Prologue

The seventh night!

It’s my turn! It’s finally my turn! My heart was roaring with excitement!

“You have to give it your all, my dear! Make full use of all those gossip skills you picked up at Bu Ting! You’ve heard so many stories — find the best one and knock them dead!” Ao Chi was chattering nonstop beside me, pinching at my cheeks and claiming he was helping me relax my muscles. I swatted his hand away.

Tonight’s starlight was the most brilliant of all seven nights — even the heavens were doing me a favor.

I also chose to tell my story outside the tent, and before I began, I set a pot of water to boil over the campfire.

“What’s the water for?” Black Robe Number One asked with a rather scheming look. “Don’t tell me you plan to use boiling water to ruin the Queen’s face if your story fails?”

“At your age, must you be so childish?” I gave him a sidelong glance and pulled a small white porcelain bottle from my bag. “I’ve been eating and sleeping here for free these past few days and feel a little guilty. Regardless of whether our seven stories can move the Queen to show mercy, I should at least express my gratitude — so let me offer everyone something to drink.”

I found the cups and lifted the porcelain bottle, pouring into each one in turn.

Every pair of eyes in the circle fixed on my hands. A deep, unusual silence fell.

In the dry desert air, a faint fragrance drifted up — gentle and misting, soft and moist — tenderly enveloping this peculiar place: a tent, firelight, the warmth of company, and stories, all gathered together in the sand…

1 · Meng Po

The Panpan I’m about to speak of is not the panda from the Asian Games — Panpan is a woman. More precisely, she is a female wandering soul. Year round she lingered on this side of the Bridge of Helplessness, somewhat dazed yet somewhat content, sitting and waiting, chin propped in her hand, watching with earnest eyes each soul that crossed the bridge — male or female — her gaze drifting between wistful longing and quiet disappointment.

She stayed like this for forty years.

Qingshui had been ladling the broth at the bridge for forty-one years. From the day he took the ladle from his father’s hands to the day he finally grew accustomed to the mechanical rhythm of dispensing it, a full year had passed. Becoming a qualified Meng Po is no simple matter — each ladle of broth must be precisely measured, not a drop more, not a drop less. Too much would dull the reincarnating soul into stupidity; too little would fail to erase the memories of the past life, bringing unnecessary suffering into the next. As the one hundred and second heir of the Meng Po lineage, Qingshui devoted himself earnestly to his duty.

Indeed, Meng Po is not a single person but a family — an ancient profession. The reason this family has held its position for countless centuries is that its members are born without emotional glands; in other words, they have no feelings. Even marriage is merely a practical arrangement for producing descendants. And so, they are able to face with perfect equanimity all those weeping souls who beg not to cross the Bridge of Helplessness, who resist the forgetting of those they cherished in this life. Whenever Qingshui encountered such souls — those who wept rivers of tears and swore they would not cross, would not drink the broth — he would simply shake his head, raise his ladle, and give them a light tap on the head. They would immediately cease their crying, drink the broth obediently, and then walk from this end of the bridge toward a new life on the other side.

Qingshui very much disliked tapping them with the ladle, because those who were tapped tended to be rather foolish in their next lives — they would repeat the same mistakes they had been deceived by in this life, never learning their lesson. Like the man who had thrown himself from a building for love, who had clutched Qingshui’s legs, sobbing and insisting he could not forget that woman.

Not drinking was not an option — Qingshui gently tapped him with the ladle. Twenty-five years later, Qingshui encountered this man at the bridge again. He had taken his own life once more, this time by poison. The scene from twenty-five years ago repeated itself, and Qingshui had no choice but to raise the ladle once again. Being bound by love was merely a vicious cycle. Qingshui genuinely hoped that the next time he saw this man, the man would be willing to drink the broth on his own.

Time passed as Qingshui repeated his work, yet he was never lonely — for from the very first year he became Meng Po, he had always had a companion to talk to: the wandering soul called Panpan.

2 · Panpan

“Who are you?” Qingshui asked the young woman who had been sitting on the bluestone beneath the bridge for three days. She always stared in a daze at the souls crossing above, her gaze shifting between wistful longing and quiet disappointment. No one could have known that she would remain there for forty years.

“My name is Panpan, little one.” The young woman briefly shifted her gaze to Qingshui. At that time, though Qingshui was already twenty years old, he appeared no older than a child of ten. Members of the Meng Po family always look half their actual age.

Qingshui could not find the name Panpan anywhere in the registry, which struck him as strange. Every soul who came here drank the broth in the order their name appeared in the registry — no one simply sat at the bridge’s edge watching the scenery, as she did. Besides, there was nothing to observe here except parting and forgetting.

He closed the ledger and glanced at Panpan, and almost by accident caught sight of a wisp of dark energy coiled around her head — moving like a snake, never leaving her side.

The next day, Zhang the Magistrate, Qingshui’s closest friend, came to visit carrying a bag of excellent Biluochun tea. Whenever Zhang the Magistrate traveled to the mortal world on official business, Qingshui would always ask him to bring back some fine tea. Qingshui loved tea, saying that its lingering fragrance was something to be remembered — unlike that ladle of broth, which only made people forget.

After accepting the tea leaves, Qingshui glanced sideways toward Panpan and said to Zhang the Magistrate, “Strange — her name isn’t in my registry.”

“Oh, her?” Zhang the Magistrate’s eyes went wide, and he lowered his voice. “Those above have specially permitted her to linger at the bridge for one hundred years.”

“Why?” Qingshui had never heard of such a precedent.

“She is the most extraordinarily unlucky soul seen in countless ages — not a trace of good fortune in her, inside or out. She truly is a rare curiosity; those above were rather astonished, and so they made an exception and granted her request. Within a hundred years, she may drink the broth and cross the bridge at any time she chooses.”

Qingshui looked at Panpan again. No wonder the dark energy above her head had not dispersed. But such energy was typically only seen on those who had committed great evils in life — yet looking at her round, blankly smiling face, she hardly seemed the type.

“What wrong did you commit?” After becoming her neighbor for a week, Qingshui could no longer help but ask.

Panpan looked up, her clear, black-and-white eyes gazing at him with puzzlement. “Nothing, really… Does stepping on a cockroach count?”

Qingshui sighed, clasped his hands behind his back, and shook his head. “It does not.”

“Ha! Little one, look at you — you look just like a tiny old man.” Panpan suddenly burst out laughing, her round eyes curving into crescent moons, two rows of snow-white, even teeth showing in a carefree grin.

“I am twenty years old — I am the current Meng Po! Would you kindly show a little respect?!” Qingshui pretended to be annoyed. As a Meng Po without emotional glands, he could feel neither love nor hate. Yet for one brief moment, he thought: even if he could feel hate, he probably could not bring himself to dislike her.

Panpan looked at him with great curiosity, leapt to her feet, and darted in front of him with her hands on her hips, leaning down to peer at him, their two faces barely two inches apart. “Twen… ty… years… old?”

“If the heavens had feelings, the heavens too would age — but Meng Po has no feelings, so we age very slowly,” Qingshui said mildly.

“Oh, I see.” Panpan plopped back down, sounding quite unimpressed, propping her chin in her hand and muttering, “Having no feelings sounds so dreadfully dull.”

Qingshui stirred the broth barrel slowly. “Too many feelings are a burden.”

Panpan seemed not to hear him, and turned her head to watch a pair of newly arrived souls approaching from the distance.

3 · Passing Years

Thirty years passed. Qingshui had grown into the appearance of a graceful young man, while Panpan looked exactly as she had on the day they first met — a woman in her early twenties, dark energy still coiling around her head. She had come to treat Qingshui as her closest companion, and Qingshui had finally come to understand what it meant to be a truly five-star unlucky soul. Even when Panpan did nothing — simply sitting obediently on the bluestone — misfortune still found her. A blacksmith’s soul, stumbling on the bridge, had accidentally flung his tools, and they ricocheted off the ground to flatten Panpan’s foot. Then there was the acrobat’s soul, who attempted to reprise his knife-throwing act before crossing the bridge. A trick he had never once failed in decades of performance — two knives flew through the air, one landing squarely on Panpan’s head, the other finding a home in her chest. And she had been standing the farthest from the spectators. As for tumbling head over heels or falling into the river — those happened more times than anyone could count. Qingshui marveled that if Panpan had been a living person, a hundred lives would not have been enough for her.

“How did she die?” One day, after Qingshui had seen off the last soul of the day, he asked casually.

“A car accident,” said Panpan, toying with a small pebble in her hand.

“Why wait at the bridge for a hundred years?” This was what Qingshui most wanted to know.

The pebble stilled in Panpan’s hands. For a brief moment, her eyes held a flicker of bewilderment. “I’m waiting for someone,” she said, gazing at the empty bridge. She had the look of someone sinking into a sweet dream. “I never had the chance to make a promise with him, so I have to wait here for him to come.”

“You’re very patient,” Qingshui said with a small smile, stacking the empty broth barrels to one side.

“Qingshui, have you ever missed someone?”

“Never,” Qingshui answered without hesitation, shaking his head. “I’ve told you before — Meng Po has no feelings. And without feelings, where would longing come from?”

“Oh.” Panpan nodded, half-understanding, half-puzzled. “Keeping it all bottled up for so long can’t be good — you’ll develop problems.”

Qingshui thought to himself: if he were an ordinary person, she probably would have driven him to his grave by now. Having no feelings means having no feelings — only someone like her could assume that everyone in the world was bursting with emotion, and that anyone who claimed to feel nothing was simply pretending, merely suppressing it. This girl — she was truly exasperating in the most inexplicable way.

4 · Fate

One day, as Qingshui was walking home to fetch ingredients for the broth, he ran into two familiar figures on the road — Old Bull and Old Horse — escorting a hunched elderly woman in the direction of Purgatory.

“Has she committed a very serious crime?” Qingshui noticed the heavy iron chains wrapped around her neck — treatment reserved only for the most severe offenders.

“She ran a divination shop called ‘Fate,’ using dark arts to do all manner of harm,” Old Bull said, his voice booming as always, though as always, never quite getting to the point. Old Horse picked up where he left off: “She taught people how to trade their own luck and profited from it. Isn’t that just another way of murdering people?”

Qingshui understood. A person whose luck had been tampered with might walk beneath an ordinary high-rise building and be killed for no reason by a flowerpot falling from a window above.

The sound of chains grew fainter and fainter. Qingshui made his way back with the broth ingredients, and without meaning to, his thoughts drifted to Panpan — that five-star soul of misfortune.

5 · Sanchi

Panpan watched Sanchi’s furrowed, despondent face, her heart aching with genuine sympathy.

Sanchi had been her boyfriend for over two years. In his own words, he was a man whose luck had completely run out. Panpan, however, did not believe in such a thing as luck — she believed only in the idea that where there is a will, there is a way. And so, no matter how many times Sanchi was turned down for jobs, no matter how many times his money was pickpocketed on the bus, Panpan always smiled and pulled him into a hug, telling him not to mind — losing a little money fends off greater disaster, and work would come eventually.

Sanchi did not see it that way. Failure after failure had ground down his confidence and his spirit. Whenever he rambled drunkenly, then slumped over clutching his bottle and fell asleep, Panpan would quietly cry — she ached for him. She knew Sanchi had tried his best, yet reality was exactly as he described: whenever something good was about to happen, it would vanish inexplicably, as if into thin air.

For instance, he had once secured a very good position, but on the very first day of work he was caught in a traffic jam. By the time he sprinted to the office, his supervisor greeted him with: “This company does not welcome employees who are late on their first day.” Such things had happened far too many times. Panpan would occasionally wonder: does luck actually exist as something real?

On this particular day, she came out of the bank, stared at the dwindling numbers in her account book, and thought about whether she should take on another part-time job — she would need to support both of them until Sanchi found work.

As she passed a certain alley, just before she reached the entrance, she caught the scent of sandalwood incense, and heard a strange, ethereal melody drifting through the air. She turned to look. An unremarkable little shop, hung with a worn and faded sign: Fate Divination Parlor. As if pulled by some invisible hand, Panpan lifted the curtain and stepped inside.

The woman seated behind a small round black table appeared to be in her thirties or forties, cosmetics layered into a reasonably attractive face. She smiled at Panpan and asked what she needed help with. A deck of cards shuffled deftly in the woman’s hands, rustling softly.

“I want my boyfriend to have good luck,” Panpan said, the words leaving her mouth without a moment’s thought.

“No problem.” The woman laughed warmly, warmth concealing something faintly sinister. She took Panpan’s right hand and studied it for a long moment, then looked up with an expression of wonder. “After the age of thirty, your luck will be tremendously good — happiness to last you through old age.”

“Right now, I only want my boyfriend to stop having bad luck.” Panpan drew her hand back; Sanchi was all she cared about.

The woman drew a card from the deck and played with it between her fingers. “Do you truly want him to be fortunate?”

“Yes!” Panpan suddenly felt a glimmer of hope.

The woman rose, opened a walnut cabinet behind her, and took out a bracelet of strung black stones, placing it on the table in front of Panpan. “Wear this bracelet on your wrist for three days, then give it to your boyfriend and tell him never to take it off.” The woman’s fingers trailed over the smooth, glossy stones. “That’s all there is to it. But you should know — once you give the bracelet to your boyfriend, all of your luck will go to him.”

Panpan picked up the bracelet, half-believing, half-doubtful, then asked one last question: “How much will this cost?”

The woman shook her head. “It’s free. I’ll only take a tiny bit of your good luck.” She smiled with cunning playfulness. “Don’t worry — what I take is only a tiny amount.”

Perhaps she’s just a fraud, Panpan thought to herself. But three days later, a gleaming bracelet of black stones had found its way onto Sanchi’s wrist.

6 · Heartbreak

A text message arrived from Sanchi saying he would be returning next week. Panpan gripped her phone and jumped for joy.

Sanchi had been in Shenzhen for two years already. The very second week after he put on the black stone bracelet, he had landed a manager’s position at the local branch of a multinational corporation — but the moment he took the post, he was assigned to Shenzhen. Before he left, Sanchi made a promise to Panpan: once he had worked hard enough out there and saved enough money, he would come back and open a small company, and then he would marry her. Panpan held him close and blinked back her tears, telling him to go and work in peace — she would wait here for him, wait for the happy life she had always hoped for. But what made her happiest of all was not any of this — it was seeing the look of genuine confidence that had returned to Sanchi’s face, a radiance that shone from within, utterly transformed from who he once was.

Sanchi left. At first he never forgot to call and check in with warm, caring words. But as time went on, he always said he was busy, and the calls grew further and further apart. Panpan was afraid of bothering him, so she rarely called — yet her phone remained on for him twenty-four hours a day, as she quietly endured the ache of longing through the sleepless nights.

And during the time he was away, Panpan’s misfortune was truly without equal. Objects thrown carelessly from high above seemed to find her without any reason; the number of times she ended up in the hospital for external injuries or food poisoning was beyond counting. But she always rallied herself, kept telling herself: when Sanchi comes back, everything will be better.

Two years of waiting. Two years of quiet torment. And finally, he was coming back. He still remembered his promise.

Panpan was as happy as a butterfly. She put on a new dress and set off in high spirits for the meeting place — the designated restaurant called Shooting Star.

Standing on that unremarkable street, all her thoughts were on Sanchi — had he gotten darker? Had he gotten thinner? She waited patiently for the green light, then stepped carefully onto the crosswalk.

Around the bend, a battered old van suddenly came tearing forward, charging wildly in her direction. What beckoned to Panpan was not the future — it was death.

A blue sky. Splashing red. And a circle of human faces slowly pressing inward — this was the last scene Panpan ever saw in this world.

7 · A Beautiful Mistake

“Killed by a car while crossing on a green light — you certainly are unlucky enough.” Qingshui finished another day’s work, sat down beside Panpan, and chatted idly with her.

Panpan grinned widely. “Being able to wait for him here is already a great consolation.”

“But even if you waited and he finally came — what would you say to him?” Qingshui gazed at the bridge, where a thin mist had begun to rise, a haze of bewilderment stirring in his eyes.

Panpan looked at his profile — at this Meng Po who had now grown into the appearance of a twenty-year-old — and laughed softly. “I just want to drink the broth and cross the bridge together with him. I think if we do it that way, we might still find each other in the next life.”

That was impossible, of course. Those who drank the broth were destined to become strangers in their next lives. Yet Qingshui changed the truth into: “Mmm. Perhaps. As long as two people love each other deeply enough.”

She only wants to fulfill a wish, he thought — what would be the point of shattering it? That was what Qingshui told himself.

Panpan hooked her arm through his, leaned her head intimately against his ever-broadening shoulder, and smiled with a brilliance that lit up her whole face. To her, Qingshui was her only friend in this place — and her only family. Two figures leaning against each other, no setting sun in sight, yet warmth all the same.

A week later, as Qingshui walked the familiar road home to fetch the broth ingredients, he heard from a great distance away the heavy, grating clank of iron chains. Old Bull and Old Horse were escorting another severe offender toward Purgatory — this time an elderly man who appeared to be in his sixties or seventies, immaculately dressed. “Off to Purgatory again?” Qingshui observed the man, who had the look of someone quite well-to-do.

“Now here’s a rare one!” Old Bull’s voice was as booming as ever, as indignant as ever. “We should have caught him thirty years ago, but somehow his luck was so extraordinary that he escaped death every time. Finally got him in the end, though.”

“Really?” Qingshui knew they rarely failed in their duties. “What did he do?”

Old Horse cast a look of contempt at the old man. “When he was young, he wanted to marry a wealthy woman, but was afraid his girlfriend would become a problem for him — so he paid two hundred thousand to have someone ram her with a vehicle and kill her. The job was clean; the authorities never found any leads. After that, he went on to enjoy a smooth and comfortable life, eventually even building up a rather famous company called Sanchi Enterprises.” He shook his head. “I just can’t figure out where a creature like that got such extraordinary luck.”

Qingshui laughed, a cold, quiet sound. “Perhaps that luck was never meant to be his in the first place.”

Sanchi Enterprises… Qingshui watched the old man’s back growing smaller in the distance, his expression growing heavy.

8 · Drinking the Broth

Panpan had not seen Qingshui for three days.

The stand-in Meng Po was a girl of about fourteen or fifteen, apple-cheeked and dressed in a white garment printed with small red flowers. She said her name was Tang Ni and that she was Qingshui’s younger cousin — Qingshui had gone to the mortal world on family business.

Unlike her cousin’s quiet manner, Tang Ni chattered like a parrot. With her around, Panpan was not lonely — though the absence of a familiar face left her feeling a little out of sorts.

The sound of footsteps approached from behind. Panpan turned — and froze.

Zhang the Magistrate was leading a young man directly toward Panpan.

“Sanchi!”

Forty years of suppressed longing, wound a thousand times around her heart, dissolved into a single soft cry and eyes brimming with tears. Panpan threw herself into Sanchi’s arms.

“Is it you? Is it really you?” she sobbed against his shoulder, memories of everything that had been surging back like a tide.

“It’s me.” Sanchi smiled gently, cupped her face in his hands, hesitated for just a moment, and kissed her.

“I finally waited for you!” Panpan laughed and cried at the same time, helplessly dabbing at her tears, and said: “Let’s drink the Meng Po broth together, and cross the bridge together. That way, maybe in the next life we can still find each other. Even Qingshui said — as long as two people love each other deeply, there’s still a chance they’ll find each other again even after drinking the broth!”

Sanchi gazed into her eyes and nodded. “Mmm. We couldn’t be together properly in this life. In the next, I will definitely come and find you again. Let’s make a promise — in the next life, we will both live happily, and even if we grow into an old man and an old woman, I will hold your hand to cross the road. I will never let you get hit again.”

“Pinky swear!” Panpan stretched out her little finger toward him, happiness flickering like light in the tears on her face. Two little fingers wrapped tightly around each other, binding a solemn promise.

Sanchi took her hand and walked with her to stand before Tang Ni. Looking at the small bowl Tang Ni held out — that pool of broth swaying gently inside it, clear and luminous yet somehow impossible to see the bottom of — Panpan felt a sudden shiver of fear.

“Drink it,” Sanchi said softly, smoothing her hair.

“What about you?” Panpan noticed Tang Ni had not ladled a second bowl.

“Those above have specially granted him permission not to drink,” Zhang the Magistrate said, stepping forward, his tone grave. “Because of all the good he did during his lifetime, they have agreed to his request.”

Panpan looked at Sanchi in wonder. “Why?”

“So that our reunion in the next life won’t be just a ‘perhaps.'” He held her hand, steady certainty floating behind the gentleness in his gaze. “I will find you — I promise.”

Panpan stood in a daze for a long moment, then broke into a tearful smile. She accepted the bowl and said to Tang Ni: “Please tell your cousin goodbye for me. And thank you.”

“I will,” Tang Ni said, thumping her chest earnestly.

In the very moment Panpan raised the bowl, Sanchi suddenly clasped her hand. She looked at him, puzzled.

“Have you ever resented me?” he asked her, utterly serious. “You did so much for me, and I was never able to give you anything in return.”

“The only thing I resented was not having enough time to be with you,” Panpan answered, without a single moment of hesitation.

A single tear fell slowly from Sanchi’s eye — clearer than crystal. He touched it with his forefinger and gently pressed it to the center of Panpan’s brow. In that instant, the dark energy that had coiled above her head for forty years dissolved into nothing, like smoke in the wind.

“What are you doing?” Panpan thought he was overcome with grief. “Silly — why are you crying? We’ll have a whole lifetime together soon!”

“Mmm, go on,” Sanchi said, and kissed her brow once more.

She held his gaze one last time. Then Panpan tilted her head back and let the liquid — cool-warm and bitter, bitter and then sharp, sharp and then edged with sour sweetness — slide slowly down her throat. Only now did she understand what a strange taste the Meng Po broth had. But there was something strangely familiar about it, like something half-remembered.

The taste of a human life — it was something like this.

Panpan’s awareness slowly emptied, until only a gentle voice remained, saying to her: go forward, go forward…

When Panpan’s figure disappeared at the far end of the bridge, Sanchi stood motionless, staring at the place where she had vanished. A wisp of pale smoke rose from beneath his feet, and when it scattered, the only one standing in that spot was Qingshui, wearing an expression of quiet peace.

“She didn’t even think twice — it’s been forty years, after all. How could he possibly still look like a young man?” He shook his head, dropped his eyes, and smiled. “You hopeless, trusting little fool. With no one to protect you, heaven only knows how many more times you’d be taken advantage of.”

“Brother — you’re crying?” Zhang the Magistrate stared at Qingshui in astonishment.

“Cousin… you…” Tang Ni was not merely surprised — she seemed genuinely shaken by what she was seeing.

Qingshui slowly turned to face them, and offered them a smile of release —

“I think I no longer have the right to serve as Meng Po.”

9

I leaned back lazily in a comfortable bamboo chair, regarding the man across from me who had spent the entire afternoon telling me stories.

“Was my story too dull?” He lifted an elegant teacup, blew lightly to part a few bright green tea leaves, and narrowed his eyes pleasantly.

“It’s worth enough to get me some spending money!” I laughed.

“Heh — I do admire the way of life you lead, little demon,” the man said with refined ease, taking a delicate sip of tea.

“You admire my idle wandering?” I laughed again. As a tree spirit who spent years drifting through the mortal world, listening to people’s stories and writing them into novels to earn a little pocket money, no one had ever described my lifestyle with the word ‘admire’ before.

“I admire your freedom — no ties, no attachments,” the man said, setting down his teacup and turning his head sideways to watch the afternoon sun streaming through the window. He stretched out his hand and let the light fall in lovely patterns across his palm.

“What makes you think I have no ties or attachments?!” I kept the smile on my face, but a pang of wistfulness moved through me. “I’ve been looking for someone this whole time — or rather, waiting for someone.”

“Is that so.” He turned back to me, revealing a captivating smile. “Then please accept my blessing.”

Before I could even say thank you, a small figure came fluttering through the main door like a butterfly. A little girl, perhaps six or seven years old, burrowed affectionately into his arms, then in the same breath tugged off her school bag, pulled out a sheet of drawing paper, and held it up excitedly in front of him, her round eyes curving into crescent moons, bursting with self-satisfaction: “We had art class today, and the teacher told us to draw the person we love most. I drew you, and I got a perfect score!”

“Wonderful!” He praised her with a warmth full of gentle adoration, lifted her onto his knee to sit comfortably, and said to me: “My adopted daughter. Her name is Panpan.”

I looked carefully at the adorable little girl across the way, who was smiling at me and showing all her teeth. On the tender skin between her brows, faint and barely visible, was a small reddish mark — shaped, unmistakably, like a teardrop.

As the last sliver of golden light lingered at the edge of the sky, I took my leave from that place where I had spent such a pleasant afternoon.

I walked a few steps, then turned back. Above the large door I had just passed through, a plaque hung squarely in its frame, bearing four characters:

Qingshui Tea House.

Epilogue

The story was finished. The tea was ready.

In the cups set before the Black Robes, pale green tea shimmered — not hot, not cold, just right.

“Please,” I said, lifting my own cup.

The Black Robes seemed reluctant, raising their cups slowly, as though it took considerable courage to bring them to their lips for even a single sip.

No need to guess — everyone who tasted the tea had only one word to say: “It’s so bitter!”

“This is fine tea — first bitter, then sweet,” I said, taking a sip. “I was actually planning to save some for the great Queen herself!”

Ao Chi looked left and right. Apart from the starlight blinking and the wind moving over the sand, there was not the slightest stir in the surrounding darkness. Not a trace of any so-called Queen.

“Oh dear! Could it be Her Majesty feels our seven stories weren’t impressive enough?” I jumped to my feet, stomping with a show of anxiety.

Black Robe Number One quickly set down his still-half-full teacup and said, “We’d better make a run for it! The Queen is angry, and the consequences will be extremely violent!”

“Run?” I let out a deep sigh. “Someone like me — no matter where I run, I can’t escape being haunted by resentful souls.”

With that, I murmured a spell and summoned a gale of extraordinary force with a casual wave of my hand, stripping the disguises from all six Black Robes in a single sweep.

Six black robes flew skyward, dissolving into a flurry of dark feathers that drifted and swirled until they vanished into the air.

Beside the campfire, there was only a scene of magnificent dishevelment: Jiu Jue clutching his windswept hair and wailing in protest; Xuan the black cat and A’Tou the fox both lying flat on their backs, legs in the air, only managing to flip over and scramble upright after a long moment; A’Liao — whom I had always considered the most honest and sweet-natured of them all — was clinging desperately to Gu Wuming’s waist, terrified of being blown away by the gale; and the only one sitting perfectly composed in her original spot was, of course, my dearest old friend, the current King of the Underworld, Zhong Xu — six Black Robes, every single one accounted for.

I sat back down with a smile and sipped my tea. “I’m prepared to accept any explanation you’d like to offer.”

“Did you lot of fools really think that throwing on a black crow-feather robe — those things that only temporarily mask your true appearance and your demonic energy — would be enough to fool the two of us?” Ao Chi roared with laughter, arms akimbo. “If the Dragon Clan of the Eastern Sea has such poor eyesight, it would be quite beneath our dignity!”

I quietly tugged at his sleeve. “It was me who spotted the flaw first and tipped you off!” I muttered under my breath.

“Can we sort that part out in private?” Ao Chi crouched down and hissed fiercely into my ear.

Zhong Xu dusted the sand from herself and was the first to speak. “For something as significant as a wedding, leaving behind a single note and running off — that attitude is truly unforgivable.”

“Well — we didn’t want to put anyone to any trouble!” I explained. “Think about it: banquets and ceremonies are exhausting and tedious for everyone involved. Isn’t it better to simply travel for the wedding instead? We even saved you all the trouble of giving red envelopes!”

“Saved us our red envelopes, my foot!” Jiu Jue leapt up and jabbed his finger toward Ao Chi’s nose. “This scoundrel — the very next day after running off — sent a bank account number by text message to every single one of us, saying red envelope funds could be transferred directly, the more the better, and all would be gratefully received!”

“Is that true?” I glared at Ao Chi.

Ao Chi turned his gaze skyward. “Isn’t that exactly what you were thinking too? Your husband knows you by heart — he handled it without you even needing to say a word, took care of everything smoothly and properly.”

“You—” I burned with indignation, grabbing hold of his ear. “Are you sure you notified everyone on our list? The account number, I mean.”

“When I handle things, you can rest easy!” Ao Chi thumped his chest.

“Truly a perfect match,” Gu Wuming said, shaking his head firmly, that entirely white skeleton of his rattling with the motion, looking particularly striking against the night.

“This trip wasn’t wasted after all — I’ve seen their true nature completely now,” Xuan said, licking a paw.

“No objections.” A’Tou sneezed.

“Hey, don’t be like that about them — didn’t we come to deliver wedding gifts?” Still A’Liao, most honest and kind-hearted as ever, came over to my side, tugged at my hand, and said, “Madam Boss, don’t be upset. This was actually something we all planned together. The ‘Yiluo Queen’ — we made her up entirely, fabricated from half of your name. You and Ao Chi came together through such a long and difficult journey. We were determined to give you the most surprising, most unforgettable, most precious wedding gift we could.”

“You’re giving me stories as a wedding gift?!” I raised an eyebrow.

“What could be better?” Zhong Xu dropped her cool composure and laughed aloud. “I even dug out the story of my own honeymoon with my husband to give you — no one else gets that kind of treatment.”

“Exactly — for old demons like us, being able to remember a single complete story is no small feat!” Jiu Jue pursed his lips. “Especially for me, who has walked through so many museums — it’s very easy to mix up the details!”

Xuan raised her head to look at me. “The night spirit’s story — I traded two fish for it from someone of my own kind! That fat cat told half the story, then refused to finish until I paid in fish!”

“None of it was easy,” A’Tou the fox said, blinking his round eyes. “I was so caught up listening to that bee tell its story that I didn’t even get to eat lunch — I lost a whole pound for nothing!”

“The two of you are being so dramatic!” Gu Wuming gave a cold sniff. “Could either of you compare to A’Liao and me? We didn’t have any story of our own to tell, so we had to go searching through magazines and memorize stories from them — and we made sure to pick stories with tree spirits in them, just hoping the Madam Boss might enjoy them. Do you know how hard we worked to memorize all of that? Especially A’Liao — she can’t even read! I had to teach her word by word!”

After hearing this whole clamorous account, both Ao Chi and I were struck momentarily speechless.

“You could abandon us and run off — but we couldn’t let you go without sending each of our own gifts,” Zhong Xu said with a smile. “Occasions like this, where we can all gather together like this, don’t come often. The wedding gift may be a little unconventional, but it is entirely without harm.”

The laughter outside the tent grew louder.

I looked at this ridiculous bunch of them, and thought back over the past year — all the threads of fate that had tied me to each of them, all the heart-stopping, breathless adventures we had shared. Then I looked at this desert night, sky thick with stars, quiet and beautiful, and felt a warmth in my chest that words could not reach. Even those dim-witted camels, in that moment, seemed unexpectedly dear.

Seven stories about love — given by them, and by myself, as the finest gift to this marriage.

Perhaps every one of these stories held some kind of regret. But as long as the person listening carries it in her heart, then from within every regret, a flower of happiness can be born again.

As long as we are alive. As long as we still believe in hope. As long as we are willing to keep moving forward — we will always find our way to a better road.

This is what I know from my own experience.

Seven nights in the desert were drawing to a close, and already I could see the first thread of dawn brightening at the edge of the sky.

As this bizarre company of friends bid us farewell, I embraced each of them in turn — even Gu Wuming, whose bones dug uncomfortably into me.

“How did you figure out it was us?” A’Liao asked as she was leaving, blinking her wide, innocent eyes. “The black crow-feather robes are the most useful disguise tool in the demon world! Even Xuan and A’Tou, who aren’t in human form, managed to look different!”

I pointed at Jiu Jue. “That one has been losing hair this past year. On the very first day I arrived, I spotted a strand of it on his robe — and that particular color of hair, well. You know.”

“Ugh! I told him ages ago to switch to a different shampoo!” A’Liao shook her head, full of heartfelt dismay.

“When will you be coming back?” Zhong Xu asked.

“Not certain — once I’ve gone everywhere I want to go, I’ll naturally find my way back,” I said with a smile.

Jiu Jue clapped Ao Chi on the shoulder. “I’m leaving this woman in your hands! Completely in your hands! From now on, your one and only job is to make sure no one bullies her.”

Ao Chi said quietly: “Don’t worry — whoever dares bully her, I will never let them get away with it! And if she bullies any of you, I’ll help her bully you too!”

Jiu Jue pointed at his nose, lost for words, and had no choice but to toss his lake-blue hair and walk away in offended dignity.

“Hey, hey!” Ao Chi called out to him, in a voice that everyone present could hear: “If she loves you all, I’ll help her love you all too!”

Everyone suppressed their laughter and said in unison: “Who needs your love!”

“You—!”

I shook my head and hurried over to drag this disgrace of a husband away.

Beside the golden sand dunes, they turned left, we turned right — and that was our parting.

My honeymoon journey was still continuing. Where the next destination would be, I had no idea — after all, we were still lost. But it didn’t matter. Keep moving forward, and you’ll find your way.

Ao Chi, though, had not improved much in the least. The entire way, he was still insufferably noisy.

“Those stories about the tree spirit — how do you explain those?”

“I wrote them for the magazine while I was wandering around, of course.”

“How come you never once mentioned having that experience to me?”

“You were absent from my life for twenty years. I was searching for you everywhere — I still had to work to earn travel money! And now you’re complaining about it?”

“And that… that Qingshui — was he handsome?”

“Ten points more handsome than you.”

“You—! Tell me honestly: did you ever go back to the Qingshui Tea House after that?”

“Why should I tell you!”

“You’re a married woman now! Any inappropriate entanglements must be decisively cut off!”

“I’ll cut off your tongue first!”

Brighter and brighter sunlight poured across the whole of the Sahara, illuminating every footprint we left behind upon it.

The camels ran joyfully through the desert. I ran ahead; Ao Chi chased after me, shouting all the while that no matter what, he absolutely could not lose this camel race.

And I, bouncing along on the camel’s back, was already thinking ahead: when the honeymoon journey was over, I would return to Wang Chuan and open my little shop again. The shop’s name would still be Bu Ting — but it certainly would not be a dessert shop this time. What kind of business would be good? An inn, perhaps?

I’d think about it more later. There was still so much time, and the road was still so long. When the new shop eventually opened, I would make sure to notify everyone immediately — red envelopes and gifts, please don’t hold back, throw them at me with everything you’ve got! That’s all for now — I’m sorry, but Ao Chi’s camel is catching up, and if I don’t pick up the pace, the one washing dishes for the next hundred years will be me! Farewell!

(End of “Fu Sheng Wu Yu: Supplementary Tale · Seven Nights”)