Bai Yao looked toward the street corner, where a table was set up.
A young man with gray hair sat behind it, opening and closing a folding fan in his hand.
His face appeared to be at most twenty-something, yet his hair was entirely gray, and his eyes seemed to have witnessed ten thousand ages of change, carrying a melancholy and clarity utterly mismatched with his youth.
The powerful sense of dissonance made it difficult for anyone to meet his gaze for long, as if the young storyteller before them housed a soul that had endured eons of dynastic rise and fall.
Yet Bai Yao, as if possessed, walked forward.
The young man stopped his fan and looked up at her.
His gaze was intensely penetrating, as if he could see straight through her from the inside out.
“That lark still owes me a few answers,” Bai Yao blurted out, then paused, startled by her own words.
A lark?
What lark?
The gray-haired young man blinked in surprise, then smiled knowingly.
He told Bai Yao, “Haha, I didn’t think that little Cave Spirit would go around making promises to people. Well then. This place is an illusion realm evolved from the memories you had before you set out for the Xuan Yu Sect. Completing the inner illusion trial of this Cave Heaven is simple enough. Once the story reaches the part where you journey alone to the Xuan Yu Sect, everything will come to an end.”
Bai Yao frowned.
“And when will that be?”
“Let things take their natural course.”
Bai Yao felt that this man spoke in half-hidden riddles, just like those clients who played verbal ping-pong in her previous life.
But the moment the words “previous life” surfaced, they dispersed like smoke, impossible to grasp.
At that moment, a jade slip had appeared on the table at some point, along with a short sword, pitch-black throughout, emitting faint wisps of smoke-like vapor.
The gray-haired young man pushed the jade slip toward her, yet his fingertips hovered above the sword’s body, clearly cautious and unwilling to touch it lightly.
“This technique is quite interesting. Perhaps it will prove useful to you in this dream.”
He paused, then glanced at the black sword.
“This object is a bone spur from the [Heaven-Devouring] dragonfish. It was a creature that failed to ascend to dragonhood, and unwilling to accept its fate, it sought to devour heaven and earth in hopes of attaining the Dao and becoming a dragon. Hence the name Heaven-Devouring. However, the bone spur is quite ancient, and its power has already diminished to less than a tenth of its original might. Moreover, the previous user never grasped its true essence, weakening its power by another seven parts. With your mental fortitude, you will surely be able to master this sword.”
Bai Yao took it, her fingertips touching the icy blade of the black bone spur.
The sinister, writhing wisps of black mist seemed to have already been purified by the storyteller before her.
Yet deep within that touch, a faint tremor of unwillingness still pulsed, as if the blade itself housed some hungry will.
And in that instant, she felt a layer of mist rise over her Heart Lake, obscuring something within.
On instinct, she tucked both the black sword and the jade slip into her waist, where there seemed to be an invisible pouch, yet the moment the thought passed, she forgot the matter entirely.
The black sword’s existence slid completely out of her awareness, like a pebble sinking into a deep well, never to resound again.
And when Bai Yao blinked once more, the storyteller’s figure had vanished without a trace.
She also remembered that at this time, she had bought some daily necessities, and it was time to go home.
She was now called Bai Ling, the only daughter of Bai Chengwan, a tea master in Yulan Town.
Yulan Ming Tea was the most renowned premium flower tea in Yulan Town of the Xuan Kingdom, one of the seven nations of Southern Ridge Cloud Prefecture.
Bai Chengwan was a gentle man of few words, busy all day before the iron wok for roasting tea.
Yet whenever he looked at Bai Ling, his eyes always carried three parts guilt and seven parts affection.
As if the greatest worry of his entire life was figuring out how to roast this pot of tea to make his daughter’s heart comfortable when she drank it.
“Ling’er,” he called out, his voice so soft as if afraid of startling the girl, “head hurting again?”
Bai Ling nodded.
Her father’s voice was so familiar it made her heart ache, settled deep within hazy memories, yet she could never quite recall them.
Days like this passed, one after another.
In the morning, Bai Ling helped her father dry magnolia petals.
The dew had not yet dried, and her fingers brushing over them felt soft and cool.
And Bai Chengwan would always have hot water boiled before dawn, afraid that Bai Ling might touch cold water and hurt her hands.
“Father, I can do it myself.”
“Don’t move. Cold water hurts your hands.” He gently brushed her hand aside, crouching down to arrange the petals himself. “A girl’s hands are precious. Your father here has thick, rough skin. No need to worry.”
Bai Ling wanted to say something, but her father had already stood up, patted his knees, and turned toward the house, leaving behind a parting remark:
“When the water cools, remember to add hot water to it. Don’t be lazy.”
At noon, he taught her to roast tea.
Bai Ling’s fingertip got burned by the iron wok, and before she could pull her hand back, her father had already grabbed it.
“Burned? Let me see!”
“It’s nothing, I just touched it briefly…”
“Nothing? Your hand is already red!”
He cradled her finger and blew on it several times.
“Roasting tea isn’t something to rush. It takes time. When your father was learning, I burned myself more times than I can count.”
Bai Ling pulled her hand back and said quietly, “Father, it really is nothing.”
“Alright, alright. If you say it’s nothing, then it’s nothing. But be more careful next time, hm?”
He looked at her, and the guilt in his eyes deepened by another layer.
When evening came and they packed up the tea, her father made her carry one fewer basket while he shouldered two extra himself.
The bamboo baskets pressed deep red marks into his shoulders, yet he made no sound.
“Father, let me carry a basket for you.”
“No need.”
He didn’t even turn his head.
“With that tiny frame of yours, carry what? Just walk along quietly behind me.”
“But you’re getting marks from the straps…”
“Your father’s skin is thick and tough. It’s nothing.”
He paused, then added,
“When you were little and tripped once, I ached over it for days. If you see these marks, won’t it just make you miserable? Alright, alright. Stop fussing. Walk faster, I’ll make you something good when we get home.”
At mealtime, he picked all the best meat shreds into her bowl while quietly chewing on the vegetable scraps himself.
Whenever Bai Ling tried to decline, Bai Chengwan would put on a stern face.
“Decline what? You’re growing. Eat more.”
“Father, you should eat too…”
“I already ate… These bits and pieces chew just fine for me. No point wasting them.”
He pulled his bowl closer to himself and lowered his head to avoid Bai Ling’s gaze.
“Don’t worry about me. Eat up quickly. It won’t taste as good once it gets cold.”
At night, whenever Bai Ling had a headache, her father would sit by the bedside, gently pressing her temples with his rough palms.
“Still hurt?”
“Much better.”
Bai Chengwan let out a sigh, a low, helpless sound.
“You know… I wonder if I didn’t take good enough care of you, letting this illness take root.”
“Father, it has nothing to do with you.”
“How could it have nothing to do with me? Your mother abandoned the two of us to serve the Dao at a Buddhist temple, and I’m clumsy and don’t know how to raise a child…”
His hands kept moving as he muttered,
“If Ling’er ever feels unwell, just call for me. Don’t tough it out alone. Hear me?”
In the middle of the night, Bai Ling drifted between sleep and wakefulness, and she seemed to hear her father sitting by the bed, mumbling once more: “Asleep? If you are, I won’t disturb you.”
She didn’t answer.
Bai Chengwan’s fingers paused, withdrew gently, and then he tiptoed out of the room.
“Ling’er, I consulted a wandering immortal master about your condition.”
He crouched down, his rough, broad palm gently clasping Bai Ling’s small, delicate hand.
“He said you carry a Spiritual Root, a once-in-ten-thousand cultivator’s talent. And your headaches are very likely caused by the Spiritual Root resonating with heaven and earth. As long as you go to the Xuan Yu Sect to take a master and cultivate, the problem will surely be resolved.”
Go up the mountain to cultivate?
In that instant, Bai Ling… or rather Bai Yao’s mind, surfaced with certain images once more.
It was a vision of herself climbing the mountain alone in the rain, blood streaming from both feet and knees, yet her eyes were stubborn and resolute.
But to Bai Ling, a dream was ultimately just a dream.
Worrying about a future that didn’t exist was less worthwhile than cherishing the present.
A month passed.
The magnolia petals went from covering every branch to carpeting the ground.
Bai Ling spent thirty peaceful days under her father’s near-doting protection.
She even began to think that the so-called trip up the mountain to take a master was merely a distant bit of idle talk.
But at some point, a massive visiting ship began mooring in the middle of the distant Yuning River, and every night, the sound of a zither drifted across the water’s waves.
The music was mournfully beautiful, especially that piece called [Bronze Sparrow Terrace], which inexplicably weighed heavily on Bai Ling’s chest.
When her father heard the zither music, his hand roasting the tea trembled slightly.
A corner of the tea leaves in the iron wok scorched, giving off a pungent burnt smell.
He looked toward the river’s center, the guilt in his eyes deepening further, as if harboring a secret he couldn’t voice.
One night, a month later, Bai Ling rose to relieve herself and saw her father standing alone by the riverbank.
The river wind pressed his robes flat against his back, revealing a thin, gaunt silhouette.
“Just a little longer…”
He gazed in the direction of the visiting ship, murmuring softly, his words fragmented by the wind.
“Once Father finishes roasting this batch of tea, I’ll take you to the Xuan Yu Sect.”
Bai Ling heard him from behind the window and simply assumed her father intended to send her to take a master.
Yet that voice was filled with the tremor of a final farewell, like a string stretched to its breaking point, threatening to snap at any moment.