Prologue

Question: You have served as the God of Matchmaking for many years and have never made a single mistake. Do you have a secret?

Answer: Those in the midst of it are blind to it. Too much of anything tips the balance.

1

“Two thousand… ten thousand… one hundred and seventy thousand…”

I sat in the room, which had been tidied up to a passable state, my fingers flying over the calculator. Not a single item could be left off the bill: the medical expenses for Young Master Zhao’s injuries, the emotional damages for the whole act of pretending to be ghosts and making us believe someone had come to demolish the factory, and the costs of repairing Bu Ting plus the necessary renovations and refurbishments. I should have Chi Pian’er remind Kui Yan that when he came out of the bath, he absolutely, positively had to make sure his belt was buckled tight — it would be far too embarrassing if the figure I quoted scared his trousers right off him.

Young Master Zhao was probably still adrift in a faint melancholy, reminiscing about a past forever beyond reach. Watching this tall fellow silently grip a broom and sweep slowly from one end of the room to the other, so fragile in his sorrow, I gave serious thought to whether I should give him an extra-large red envelope at year’s end. Whether to reward his two years of loyal service, or to comfort a good employee’s delicate heart, my purpose, from the perspective of the proprietress, was simple: I wanted every person in Bu Ting to be happy. Because only happy employees could be more efficiently exploited by the proprietress, allowing Bu Ting’s performance to flourish and grow.

My high-ranking assistant had now found his energy, poking his head cheerfully in and out of every room in Bu Ting — just a moment ago, he hadn’t even spared the bedroom Ao Chi and I shared. When Ao Chi went back to the room to change his clothes, this man had the audacity to push open the door and walk right in, and with perfect composure said amidst Ao Chi’s furious roar: “Don’t worry — it’s precisely because the Director is in this room that I came in to take a look. When you’re both away, I would never enter. I am a person who observes proper boundaries.”

What magnificent logic and reasoning!

Drawn to the bedroom doorway by Ao Chi’s shouting, I leaned against the doorframe and looked at this Daoist whose thinking never operated within any normal parameters. With a smile, I pointed to the clock on the wall: “Welcome to the proprietress’s boudoir. Starting from this moment, the rate is one hundred yuan per minute. No employee discounts. Take your time.”

Slap!

A neat stack of banknotes flew from Jiǎ Yǐ’s hands straight into my arms, the motion so fast I hadn’t even seen where he’d pulled it from.

Genuine, honest-to-goodness banknotes! With my gift, I didn’t even need to count — I could tell at once that this was exactly ten thousand yuan! This brat had been cursing me openly and behind my back for not paying his wages, and I’d thought him utterly broke. Yet here he was, quietly slapping down ten thousand yuan to throw at me?!

“By accepting this money, does that mean I have one hundred minutes during which neither of you will disturb me?” He stood with his back to me, walked to the center of the room, and said lightly.

Now it was my turn to have nothing to say.

“Then I’ll trouble both of you to make yourselves scarce.” He walked to the window and looked at the row of photo frames arranged on the windowsill — nothing more than a collection of casually snapped photos of me and Ao Chi at different times and places. There were solo shots and pictures together, an embarrassing photo of Ao Chi and me having a flour fight in the kitchen, and a candid shot of little Ao Chi sitting on the floor-sweeping robot pulling a cute face, ears sticking out — taken by Jiu Jue. That fellow, aside from his love of brewing wine, had a passion for covert photography. He’d even print the photos and give them to me as “gifts for a close friend,” as though determined to embarrass me to death. Speaking of which, I’d been back at Bu Ting for so long, and I still hadn’t managed to reach him. Surely he hadn’t really gone and found himself a fiancée?

I cleared my throat, clutched the banknotes with a death grip, and kept my expression breezy: “Money talks. Though I’ll have you know, I have a complete inventory of everything in this room. I’d know even if a single toothpick went missing.”

“I said — I’m only looking.” He kept his back to me the entire time, his tall figure rendered into a very handsome silhouette by the light streaming in from outside. “I have no intention of taking anything from this room. Everything will remain right where it is.”

The way he said that — it left one inexplicably a little sad for no particular reason…

The atmosphere shifted subtly. Ao Chi and I exchanged a glance, then retreated from the room, pulling the door almost shut behind us.

Through the gap, four eyes strained to peer inside. As Jiǎ Yǐ had said, he truly was only looking — moving from one corner to another, examining everything with extraordinary care. He even opened the wardrobe and lifted the sleeves of mine and Ao Chi’s garments, holding them for quite a long while before setting them back down. In the end, he actually walked over to our bed, sat down — and then lay back.

“What happened to him?” Ao Chi crouched in the doorway, scratching his head and whispering to me.

“Isn’t it just because I never paid his wages?!” I was equally puzzled.

“Hey — you didn’t hide your private savings in the room, did you?” Ao Chi asked, suddenly very alert.

“No one but me could ever find my private savings,” I replied with considerable self-satisfaction.

“Wait — you actually have private savings?!”

“Did I say ‘private savings’? When did you hear that?”

“Stop right there! Explain yourself! And that ten thousand yuan — split it fifty-fifty!”

“On what grounds?”

“That’s our bedroom! Community property!”

“I don’t know you.”

The man inside, listening to the commotion drifting in from outside, let the corners of his mouth curl into a meaningful smile. He turned over, buried his face deep into the soft pillow, and closed his eyes…

2

As I had anticipated, when Kui Yan looked over the “invoice” I handed him, his trousers didn’t fall — but his jaw did.

“This makes no sense! Why is the renovation and refurbishment my responsibility?!” He looked ready to slam the invoice in my face. “I had long heard you were obsessed with money, but I never imagined you could be this utterly shameless. I already gave you the Celestial Crimson Shield, which alone is worth a fortune. Not only are you incapable of gratitude, you repay kindness with spite?!”

“Nearly forgot.” I smiled brightly and gave a light tap to the clean shirt he was wearing. “Borrowing my husband’s clothes will be charged as well.”

Ao Chi nudged him with great theatrical seriousness: “Brand name, you know!”

“Brand name, my backside! This is obviously a mass-produced bestseller from some online shop!” Kui Yan yanked furiously at the shirt’s hem. “And still the same tacky flower print — absolutely no taste!”

To clarify — I didn’t buy it. Ao Chi ordered it online himself.

Ao Chi’s face darkened in an instant and he grabbed him by the collar: “Former God of Resolution, even I think that pink suit you came in wearing better suits your… aesthetic. Take my shirt off. Now.”

“Your husband really is exactly like the rumors say — a lit firecracker, set off at the slightest provocation.” He turned helplessly to look at me.

I shrugged and gave him my finest expression of cheerful indifference that said: I’ll enjoy watching you die.

“Take it off! Hurry!” Ao Chi ground his teeth — being accused of having no taste had always been his trigger point.

“My clothes aren’t dry yet,” he refused.

“That’s your problem!” Ao Chi snorted coldly, turned to the liquor cabinet, grabbed a bottle of high-proof baijiu and a lighter, and dangled them in front of him. “Take it off, or I’ll burn the thing.”

Kui Yan leapt to his feet and darted to my side, shouting: “What kind of violent man did you marry?!”

“You only die if you ask for it,” I smiled pleasantly. “If you’d just been a good boy and paid up from the start, we never would have ended up arguing about the clothes. Besides — your pink suit really is worse than this flower shirt.”

“My wife has excellent taste!” Ao Chi perked up instantly upon hearing this and blew me a dramatic flying kiss.

“You two…” Kui Yan shook his head in exasperation. “That pink suit is my work uniform!“

Work uniform?

Ao Chi and I both startled and began whispering to each other.

“Pink though…”

“Could it possibly be some sort of… morally dubious establishment?”

“Almost certainly. Did you see how he looked when he first arrived? All slicked up and powdered?”

“A deity who ends up as a fallen youth… the world is truly a terrifying place.”

Kui Yan, a look of absolute defeat on his face, walked back to the bathroom. When he returned, he slapped a pink name card — exactly matching the color of his pink suit — down in front of the two of us with great force: “Read it clearly!”

We both focused our eyes. Thankfully, that suggestively colored card did not bear the name of some nightclub — instead, it read: Jinxiu Yuan Matrimonial Services Co., Ltd. — Deputy General Manager: Kui Yan.

“Weren’t you the former God of Resolution?” Ao Chi picked up the card and turned it over and over. “Is running this kind of company really appropriate for you?”

“What’s inappropriate about it? Resolving people’s marital problems can also fall within a Resolution God’s scope of duties.” Kui Yan shot him a look.

“The Residents’ Committee or the Women’s Federation seems more your natural calling…” Ao Chi muttered. “This is obviously just poaching the God of Matchmaking’s business.”

“Enough, stop talking nonsense, both of you.” I cut them off, drawing out that exquisitely beautiful Celestial Crimson Shield and admiring it against the light from the window. “Kui Yan — you came all this way, covered in dust, and gave me the Celestial Crimson Shield without so much as a single condition attached. Why? What happened in the Celestial Realm back then? You said that at the time, besides yourself, there was one other person who wasn’t sealed away. Who was that?”

Kui Yan smiled. “The God of Matchmaking.”

3

He always appeared to be the most understated and quiet, yet he was, paradoxically, the most impossible to ignore. He perpetually wore the same shapeless, oversized white robe — like a cloud that might be scattered by the wind at any moment — but the strip of red cloth draped over his eyes, though just the smallest dash of color, always managed to undercut his wish to fade into the background.

Some guessed he was born blind. Others said he was doing it for attention. He never explained either way. When not busy, he would typically lie lazily on a heap of tangled red threads in the Hall of the Matchmaking God, surrounded only by the graceful and lovely azure bird and the guileless spirit-rhinoceros.

It is a great pity that no descendant ever had the chance to witness such a scene, nor did anyone ever record it in any mythology passed down through the ages — so they will never know that the Celestial Realm’s very first God of Matchmaking, the deity who oversaw all the romantic fates beneath heaven, was not a plump, ruddy, kindly old man. He was young, and extraordinarily beautiful. The female immortals of the Celestial Realm had once privately ranked all the great gods by appearance and bearing; on the side of the male deities, Ding Yan and the Water Lord Shang Shan had jointly held first place year after year — even the august and imposing Celestial Emperor ranked no better than fifth.

The unfortunate thing was that this great god was far too reclusive, and always wore that languid, detached expression, free of either joy or sorrow — which inexplicably made people feel that this deity, who should by nature be amiable and cheerful, was even more difficult to approach than the God of War or the Punishing King, with all their aura of bloodshed. As for those eyes of his, perpetually concealed beneath red cloth, there was another theory: that Ding Yan was simply too proud and lofty, that he held no one in his eyes, and to cut off once and for all those female immortals who came to fawn over him, he had simply covered them up entirely — out of sight, out of mind.

As one of the Matchmaking God’s rare close friends, Kui Yan had for a time become a prime target for those same female immortals, who traded delicious celestial fruits and amusing little trinkets for any gossip connected to Ding Yan. So much so that his Hall of Resolution was perpetually bustling, filled with a constant stream of visitors.

Recently, however, the female immortals who had come to pay their attentions had vanished entirely. And not only that — the vibrancy of song and dance, the ease of gods clinking cups at banquets, those scenes that had once been a familiar sight throughout the Celestial Realm, had also disappeared without a trace. Pavilions and terraces, the immortal lake and flower gardens — apart from a handful of scattered celestial attendants going about their sweeping, there was no one else. A desolate emptiness.

Everyone sensed something was wrong. Yet no one dared to voice aloud the “wrongness” they perceived. All they could do was lock themselves away in their residences and pretend, going through the motions of daily life as though nothing had changed.

“The female immortals have been so lazy lately — no one waters the plants, and even the celestial fruit doesn’t taste as good anymore.” Kui Yan pinched a half-green, half-red fruit and sat on the reed mat inside the Hall of the Matchmaking God.

The Hall of the Matchmaking God was likely the simplest — and most sparingly furnished — of all twelve divine halls, perhaps even the most haphazard. A bronze incense burner half as tall as a person, a wooden table neatly arranged with tea things and a roll of red brocade, two reed mats on either side, the azure bird assigned to assist the Matchmaking God dozing lazily on a roof beam, a few spirit-rhinoceroses lying near the incense burner in a doze, and the swirling five-colored luminescence that filled the room — that was everything.

Ding Yan lay sideways on a reed mat, several long red threads wound around his fingers, a few unfinished small clay figurines beside him.

“And you still have the heart to do craftwork?” Kui Yan looked at those figurines. “The human world is in absolute chaos.”

“However chaotic it gets, the fates of love will not be chaotic.” Ding Yan maintained his reclining posture and said slowly, “I am still here.”

“You are remarkably calm.” He shook his head and lowered his voice. “Ten of the twelve divine halls are already empty. Even Shang Shan and Yu Guan have disappeared.”

“No word from the Celestial Emperor or the Celestial Empress either?” Ding Yan asked lazily.

Kui Yan shook his head: “The ones standing guard in the two palaces are still loyally spreading the lie — saying the couple have gone into seclusion to cultivate and simply aren’t receiving visitors.”

“That is the right thing to do.” The corners of Ding Yan’s mouth curved slightly. “If the disappearance of the Celestial Emperor and Empress were confirmed, it wouldn’t only be the human world in chaos.” He paused. “Though this can only be concealed for so long.” He yawned and asked, “The tea has gone cold — shall I have it replaced?”

“No need.” He stared at this Matchmaking God who wore the expression of this has nothing to do with me. “So we just sit here drinking tea and making conversation? Doing nothing?”

“Wild ginseng,” Ding Yan addressed him by his nickname, “your eyes must be dark-ringed by now, aren’t they?”

Kui Yan reflexively touched the skin beneath his eyes and asked in return: “Are you actually blind or not?”

He smiled: “Blind or not, I can still see. You are the God of Resolution by nature — you have a heaven-born capacity for compassion. Watching the human world descend into turmoil, how could you possibly stand by with your arms folded? I don’t know how many times you’ve crossed boundaries to do things far outside your jurisdiction — it would be strange if you weren’t exhausted.”

“I know that many things are not my place to interfere in, but when I see the floods rising and lives at stake, even if I lack Shang Shan’s gift for taming waters, I cannot simply look away. And then those cities where wars have ignited without cause — hearing children screaming and crying for help, and that God of War who never did endear himself to anyone nowhere to be found — what was I supposed to do?” He sighed. “The Water Lord and the Fire Lord, the Heavenly Voice and the Earth Voice, the God of War and the Punishing King, the God of Fortune, the Celestial Emperor and Empress — they all once faithfully fulfilled their duties and sheltered the world. Where did it all go wrong, that these figures gradually became unrecognizable as themselves? And now, every last one of them has simply vanished.”

“Have they abandoned this place?” His gaze drifted through the gauze window to the world outside — still that misty, ethereal paradise, still that sacred hall that had existed since the very beginning of heaven and earth, looking down upon all things in the world below.

“If you wish to avoid seeing unpleasant things, you might consider covering your own eyes.” Ding Yan smiled and offered the suggestion. “There are some tribulations that even you, as the God of Resolution, cannot resolve.”

“Tribulation?” He didn’t understand.

“The cycle of life and death, the old giving way to the new. This is an iron law. Nothing in the universe can defy it.” Ding Yan sat up and stretched. “That includes you and me, and includes all those who have already vanished.” He yawned and asked, “Shall I have the tea replaced with something hot?”

“No need.” He stared at this Matchmaking God with his none of my business face. “So we just sit here drinking cold tea and chatting? Doing nothing at all?”

“Something that has existed too long will inevitably grow old. And once it grows old, it will fall ill. And once it falls ill, who knows what troubles might arise.” Ding Yan gracefully gathered his wide sleeves and tipped his cup of stone-cold tea out with a swift flourish. “We have occupied this Celestial Realm for far too long. Whatever our intentions, whatever our conduct, ‘replacement’ is an irreversible future. The only question is the manner in which it comes to pass.”

Kui Yan turned this over in his mind for a long while before asking carefully: “Could it be… that the time has come for us to be replaced?”

“That day will always come.” Ding Yan picked up a clay figurine and a carving knife and continued his work. “Mortals all say that gods command everything — the truth is, gods are simply one more form of existence within this boundless universe. The trouble is that some cannot help but think too highly of themselves, believing they can rise above all things. And so their weaknesses are exposed.”

Kui Yan reflected for a long while, then asked: “To have no weaknesses — is that what it takes to become a true and eternal god?”

“There is no absolutely perfect existence in the universe.” Beneath Ding Yan’s carving knife, the smiling face of a little girl slowly emerged. “To handle one’s own weaknesses wisely and correctly — that is what makes a worthy god. Not only those in the Celestial Realm — even ordinary humans, demons, and spirits: if they can manage not to be defeated by their own weaknesses, they too become precious existences, no lesser than gods.”

Kui Yan drew a long breath and smiled: “If you truly were blind, I would say that of all in the Celestial Realm, you see things most clearly and most far-sightedly. Come to think of it, over all these years, every one of us gods has made mistakes at some point or another — the Celestial Emperor included. Only you — nothing under your watch has ever gone wrong. You truly are a worthy God of Matchmaking. How do you do it?”

“Those in the midst of it are blind to it. Too much of anything tips the balance.” Ding Yan picked up the completed clay figurine and gently brushed away the clay dust. A vivid little clay person sat between them, grinning. He picked up a red thread and tied it around the figurine’s right pinky finger. “This is a rule I will always abide by.”

The blue smoke curled and dispersed. His carving knife moved with perfect restraint across one piece of clay after another. No matter how many years this repetitive work had gone on, he maintained the same attitude throughout, his face always wearing that faint smile — as though he never wearied of it.

The roll of red brocade resting beside the tea things was the “Book of Fated Unions,” which no one but the Matchmaking God could read. What was written within, only Ding Yan knew.

Altogether — a roll of red brocade, a spool of red thread, pairs upon pairs of clay figurines: that was the Matchmaking God’s entire world. The true daily life of the Celestial Realm’s very first God of Matchmaking bore little resemblance to the romantic, moonlit existence that mortals had imagined.

Kui Yan drained the last of his cold tea and wiped his mouth: “I’m going to look into it.”

“Look into what, and where?” Ding Yan asked without lifting his head.

“This can’t have come about for no reason — even if it is the inevitable ‘replacement’ you speak of.” Kui Yan rose to his feet. “Do you remember Tian Yin? Such a gentle and good-natured soul — yet in the end, she actually got into a conflict with Di Hu. She may be one of the twelve divine lords, but her standing was far beneath the God of War’s. Picking a fight with her superior is not in keeping with her character. And Di Hu was strange too — as God of War, he had never before been so touchy and petty as to bicker with a junior girl.”

“Perhaps, in that state, they were still themselves.” Ding Yan set down his carving knife. “Whether human or god, everyone has weaknesses. Weaknesses are like a seam carved into our very being — if we don’t know how to handle them wisely, the malevolent spirits that come from the darkness can easily find a way in, and from there, erode us — even consume us entirely.”

Kui Yan started: “Malevolent spirits from the darkness?”

“I was only speaking in metaphor.” His carving knife resumed its work. Each clay figurine had to be flawless.

“You’ve seen something, haven’t you?” Kui Yan suddenly stepped up to him, grabbed his arm, and said, “You once told me — you cover your eyes not to blind yourself, but to see more clearly.”

“It is nothing, really.” He pulled Kui Yan’s hand away. After a long moment, he said slowly, “I have only seen… certain shadows that moved.”

“Shadows?” Kui Yan’s brow furrowed. “What kind? Where did you see them?”

“I don’t know.” He shook his head. “Something without a discernible origin, impossible to describe — without form, drifting onto them, leaving no trace.”

“When did you first notice this?” Kui Yan pressed.

He thought for a moment: “Roughly around the time the Celestial Emperor decided to shut himself away and stop receiving visitors.”

Kui Yan’s eyes went wide: “That was no short time ago — and you’re only telling me now?!“

“Because you’re only asking me now.” He bowed his head and continued working. “I am the God of Matchmaking. I manage only the romantic fates of the world. Everything else — I have no interest in paying attention to.”

At these words, Kui Yan slapped his own forehead and said helplessly: “With a temperament like yours, you’d be far better suited to a post in the Underworld. Dealing with the dead would suit you perfectly.”

He smiled and paid the remark no mind.

“Ding Yan,” Kui Yan sighed, his very voice growing heavier, “look outside. Look at this Celestial Realm we have served for so many years. Look at those divine halls that have lost their masters. Do you truly think we can go on peacefully being the God of Resolution and the God of Matchmaking? If this truly is a great ‘replacement,’ we will not be exempt, will we?”

“There will be fitting successors — that I do not worry about.” He raised his head and looked around. “Little Round would be well-suited to be the Matchmaking God. He has followed me for many years and has learned everything there is to know. Aside from being a bit too chubby and a bit too anxious, he won’t be any worse than me.”

“Little Round? You mean that celestial attendant who is responsible for sweeping, keeping things clean, and pouring your tea — still quite young, yet already with a full white beard, round as a dumpling?” Kui Yan was startled. “You’ve already thought as far ahead as your successor?”

“All things, in all their forms, have their time of ending. It’s always good to make some preparations.” He smiled. “I’ve already spoken with Little Round — if the day comes when I must permanently leave the Hall of the Matchmaking God, the work of the Matchmaking God shall continue with him.”

“You—” Kui Yan clenched his fist, then suddenly grabbed Ding Yan’s arm with force and said, making no room for argument: “Come with me! Even if only the two of us are left in the Celestial Realm, we must get to the bottom of this!”

Ding Yan looked at his good friend’s resolute expression and said, puzzled: “What good would bringing me along do?”

“I have searched this side of the Celestial Realm many times over — I found nothing out of the ordinary. Come with me to the human world.” He tightened his grip and physically dragged Ding Yan to his feet. “We have to do something!“

Ding Yan breathed a long sigh: “Wild ginseng — you really are strong.”

“Let’s go!” Kui Yan gave another sharp pull.

“Just a moment.” Ding Yan looked to the side. “Little Round has gone out on an errand today. Let me first give the azure bird and the spirit-rhinoceroses their instructions.”

Kui Yan released him, with a teasing edge to his voice: “Fair enough. You are unlike the rest of us — you have always been like a sheltered young lady, never setting foot outside. After all this time, you’ve barely visited the human world at all, have you?”

“Mm.” Ding Yan smiled without any particular concern and turned toward the azure bird and the spirit-rhinoceroses who were still napping. Their cultivation was not yet at a very high level. After a little more training, they should be able to take on the form of celestial attendants, shouldn’t they? All these years, he had relied on them faithfully, traveling back and forth between the human world and the Celestial Realm. Perhaps when they took on human forms, they would be clever and charming creatures. Only — he didn’t know whether he would still be here to see that day.

He looked around. Ever since he had taken up his post in the Celestial Realm, this hall had been his entire world. He had deliberately shut himself inside it, covering even his eyes, keeping a distance from everyone — whether solely to be a worthy God of Matchmaking, or for other reasons, no one knew.

As Kui Yan had said, he had gone far, far too long without stepping foot in the human world. Whenever the notion stirred in him to leave, a voice buried deep within him would say—

There will be no returning from this journey.

He crouched down and gently stroked the spirit-rhinoceros still deep in its contented sleep: “I’m going now. Behave yourselves.”

4

Compared to what it had looked like the last time he had descended, the human world seemed much improved.

Kui Yan had once witnessed with his own eyes the unrelenting fires of war and famine, the endless floods, and the suspicion and slaughter between people — every last thing conspiring to drag a world that had taken such tremendous effort to form and grow, straight down into hell.

The human world of before, even with the inevitable tribulations it could never escape — whether natural disasters or man-made calamities, or the necessary punishments and corrections the Celestial Realm meted out to keep things in balance — had been hard to endure, but never so ruthless as to drive the world itself to the brink of destruction. There had always been the clearing of skies after rain.

But this time, the “tribulation” was entirely different.

Kui Yan could clearly remember standing on a city that had been burned to ash by a strange and violent fire, not a single soul left alive — the sky thick with swirling black cinders, nearly blinding him. One could not begin to imagine how many innocent lives lay buried beneath those drifting, weightless bits of filth, how many years of hard-built prosperity had been reduced to nothing.

He had stood in the ruins for a very long time, his mind cycling through just two words, over and over — collapse. Collapse.

As the God of Resolution, faced with a world in complete and total collapse, he was powerless to do anything. He could resolve illness and suffering, but he could not make life rise again from the ashes. And so — this was the extent of what a god amounted to. For all the belief that one stood above the three realms and all things within them, in the end, one was simply another member of those three realms and all things.

“Perhaps it was right of you to stay in the Hall of the Matchmaking God all day long.” Kui Yan sat on the hillside, with its swaying wild grass. It was the season approaching winter, and everywhere the yellow of decay, though a faint ray of sunlight managed to push through the clouds just enough to lend the mountains and rivers the faintest trace of life. At the foot of the hill lay a small village that had evidently just struggled through an earthquake; the survivors were busy as ants — felling trees for timber, building houses, breaking new ground for fields. Old and young alike, as long as they still drew breath, were doing what they could. Their homes were still a wasteland of ruins, but from every single person, you could see a thing called hope — and looking at them, somehow, everything didn’t seem quite so terrible anymore.

Ding Yan gazed down at the village: “From what you described before, the human world isn’t so utterly hopeless after all.”

“That’s what puzzles me.” Kui Yan’s brow creased. “When I came the last time, it truly was terrible. If it had been you — you who only concerns himself with the matters of men and women and rarely strays three steps from your chambers — I’d have expected you to faint dead away among those mountains of corpses and fields of ruin.”

Ding Yan smiled: “Is that truly the kind of god you take me for?”

“I mean no disrespect.” Kui Yan stood, brushing the wild grass from his clothes. “If not for your red threads binding fated partners together, how would humans ever manage to reproduce? You look the most at ease of all of us, yet you do work more essential than any of ours. Come — great God of Matchmaking — it looks like the village is serving a meal. Let’s wander over.”

“I’m not going.” Ding Yan said flatly. “If your intent is to gather some information from the villagers, I have no objection. But if you’re just going to leech a free meal, then I despise you.”

Kui Yan broke into a fit of coughing, pointed to himself, and asked: “Are we good brothers or not? Or have I been flattering myself all this time, inflating the significance of our friendship?”

“I have always gone my own way. Whether I have brothers is a matter of fortune — to have them is my luck, to be without them is my fate.” He smiled and patted Kui Yan’s shoulder. “I’ll wait for you here. If you’re not back before dark, I’m leaving.”

Kui Yan stared at this man as though he were some manner of creature: “With a character like yours — how in the world did you ever become the God of Matchmaking? I’d wager that any girl in her right mind would never marry you. If you’re so capable, why don’t you go find yourself a wife first?”

“You dragged me all the way to the human world just to worry about my love life?” He pointed down toward the village. “If you don’t go now, you’ll miss their mealtime.”

Kui Yan hastily turned to go, looking back as he walked: “Stay put right there and wait for me! You’re not familiar with the human world, and you can’t see — be careful someone doesn’t stuff you in a sack and sell you!”

He couldn’t even be bothered to glance after him. He simply lay down, and in the most comfortable position he could find, gazed up at this patch of sky, which was not entirely unpleasant to look at.

Strange — he’d never looked up at the place where he’d spent all these years from quite this angle before. Above the clouds, the Celestial Realm, the land of happiness that countless mortals longed for — from down here, it held no particular appeal. Just layer upon layer of monotonous clouds. Even this ordinary hillside, come spring, would look better than those clouds. As for the pavilions and towers of the Celestial Realm — were they truly so much more beautiful than what the human world had to offer? Were the celestial wines and fresh fruits truly more delicious than plain rice and grain?

Humans — always falling in love with the beautiful things they had invented for themselves. The less clearly they could see something, the more they couldn’t have it, the more enchanted they became.

Love and affection — wasn’t it rather the same thing?

He lay still and quiet. The world before his eyes was forever a soft, enveloping red — even and warm, without a single intrusion, without a single distraction.

This was the state he had worked to maintain — the “realm” a God of Matchmaking pursued, or rather, was required to achieve.

He was not, in fact, blind.

The rushing of the wind through dead branches and dry grass, the occasional bird sweeping past beneath the vault of the sky — all the sounds of early winter gathered together, and mercifully, it was not noisy, only like a simple, monotonous melody that, for no particular reason, made a person sleepy.

He yawned, turned onto his side, and slowly drifted into a dream.

A round moon, an ancient pine, a young man sitting alone in the moonlight, red threads flying in every direction, scattered and unruly, face after face shifting between joy and sorrow — unrelated things, inexplicably crammed into a single picture. This was his dream: a fixed dream, the same one that came every time he slept, a dream that never changed.

What was that smell creeping into his nose? Slightly pungent?

Wait — what was that poking him in the head?

He woke abruptly from his dream and sat up in an instant.

“Oh! You’re alive?!” A startled cry sounded at his side, followed by a string of apologies. “Sorry, sorry — I thought you were a corpse.”

A head of disheveled, wild hair. A round face, neither particularly fair nor particularly dainty. Rough skin. A coarse brown cloth garment. Bare feet smeared with mud. Together, these elements painted the picture of someone not very old, whose sex one could not easily determine at a glance, standing before him.

He had to laugh — and yet it wasn’t funny: “I doubt there are many corpses with as healthy a complexion as mine.”

“I thought you’d only just died…” The person quickly added an explanation: “These past few years have been too unstable. You’d see a dead person anywhere, anytime. I’ve just gotten used to it.”

“You’re a woman?” He looked more carefully at the other’s face and slight build. Though entirely devoid of any feminine delicacy, she was probably not a man.

“Do I look that much like a man?” A dirty hand waved in front of his face, followed by a puzzled female face peering at him. “You’re not blind?”

“I can hear your voice,” he lied.

“Right, yes.” She relaxed and smiled. “I always felt my voice was rather pleasant.”

“Are you from the village?” He pointed down toward the cooking smoke rising below.

She hesitated briefly, then nodded: “More or less.” A flicker of bitter amusement crossed her face and was gone. She reached out to take his arm and said, “Sorry to trouble you, but would you move? I need to find something here.”

“Find what?” He rose and asked.

“Be careful — we’re right at the cliff’s edge. Easy to slip and fall.” She treated him entirely as someone truly blind, gripped him firmly, led him to safer ground a few steps away, and only then released him. “I came to look for something called Jiantiancui. They only grow underground — you need a very good sense of smell to find them. I searched for a long time today and only just found traces of them here.”

“Jiantiancui?” He had never heard the name before.

“It’s something like a small version of a lingzhi mushroom. Once it’s dug up and exposed to daylight, it turns a translucent emerald green — very beautiful, with an exceptionally delicious flavor.” She walked to the spot where he’d been lying, rubbed her nose, and crouched down.

“You enjoy eating these?” he asked.

“How could I afford to eat one?” She answered honestly, two spots of red rising in her cheeks. “I’m finding them for Zhiwei-gege — I mean… for my husband. He loves eating them most of all.”

Her husband?

He looked at her right hand — there was clearly no red thread on her finger.

“You take very good care of your husband.” He had no intention of exposing her. “What’s your name?”

“A’Song.” She looked up at him. “I’m about to start now — stay right where you are, and no matter what you hear, don’t move.”

He nodded. It was only a matter of digging up some small thing — yet from her manner, she looked like a warrior making a brave, final sacrifice.

But he quickly retracted that thought, the moment this young girl’s body began spinning like a whirlwind in place.

The whirlwind on the ground grew faster and faster — yet also smaller and smaller. When the dry leaves and wild grass around them suddenly stopped their rustling, the whirlwind was gone, and so was the girl. What remained on the ground was a small wild boar barely two feet in length, its body a smoky grey-black. Two curved tusks, showing through at the front, gleamed with a pale bluish-white light, sharp as blades.

It blinked its small eyes a few times. Its two front hooves began digging furiously at the earth, and from the spraying clods of dirt and torn-up grass, a deep, wide pit was quickly hollowed out.

With a shrill, strange little cry, a rat-like creature burst out from the hole — covered in green fur, filled with tiny, sharp teeth. Though small in size, it was far from weak; it bit down hard on the boar’s snout. When the boar shook it off, the snout was already left with a row of bleeding tooth marks. But the boar seemed to feel no pain at all — it launched itself forward, pinned the green-furred creature down with one hoof, and simultaneously sank its teeth into the creature’s throat. No matter how the thing struggled beneath it, no matter how its claws frantically tore strips of hide and flesh from the boar’s body — the boar refused to let go.

Slowly, the creature’s thrashing grew weaker and weaker, until it lay entirely still. At last — at the very last — it dissolved into a glowing emerald object, like a small lingzhi, shimmering at the boar’s feet.

The boar drew a long, satisfied breath, lifted its battered front hoof, and sat down beside its prize, looking thoroughly pleased with itself.

“Did you get it?” He reduced that entire, harrowing little battle to a calm and level question.

“Mm.” Boar A’Song panted heavily.

“Tired?” he smiled.

“Not too bad.” A’Song stood and said, making her best effort to sound casual, “I have to go back down the hill now. You can go back to sleeping.”

With that, she picked up the Jiantiancui — won at the cost of half her life — in her mouth, and hobbled forward. After only a few steps, she set the prize back down, turned, and looked at him: “Can you make it down the hill on your own?”

“I made it up, so I can certainly make it down.” He waved at A’Song. “Go on home.”

“All right then. Goodbye, Blind Man!” A’Song picked up the Jiantiancui and ran off, stumbling but joyful.

How interesting — the first person he’d spoken to after coming to the human world had turned out to be a little wild boar who liked to tell lies.

He was just about to find a new spot to lie back down when Kui Yan’s voice came from behind: “I’m fairly certain I just saw you having a conversation with a wild boar?”

“She thought I was a completely genuine blind man.” He smiled. “Back so soon? Were you chased out?”

Kui Yan stepped up to him, expression grave: “I may have found traces of the Celestial Emperor. Come with me.”

Kui Yan grabbed hold of him and headed down the hill.

“No need to drag me — I can walk.” He was truly unaccustomed to Kui Yan’s brand of “looking after” him. “Do you also take me for a completely genuine blind man?”

“Who knows if you are or not!” Kui Yan gave him a look. “Spending so long shut away in the Celestial Realm — for all we know, you’ve lost even the ability to tell human energy from demon energy! You were casually chatting with a wild boar demon, who by nature is a ferocious creature — weren’t you the least bit afraid of being torn to pieces and sold off? You’re a God of Matchmaking who can’t even fight.”

He considered this for a moment and said: “Perhaps you’re right. When A’Song first appeared, I took her for a human. Could it truly be that, having had so little contact with humans and demons, I’ve lost the ability to tell them apart?”

“That’s what you get for never leaving your quarters.” Kui Yan snorted.

“Whether I can or can’t tell humans from demons — it doesn’t really matter.” He thought back over the events just past and smiled. “Though human in appearance, one is not necessarily good. Though demon by nature, one is not necessarily evil. Why does the distinction need to be so sharp?”

Kui Yan agreed with this sentiment in his heart but still delivered the solemn warning: “You’d better look after yourself regardless. With the world so unstable right now, it’s the perfect time for demons and monsters to run wild. In all things, caution is the better policy!”

“Are wild boars really only that small? I always imagined them to be about the size of a tiger or leopard.”

“Are you even listening to what I’m saying?”

“I heard you. So wild boars aren’t as vicious and violent as the legends make them out to be.”

“Can we put the wild boar aside for one moment?”

5

“Village Elder — are you certain your eyes weren’t playing tricks on you?” In the still-unrepaired thatched house, Kui Yan looked at the middle-aged man seated cross-legged before them and asked once more. “You are certain you saw a creature that was half-human and half-demon?”

The village elder nodded with certainty: “Not just me — the whole village saw it. From the waist up, it was a young man, outstandingly handsome, with hair that gleamed like gold. In the center of his brow, there was a deep red mark. But from the waist down — it would frighten anyone to death. Like a black bull that had been split lengthwise, and yet with no legs — only a long tentacle where the stomach should be!”

The color drained slightly from Kui Yan’s face. He turned to Ding Yan: “What do you make of this?”

“Is the soup almost ready?” Ding Yan looked at the clay pot hanging over the small brazier before him and sniffed the air appreciatively.

“Your friend has quite a nose,” the village elder remarked appreciatively, then went to put out the fire, drew out some simple eating utensils, and began ladling the soup into bowls as he spoke. “The two of you have come such a long way. You are distinguished guests — experts who specifically deal in subduing demons and monsters — and we can only offer you this plain and simple fare. Truly, we have been remiss. Alas — I don’t know what sins we have committed to deserve such a great calamity out of nowhere. Things here used to be so different — the mountains bright, the water clear, with bumper harvests no matter what we planted. And now the mountain has collapsed and the water has turned foul, with only these wild vegetables left to fill our stomachs.” The village elder wiped at eyes reddening with emotion and continued: “If only the two of you had come sooner — perhaps this tribulation could have been averted.”

“Why is that?” Ding Yan tested the hot soup in his bowl with a cautious little lick. “We can only subdue demons and monsters. For natural disasters like flooding and earthquakes, we are equally powerless.”

“The two of you may not know — though the creature never harmed a single villager, strange things began multiplying gradually from the moment it appeared in our vicinity.” The village elder said, his lingering fear still palpable. “Every worry we harbored came true.”

“How do you mean?” Kui Yan asked.

“For instance, if one of our people was bitten by a snake or insect while working and feared the wound might be poisonous — in the past, a thought like that would remain just a thought. Apply some medicine, rest for a few days, and think nothing more of it. But from the moment that creature appeared, the more we thought about it, the more frightened we became, and sure enough — a wound that had been trivial grew worse and worse, until it was exactly as though the victim had been poisoned with something lethal. Then we noticed that after heavy rain, some of the earth on the mountainside had begun to slide, and cracks had appeared in the ground — narrow ones — and we grew more and more frightened that the mountain might cave in and the earth might split… and well, you’ve seen the result.” The village elder sighed. “In those days, everyone fell into utter despair. And that creature continued to appear in the sky from time to time, and its body had grown noticeably larger than before. It watched us, and every so often let out a laughing sound — ‘qu qu qu.* We finally came to believe that everything was connected to this creature. But we were powerless. Just when the survivors among us had made up our minds to abandon our home and relocate elsewhere, the creature disappeared. And as it vanished, our spirits inexplicably lifted too. The despair we’d felt was swept away entirely, and we felt only that we should stay and rebuild our ruined home, piece by piece.”

“The creature disappeared?” Kui Yan frowned.

“We wondered about it too.” The village elder rose and retrieved a small book fashioned from tree bark, pointing to each scene carved into its surface. “We recorded this matter here and gave the creature a name — ‘Youqu.’ We guessed that it might be a kind of demon capable of turning a person’s worries and fears into reality, and that if we had not let our imaginations run away with us, things might not have become so terrible.” He paused, then continued: “In truth, on the night before it disappeared, a villager reported seeing a shadow streak across the night sky — what appeared to be a figure — that became entangled with the creature. And then — nothing. Since then, Youqu has never appeared again. That is all I am able to tell the two of you.”

“Perhaps, before us, someone else had already come and done something.” Ding Yan smiled and pointed to his now-empty bowl. “The flavor of wild vegetables really is not bad at all.”

“Then have another bowl!” The village elder enthusiastically reached over to take his bowl.

“No need. We’ve troubled you enough for one day.” Kui Yan rose to his feet, scooping Ding Yan up along with him. “We still have urgent business. We’ll take our leave.”

“I’m in no rush — let me have one more bowl before we go!” Ding Yan pointed longingly at the pot of soup. “It really is delicious!”

Kui Yan, deeply embarrassed, leaned close to his ear and hissed a warning: “This family still has a whole household to feed. Have you no shame, competing with them for their soup?”

“But it’s truly wonderful! You didn’t have any, did you — try some!” Ding Yan paid him no mind whatsoever, turned to the village elder with a radiant smile, and said: “If you’d be so kind, one more bowl please.”

It was a good thing the villagers had no idea they were in the presence of celestial gods — not just any gods, but two of the twelve highest-ranking divine lords. Otherwise, how despairing would it be to discover that one of them was an utterly shameless deity who had come to beg for soup? — Wait, hadn’t Ding Yan just been standing there looking righteous and condemning the very same behavior from Kui Yan not long ago?

“Move!” Kui Yan tightened his grip. “Don’t forget who you are!”

Ding Yan peeled his hand away without any particular concern: “One’s identity is the thing most worth forgetting.”

At that very moment, a commotion broke out outside the house. Someone was calling out with excitement: “Zhiwei is back!”

Zhiwei? He felt he’d heard that name somewhere before — not a particularly mellifluous name. Ah, right — the name of A’Song the wild boar’s “husband.”

The village elder’s face lit up at the sound, and he set down his ladle and headed outside: “A moment, please — my son has come back from hunting.”

The pull of the village elder’s son apparently exceeded even the pull of that soup. Ding Yan set his bowl down and followed the village elder out.

Outwardly gentle and agreeable, yet in reality doing entirely as he pleased, never operating within anyone else’s frame of reference — I don’t know how I’ve managed to stay friends with him all these years. Kui Yan hurried out after them, regretting more and more with every step that he had dragged him to the human world. This kind of person — normal on the surface, monstrous in practice — truly ought to be kept locked in the Hall of the Matchmaking God. Sigh…

6

The village elder’s son — this man called Zhiwei — was the type to be liked by everyone.

Tall, handsome. Even with single eyelids, those eyes — large, and very dark — commanded all the attention in the room. The bridge of his nose was perfectly straight, without a single displeasing hollow. A strip of black cloth tied across his forehead passed through the dark hair at his temples, trailing together with shoulder-length tresses in the night breeze. A tiger pelt slung diagonally across his body as a vest proclaimed his prowess and his track record as a hunter. Several mountain chickens, still bleeding, and one young deer were heaped at his feet.

Ding Yan looked him over. With this kind of presence, it was little wonder that quite a few young women in the crowd watched him with shining eyes.

But — where was the other one?

He searched the crowd for a familiar figure. They were supposed to be “husband and wife,” weren’t they? Surely at a moment like this, she ought to be standing right at his side, beaming with joy? Where was she?

A gaggle of half-grown children pressed in around the young hunter from all sides, expressing their admiration and reverence in every way they could think of. Several of the boys stated plainly that they hoped to grow up to be as brave as Zhiwei-gege.

Foolish children — hunting a few mountain chickens and a fawn doesn’t count as bravery. He very much wanted to step forward and say this to those small admirers.

“Come, come — let me introduce you to two distinguished guests!” The village elder pulled his son over. “These two are learned masters who travel the land subduing demons and monsters!”

“Masters?” Zhiwei cut his father off and swept a brief, cool glance over the two of them. “You’ve come at an opportune moment, masters. The demons are gone, and dinner is right on time. Forgive me — I have things to attend to. Please, make yourselves at home.” With that, he shouldered his quarry and strode away without a backward glance.

“Hey! What kind of way is that to speak to a guest?!” The village elder scolded him, then apologized to them. “This child has a blunt temperament — his words can land like stones. Please don’t take offense.”

“It’s nothing.” Ding Yan watched the brave hunter’s retreating figure, then turned and murmured to Kui Yan: “Was he implying we’re the sort who go around freeloading?”

“I’ve given up trying to determine whether you are innately pure or innately slow-witted.” Kui Yan drooped his eyelids. “That young man was clearly insulting us. I’d like to see you show your face and ask for another bowl of soup now.”

“He insulted me, but I don’t lose any flesh over it.” Ding Yan blinked. “I’m still going to have the soup.”

And before Kui Yan could stop him, he had already turned to the village elder with a brilliant smile: “If it isn’t too much of an imposition, we were hoping to lodge here for a few days. And that wild vegetable soup — might we have it every day?”

“Of course, of course!” The warm-hearted elder nodded eagerly. “If the two of you don’t find our humble mountain village too rough and simple, it is a great honor to us already. Only — if you would be willing to look around and see whether there are any more troublesome ‘things’ lurking in the area, we would be even more grateful!”

“Naturally!” Ding Yan took no notice whatsoever of Kui Yan’s mood, turned to take the village elder by the arm, and headed cheerfully toward the house where half a pot of soup still remained, chatting all the while.

“Elder — what is that wild vegetable soup made from? It has such a wonderful flavor.”

“I’m not sure myself — Zhiwei brought back the ingredients. It’s a translucent-green sort of thing. Ground into a powder, and a little added to the soup makes it indescribably savory. Zhiwei drinks this soup every day, though he won’t let me have any, saying it only benefits young people and that old folks who drink it will get a stomach ache. The two of you arrived today and there wasn’t much else to offer, so this was what we made.”

“Your Zhiwei truly is a young hero — he can always bring back the finest things.”

“Ha, you flatter him. But he is a remarkable boy. It’s entirely thanks to him going out into the mountain day and night to hunt rare and valuable birds and animals, then trading them to the village on the other side of the mountain for grain and seeds, that we were able to survive the worst of it. The mountain is dangerous. Once he went in and there was no word for ten or more days — it frightened us terribly. Thank heaven he came back whole and in one piece, though he’d gotten a very deep wound on his forehead. A good thing nothing worse came of it — though he’s needed to keep a strip of cloth tied over the scar ever since.”

“You are a very fortunate man to have such a fine son. At his age — he must be ready to marry, I should think?”

“Indeed he is — the wedding date is set for after the beginning of spring.”

“What lucky girl might that be?”

“A girl from the very village he trades with. They call her Feiyun. I haven’t met her myself, but I hear she’s a beauty.”

“Feiyun… just from the name, one can tell she’s a lovely girl.”

“Ha — once he’s settled with a family of his own, the greatest worry on my mind will be laid to rest.”

He listened to the village elder’s cheerful chatter with an expression of perfect unconcern, while turning something over in his mind — the one who was supposed to call Zhiwei “husband” was Feiyun, not A’Song…

7

If he were not a celestial god, standing outside this stone cave hidden in the side of a mountain deep in the wilderness, in this darkness, in these temperatures, he would surely have contracted a severe chill by now. One day when he was no longer a god, he wondered what illnesses might come to find him. Speaking of which — falling ill must be a particularly unpleasant sensation. He couldn’t quite imagine it.

The howl of the cold wind cutting through gaps in the rock and through the bare branches brought Ding Yan’s wandering thoughts back. He gently pushed aside the dry grass and thorny branches disguising the cave’s mouth, and a dark, narrow passage was revealed. He stepped inside, and idly ran a hand along the cave wall — damp and cold to the touch.

If someone had chosen this place as a home, they truly had no regard for their own well-being.

And yet the young man so universally admired — the estimable Zhiwei — had done exactly that, slipping quietly inside. Ding Yan had been following this man from the village elder’s home all this way — this man who had given up sleep and stolen out like a thief in the middle of the night.

He concealed his presence and walked into the long, dark passage. The further he went, the lower the temperature dropped. It was a place one would not want to linger in for even a minute.

Gradually, there was the faintest glimmer of light — at the bend in the passage, in a clearing not ten feet across, a small fire was burning, fed by just a few pieces of wood, and so the flame was pitifully weak. For lighting or for warmth, it was woefully inadequate.

The person curled up beside that fire — it had to be her. Back in her human form now, with injuries all over her face and body, worst of all on her nose. The dry grass beneath her was not nearly thick enough to be comfortable, and she must have been sleeping quite badly.

“I brought some food — enough to last you several days.” Zhiwei set a cloth bag close to where she lay and sat down beside her, studying that face — even more battered-looking than before — with a frown. “How could you be so careless?”

She struggled into a sitting position and said, a little embarrassed: “Those little ones are quite fierce. Getting hold of them takes some effort.”

“You were never so badly hurt before.” Zhiwei looked at her wounds. “I’ll bring some medicinal herbs tomorrow.”

“Mm.” Her small eyes were full of guileless warmth. She let her head fall against his shoulder. “Yesterday, the girl from the village on the other side of the mountain — Mingyue — got married. She wore the most beautiful clothes, and there were flowers in her hair. I followed the wedding procession for a long, long way.”

“Oh, is that so?” He sat stiffly, his expression uneasy.

“Mm.” She glanced at his face, and something like unease flickered across hers — but she quickly smiled again. “Though on second look, the clothes weren’t all that beautiful. And when they were crossing the river, Mingyue fell in. Ha ha.”

“You should watch fewer of those kinds of festivities in the future.” He managed a thin smile. “This great mountain, full of countless true and wonderful things, is the place you should be looking at.” He hesitated, then suddenly cupped her face in his hands with unexpected gentleness. “You are someone very important to me.”

She was startled at first. Then her eyes turned red, as though she had been given the most magnificent gift in the world, and she asked, stumbling over the words: “Important… person?”

“Yes. And so I want you to stay here — to stay close to me.” He looked around. “Even though this place is not very good, it’s the most suitable I’ve been able to find for sheltering you for now. You may not know — two people have come to the village claiming to be experts in subduing demons and monsters. Whether they’re frauds or not, I’m still worried about your safety.”

“This place is wonderful!” She opened her eyes wide and said with conviction. “It’s a little cold, but I don’t mind the cold. And I hate overly bright places — this cave is absolutely perfect for sleeping in!”

“A’Song,” he said, looking at her face, which showed not one trace of complaint, “I can only keep you hidden. It may be for a lifetime. I’m very worried that people outside might harm you. But if the day comes when you want to leave, I won’t blame you. You are always free.”

She shook her head hard: “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll stay right here.”

The atmosphere between them seemed to soften, and as the fire was nearly burned out, she was just about to add more wood when he reached out and took her hand: “Let it go. I always worry. If some unrelated person happened to notice the light here, it might cause trouble. From now on, unless necessary, try not to light the fire. Rest well now. I’m heading back.”

“All right. Be careful on your way.” In the dark, it was impossible to make out her face. The farewell was spoken lightly.

Only in a place neither of them could see — someone smiled. Not with joy, nor with admiration.

With even that small flame extinguished, the temperature in the space dropped faster still. She curled back onto the thin layer of dry grass, trembling just a little.

Ding Yan slowly withdrew from the cave, stepped into the cool white moonlight, and walked down the mountain without expression.

8

A new day. Fine weather. The villagers very busy.

Ding Yan leaned against a wall, lost in thought. Across the way, the village elder and several others were enthusiastically packing food, strips of bark, and anything else they deemed valuable into bamboo baskets. In a little while, Zhiwei was to take these gifts to the village on the other side of the mountain. The voice that could be heard was Zhiwei’s, bright and happy — saying this was what Feiyun loved to eat, that was what Feiyun loved to play with, those were Feiyun’s favorite flowers. Every other word was Feiyun, Feiyun.

“We should go.” Kui Yan walked up beside him, brow deeply furrowed as he watched father and son at their busy work.

“Our Celestial Emperor — has he turned into a creature called Youqu?” He asked, in the most even of tones, the most serious of questions.

“I thought you were only thinking about your soup and your wild boar.” Kui Yan crossed his arms. “I went to the places where Youqu had appeared, and the demonic energy still lingering there had not fully dissipated.”

“And?”

“Woven into the demonic energy was a trace of celestial aura — and moreover, a scent unique to the Celestial Emperor that we both know well. Naturally, someone as dull as you would never be able to distinguish it.” Kui Yan sighed. “It took me a very long time to accept this fact. The leader of all the gods — transformed into a creature that feeds on malevolent intent. What a cruel joke that is. I hope I got it wrong. A village stumbled upon by chance, and yet it gives us an earth-shattering answer — I’d rather believe we weren’t this ‘fortunate.'”

Ding Yan rubbed his forehead: “If the Celestial Emperor has become a demon, then the others who have gone missing must be…”

“Silence!” Kui Yan cut him off. “Even if Youqu truly is what the Celestial Emperor has become, until we find him, everything is still uncertain. Don’t speculate wildly. And furthermore — if the others had also transformed into demons, the world would have been beyond salvation long ago. How could it possibly be better now than when I came last time?”

“What if someone arrived before us and did something?” Ding Yan shrugged. “Just a guess.”

“Then you certainly owe that person a bowl of soup.” Kui Yan shot him a look. “Let’s go — there are still many places we need to visit.”

“I’m planning to stay on a few more days.” Ding Yan didn’t move. “I can’t fight, and my eyesight is poor. I’d only be a burden to you.”

“Following people in the middle of the night — you really find that sort of thing amusing?” Kui Yan asked, staring straight ahead.

He paused, then smiled: “If it weren’t amusing, why would you do the same thing?”

“My God of Matchmaking — I am begging you — given everything that’s happening right now, you still have the leisure to observe other people’s love lives?” Kui Yan looked close to dropping to his knees before him.

“This is my sacred duty.” Ding Yan smiled. “Go on ahead. I’ll come find you in a few days.”

“No.” Kui Yan flatly refused, and after a moment of hesitation, lowered his voice: “Watching you drink that soup with such relish — I couldn’t help having a sip myself.”

“What does that have to do with whether you go or stay?”

Kui Yan asked in a conspiratorial whisper: “Do you know what that green powder in the soup actually is?”

“I was told it’s called Jiantiancui.” Ding Yan recalled the scene he had witnessed that day. “A type of… plant that grows underground.”

“Jiantiancui? Well, the name has a certain elegance.” Kui Yan looked over at Zhiwei, his voice turning cool. “Its real name is Fùjiāng — Resurrecting Stiffener. It is a type of demon that lives only underground. When these creatures die, their bodies transform into something resembling a fungus. Back in my homeland, there used to be quite a number of them. Though small in size, they are ferocious by nature — if anyone dares disturb the earth above their heads, they will fight that person to the death.”

Ding Yan blinked: “Oh.”

His utterly indifferent reaction left Kui Yan slumping in despair — then he raised his head again: “Resurrecting Stiffener — it is a food only for the dead!“

At these words, the one who had been clamoring for more soup broke into a violent coughing fit.

Kui Yan, finally gratified, gave him a comforting pat on the shoulder: “That said, if eaten by the living, it won’t kill you. At most it will leave you unable to sleep soundly at night, plagued by bad dreams. Which is why you needn’t wonder why you slept so poorly last night.”

Ding Yan pressed a hand to his own chest and straightened: “I’m fine.” He turned his head to look at Zhiwei, ready and waiting to depart, and asked: “It’s him?”

“If you feed Resurrecting Stiffener to a person who has died, it has the effect of bringing them back to life. However —” Kui Yan followed his gaze. “From that point on, the resurrected person must continue to consume it regularly. If they go without it for forty-nine days or more, the ‘revived’ individual will immediately dissolve into a pool of decay. And even with regular consumption, Resurrecting Stiffener can only sustain life for three years. After three years, those who were meant to die will die regardless.”

Before he had finished speaking, the sounds of farewell erupted from the other side. Everyone was sending off the village’s hero. According to the local custom, once the man had delivered three rounds of gifts to the woman’s family, the marriage was considered fully sealed. Everyone was rejoicing over Zhiwei’s impending marriage, saying over and over that the most valiant Zhiwei and the most beautiful Feiyun were truly a match made in heaven, that their children would surely be exceptional, and that the futures of both villages were exceedingly bright.

A match made in heaven?!

Ding Yan watched that crowd of joyful people, and smiled — but said nothing.

9

He had never seen a deer this large, this fierce. He thought back on the deer in the Celestial Realm — every one of them gentle and languid, utterly content with their lot.

This was a doe. She had gone completely wild, using her head, her mouth, and an injured front hoof to drive the small wild boar before her — a creature less than half her size — toward the edge of a cliff.

By rights, this should have been a lopsided fight. However small a wild boar might be, it was still a wild boar — and in a rage, it could bite a wolf or a tiger to death. A grass-eating, naturally docile doe had no reason to still be alive right now, let alone to be playing the role of the aggressor.

Within the churning clouds of dust, he watched the doe push her quarry step by step toward the line of death. The trouble was that the boar’s fighting spirit was deeply disappointing — it seemed to have no desire to fight at all, only to escape, and its every movement was laced with hesitation and guilt.

One by one, the fragments of broken stone at the cliff’s edge tumbled away into the deep gorge below as they drew closer, shattering to pieces far beneath.

Just one more step forward from the doe, and she would achieve her purpose. The boar had already been cornered to a place of mortal danger.

A single finger reached out, lightly touching the doe’s back. A translucent bubble enveloped her, lifted her gently away from the cliff’s edge, and set her down somewhere safe.

The breathless boar stared at him for a long moment, then asked in surprise: “Blind Man? What are you doing here?”

“A fine day for a walk in the hills.” He smiled. “I didn’t expect to find a wild boar that nearly got pushed off a cliff by a deer.”

“You… you could see?!” She looked even more startled, stumbled, and nearly rolled off the hill entirely.

“I never said I was blind.” He stepped back two paces. “If I were you, I wouldn’t stand quite so close to the edge.”

A’Song scrambled forward several steps, staring at him with utter disbelief, and asked in a stammer: “You — you — you saw everything?”

Across the way, the doe, trapped inside the bubble, thrashed and kicked and cried out.

“Has there been some bad blood between you and the deer?” he asked.

A’Song lowered her head and was silent.

“It seems I’ve stuck my nose in where it doesn’t belong.” He nodded. “I’ll release the deer now and you two can carry on as you were.”

“Don’t.” A’Song still didn’t look up. “I don’t want to fight with her. I don’t want to bite her to death, and I don’t want to be killed by her. Could you send her somewhere far from here?”

“This is a very large mountain,” he said, feigning puzzlement. “Surely it’s big enough for both of you?”

A’Song hesitated for a long time, then said softly: “I led her fawn toward the hunters.”

Ah — that explained it. The prize that the valiant Zhiwei had brought home. He still remembered the small deer lying in a pool of blood, and the proud smile on the hunter’s face.

Even a gentle doe, given enough despair and enough rage, could become a creature of terrifying force.

He walked up to the doe, reached out, and gave her gently on the forehead a light tap. The great creature went still at once. After he murmured a quiet incantation, the bubble dissolved with a soft pop — and where it had been, not a single hair remained.

“That’s an incredible technique!” A’Song stared with wide eyes and ran to the spot where the bubble had vanished, turning in circles and looking all around. “Where did she go?”

“She will no longer have any memory of your existence. So there’s no need to worry about where she’s gone.” He looked down at the small creature bustling around at his feet, then called, with sudden gravity: “A’Song.”

She stopped and looked up at him.

“After the beginning of spring, Zhiwei is going to marry Feiyun from the other village.” He said it plainly and directly.

A cold gust of wind blew past. A’Song blinked her small eyes and said: “I know.”

Now it was his turn to be mildly surprised: “You already knew?”

A’Song said calmly: “I’m sorry. I lied to you last time. He’s not my husband yet.”

“I know.”

“I think — you must be one of those ‘experts’ he mentioned, who suddenly turned up in the village?”

“His exact words were probably ‘a freeloading so-called expert,’ weren’t they?”

A’Song gave a little laugh and then shifted direction: “But spring hasn’t come yet, has it?”

“True enough, spring hasn’t come.” He found this little wild boar more and more interesting. “Are you planning to do something?”

A’Song didn’t answer. Instead, she walked in several circles around his feet, wearing the look of someone deep in thought.

After a moment, A’Song stood directly in front of him, tilted her head back, and asked: “Are you an immortal? I can’t tell humans from immortals. Please don’t lie to me.”

“Does the answer matter very much?”

“Mm.” A’Song nodded hard. “If you are an immortal, then you won’t think I’m just a wild animal having a daydream.”

“All right then.” He crouched down and looked at this battered, bedraggled boar. “I am a god from the Celestial Realm. I’m not lying.”

A’Song’s eyes lit up at once. She actually sat up on her hind legs and pressed her two front hooves against his knees in excitement: “Then you must know the God of Matchmaking! That most noble and revered deity, the one who governs all the fates of love in the world!”

“Well…” He hesitated briefly. “I’ve crossed paths with him a few times.”

“Wonderful! The heavens must have heard my prayers and sent someone like you to stand before me. Not someone — someone divine.” A’Song was more excited than ever, all her earlier dejection swept away in an instant.

“How does my identity help you?” He grew more and more curious about what she was scheming.

“Hmm…” Even a wild boar, apparently, could squirm shyly. “If you have a moment right now — I want to take you somewhere.”

He had all the time in the world. He had agreed with Kui Yan that he would stay in the village and continue to “observe,” while Kui Yan went on searching for any threads connecting to their missing colleagues. They would meet back at the village in seven days. During this time, he had vowed to stop asking the village elder for more soup.

He accepted A’Song’s invitation with the greatest of willingness, and followed her all the way up toward the summit of the mountain.

10

“This…” Ding Yan looked at the clay idol before him — round, misshapen, resembling a badly overcooked dumpling — and asked with difficulty: “You made this likeness of the God of Matchmaking yourself?”

“I spent a long time on it!” A’Song, entirely missing the sorrow in his tone, said with enthusiasm. “I heard the Earth God say that the God of Matchmaking is the kindest and gentlest of all the gods, but even the Earth God has never seen him. I thought to myself — a god who brings fated couples together must surely be a plump old grandfather, with a round face that could never look angry no matter what. You’ve seen the God of Matchmaking — is that what he’s like?”

The figure she’s describing is much more like Little Round, Ding Yan thought, quietly amused by this wild boar’s imaginings.

“Is there a particular meaning behind making this?” He looked at the “God of Matchmaking idol” that had been deliberately placed in the very center of the mountain’s peak. Its position was such that nothing could block the light from reaching it — whether sunlight or moonlight, both could fall upon it fully. It was now evening, and the sunset blazed red at the horizon. The color that landed upon the idol was particularly striking — as though it had been dressed in a garment filled with spiritual essence, lending an air of unexpected dignity to what otherwise looked like a ridiculous lump of mud.

“The Earth God said that creatures like us — small demons — rarely have a fated match,” A’Song said, carefully clearing away the fallen leaves in front of the idol. “But the celestial gods all carry compassion for all living things in their hearts. As long as one prays to them with sincerity, they are sure to hear — and perhaps, if they do, the wish might be granted. So I shaped this idol of the Matchmaking God with great devotion, and every night there is moonlight, I transform into human form and come here to pray to him, staying until sunrise before I leave.”

Before his eyes appeared an image: beneath the clear, silver-white light of the moon, a plain-looking wild boar transformed into a plain-looking young woman, kneeling devoutly before a crude clay idol. She had nothing — except a heart full of imagination.

“Why must you take human form to pray to your God of Matchmaking?” he asked.

“I want to present my best self to someone important.” A’Song said a little self-consciously, rubbing her snout. “It is the same with Zhiwei.”

He smiled and, looking out at the horizon where the sunset had contracted to a single thread of color, suddenly jumped to a seemingly unrelated question: “You haven’t truly taken on a permanent human form yet, have you? The times you appear as a person — you’re forcing your demonic power to converge, barely sustaining it?”

A’Song paused, then nodded: “For a demon, achieving a permanent human form is an extraordinarily difficult thing. Even if each transformation can only last a single day, it is still something to be grateful for.” She paused, then added quietly: “My time is running out. When spring comes, he’ll be leaving.”

“Do you know what happens if you overuse your demonic power and skip the gradual stages of cultivation?” The very last trace of color vanished from the world he perceived, swallowed by darkness. “You will cease to be even a wild boar.”

“The Earth God told me that the God of Matchmaking’s red threads are only used for humans,” she turned back to face the idol and regarded that lump of clay with reverence. “He said that when a human is born, a red thread that cannot be seen grows from their pinky finger — infinitely long — and its other end rests in the God of Matchmaking’s hand. When the moment of fate arrives, the Matchmaking God draws out a pair of clay figurines he has fashioned by hand — as the vessel for the thread’s owner — and binds both people’s threads around them in a knot. When that is done, the man and woman in the world will come together as husband and wife, for the rest of their lives.”

“The Earth God really does know quite a lot.” He turned around and said evenly: “Did he also tell you that demons are born without red threads?”

“He mentioned it — which is why demons are always counted among those with affinity but no fate, doomed to live out their years alone.” A’Song’s eyes shadowed briefly, but that shadow was quickly replaced by hope. “But he also said — as long as a demon truly learns how to love another person, even for a demon, a red thread can be cultivated.”

“Even if, through your own effort, you cultivated a red thread — what would it represent?” He pressed his heel, subtly, against her “hope.” “It still has to be tied together with another red thread to become anything complete.”

“That is exactly why I am asking the God of Matchmaking for help!” She looked up at him with innocent, wide eyes.

“To bind you to your Zhiwei?” he asked directly.

She squirmed shyly again, but nodded with certainty: “If by that time I really had grown a red thread — the God of Matchmaking would help me, wouldn’t he? After all, he is such a kind-hearted god.” Then she suddenly spun around, ran to his feet, and whipped her little tail back and forth as she asked, tentatively: “If before spring comes I really do grow a red thread — if the God of Matchmaking happens to be too busy to notice — could I ask you to tell him? Just say that a wild boar who was never supposed to have a red thread, through her own devoted effort, finally broke precedent. So…”

“So she also hopes he will break precedent,” he continued for her, “and fulfill her wish?”

“Yes, yes!” A’Song nodded enthusiastically. “I think — you, too, are a very good divine being.”

“Why do you say that?” He smiled. “Do I have ‘I am a good divine being’ carved across my forehead?”

A’Song shook her head: “There has never been a single look of disgust on your face when you look at me. Not even a tiny trace.”

“Oh?” He touched his own face. “Have others had that expression?”

She didn’t answer.

“Then let me wish you good luck.” He looked up. The night sky was a sheet of pure black. “There is no moon tonight, so you needn’t pray to the God of Matchmaking. Actually — the reason the God of Matchmaking is called the ‘Moon-old-man’ has nothing to do with the moon itself. It’s only that this particular fellow doesn’t enjoy being in the sun and likes to sit around daydreaming in the moonlight. You don’t need to take on human form either — after all, you aren’t particularly good-looking as a human. You might actually have a better chance of amusing the God of Matchmaking by staying as a wild boar.”

“What?!”

“I’m going now. Before spring comes, if I have the time, I’ll come back to check on you.”

“Wait — which divine being are you, exactly?!”

A’Song’s voice still echoed across the air at the mountain’s summit — but his figure had already vanished into the trees below…

11

Several months later. Somewhere in the south. Atop a field of ruins.

This place had once been home to over ten thousand people — beautiful mountains, clear water, a scene of thriving prosperity. But now there were only three people, standing in cold isolation on a crumbling earthen platform.

“Are you both truly resolved to surrender your divine positions?” The figure before them wore a look of tranquil serenity — no matter what the subject of conversation.

Kui Yan and Ding Yan exchanged a glance and looked down at the stones held in their respective hands.

Ding Yan had always prided himself on his composure, his innate calm in the face of anything. But when that person had laid those ten stones of varying shapes and appearances before him, he finally experienced the greatest shock of his entire existence.

Ten of the twelve divine lords who had vanished — had been made to “sleep” inside ten stones.

That person had come back with Kui Yan. On the day the two of them appeared together at the village entrance, he had clearly seen the color drain from Kui Yan’s face.

They had been unwilling to believe the reality that ten great divine lords had been sealed inside stones by a person of unknown origin — yet they could not deny the evidence of their own eyes nor the instincts of divine beings. The “presence” seeping from within each stone, belonging unmistakably to each of their colleagues, was not something that could be faked.

That person said: the most powerful, most rampant, most indestructible beast that prowled between heaven and earth had gotten loose. This beast had no form and not even a name, yet it was everywhere, infiltrating everything — and even divine beings had not been spared. Moreover, what it wrought upon divine beings was millions of times more severe than what it caused in ordinary mortals. The only way, now, was to borrow the power of the various sacred stones to suppress and “cleanse” those gods who had been “corrupted.”

“Do you know why, out of everyone, only the two of you have been able to preserve your true natures until now?” That person had once asked them.

Kui Yan shook his head.

“Because of your innate compassion.” The person looked at him. “A soul that only performs acts of goodness and asks nothing in return — no matter how desperately the beast tries to find its way in, it has no opening.”

“But I am not as noble as Kui Yan.” Ding Yan looked candidly at the other person. “Could it be that the beast had its eye on someone’s wife and needed to keep me around to tie the red thread for it?”

“Moon God — everyone in heaven and earth regards you as the most tender-hearted and compassionate of deities, yet even in these circumstances, you can still trade jokes with me.” That person smiled and shook their head. “If I were to liken you to a city — before the enemy could assault you, you had already burned everything inside yourself down to bare ground. Which left the enemy nothing whatsoever to profit from. I wonder — does this comparison seem appropriate to you?”

He frowned: “Just who are you?”

“I am not a person.” The other smiled in reply. “My work is now more than half done. The purpose of my coming to find the two of you is simply this — I need your help to tie up the loose ends. That is, if the two of you wish for this world to be well.”

They looked into that person’s eyes, unable to explain why they trusted every word the other said without reservation. Something on this person’s person — something invisible, yet unmistakably clear — radiated like a light, and made one instinctively want to draw near, to follow.

The result of that instinct was that they had followed this person across a thousand mountains and myriad rivers, searching until they found two more stones —

One: the “Celestial Crimson Shield.” One: the “Arrow of Love’s Origin.”

Now, Ding Yan looked at the transparent stone arrow he held — less than a foot long, its surface running through all seven colors of the spectrum in sequence, red to violet, radiant and breathtaking — and said quietly: “So long as we surrender our divine positions and channel nine-tenths of our divine power into these two stones — it will all be over?”

“These two stones serve a different purpose from the other ten.” That person nodded and smiled. “What this thousand-wounded world needs most is compassion, and those who love one another. The wider and further these two things can spread, the better.”

“Whether or not I remain a god — I have no particular feelings about it.” Kui Yan said. “Only — if we both leave, what becomes of the Celestial Realm?”

“All things in the universe are in constant transformation.” The person placed a hand on his shoulder. “New forces will naturally arise to continue guiding and supporting this still-growing world. There is nothing to worry about.”

Ding Yan weighed the magnificent “Arrow of Love’s Origin” in his hand, turned over all that the person had said about this stone, drew a long slow breath, and said: “Then so be it. I have no great attachment to being the God of Matchmaking. Though…”

“Though what?”

“Before I step down — I need to visit somewhere. I made a promise to someone that I would come see her before spring arrived.”

12

“You don’t need to follow me. I’m not going to run.” He said, without looking sideways.

“I’m curious what you’re coming back here for.” Kui Yan tried to recall everything he’d told him. “Surely not to see whether that wild boar grew a red thread?”

“Exactly.” He smiled. “Don’t you find it rather interesting?”

“A demon cultivating a red thread — that would be something new.” Kui Yan thought it over and teased: “Could it be that before you leave your post, you want to exercise the privileges of the God of Matchmaking one final time — to make a match for the boar girl?”

He smiled and said nothing.

Looking down at the village below — now newly rebuilt — and the fields lush and green, the place had changed for the better in the months since he’d left it, more than he had imagined.

But what exceeded his imagination wasn’t only this village where he’d briefly stayed. It was also A’Song — who lived on this mountain and had been fighting so hard to “grow” a red thread.

Right now, that wild boar was crouched behind the patch of wild grass nearest to the village, peering through a narrow gap to stare blankly at the village elder’s house. She’d stare for a while, edge forward a little — then draw back again.

Zhiwei had changed into new clothes and was carrying a large bundle of freshly picked flowers home. In two more days, he would go to the other village to bring home his bride. Before that, he wanted the house filled with the fragrance of Feiyun’s favorite blooms.

When Ding Yan appeared without warning, he startled A’Song half to death — and then she lit up with absolute delight, scrambling and rolling out from the grass to throw herself toward him: “You came back! You really came back to see me!” In her excitement, she hadn’t even noticed Kui Yan standing beside him.

Before Ding Yan could respond, A’Song had already stretched out her right front hoof and was beside herself, her words tumbling over one another: “Look! It grew! It really grew!”

He was mildly taken aback. On that muddy little boar hoof, a red thread had genuinely appeared — like a well-behaved little tail, wavering in the air.

“Congratulations.” He smiled. “So a demon’s red thread, it turns out, can be seen by the demon herself.”

A’Song nodded happily and looked up toward the mountain summit: “The Earth God was right after all — the God of Matchmaking must have heard me, and seen me!”

“Yes — the God of Matchmaking certainly saw you.” He held his smile. “And then what?”

Her joy was disrupted by that question. She turned her head: the bustling village lay behind those swaying wild grasses — and even now, she had no place in it.

“I heard that in two more days, he’ll be bringing Feiyun home.” He continued.

She was silent for a long moment, then suddenly raised her head: “I will keep appealing to the God of Matchmaking!”

“What if Zhiwei and Feiyun are the right and proper pair?” he asked.

She seemed a little lost. After a long while, she said: “When he was still a child, we played together on this mountain. He was different from the others — he wasn’t afraid of me and never came after me with weapons. He once said — if only you were a person. So I worked very hard to cultivate, very hard to appear before him in human form, very hard to make myself into the kind of person he might like. He slipped and rolled down the hillside — the sharp stones pierced his skull, and I watched him breathe his last right in front of me. How could I let him die? I used all my strength to catch Resurrecting Stiffener creatures. I didn’t care how much they’d bite off me. I didn’t care at all. I wanted him to go on living as he had before. I was willing to help him find prey — as long as he was happy. He treated me well too, always looked after me.” She slowly raised her head, her small eyes growing a little red. “All of this — that’s love, isn’t it? Isn’t the God of Matchmaking a god who fulfills ‘love?'”

Ding Yan felt, somehow, that even with the brilliant afternoon sun pouring down around him, he could not feel its warmth.

“All right.” He crouched down and stroked A’Song’s head. “Tomorrow night, I will bring the God of Matchmaking to meet you.”

13

“Are you truly going to fulfill the wish of this wild boar?” Kui Yan asked with a smile. “The God of Matchmaking’s swan song — and it’s a wild boar?”

He neither confirmed nor denied it, and walked quietly toward the mountain summit.

When spring arrived, day and night alike the weather was lovely — the fragrance of flowers and grass of every kind drifted across the increasingly colorful mountain wilds. The branches sprouting fresh new buds held up a sliver of moon.

The sky would be the sky forever now. There was no going back. That much, his premonition had confirmed.

Before releasing this identity entirely, he really ought to do a few things more.

As he had expected: before that lump of clay on the mountain summit, a plain-looking girl was kneeling in devout prayer.

Her movements were very slow. She would bow her head until it touched the ground, then straighten, murmur something silently to herself, then bow again — repeated again and again without stopping.

Had she been doing this all along, every single night until dawn?

The minutes and seconds passed one by one. He could clearly see that her forehead was already broken open. This wild boar — does she not know her own strength at all?

The blood, red and vivid, mixed with the clay and left a mark on her forehead. More unsightly than before, that’s for sure.

Yet she bowed with such earnestness — her eyes full of devotion and longing.

Kui Yan sighed and said: “Just fulfill her wish. I’ve been watching so long my heart aches.”

“Let’s go,” he said.

In his world of red, the demon who would not stop bowing became a dot, growing fainter and fainter…

14

The following night, deep after dark, he kept his promise — and brought not only the God of Matchmaking, but also the most important person in her world.

Tonight there was no moonlight, only the howling cold wind. Even with spring arrived, one final cold snap still had to be endured — this was the pattern of things. Inescapable.

A’Song gripped the unconscious Zhiwei, who had been dropped to the ground, and stared at Ding Yan in shock: “You said — you are the God of Matchmaking?”

“Forgive me for destroying your imagination.” He stepped forward and gave his “idol” a pat.

“I — I don’t know what to say.” A’Song was, as always, entirely honest. “I am very nervous right now — and also very, very happy! Very very happy!”

Kui Yan smiled looking at her: “This wild boar of yours has some real luck — she found herself a good friend of mine who specializes in making things come true for people.”

“Mm, mm.” A’Song had grown too excited for words. She looked at Ding Yan: “God of Matchmaking — what do you need me to do next?”

He turned around and smiled: “Just answer a few questions.”

“What questions?” She was overflowing with joy.

“Does this man love you?”

“He…” A’Song’s thoughts seemed suddenly blocked. After a very long pause, she said uncertainly: “He does.”

“How does he love you?”

A’Song was stuck again. She tried hard to remember, and said: “He knows there’s danger in catching Resurrecting Stiffener and always tells me to be more careful next time. He fears others will discover I’m a demon and hurt me, so he hides me in a cave on the mountain. He brings food for me. He told me I’m a very important person to him!”

“A’Song,” he walked up to her, crouched down, and looked at her with gentleness. “If what he said to you were not ‘be more careful next time,’ but rather ‘don’t go anymore’ — then your answer would carry weight.”

A’Song froze.

His hand brushed the scar on her forehead: “A person who loves you does not put you in danger’s way. Does not hide you away from family and friends. And most importantly…” He looked into her increasingly astonished eyes and said, “would not be so happy to go and marry someone else.”

“But—” A’Song faltered. “I’ve always been trying so hard. I do anything he asks of me, I don’t let him feel even one moment of unhappiness. If I keep going like this, surely we…”

“Trying?!” He cut her off. “You can try hard to catch a deer. You can try hard to cultivate into a human. You can even try hard to become the ruler of this entire mountain range and everything in the world beyond it. But you cannot — you absolutely cannot — try hard enough to make someone who doesn’t love you fall in love with you!”

She stared at him, mouth open, unable to produce a single word.

“It is the one thing in this world that cannot be obtained through effort.” He stood. “No matter how devoutly you plead, no matter how low you make yourself — in my eyes, it will be nothing more than a solitary performance in a play that has no meaning.”

At those words, even Kui Yan stood stunned.

She suddenly reached out a paw and gripped the hem of his robe, her lips trembling faintly: “Please — just this once! Just help me once! If only you are willing to tie the red thread between us, we can become husband and wife, can’t we? Even if he only has a few years left! Look at my hand — doesn’t it have a red thread now?”

His face had never been so cold as it was in this moment. Perhaps — this was his true self.

“A red thread that grew in the wrong place is worth nothing.” He looked at this demon on the verge of tears. “And someone who has died should not go on occupying the world of the living.”

Before A’Song and Kui Yan could react, he brought his palm down abruptly on the crown of Zhiwei’s head, then pinched A’Song’s right pinky finger and gave it a gentle pull. A burst of red light erupted from their fingertips with a faint ssss — and A’Song’s most beloved person, along with that thread she had cultivated through a thousand trials and hardships, dissolved before her eyes into a scattering of ash. In two or three breaths, the howling cold wind had scattered it without a trace.

A’Song was utterly shattered. She leapt up and tried to grab the ashes from the air, letting out a strange, wordless cry — something between weeping and a wail.

“Ding Yan?” Kui Yan grabbed him. “Have you lost your mind?”

He looked at Kui Yan strangely: “You’ve known me for years — when have I ever lost my mind?”

“You—” Kui Yan couldn’t argue with that. “Fine — even granting you had your reasons for not fulfilling her wish with that man, there was no need to destroy this demon’s red thread.”

“I cannot permit a red thread that grew in the wrong place to go on existing.” He said calmly. “That too is the God of Matchmaking’s duty.”

“But it’s heartbreaking!” Kui Yan pointed at A’Song, who had frozen at the mountain’s edge, rigid as a stone figure. “She put everything — all her hope — into you, and the result was…”

“Placing all one’s hope in another person is a dangerous thing. She should understand that now.” He glanced briefly at A’Song. “Let’s go.”

“Wait.”

A’Song’s voice came from the other end.

He stopped. He did not turn around.

“May I ask — are you the God of Matchmaking?” She stood at the very edge, only one step from the cliff. Her voice was suddenly and strangely calm.

“I am.” He answered clearly.

A’Song smiled faintly, and said, one word at a time: “I have never felt such a deep and complete hatred for the God of Matchmaking as I do right now.”

“Is that so?” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “I’m honored. Then — farewell.”

He took a step forward and walked down the mountain, easy and unhurried.

Behind him, on the summit, A’Song — still as a stone — was buried in the deepening night…

15

A little further ahead lay the place where they had agreed to meet that person.

On the desolate stone riverbed, Ding Yan wore the same unruffled expression, as though the destination ahead were simply some perfectly ordinary place.

“Ding Yan.” Kui Yan, walking a few steps behind and watching him with a brow long since creased, called after him.

“What is it?” He turned.

“I’ve been thinking about a question ever since just now.” Kui Yan studied his face carefully. “Have we really, truly been friends for as many years as I think we have?”

He answered that with an expression that said: that question is almost funny.

“Don’t laugh — when you destroyed A’Song’s red thread and dissolved that man, it frightened me.” Kui Yan said with all seriousness. “For one instant, I suddenly doubted whether I had ever truly known you.”

“Only you can answer that question.” He shrugged and turned to walk on.

Kui Yan caught his arm: “I once asked you how you managed to never make a mistake. You said: ‘those in the midst of it are blind to it; too much of anything tips the balance.’ What exactly did you mean? We are about to give up our divine positions — can you finally give me a clear answer?”

He raised his head, let out a long breath, and turned back around. He smiled, and reached out one finger — pressed it lightly to Kui Yan’s left eye, then to the center of his chest, and finally to the pinky of his left hand.

Kui Yan followed the movement of that finger, puzzled.

“These three places are where the love-glands reside.” He said slowly. “Affection begins in the eyes, then enters the heart, and then the finger — and from there, the thread of fated union is born. Those red threads do not appear from nowhere — even for humans. A’Song believed that humans are born already carrying their threads of fate. That is wrong. It is simply that humans are the species most easily moved to feeling, so the love-glands are awakened quickly, and the red thread grows easily. Demons, though they also possess love-glands, tend to have ones that are less developed — which is why so few demons can grow a thread of fate, unless their feeling runs truly and profoundly deep.”

“If that’s so, why destroy A’Song’s red thread?” Kui Yan didn’t understand. “Do you know how much hardship and devotion that must have taken?”

“Feeling profoundly does not mean feeling in the right direction.” He patted Kui Yan’s shoulder and smiled. “Those in the midst of it are blind to it. Too much of anything tips the balance.”

Kui Yan was taken aback for a moment, then said: “But what you did was still too harsh.”

“When you see something wrong, correct it cleanly and swiftly. If you let it linger, the trouble has no end.” He smiled.

“But — when you saw A’Song like that — did you feel nothing? Not even a little?”

“Kui Yan — everyone in the Celestial Realm has always been curious about this red cloth covering my eyes.” He jumped to an entirely unrelated subject. “You, too, have countless times wanted to see the eyes hidden beneath it, haven’t you?”

“That is not what we’re talking about right now!”

“Since we are about to step down anyway — I might as well grant your wish.”

He reached out, took hold of the red cloth that had accompanied him all these years, and slowly drew it down.

Kui Yan stared, dumbstruck, at this face he had known for years yet never seen complete — heavens, what an extraordinary pair of eyes. Light brown irises in which the essence of sun and moon seemed embedded, drawing the gaze and refusing to let it go.

But — what was that?

Why, beneath such a perfect pair of eyes, close to the lower lashes of the left, was there a long and deep red scar?

Ding Yan smiled: “I severed my own love-gland.”

A sound like a thunderclap rang through Kui Yan’s mind.

“So I am a God of Matchmaking incapable of feeling love for anyone.” He retied the red cloth over his eyes. “Only in this way can I forever remain a clear-eyed observer — standing outside of emotion, handling all affairs of the heart with objectivity and correctness.”

Kui Yan’s mouth hung slightly open. He murmured: “A God of Matchmaking with severed love-glands…”

“Yes.” Ding Yan said with perfect ease. “So there’s no need to puzzle over me any further. Let’s go — that person is still waiting for us.”

“Ding Yan…”

He watched this old friend walking alone through the night. The red cloth, with his hair, flew in the wind. A thin crescent of silver hung before him. The pale white pebbles ran along the dry riverbed stretching far ahead. In this moment, he was no different from how he’d been in the Celestial Realm — always so quiet, quiet to the point of loneliness…

Epilogue

“That’s it? That’s all there is?!” I, a profoundly dissatisfied listener, launched myself straight off the sofa and grabbed Kui Yan by the collar. “What about the ‘Arrow of Love’s Origin?’ And this ‘person’ you mentioned — who exactly was that?!”

Ao Chi immediately dragged me back and locked me firmly in his arms: “Use your words, not your hands! A pregnant woman needs to act with some awareness!”

“Regarding ‘that person’ — I am still unable to explain it, even now.” Kui Yan answered with complete seriousness. “After Ding Yan and I channeled our divine power into the Celestial Crimson Shield and the Arrow of Love’s Origin, that person took the twelve stones and left. Before departing, they told us: everything will be all right. But after we parted from that person, whenever we tried to recall any moment involving them, that person’s image was simply — blank. We remember every word exchanged, every thing done together, but we cannot recall what that person looked like.”

“A stranger who appeared from nowhere, asked you to hand over your divine power, and you just handed it over?” I stared at him in disbelief. “What if it had been someone evil?”

“They weren’t.” Kui Yan shook his head with certainty. “It is very difficult for me to explain the feeling we had at the time. The moment you laid eyes on that person, doubt became impossible. There was something unusual about them — a kind of pull that made you want, without knowing why, to stay close and follow. A person who could seal away divine lords, if they had harbored ill intent, the world at that time would not have been the way it was.”

I slumped back and pressed my palm to my forehead. I had thought that with a living eyewitness, I would finally get answers. I hadn’t expected this.

Who exactly was “that person?!”

“Then you can tell us the real reason you came to find us now?” Ao Chi held on to the last of his patience to ask.

“Just as that person said — not long after we surrendered our divine posts, a new set of twelve divine lords appeared in the Celestial Realm, and the world settled once more. But many years later, this ‘Celestial Crimson Shield’ appeared on its own — on the pillow beside my head — covered in something resembling jade dust. It seemed as though the thing had somehow recognized me and had traveled a great distance to find me. My first thought was: if the Celestial Crimson Shield has turned up on its own, could it mean the other eleven stones have also come loose? I spent a great deal of time searching far and wide, but found nothing. So I specifically sought out Ding Yan to see whether the Arrow of Love’s Origin had gone to find him as well. But when I arrived at where he lived, I discovered the man had vanished. After stepping down, he said he wanted to live his life in peace and quiet, and that our paths would part from there. Even so, he always remembered to stay in contact with me wherever he went, changing locations as he did. Yet this time, after that visit, I lost all trace of him entirely. This has been a long-running worry in my heart.” His expression grew a little subdued. “Then, not long ago, I heard from Chong Er that you had been looking for the stones, and that they would offer you clues. If the Celestial Crimson Shield could lead to the whereabouts of the Arrow of Love’s Origin, perhaps it could also lead me to that fellow. And then there was a strange thing that had recently come up for me. So I thought of coming to ask for your help.” He glanced at Young Master Zhao and quickly added, “Of course, paying a visit to an old friend was equally important.”

“You needn’t consider my feelings.” Young Master Zhao swept trash from one end of the room to the other. “I don’t remember you.”

“Stop getting off topic!” I tapped the coffee table. “What strange thing?”

“My wife — Jinxiu, that is — and I opened a matchmaking service.” Kui Yan pointed to the name card he’d handed me. “Business has been good, expanding to quite a few cities, including your Wangchuan. But not long ago…”

At that moment, my phone rang.

The caller — that scoundrel Jiu Jue.

“You’re still alive?! Did your fiancée dump you again?” I gestured for Kui Yan to pause and opened with the customary greeting.

On the other end, Jiu Jue’s voice pitched up two full tones: “Have you not left the house in the past few days?”

“Obviously not! Don’t you know my place was nearly demolished?! Do I look like I’m in the mood to go wandering around?!”

“Something big has happened! I’m on my way over!”

“Hey? Come back and finish what you were saying!” Before I could get the words out, the line had gone dead.

Was he being dramatic again? When I’d come home, all of Wangchuan had still been bathed in sunshine and buzzing with traffic, the people’s livelihoods intact, the housing prices continuing to climb, and the plaza dancing grandmothers’ ranks had grown even larger than when I’d left. What could possibly have happened?

My gaze drifted to the firmly closed front door. But Jiu Jue’s tone hadn’t sounded like a bluff — could it be that outside, the world had truly undergone some change?

In the sky overhead, a grey cloud moved slowly across the sun. The light all around dimmed, gradually, growing darker…