A sudden rainstorm fell in the night.

The sound of water clamored between heaven and earth. Raindrops leaped chaotically among the roof tiles, gathering at the eaves into a broken string of pearls falling down.

On the rocking chair beneath the eaves, Song Qianji closed his eyes, listening to the courtyard’s flowers and grass drinking their fill, enjoying this rare moment of solitude.

He was a tree now. The plants of Song Courtyard had already accepted him as one of their own kind. If he wished, he could control the growth of every vine, the blooming of every flower, the water absorption of every root system—but he had no desire to command or control them.

Whenever all sounds fell silent, this place filled with noises only he could hear, and a feeling of contentment and joy would rise up naturally within him.

Taking on a different identity, perceiving this brand new world from another angle—he had truly gained much from it.

An old cat hiding from the rain tried to nestle close, but the moment it raised its front paw, it passed straight through his body.

“Don’t you know that’s rather impolite?” Song Qianji said, somewhat helpless.

The old cat meowed in confusion—why could it see this person yet not touch him, like the moon in its own water bowl?

Even without a physical body for now, unable to personally till the soil, Song Qianji still liked staying in the fields, watching people work. During the day he had to trouble others to hold an umbrella for him; at night things were much simpler.

In the third year since his return to the mortal world, his soul had nourished itself strong enough that after midnight he could bask in moonlight, walk freely, and touch inanimate objects.

Not long after, the night rain ceased. The post-rain moonlight was clear and bright, illuminating the sky and earth with silver light.

The flowers and grass of Song Courtyard, having drunk and eaten their fill, stretched their bodies beneath the moon, shaking out their branches.

Meng Hezhe was skilled at growing vegetables, Wei Zhenyu skilled at cultivating flowers and grass, Ji Chen skilled at tending low shrubs and vines—but what Song Qianji had recently been watching most was a single wildflower. Some bird, on some unknown day, must have dropped a seed into the flowerbed, and it had inexplicably grown in the corner of the wall, unplanted and untended by anyone, stubbornly sprouting and putting out branches.

By the time it bloomed, it turned out to be a jade-green peony, its petals full and its blossom gorgeous, like a beauty in jade-green skirts, standing aloof from the world.

Tonight’s spring rain had not battered the tender peony to pieces; instead it bloomed even more magnificently, more dazzlingly beautiful.

Song Qianji rose from the rocking chair, wanting to walk closer and look carefully, but suddenly stopped.

He heard the faint, ethereal sound of a zither carried on the spring breeze.

The melody was simple and unhurried, not a sorrowful or mournful sound, yet it revealed the hidden worries of whoever was playing—as if sighing over fallen blossoms drifting with the water after the rain.

Song Qianji looked up. The spring night was neither cold nor hot, the moonlight so beautiful—why would someone playing zither to the moon be sighing?

Suddenly he heard singing accompanying the zither: “Good flowers must be bought, the bright moon must be borrowed on credit, life’s greatest bitterness, I think, is parting…”*

The voice was thin and delicate, its tone light and flirtatious, lingering and tender, like a heartbroken woman’s mournful complaint.

Song Qianji walked toward the courtyard gate, picked up the white umbrella painted with golden wheat stalks leaning by the door, and opened it with a snap.

Pushing open the door and stepping out, the alley behind Song Courtyard was like flowing water under the moonlight.

Beneath the umbrella, his soul was no longer a translucent phantom. If untouched, he looked no different from an ordinary person.

Traveling out at night, he always carried a soul-manifesting artifact, to avoid frightening passersby.

After the rain, insects chirped urgently, a light breeze blew gently. The night was tranquil, with a few lamps lit here and there, everything peaceful.

Song Qianji walked alone under his umbrella, seeking the source of the singing and zither music.

By the time he passed the uneven courtyard walls and crossed a small bridge over murmuring water, he finally heard the lyrics clearly.

But the singing lightly cut off, then changed into a low, faintly hoarse male voice: “Gazing from the storied tower, spring mountains layered upon layered, where is home? Blocked by mist and waves. On the pillow one urges return, but return is hard to attain…”*

Like a traveler far from home, climbing a tower to gaze toward his hometown, striking the railing as he sang out loud.

Song Qianji quickened his pace, entering an abandoned garden.

The singing abruptly stopped.

He saw only flowering trees standing silent all around, and a young girl with twin buns sitting alone in a pavilion, playing the zither.

“Forgive the intrusion, young lady—the person who was just singing, which way did they go?”

The girl was still lost in the song, plucking the strings unconsciously, and only looked up with a start upon hearing his voice:

“Ah, you, you are…”

Zhu Xin hastily stood up, straightening her hairpins and clothes, unable to resist looking the newcomer over.

That person wore white robes and held a white umbrella, his expression gentle, nothing like the legends said—more like a scholar who had lost his way at midnight.

She held her zither and bowed: “Divine King Song!”

Song Qianji still wanted to ask about the singer’s whereabouts, but suddenly his gaze fixed: “Miss, this zither of yours…”

The body of the zither was soft and lovely, its seven strings gently swaying, rippling like blue-green waves.

Layer upon layer of ripples splashed up fragmented images, flashing before his eyes.

“This isn’t my zither. I don’t play it well, I’m ashamed to say.”

This wasn’t Zhu Xin’s first time at Qianqu. Her elder brother Zhu Ping served as an academic official here, and had arranged this small courtyard for her, once hoping she would settle here for a long time.

After the great battle, the cultivators of the Immortal Alliance scattered like startled birds. The mountain gate of the Sect of Immortal Sound closed, its disciples dispersed.

“I only gave you a zither, I never said you were sect leader. That mess of the Sect of Immortal Sound isn’t yours to manage!” Zhu Ping had once urged Zhu Xin.

Zhu Xin had never agreed, and had gone off alone with her zither.

She left this small courtyard untended for years, its plants growing wild, looking like an abandoned garden.

“What’s your name?” Song Qianji gestured for her to sit.

“I’m Zhu Xin, a disciple of the Sect of Immortal Sound.”

She still called herself a disciple of the Sect of Immortal Sound.

In the tenth year after the great battle’s end, more and more sound cultivators were willing to once again call themselves disciples of the Sect of Immortal Sound.

They traveled across the continent, healing the wounded with zither music, dispelling grief, and composing new songs from what they saw and felt.

The Sect of Immortal Sound still existed—only no longer on some proud, icy immortal mountain.

Song Qianji paused slightly, lifted the hem of his robe, and sat across from Zhu Xin.

This person was playing He Qingqing’s zither, but her fingering technique was Miao Yan’s own invention.

The “Two Beauties of Immortal Sound,” two generations of bitter rivalry, hatred deep as the sea—yet after one was gone, they had taught the same disciple.

“You play quite well. Why belittle yourself?” Song Qianji said gently.

“You think I play well?!” Zhu Xin was astonished, her eyes lighting up.

“Mm.” Song Qianji nodded.

His posture was so relaxed that Zhu Xin, watching him, felt as though she were sitting in the shade of a great tree, and couldn’t help relaxing herself.

“I know you’re just comforting me.” The girl propped her cheek on one hand and sighed. “Senior Sister Miao Yan was already called the ‘First Beauty of the Cultivation World’ at my age. And me? I’m still fooling around with a few junior sisters.”

Song Qianji said nothing, quietly listening to her tell of these years of wandering the four seas.

“I’m really too, too stupid. Compared to a true zither prodigy, no matter how hard I try it’s never enough. If Eldest Senior Sister were still here…” Zhu Xin suddenly realized her slip, letting out a soft “ah.”

He Qingqing was a name one could not mention.

After the great battle, people cursed this person who had nearly destroyed the world with the most vicious language. Strangely, it was the cultivators who had once joined the Immortal Alliance who cursed the most.

“Never trust any divine medicine that causes a surge in cultivation; never consume the sap of the Sky-Bearing Tree.”

These two death-edicts had been carved into the deepest parts of every cultivator’s soul, passed down to later generations.

People hated He Qingqing, and feared her too. Afraid she had survived some great calamity, afraid she would return—so the warning bells rang eternally.

The girl cautiously studied Song Qianji, and seeing his expression remain unchanged, finally spoke: “This Lüyi Terrace zither—is it…”

“Indeed, I gave it to her,” Song Qianji said, lowering his eyes.

On this bright moonlit night, the spring breeze rolled up petals of peach blossom, scattering them onto the zither.

Whether you are a solitary ruler above the heavens beyond heavens, or a king whom all hearts turn to, no one can have everything perfect, everything complete.

Zhu Xin felt inexplicably that the great tree above her head was also about to shed its leaves—and in this moment, she actually wanted to comfort him.

She reached out her hand to pat Song Qianji’s shoulder, just as she would comfort her junior sisters.

“Ah!” The girl’s slender fingers passed straight through the phantom. “Sorry, I’m sorry!”

“It’s fine, I startled you,” Song Qianji said.

“You must feel sad too, don’t you?” Zhu Xin withdrew her hand, saying softly, “Able to save the world, yet unable to save yourself. Looking like this now…”

Not even possessing a physical body.

She had played zither for many cultivators who had failed breakthroughs or fallen in cultivation level after injury—every one of them had been in unbearable pain, longing for the past.

Mortals find it hard to go from luxury to austerity; cultivators are the same. Having tasted strength, who could accept weakness?

Song Qianji had once been the strongest under heaven. Could he endure such a fall?

The more she thought about it, the sadder she grew, grief rising unbidden in her heart: “I don’t understand—is there truly no fairness in this world?”

Song Qianji’s heart gave a start—based on his years of experience, this expression was a sign of imminent tears.

He hastily explained: “This state I’m in now—isn’t it a kind of fairness in itself?”

It turned out that even as a tree, he still feared a person’s tears.

“You’re lying to me!” Zhu Xin didn’t believe him.

Song Qianji sighed: “Miss Zhu, not to mention that I’m a wandering soul—even if I bore fruit and grew a physical body, I still wouldn’t gain especially strong cultivation.”

“Why not?!” Zhu Xin jumped up. “If you just relied on the power of the Sky-Bearing Tree, how hard could it be to return to being the strongest under heaven?”

Song Qianji smiled and shook his head: “Have you ever seen a flower that never wilts, a cloud that never disperses? As the saying goes, ‘all things carry yin and embrace yang, blending their vital energies into harmony’—the way of heaven and earth lies in balance. If someone could support heaven and earth, standing near godhood, moving freely through the mortal world, capable of anything—would such unbound power really be a good thing? Should it even exist?”

Zhu Xin thought it over, then said quietly, “But I believe in you. Everyone believes in you.”

Song Qianji laughed: “I’m just a rootless wandering cultivator who once clawed his way up by any means necessary—I don’t even believe in myself. If this world could let people farm in peace, what use would I have for a sword?”

Zhu Xin suddenly understood.

So he wasn’t enduring weakness—he had never wanted to be the strongest under heaven in the first place.

He only wished to turn swords into plowshares, so the world would know no war.

Song Qianji didn’t know what she’d imagined this time; he only knew it was getting late, and he should go back to look after the flowers and grass:

“I should get going.”

Zhu Xin summoned her courage and picked up the Lüyi Terrace zither: “You taught Senior Sister Qingqing the art of ‘wind and snow entering formation,’ and taught Senior Sister Miao Yan ‘flowers and moon falling with clouds’—what will you teach me?”

Song Qianji shook his head: “There’s nothing I can teach you.”

“…My talent is too poor.”

“I said you play well because you were playing a song you wrote yourself,” Song Qianji said, standing up. “Where there’s a story, there’s a song. My story has already been told, my song already played out. It’s your turn now to take the stage as protagonists. Miss Zhu, farewell.”

Having said this, he opened his white umbrella and walked into the clear moonlight.

Zhu Xin murmured, “Can I really do it?”

Song Qianji turned back: “I’ll be waiting for the day the new waves push the old ones forward, when new chapters replace old songs.”

The figure receded into the distance, fallen petals swirling before her eyes.

Zhu Xin stood alone holding her zither, and suddenly, blinking, two tears fell.

Before meeting Song Qianji, she had harbored a small knot in her heart over He Qingqing’s death—there had even been a moment she wanted to ask that person, “Why did you turn yourself into your own sword, and also give her a new zither? Did this zither save her, or did it harm her?”

After meeting Song Qianji, it was as though she sat beneath the sky-covering shade of a great tree, a cool breeze drifting past, sweeping away all the dust.

Zhu Xin watched that figure’s back disappear, opening her mouth as if to say something more, but in the end, only silence remained.

He was Song Qianji.

Who could make a moonlit night last forever?

…

Song Qianji held his umbrella, treading the post-rain moonlight, walking to the alley mouth where the back door of Song Courtyard stood, when he suddenly remembered why he’d gone out tonight in the first place.

Just as he was about to turn back to look for the person, he heard someone call out lazily from atop the wall:

“Hey, off on a midnight rendezvous with a beauty?”

Song Qianji thought to himself, clearly you deliberately lured me out—you know that little girl.

His footsteps stopped, but he didn’t turn around, only saying: “If you don’t speak up soon, I’ll think you’re here to assassinate me.”

“Retired from that trade, changed professions.”

That person jumped down from atop the wall, wearing a brocade robe clustered with a hundred flowers, the robe flying up as he moved, like scattered blossoms in bloom.

The old cat of Song Courtyard had its tail draped over his shoulder, its fur long and thick, like a fluffy scarf.

This cat had a bad temper—always coming when there was food, slipping away once fed, and had even clawed at Wei Zhenyu, showing not the slightest awareness of being a guest under someone else’s roof.

Yet now, nestled in this newcomer’s arms, it was unusually well-behaved, constantly making soft, gentle meowing sounds.

It remembered the first person who had ever picked it up and fed it.

Song Qianji walked forward, and that person naturally fell into step beside him, complaining, “What on earth are you wearing? A magnificent place like Qianqu, and you don’t even have a decent tailor?”

His words were sharp, but Song Qianji didn’t argue back, the corner of his mouth curling slightly: “I’m just a wandering ghost soul. It doesn’t matter what I wear.”

“I see your formation arrays here aren’t up to much either—I got in this easily. Seems like little Ji Chen’s array-dao attainments aren’t as impressive as people say outside. If someone really came to assassinate you, what would you do? Are neither Dog Meng nor Dog Wei around? Letting you wander around alone at midnight?”

What could Song Qianji say to that?

He could only turn around at the gate, sighing helplessly: “Song Courtyard’s arrays have never guarded against you.”

…

On this same bright moonlit night, Chen Hongzhu also heard the distant, faint sound of a zither.

When the zither’s sound rose, she was standing on Fading Water Bridge.

Countless peaks and ravines, a boundless sea of clouds, stretched out before her in full view.

The scenery was as it had always been—the only difference was that beneath Fading Water Bridge, the five-colored carp no longer competed and leapt about.

This species, seemingly exquisite and beautiful but actually cruel by nature, had vanished without anyone knowing exactly when, after long being deprived of flesh and blood to feed on.

When Chen Hongzhu returned, she saw only the pure sea of clouds, draped in silver radiance.

Fading Water Bridge had once been one of the places she knew best.

She had left from here bearing the “Hundred Flowers Kill,” and during the hardest period of her life, had endured countless cold stares and mockery, treated by her own sect as a disgrace.

She had traveled every crooked road among men, tasted every bitterness of the mortal world.

And in the end, she had come back here.

The moon is brighter over one’s hometown.

Tomorrow was her succession ceremony.

The “Minor Huawei Sect” had long ceased to exist. Many people didn’t understand why Sect Leader Chen had waited until now to formally assume her position.

She had clearly already been sect leader in all but name for a long time.

But Chen Hongzhu’s mind was unsettled.

“Today I revive the sect, winning people’s hearts fully—but in ten years, fifty years, a hundred years, will I become the next version of my father? Will Huawei Sect, reborn from the ashes today, become what, two hundred years from now? Fading Water Bridge, the rolling sea of clouds—how many heroes of past generations has it washed away?”

The lingering zither music was just like the worries in her heart tonight.

She wondered which disciple could be playing zither to the moon? But what young disciple could possess such deep, profound skill?

Chen Hongzhu followed the sound of the zither across the bridge, drawn forward involuntarily.

The more she listened, the more familiar it felt, growing ever more so, until her steps quickened, and eventually she gathered her spiritual energy and dashed forward, skimming the ground.

Who was playing the zither?!

At Star-Plucking Terrace at night, the zither music abruptly stopped.

“Sect Leader!” A group of young disciples in the mountain pavilion waved to her, then suddenly remembering something, changed their gesture into a bow.

Chen Hongzhu walked into the pavilion: “Who was just playing zither here?”

Everyone shook their heads:

“No one was playing zither.”

“There were just lots of insects chirping at night—it must have sounded like zither music.”

Chen Hongzhu looked around, seeing only the solitary bright moon and the surging sea of clouds, and couldn’t help feeling a sense of loss.

She then pretended to scold them: “Not resting or cultivating in the middle of the night—what are you all doing up here?”

Star-Plucking Terrace was no longer forbidden sect ground; any disciple who wanted to come admire the view could do so.

Zhu Mian stepped forward to explain: “Big things are happening tomorrow, so everyone got excited tonight and had some wine. Someone said they wanted to see with their own eyes the ‘Heroes’ Summons’ that Divine King Song wrote while drunk, so we came up here.”

Seeing that Chen Hongzhu showed no sign of blame, Star-Plucking Terrace grew lively again:

“Sect Leader, your poem is well-written too!”

“Especially the last two lines!”

“What’s good about it!” Chen Hongzhu glanced at the stone table in the pavilion, feeling a bit embarrassed, truly unable to bear looking at it further. “I’d had some wine too that time—I was just scribbling nonsense!”

Actually, she had originally meant to write the last two lines as “How many share this world’s crooked roads? A lone boat sails alone through misty rain.”

But upon glimpsing the Heroes’ Summons, a surge of heroic spirit unwilling to be outdone had risen in her, and she’d carved instead: “Let wind, flowers, snow, and moon laugh at me—my heart remains in the ninth heaven of the mysterious way.”

Now a group of young disciples surrounded her, reciting these two lines, making Chen Hongzhu’s face flush slightly: “Enough! All of you, go back!”

Everyone laughed and jostled, escorting the youngest sect leader in Huawei Sect’s history away.

Suddenly someone said: “Eh! There’s another poem here too. One day I’ll hold the Taia sword’s hilt…”

A quick-witted disciple hurriedly warned: “Zhu Mian, don’t ruin everyone’s mood!”

Chen Hongzhu paused, turned back, and reached out to gently stroke the stone table.

The stone slab was faintly cool, the carved marks still clear.

One disciple said: “She’s a criminal condemned through the ages—how does she deserve to leave her writing at Star-Plucking Terrace?”

“Right, she has a blood feud with the Sect Leader over her father’s death—how can our Huawei Sect keep something like this?”

Saying so, he took out a dagger, about to erase the carved marks.

“Leave it,” Chen Hongzhu suddenly said. “These days, talent in the way of sound is dwindling—the zither-like resonance in these carved words is rare. It would be a pity to destroy it.”

The disciples were stunned for a moment, then, coming to their senses, praised her one after another:

“The Sect Leader’s heart is broad enough to hold everything!”

“The Sect Leader is right—leaving it as a warning to future generations is good too!”

“Alright, enough flattery. I’ve made a decision,” Chen Hongzhu said. “After the ceremony, I’m moving out.”

“Huh?” Zhu Mian scratched his head. “Sect Leader, we only just got here, and you’re moving again? Where to?”

Chen Hongzhu smiled: “I’m moving to the courtyard where the outer disciples used to live. From now on, if you need anything, come find me there.”

Zhu Mian said: “Sect Leader, can I move there too? I’m not used to living on the mountain—it’s so empty and cold.”

Someone else said: “Then I want to move down the mountain too!”

“Suit yourselves!” Chen Hongzhu laughed heartily.

Everyone felt as though they’d returned to the days of roaming Tiandong Continent together, braving wind and dew.

“Why don’t we all just move wherever we want, choose our own places to live.”

“That huge palace on the mountain, with rooms so far apart from each other—whoever likes it can live there.”

A group of disciples, like a flock of chattering birds, escorted Chen Hongzhu down the mountain, their laughter drifting along the mountain path.

The young sect leader suddenly looked back.

Star-Plucking Terrace stood beneath the bright moon, deep amid the blossoms.

The night wind blew peach blossoms along the mountain path, scattering them about, like another spring rain had fallen.

*Author’s note: “Good flowers must be bought, the bright moon must be borrowed on credit. Flowers lean against the railing, watching the riot of blooms; the moon has, cup in hand, asked about the reunion night. The moon waxes and wanes, flowers bloom and wither; I think life’s greatest bitterness is parting.” From the Yuan-dynasty verse “Putianle: Ode to the World.”

“Gazing from the storied tower, spring mountains layered upon layered; where is home? Blocked by mist and waves. Bearing ancient and present regrets, to whom can I speak? Butterflies do not carry dreams a thousand miles; the cuckoo cries out the third watch’s moon. Hearing again and again, on the pillow one urges return, but return is hard to attain.” From Xin Qiji’s “Man Jiang Hong: Lighting the Cherry.”