided your time, steadfast in your belief that you would eventually find the one turning point capable of reversing the entire situation — and only after that point appeared would you put everything to use. Using your Flying Heaven to fulfill your wish.”

“Yes — and so what?” He looked up at this deity who had once held so much power, issuing commands to the many minor immortal officials like himself. “But from beginning to end — I never once forced her in any way.”

“One can kill without drawing a blade.” The War God steadied himself against the table’s edge and slowly rose. “With calculated deliberateness, over the years you gave her quiet, unspoken hints — that the land of Eastern Wu was the home of the one she loved most dearly, and must be protected at the cost of one’s life. Then, when the turning point you had long been waiting for finally arrived, you let her know — deliberately or not — that she only needed to cut her own thread to fulfill a wish. Given that girl’s attachment to the one she loved, her simple heart, and her absolute, wholehearted trust in you — she would certainly sacrifice herself in exchange for another’s safety. She transformed into the east wind, and your goal was accomplished. The celestial rule is: the War God cannot be defeated. The outcome of every battle he governs is determined by him. No matter who it is — as long as they defeat the War God and alter the outcome he has written into the chess game, they take his place.” He paused. “If my chessboard was naked slaughter and brutality, then on yours there is only killing that draws no blood.”

“Compared to the other gods, the War God is actually the most singular.” He smiled. “To spend one’s entire existence unable to lose — one loss means losing everything. So while there is still a young body, abundant divine power, and a clear mind — take the wise course and step aside. That is the most sensible choice.”

“Say whatever you like.” The War God’s aged eyes looked at him with a meaning all their own. “But do you think that girl truly made that final choice because of your ‘well-meaning guidance’?”

He waved a hand. A cage descended from above, falling between the two of them.

“Mu Sheng?” He saw who was imprisoned in the cage — and could not help a start of surprise.

“Of the two Flying Heavens this time, I only consumed one.” The War God watched the cage. “The other I sent to the mortal world — just before you implemented the final step of your plan, he found that girl and told her your scheme in full detail.”

His expression changed, and then immediately settled back. “You think that once she was told this, she would treat me as an enemy?”

“What else could be done?” The War God gave a long, long sigh. “Her thread was in your hands. I no longer had time to seize it back. The best course of action was to let her see your true face. What a pity — that girl clearly already knew the truth, and still made the choice she did in the end. One step away, and your plans would have come to nothing, with not the position of War God awaiting you but the hell I had prepared for you.”

In the cage, Mu Sheng bore no trace of his former composure — like a dying beast, cowering inside, whimpering: “Don’t consume me… don’t consume me… I can do anything for you… anything…”

The War God walked to his side, and bent slightly at the waist, gesturing toward the chessboard: “Congratulations — that position is yours now, Liao Yuan. No — new War God.”

He did not move. He only looked at the chessboard — worn by time to a strange luminescence — and beside it the seat he had long desired.

From now on, no one would order him about, using so-called divine ranks and hierarchies to bind his will and suppress his actions. He too was free. But why — why could he still not bring himself to take that step, toward the seat he had so long yearned for?

Little Monkey — go roast me some fish!

Little Monkey, those window paper cutouts you made are so beautiful!

Little Monkey, farewell forever.

14

Now, Liao Yuan was sitting with his legs crossed before me, the teacup in front of him already drained. And just a few hours before, I had nearly come to blows with him.

As a typical lover of peace, the person I least wanted to see was this ridiculous so-called War God, who did nothing all day but scheme under the banner of rewarding good and punishing evil, plotting on that chessboard of his who should fight where, who should lose, who should win. This man had appeared at Never Stop with a murderous air, intending to take away the cobbler at the door. By his manner, it seemed he had been searching for this cobbler for a very long time. I told him coldly: as the innkeeper of Never Stop, I have a duty to ensure the personal safety of every guest — including guests beneath the eaves.

The dignity of a god — could it be challenged by a single spirit? Of course he tried to teach me a lesson. And was stopped by Jiu Jue. As for me — stopped by Ao Chi. He walked up to stand before Liao Yuan — who towered N heads above him — and said: You want to fight, come at me. If you want a group brawl, the East Sea Dragon Clan will gladly keep you company to the end.

Chi Pian’er clapped and whistled loudly in mid-air, even conjuring up a little flag inscribed with: East Sea Dragon Clan Must Win! Long Live Great Lord Ao Chi!

“A bunch of lunatics.” Liao Yuan shook his head, settled into my sofa. “I only came to have a drink with a long-lost old acquaintance. Telling a story to a spirit is beneath my dignity — but I’ll make an exception this once.” Liao Yuan gave me a glance with his habitual air of superiority. “Tea.”

I gave him a cup of Floating Life with double the usual amount of tea leaves. Yet he didn’t even crease a brow — one sip at a time, he drank the tea to the last drop and told the story to the end. Everyone looked at one another.

“He… what happened to him?” I pointed outside — the cobbler should still be making his shoes, completely unaware of events inside.

“Nothing happened to him.” Liao Yuan said calmly. “After we parted in the bamboo grove, we never met again. Later, I heard that the celestial realm’s people had captured him and were forcing him to continue finding Flying Heavens for them. He refused. In the end they drove him into a state of madness and foolishness. Seeing he had become completely useless, they intended to destroy him.”

“You saved him?” I asked.

“As the newly appointed War God, it is not difficult to keep one spirit alive. Besides — I have something on that group of old creatures. If I were to report the Flying Heaven matter to higher authorities, they would face enormous trouble.” He gave a cold smile.

“Why tolerate the existence of such a vile arrangement? Spirits can just be used as tools by gods, to be used however they please?” I am a spirit myself. My anger was plain.

Yet he shook his head: “Think about it — this kind of arrangement may seem cruel, but in truth it has done more good than harm for the mortal world. No matter where the gods’ ability to fulfill mortals’ wishes comes from, they have genuinely saved the world from countless disasters. Moreover, if this matter were exposed, the ramifications would be too far-reaching — the celestial realm would be shaken to its foundations. I won’t do anything so foolish.” He paused, then smiled. “When something has been done by enough people for long enough — whether it is right or wrong becomes less important.”

“Right and wrong don’t matter?” Now I was the one giving a cold laugh. “All I know is — in your celestial realm, there were once gods willing to let themselves perish in exchange for a rain of blessings upon the mortal world. They would never use another being’s life — even if that being was just a spirit. They could disappear. They could stop being a celestial god. With their everything, they sheltered the people who prayed to them. Such a god could exist.”

Liao Yuan didn’t respond. After a long while he said: “That person is just a fool.”

“All right. I don’t agree with you — but I will fight to the death to defend your right to say so.” I stared outside. “So how did he end up here at my door?”

“After I saved him, I arranged for him to be in a hidden location in the mortal world. He has been this way all along — dazed and foolish, doing nothing but drinking and making shoes. He no longer recognizes me. He only says he once had many children — and a person he loved — and none of them had feet, and had never worn shoes their entire lives. Later they became clouds, and he needed to make shoes for them — to make them until he died.” Liao Yuan creased his brow slightly. “Not long after, he disappeared. I had been meaning to go and find him, but there had never been any trace of him. Until yesterday, when someone reported seeing a man who looked very like him — at an inn called Never Stop.”

“And so you came to cause me trouble?” I gave a cold snort.

Liao Yuan glanced at Jiu Jue: “That would be this person making a fuss over nothing.”

“You can’t blame me — I saw you storm out of the War God’s Hall with that murderous air, and I asked your attendants, who said you had gone to Never Stop in the mortal world. I came to warn the innkeeper immediately.” Jiu Jue explained innocently.

“Murderous air?” Liao Yuan shot him a look. “That is the War God’s normal state! Since becoming this deity, everywhere I go I look like this! Mortals have a word for it — presence.”

“Where are you taking him?” I raised an eyebrow. “You aren’t planning to find somewhere to keep him until you too are so old you can’t control the battlefields, and then get him to find a few Flying Heavens for you to consume?”

“I only want to go have a drink with him.” Liao Yuan’s eyes held steady on me — no arrogance, no pretense. “He once said of me that I was the cleanest and most noble among all of them. I owe him an apology.”

I said: “You also owe him a daughter.” He fell silent.

Epilogue

The cobbler was very pleased to see him — though he said he didn’t know who he was.

Liao Yuan said: Shall we go have a drink together? The cobbler clapped his hands and said: Sure!

Before leaving, the cobbler gave me his usual dopey grin, and drew from his box a beautiful pair of red shoes to give me.

“I seem to have had a daughter once. When she smiled, it was just as carefree and heedless as you.” He picked up his box and looked up at the sky, scratching his head. “Such a pity — she had no feet, and never wore shoes in her life. I don’t know where she is now.” I watched him leave from behind the door. At his side, Liao Yuan was no longer that noble War God — he supported the one-legged cobbler by the arm, and the two of them walked slowly in the slanting evening sun.

I cannot pronounce judgments on right and wrong in this story. I only feel glad that in Three Moon’s final moment, what she followed was not the War God’s scheme, nor Liao Yuan’s chess game — but her own freedom. For a spirit with her every last thing bound by a thread — what could be more precious than freedom?

In every person’s life, there is always that stretch of time when they become a Flying Heaven tied down by a thread. Even so, we still have the right to choose: to be an “immortal,” or not; to pick up the blade, or not; to lay out a calculated, scheming chessboard — or to drink a gourd of fierce, bracing wine. The world certainly holds far too many people and things to disappoint us — yet a thousand years ago, a spirit named Three Moon said: no matter how harsh the world becomes, please make every effort to be a happy person. I think — not only for women, but for all people.

Zhao Gongzi called me for dinner. At the dining table, Ao Chi was still poring carefully over his On the Origin of Species. Chi Pian’er was still losing itself in its soap operas, forgetting to eat and sleep.

I made a dive for the food. On my feet — the red shoes the cobbler had given me. Very beautiful.