"Walk with me," Xin Yune said.
I obliged.
Like a gentleman, I offered her my hand. She took it without hesitation, linking her arm with mine as we stepped out onto the quiet streets.
It was dawn. The sky was painted in soft hues of orange and lavender, the air still crisp with the lingering chill of night. The streets were mostly empty, save for a few early risers preparing for the day—vendors setting up stalls, street sweepers brushing away the remnants of the night before.
As we walked, she talked.
She told me about her childhood, about a time before the Grand Ascension Empire bore its current name. Back then, it was simply the Grand Empire.
"There were nine daughters," she said, her voice light but nostalgic. "And never a son."
I glanced at her. "Nine princesses, huh? That must've been… eventful."
Xin Yune chuckled. "Oh, you have no idea."
She went on, speaking about the old days, the power struggles, the traditions, the expectations placed upon them. But as she spoke, there was one thing she seemed particularly passionate about.
She scoffed. "You know, my ancestors weren't really that good with names."
I raised an eyebrow. "That's what bothers you?"
"Of course it does!" she said dramatically. "Grand Empire? How unimaginative. And then later, Nongmin just slapped Ascension onto it, like that suddenly made it grander. And don't even get me started on the city names. Imperial Capital? Really? That wasn't even a name!"
I chuckled. "I take it you would've named things differently?"
She gave me a look. "Oh, absolutely. I had an entire list when I was younger."
I smirked. "Do I even want to know?"
"You do," she assured me. "But I'm saving that for another time. If I get another time."
That last part made my smirk falter, just a little.
But she just kept walking, smiling up at the morning sky like she hadn't just reminded me that this was her final day.
"I could bring you back to life, you know?" I offered, watching her carefully.
Xin Yune shook her head. "No need," she said simply. "I've already made peace with it. And besides, you'd probably fail."
I frowned. "You sound awfully sure about that."
She smiled, but there was something knowing behind it. "Lifespan is different from life force," she remarked.
I raised an eyebrow. "And that means…?"
She sighed, clearly expecting me to not get it. "I am going to die, and that's it."
I opened my mouth to respond, still trying to make sense of it, but before I could, she reached over and pinched my side.
"Ow…" I stopped. "I just want to ask a question. No need to resort to violence."
Actually, I didn't feel a thing.
More importantly, she didn't get hurt either.
My Reflect ability should've rebounded the force back at her, but I had instinctively forced my willpower to suppress it. Huh. Maybe I was getting better at controlling it.
"Don't interrupt," she scolded, pulling her hand back with a smirk.
I rolled my eyes but stayed quiet.
She continued, "Even your healing spells wouldn't be able to bring me back."
"How are you so sure?" I challenged.
"Because my son already foresaw it."
That made me pause.
Before I could press further, she suddenly pointed ahead. "Oh, look! That food stall's open too early."
I followed her gaze. The scent of something deep-fried filled the air. The vendor had just finished setting up, stirring a wok filled with oil. A sign on the side read something about… fried crickets.
Xin Yune's eyes lit up. "I love fried crickets."
I stared at her. "...You what?"
I paid for her fried crickets, watching as Xin Yune took them with an almost childlike glee. She popped one into her mouth, crunching down with a satisfied hum, then sighed wistfully.
"You know, I miss the simpler days," she murmured between bites.
She leaned against the food stall, gazing at the warming sky. "Back then, my son wasn't even called Nongmin," she said absentmindedly.
I paused. "Wait… what?"
She let out a rueful chuckle. "I can't even remember his true name anymore."
That caught me off guard. I frowned. "What do you mean you don't remember?"
Xin Yune exhaled, idly shaking the paper bag of crickets as if searching for the best one. "The day my son ascended as Emperor, he cast away his true name into the void," she said. "A form of defense."
I narrowed my eyes. "Defense against what?"
She shrugged. "Divine Scrying, fate manipulation, soul bindings—things that could be used against him. Without a name, such things lose their hold."
I absorbed that for a moment. "...And the name Nongmin?"
"It means farmer or peasant, I think. He never really explained himself when he picked the name." She smiled, popping another cricket into her mouth. "Quite the irony, isn't it?"
I wasn't sure whether to scoff or nod in admiration. That was the kind of poetic nonsense an Emperor might pull.
Xin Yune continued, speaking as though recalling a story that had only happened yesterday. "In my youth, I got involved with a commoner," she said, her voice dipping into something softer, almost nostalgic.
"It was a time of strife," she went on. "The Empire was deteriorating, and no one knew what the future held. But despite that, I fell in love."
Her gaze flickered toward me with a knowing look, as if daring me to say something. I didn't.
She huffed. "The Empire was so stupidly patriarchal back then. None of my sisters were even considered eligible for the throne. But of course, our children? That was a different story."
She rolled her eyes. "Ridiculous, really."
Then, as if flipping a switch, she suddenly lit up. "Oh, but my son… oh, you should've seen him! Even as a child, he was brilliant."
And just like that, she was a proud mother bragging about her child's achievements.
"He could read by the time he was two," she said, gesturing grandly with a fried cricket in hand. "He wrote his first political treatise at five! The ministers thought he was some reincarnated sage! Ha!"
I listened, arms crossed, as Xin Yune launched into a full recounting of her son's greatest exploits, all while happily munching on fried crickets like they were the greatest delicacy in the world.
Eventually, Xin Yune finished her fried crickets, brushing off the crumbs with a satisfied sigh.
"Alright," she said, looking up at me expectantly. "Tanghulu."
I stared at her. "What?"
She gestured vaguely toward a street vendor a few stalls down. "I want tanghulu."
I sighed but walked over to buy some. Naturally, she made me pay. Again. I grabbed one for myself too. By then, the sun had risen higher, and the streets were beginning to bustle. The heat was already creeping in, so I led us toward a shaded alleyway where the air was cooler.
She took a bite of her candied hawthorn and hummed. "Mmm… I haven't had this in ages."
As she chewed, she continued reminiscing.
"When I first pushed my cultivation," she said, twirling the stick between her fingers, "I never really intended to be the Divine Physician."
I listened quietly, watching as she reveled in her memories.
"I was just desperate at first. I had a child. I had to survive." She licked the sugar glaze off her lips. "But then… the more I studied, the more I understood. And before I knew it, people started calling me the Divine Physician. Of course, after healing just enough… people."
She chuckled, shaking her head. "Ridiculous title. I just didn't like seeing people die if I could help it."
As she spoke, I noticed something.
She was aging.
It wasn't sudden, nor was it drastic. But it was there. Moment to moment, her features were subtly shifting. The smoothness of her skin gave way to faint lines. The vitality in her eyes dimmed just a little. If not for her make-up, it would have been more obvious.
When we first stepped onto the streets, she could have passed for someone in her twenties, maybe early thirties. Now? Now she looked… older. Middle-aged.
Even knowing what she told me earlier, actually seeing it happen made my stomach feel oddly heavy.
Xin Yune either didn't notice or simply didn't care. She kept eating her tanghulu, eyes soft with nostalgia.
By the time noon arrived, we found ourselves in a small eatery, seated at a modest wooden table by an open window. The scent of sizzling oil and fragrant broths filled the air, mingling with the lively chatter of other patrons.
Xin Yune leaned back, stretching slightly before resting her chin on one hand. "You had a question earlier," she said. "Something about lifespans and life force?"
I nodded. "Yeah. What exactly is the difference?"
She exhaled, tapping a finger on the table. "Lifespan is the distance between life and death. It's the length of time a person is supposed to exist before the world naturally reclaims them. Life force, on the other hand, is the power that fuels a living being, the energy that lets them move, think, breathe."
I frowned. "So if someone runs out of life force, do they die?"
"Not necessarily." She shook her head. "If you run out of life force, you'll weaken, maybe fall into a coma, but you can recover. Lifespan, though… once that's gone, that's it. You don't recover lifespan."
I clenched my jaw. "That makes things difficult."
Xin Yune glanced at me. "You're thinking about someone specific, aren't you?"
I sighed. "I've lost people. Precious ones."
She said nothing, waiting for me to continue.
"I tried to bring them back," I admitted. "But it didn't work. I don't know why."
Xin Yune studied me carefully before leaning back with a soft hum. "If it was natural death, I could tell you why. But… you said they didn't die naturally, right?"
I shook my head. "They were killed. By Shenyuan."
At that, her expression darkened. "Ah… him."
There was a weight in her voice, something more than just knowledge.
I narrowed my eyes. "You know something."
Xin Yune drummed her fingers against the table. "There's a reason why Shenyuan was called the One True Death," she said. "People feared him, not just because he could kill, but because when he killed someone, they stayed dead."
A chill ran down my spine.
She continued, her voice quieter. "It's not just power or skill. There's something else at work. I've heard rumors… theories. Some say he developed a secret technique that allowed him to access an afterlife—or some form of it."
I frowned. "An afterlife?"
She nodded. "Or something close to one. If true, then it's possible he could cut off the remaining distance of a person's natural lifespan, even if they hadn't reached it yet."
I felt my fingers tighten into fists.
"So what you're saying is," I muttered, "he didn't just kill them, he erased their remaining lifespan?"
Xin Yune sighed. "That's the theory, anyway. But if it's true… well, it would explain why you couldn't bring them back."
A heavy silence settled between us.
Just then, the waitress finally arrived at our table. She gave us a polite smile. "What will you two be having?"
Xin Yune didn't miss a beat. "Noodles. Something spicy."
I exhaled slowly, loosening my fists. "Same for me."
As the waitress left, I turned back to Xin Yune.
I pressed Xin Yune with a few more questions until I was satisfied. It seemed there was a different form of afterlife in this world, something beyond reincarnation, being stuck as a ghost, or any of the folklore I'd heard. That complicated things.
I sighed, rubbing my temples. "So what you're saying is, there's an entire other realm where the dead might go, and Shenyuan somehow had access to it?"
Xin Yune nodded, sipping on her tea. "If anyone knows more, it'd be Nongmin."
Of course, it'd be him.
She continued, a little too cheerfully, "So you should talk to him soon. And don't kill him."
I scoffed. "Yeah, yeah, copy that," I smirked. "I'll still touch him, though."
Xin Yune's lips curled into an amused smile. "Oh, absolutely. That boy needs disciplining."
A thought crossed my mind, and I couldn't resist. "Should I make him call me daddy?"
Xin Yune nearly choked on her tea. Then she threw her head back and laughed. "Oh, I would pay to see that!"
We kept laughing as our food arrived, spicy noodles in large steaming bowls.
Lunch was filled with ridiculous banter and dirty jokes, some so foul that even the old men at the next table gave us side-eyes. Xin Yune, despite her graceful bearing, was an absolute menace when it came to raunchy humor. I wasn't sure whether to be impressed or concerned.
By the time we finished eating, the sun had climbed higher, and the heat made the streets shimmer. With nothing better to do, we resumed our walk, wandering through the bustling city like we had all the time in the world.
Xin Yune waved her hand, and an ornate umbrella appeared from her Storage Ring. She opened it with a practiced flick, casting a cool shadow over both of us. Before I could say anything, she wordlessly passed it to me.
I took the umbrella, holding it over us as we walked.
After a few moments of silence, I asked, "Why are you spending your last day with me and not your son?"
She smiled wistfully. "Because my son said I'd have more fun with you."
I scoffed. "See? He's clearly just using you to get to me." I gave her a side-eye. "While you're still alive, why don't you kick his ass and teach him a lesson yourself?"
Xin Yune suddenly turned to me, her expression unusually serious. "Never in my life have I ever laid a hand on him. And I won't do so now."
I blinked. I hadn't expected such a firm response. "…That was a poorly worded joke. Sorry."
She waved it off. "It's fine." Then, after a moment, she spoke again. "Can I confess something to you?"
I raised a brow. "If you're about to confess your love, I should warn you, you're this close to walking past my strike zone." I held up two fingers, barely an inch apart.
Xin Yune burst into laughter, shaking her head. "That was an awful joke."
"I know," I admitted. "But go ahead. Whatever it is, I won't tell anyone."
She exhaled, glancing up at the sky. "My son will probably see this conversation anyway, sooner or later," she mused. "His Heavenly Eye makes sure of that."
I frowned. "That thing lets him spy on people?"
"Not exactly," she replied. "But he sees more than most. Still, it should be fine."
I tilted my head. "Then what's this confession about?"
Xin Yune looked down at her feet for a moment, then at me. Her voice was softer this time.
"I'm scared for my son," she admitted. "It's just so scary…"
Xin Yune's voice softened as she continued, her steps slow and measured.
"Do you know what it feels like to know a person… and then, suddenly, not recognize them anymore?" she asked.
I shook my head.
She exhaled. "The Heavenly Eye granted Nongmin wisdom and intelligence beyond his years. When he was young, he was just like any other child, he'd laugh at stupid jokes, play games meant for his age. But as the years passed, and the Heavenly Eye grew stronger, his personality started changing."
I frowned.
To some extent, I could sympathize. My absurdly high charisma stat made me act more mischievous and cranky than I normally would have been back on Earth. It wasn't mind control, exactly, but stats did influence behavior. I was confident that the current me was vastly different from who I used to be.
But the Emperor's case… it was more extreme.
Xin Yune sighed. "I'm scared for him," she confessed. "Not of him, but for him. I fear he might lose himself entirely."
I glanced at her. She was changing again. Aging. The once youthful woman from this morning now looked old enough to pass for my mother.
She suddenly stopped walking and turned to face me. Her expression was serious, more than it had been all morning.
"Can I make a request?"
"Sure," I said.
She took a breath. "Can you save my son from himself?"
I hummed, rubbing my chin. "Okidoki. I'll adopt him, have him call me daddy, we'll play catch…"
"I am not joking," she interrupted, her voice sharp.
I let out a small chuckle and firmly grabbed her palm. "For a one-night stand, you sure are making things tough for me."
Chapter 116
By the time dusk arrived, we found ourselves on a lake, drifting in a canoe. An old man, hunched yet steady, paddled with a bamboo stick, pushing us gently across the shimmering water. The sun, half-submerged on the horizon, painted the sky in streaks of orange and violet, its reflection stretching across the rippling surface like molten gold.
Xin Yune sat across from me, wrapped in a thick shawl, her once-pristine skin now wrinkled and paper-thin. Her frame, once full of life and energy, had withered, her form frail, almost delicate. She had grown thinner throughout the day, the vibrance in her eyes dimming ever so slightly. It was happening fast. Too fast.
I wanted to complain about how unfair the Emperor was—to have all this knowledge, all this power, and yet let this happen—but I held my tongue. I wasn't going to ruin these last moments for her.
Instead, I sighed, leaning back slightly. "How are you feeling?" I asked.
Xin Yune, still gazing at the sunset, smiled faintly. "Still pretty."
I let out a small laugh. "Yeah," I said, shaking my head. "But not pretty much alive."
She turned her head just enough to glare at me, though her expression was more amused than angry. "Hey," she snapped, "don't kill me off too soon just yet."
I smirked. "No promises."
"If I die, I die," Xin Yune said as she rested her eyes, her voice light like the breeze gliding over the lake. "That's life."
She opened them again after a moment, staring at the pink and gold sky like she was trying to commit it to memory. Her smile was soft, unfazed by the weight of her words.
"You'd at least let me try to resurrect you if you do end up kicking the bucket, right?" I asked, only half-joking. Honestly, I'd still try even if she rejected my offer.
It was selfish, but…
"Sure," she answered easily, as though giving me permission to try something I was doomed to fail at. "Don't blame Nongmin if you failed, though. That would be childish."
I leaned forward, elbows on knees. "You must be pretty confident with your son's precognition, huh?"
She chuckled dryly. "We should stop referencing His Majesty as my son," she said, her tone shifting. "It's improper."
"Yeah… your son," I murmured, trying not to smirk.
"A slip of the tongue," she waved her hand lazily, as though brushing away something irrelevant. But her eyes lingered a second too long on the setting sun. "I do miss the little boy in him."
I tilted my head, watching her for a moment. "Hey," I said. "Are we in love?"
Xin Yune turned her head to me slowly, blinking once, twice, before staring at me like I'd grown a second head.
"You're an idiot," she said flatly, then gave a faint huff of a laugh. "Don't get carried away."
I rubbed my chin. "Just checking."
She sighed. "It's not love. Not that grand or poetic nonsense. It's just…" She looked up again, watching the clouds take on deeper hues. "I started to care. You started to care. Sympathize. Feel. That's it. Don't dramatize it. Don't make something big out of it. We care, just because."
I looked at her sideways. "So, it's not falling in love. It's falling into caring?"
She nodded. "Caring for a fellow human being. And that's enough."
I leaned back again and closed my eyes for a moment, the creaking of the canoe beneath us like a lullaby to the conversation.
"Yeah," I murmured. "That's enough."
We stepped off the canoe as the old man gave us a solemn nod and pushed off again, disappearing into the growing dusk. I offered my arm to Xin Yune, and she took it without a word. Hers was thinner now, frail almost, and the wrinkles around her eyes told me the end wasn't far.
I led the way, and we walked slowly, our footsteps quiet against the stone path bordering the lake. We didn't say anything for a few moments, just listening to the crickets and the ripple of the water.
Then she asked, "Since I shared part of my story, don't you think it's your turn?"
I hesitated. I could've cheated. I had access to the memories of David_69, but that guy wasn't me, not really. That identity felt borrowed, artificial, stitched into me like a costume. What felt real, what truly was me, was David from Earth. Earth David. So, I decided to be honest.
"I used to be a teacher," I said.
She tilted her head slightly, curious. "Ah? You taught disciples?"
"No, not quite… I was an elementary school teacher."
That gave her pause. "Elementary? A junior Sect, then?"
"Er… not a Sect. Just… young children. I taught music, arts, physical education, and health."
Her expression brightened in understanding, or at least what she thought was understanding. "A multidisciplinary Sect Master! "Sound arts, image crafts, body cultivation, and medicinal studies. A fourfold mastery. You truly must've been a Sect Master. No wonder your aura is strange! The harmonization of disparate schools of thought... fascinating!"
I choked a little on my own spit, trying not to laugh. "That's… not what I meant."
She was already too deep in the misunderstanding. "What's the name of your Sect?" she asked excitedly. "What are your founding principles?"
"Oh dear god," I muttered.
"God?" She raised a brow, probably assuming I meant some obscure deity. "So it's a theocratic order! I must say, I've never heard of such a composition. You must've kept a low profile to avoid clashing with the orthodox branches."
I sighed in surrender, raising one hand to the heavens in a helpless gesture. "The name of my Sect… is the Department of Education."
She placed a hand over her mouth, stunned. "So daring. To name your Sect after the concept of education itself! That's truly ambitious. What are your cultivation principles? Enlightenment through instruction? Strength through childhood discipline?"
I rubbed my temples. "You have no idea how ironic all of that sounds."
She squeezed my arm affectionately, still chuckling to herself. "You're a strange one."
"Says the woman who might die tonight and still made time to bicker about Sect names."
"True," she admitted. "But it's been fun. And in this final chapter, maybe that's all I wanted."
We spent fifteen minutes like that—me trying to clarify, and her over-interpreting everything. Every time I said something simple, she layered a dozen assumptions over it like frosting on a disaster cake. Eventually, I just gave up.
In the end, the only thing she really absorbed was that my "Sect" helped mortal children earn the qualifications they needed for a better future. She even praised the structure.
"We have something similar in the Empire," she said, chewing on a candied hawthorn skewer she must've been saving from her Storage Ring as we walked. "A merit-based path, still rare, but growing. Sikao Biaoji was a product of it."
"That… actually makes me feel better," I said. "I still don't like the guy, seems like a weird dude. Okay, this is out of the blue, but hear me out. Just out of curiosity… How much lifespan does a cultivator gain each time they break through? As the Divine Physician, I reckon you know the answer. Books are really stingy when it comes to answers. Hopefully, this wasn't too confidential of an information you'd rather not share."
She turned to me then, eyes narrowed with faint suspicion. Specifically, it was a look of half suspicion, half worry, and a pinch of professional curiosity.
I gave her a knowing smirk. "Just curious. Promise."
The answer to my question was probably around Class Four or Class Three knowledge, but it didn't seem to be that big of a deal.
"Mmhm," she said, unconvinced. Still, she continued, "It varies, of course. Cultivation method, talent, even fate plays a part. But in general, the higher you climb, the longer you live."
There was something strange in her tone; it was soft and cautious, as if she were measuring her words. I didn't press. Not yet.
"Do you want to live longer?" she asked. "It's out of my… personal curiosity. Promise. Just to get this out of the way. I am not judging, since everyone wants to live longer after all, and there was no exception."
It was a simple question, and she didn't really need to explain herself. But it knocked something loose in me, especially with how she worded it. I thought about my disciples. No, more like students. About Ren Xun's lazy jokes. Gu Jie's brooding face. Lu Gao's cynical comments. Hei Mao's ever-stubborn eyes.
"I want time," I said. "To make things right."
Xin Yune took a moment to think. Her face, now lined and softened with age, turned contemplative under the shade of the umbrella I still held for us. It was strange, holding an umbrella like this… almost domestic. Almost sweet.
Then she finally spoke. "Every cultivation realm adds years to your lifespan. It's one of the core blessings of the path, though many forget that's all it really is—borrowed time."
I nodded. "So what's the math like?"
She gave me a tired but patient smile. "For Martial Tempering, the First Realm… you get anywhere between six to ten years more. It's minor, barely noticeable."
"Okay…" I tried to do the math in my head, but she continued without waiting.
"Mind Enlightenment, the Second Realm, gives anywhere from ten to a hundred years. The gap's bigger because some people truly awaken late, and others barely scrape by."
"Huh. Then I suppose the Third?"
"Will Reinforcement and Spirit Mystery, the Third and Fourth Realms, are more consistent. You gain at least a hundred years, but most cultivators enjoy a lifespan not less than a thousand when they reach this level. It's when the soul and will begin to manifest tangibly."
That tracked. I was in Will Reinforcement and, well, the idea of living a thousand years used to feel terrifying. Now it felt… tight. Like it wasn't nearly enough.
She kept going. "Soul Recognition, Essence Gathering, and Bloodline Refinement—Fifth to Seventh—these are where things get mythical. One to three thousand years of life is common."
"Three thousand… Each Realm?" I muttered, imagining the sheer time. Entire civilizations rise and fall in less.
"Yes. Each. But," she said, looking up at me from under her wrinkled brow, "you can still die. Time runs long, not forever."
"What about the next tiers?"
"Heart Path, World Path, and Endless Path, the Eighth to Tenth… that's when you begin touching the divine. A hundred to ten thousand years, depending on comprehension. It's less about power and more about resonance with the world."
My lips pressed together. "So time itself starts being subjective."
"Exactly."
I exhaled slowly. "And the Eleventh Realm?"
Xin Yune smiled faintly. "Perfect Immortal. The moment one steps into that realm… time no longer holds sway. Lifespan becomes an outdated concept. You are no longer walking the river—you've become the river."
That one made me pause. I imagined it. Endless time. A still mind. A perfect state of being.
But I'd already seen people in power. And none of them ever seemed peaceful.
She was quiet after that. Her feet shuffled lightly against the dirt path. Her face had truly begun to age now. She looked like someone's grandmother. Someone's teacher. But also still herself, Xin Yune.
"Thank you," I said softly.
"For what?" she asked.
"Thank you for spending your time with me," I said quietly. "Really. I'm glad I spent my time, when I was most vulnerable, with you. If I had to slum it with the Emperor or bottle it all up, I'd probably do something… regrettable."
Xin Yune shook her head, her voice soft and dry like worn silk. "No," she said. "It's me who's thankful."
"Hush now," I whispered, lifting a single finger and pressing it gently to her lips. "Let me win this argument, pwetty pwease?"
She raised an eyebrow at that. Amused. Uncertain. But she didn't pull away.
We were back in the abandoned warehouse, the one with all of Nongmin's precious, secured hoard. It took her a second to realize. We'd been too deep in conversation—about life and death, love and care, about Sect names that weren't really Sects and my failures to translate the word 'elementary'—to notice the journey back.
Then, from the shadows, a familiar figure emerged.
The Emperor.
Nongmin.
I blinked, tilted my head. "Huh," I said casually, "he really appeared."
Xin Yune turned to me, eyes narrowing, then back at Nongmin with growing wariness. "What… is happening?" she asked, guarded now, the healer's warmth in her voice cooling.
I scratched the back of my head. "Well, I had this idea," I began, "about storming this place with you. Imagine it: what would happen if I came here, with you in tow, intent on raiding the place, grabbing whatever loot I could, screaming at the top of my lungs that I deserved compensation?"
Xin Yune arched a brow, still watching her son. "And… he saw it. Through his Heavenly Eye."
"Probably," I shrugged. "In some alternate reality, I convinced you to raid this place with me. We were loud. Chaotic. I was yelling threats into the void—'If Nongmin doesn't want me to steal his stuff, he better show up by X time,' and to make things more interesting, I might've said I'd make his mom dance on a pole if he didn't."
Xin Yune broke into a sharp cackle. The kind that aged her and made her eyes sparkle all the same. Her laughter echoed around the dusty beams of the warehouse.
"That part was a lie, by the way," I added quickly.
Nongmin said nothing. He just stood there, arms behind his back, posture rigid, face unreadable.
"Yep," I concluded, pointing at him. "To surmise, I basically summoned the Emperor here."
Silence reigned for a heartbeat too long.
Then Xin Yune said, "You're insane."
"Only marginally." And relatively. I'm pretty sane, I think.
She gave a faint chuckle, eyes still locked on her son. "Well, my boy… looks like you've been summoned."
Nongmin's gaze finally shifted from me to her. And I saw it. That flicker. That twitch. That tiny, fleeting crack in his imperial mask.
He didn't say anything.
But then again, maybe he didn't have to.
I had a feeling we were about to talk.
Or fight.
Maybe both.
Nongmin just stood there. Quiet. Stoic. Probably recalculating all his life decisions.
"So yeah," I said. "To sum it up… I basically summoned the Emperor. Cool trick, right?"
And now? I threw the ball into his court.
I gently squeezed Xin Yune's hand and raised it, linking our fingers deliberately. I imagined it—intent laced with absurd conviction—that I'd confess my undying love to his mother, ask her hand in marriage, and proclaim myself the next Emperor if Nongmin wouldn't at least open up to her about how he really felt. I imagined myself making demands in an alternate future.
"If you won't tell her how you feel," I thought sharply, aiming the spike of the idea directly into his soul if that was even possible, "then I'll become your new father. Emperor Da Wei has a nice ring to it, no?"
I internally counted in my head up to ten, and then I would act on what I just imagined.
Nongmin's left cheek twitched.
Score.
"Thank you, Mother," he said slowly, his voice tight. "For caring for this worthless son of yours. I'm… sorry. I'm sorry this son of yours cannot find a way to extend your life."
I probed with my Divine Sense and detected no lies. He meant it.
"There is nothing to be sorry for," Xin Yune said, softly. "You've given me more than enough."
I wasn't done messing with him. I imagined it again—intent sharp and playful—if he still stayed cold, I'd force him to do a chicken dance right here, right now.
He stared straight at me, deadpan.
"I'll never do a chicken dance," he said.
Xin Yune blinked. "What's… a chicken dance?"
Nongmin stiffened. "Just a poor joke from this barbarian."
"Correction," I said, placing a hand on my chest, "a Paladin… barbarian? Meh… Never mind that. We're not here for that."
Nongmin's expression shifted just slightly to fatigue, maybe. Maybe something else.
Xin Yune didn't press. Instead, she stood a little straighter beside me, leaning ever so slightly into my arm.
We were at the edge of something. An ending, maybe, or the last act of a play whose script we'd all long abandoned. But as long as I had the stage, I figured I might as well improvise.
"So what is it gonna be? You know what? I have an idea."
Nongmin stood still, silent as ever, watching me with his usual impassive gaze. His robes barely shifted despite the open air of the warehouse, his stance as regal and unreadable as ever. But I knew better. Beneath that cold exterior, I had already struck a nerve.
I smirked and raised a hand, crooking a finger toward him. "Come here."
I wasn't polite about it. If anything, my tone was closer to summoning a dog than addressing an Emperor. A lesser man would have drawn his sword on me, thrown me in a dungeon, or worse. And yet, he walked forward, measured, and graceful. Obedient, even.
Surprising.
He could have dismissed me as an insolent fool, as he had done countless times before. But he loved his mother more than he loved his pride. And that, I could respect.
As soon as he stepped within reach, I pulled out a small glass vial from my robes. Chibi Perfume. A ridiculous name for an even more ridiculous effect. Truly a gimmick item. Without hesitation, I uncorked it and sprayed it directly into his face.
Nongmin flinched, blinking rapidly as the mist settled over him.
Xin Yune, standing just beside me, frowned. "Did you just poison my son?"
I turned to her, feigning offense. "What do you take me for? A brute? I wouldn't poison him in front of his aged mother."
Her lips pressed together, unimpressed. "So you would poison him behind my back?"
I shrugged. "I make no promises."
Nongmin's lips twitched, but he remained silent. That was the thing with him. He rarely spoke unless necessary, but I could see it. That exasperation, that faint annoyance simmering beneath his blank stare as he watched his mother and me exchange barbed words like old friends.
With a small sigh, I turned to Xin Yune. This was the real reason I had summoned the Emperor here.
I stepped closer and raised my hand. The air around us shifted, charged with an unseen energy. I called upon Divine Word: Life.
Golden-green light shimmered at my fingertips before flowing into her, tendrils of light slithering beneath her skin like rivers of vitality. I wasn't some grand immortal who could cheat true death as defined by this world, but I could fortify life, strengthen what remained, make it brighter, and make it last as much as possible.
Xin Yune inhaled sharply. Wrinkles smoothed, her frail body filled out. The years peeled away, and before me stood the woman I first met, the same one who had scolded me with that sharp tongue of hers, who had challenged me at every turn.
She lifted her hands, staring at them in awe. "You…" She looked up at me, eyes wide. "What did you do?"
I smirked. "Fixed you up."
From the corner of my eye, I noticed a much smaller problem.
I turned, and there stood Nongmin, except he was no longer the towering, regal Emperor. He was tiny, barely up to my waist, his Imperial robes shrinking to fit his chibi form. A perfect miniature version of himself, complete with furrowed brows and a scowl that looked far less intimidating on a child's face.
I let out a low whistle. "Well. That worked better than expected."
Xin Yune, finally registering the sight, blinked. And then… she burst out laughing.
Nongmin—little Nongmin—glared up at me. "What," he said, voice still as even and composed as ever despite the absurdity of his appearance, "did you do to me?"
I crouched down to his level, grinning. "You've been chibified, Your Majesty. Temporary effect. Probably. No guarantees." I was lying. He'd revert to his original shape.
His eye twitched.
I clapped a hand on his tiny shoulder. "But enough about you. Your mother's looking great, huh? If I choose to keep her by my side, we could probably do a round and a few more."
Nongmin coughed, looking terrified.
Xin Yune chuckled, brushing her newly restored hands over her arms, as if still getting used to her rejuvenated form. But her gaze softened as she looked at her son: now small, now vulnerable.
I stood up, brushing the dust off my sleeves. "Listen, kid," I said, deliberately using the word kid just to rile him up. "I can't stop the inevitable. I can't rewrite fate. But I'll be damned if I let you sit on that throne, drowning in politics, while your mother's still here."
Nongmin stiffened.
I grabbed his tiny hand, small enough now that my fingers wrapped entirely around his wrist, and pulled it forward. Then, just as firmly, I grabbed Xin Yune's hand and pressed them together.
"Go and have fun," I ordered. "She's your mother. She doesn't have much time left. And as her only son, it's your job to make her happy in her final days." It was not my job to make her happy.
Nongmin looked up at me, with the same unreadable face. But I knew him well enough by now. He understood.
I patted his head, grinning. "Have a heart, little Emperor."
For the first time in a long, long while, he didn't argue.
Chapter 117
If there was one thing the Heavenly Eye lacked, it was imagination.
Had it possessed even a shred of it, Nongmin would have foreseen this moment, this humiliation, lightyears in advance. But no. There were rules, limitations, and principles of divine sight that even he could not override.
First, the Heavenly Eye was limited by actionable facts and plausibility difference. It could not show him what defied logic, only what could possibly happen within the realm of reason.
Second, the granted omniscience was not so omniscient after all. It only worked within his territory, bounded by the sacred lines of spiritual jurisdiction.
Third, and most damningly, even if he could see all things... he could not see them all at once in a single breath. He needed to digest the information, and even with his Tenth Realm cultivation, he could only interpret and digest so much.
And so, the most feared man in the world, the Grand Emperor Nongmin, stood in awkward silence, boxed in by a dilemma his Heavenly Eye could not solve.
"Little Nongmin," said Xin Yune with a bright smile that melted ten thousand years of frozen karma. She pulled a sparkling tanghulu from her Storage Ring, the skewered red hawthorns glistening with a candy shell that shimmered in the light like spiritual pearls. "Want a candy?"
Her voice was casual, but not unintentional. There was a mother's challenge buried in it, a gentle prod to stir memory, emotion, and vulnerability.
Nongmin's eyes, golden with faint trails of spiritual current, flickered open. The Heavenly Eye spun within his soul, accessing not the present, but possibility.
In one future, he politely declined.
"More for me!" Xin Yune would laugh, twirling the tanghulu like a sword and biting into it with exaggerated glee. Her smile would be real, and her joy untainted.
In another, he reached out and accepted the candy.
"Aiyo, my son's still just a baby inside," she'd say with a teasing grin, pulling him into a side-hug and ruffling his hair, even if she had to hover to do so. Again, the joy would be real.
So what was the right answer?
Both were right. Both made her smile. Both ended in her happiness.
His jaw tightened.
"This is illogical," he thought. "The question should have one optimal answer. Why do both branches lead to fulfillment? Is this... quantum benevolence?"
And then… another ripple of future vision opened. An unlikely possibility. An implausible, almost irrational one.
Da Wei reached in and stole the tanghulu.
He moved like a bandit: shoulders relaxed, face utterly shameless, and the kind of smile only someone with no moral stakes could wear.
Nongmin's body responded before his mind caught up.
Flash!
The air cracked as he moved in an instant, his fingers like iron as they snatched the tanghulu from Da Wei's hand mid-swipe. The candy skewer floated an inch above his palm, untouched by even gravity itself.
Da Wei blinked.
Then he grinned. Slow. Wicked. Like he'd planned it all.
"Huh," Da Wei said, eyes twinkling. "Didn't think you'd go for the candy and the dramatic reveal. You really are your mom's son."
Nongmin said nothing. His face remained calm, but his internal qi frothed like an ocean storm. He'd seen a thousand futures, but this? This was not supposed to happen. This was... chaos. Ridiculous. Nonsensical. And yet…
"Aiyo! My baby is so cute!" Xin Yune giggled, suddenly appearing behind him and wrapping her arms around his shoulders. Her chin rested lightly against the curve of his neck. "You protected Mama's candy! My little Emperor, so fierce, so clever~"
"...I did not intend to—"
"Shhh," she cooed, planting a kiss on his cheek. "Don't ruin the moment."
The Heavenly Eye spun inside him, useless now. He could no longer predict her. And maybe that was the point.
Nongmin, Lord of the Realm, Grand Emperor of Eight Territories, slayer of gods and planner of epochs, stood still with a candied skewer in hand and his mother wrapped around him like a warm scarf of affection.
Across from him, Da Wei casually leaned against a column, watching with interest, lips curled upward like a fox who'd stolen a chicken and returned it just to see what would happen next.
Imagination, Nongmin realized, was not just irrational.
It was dangerous.
Still, this result was… acceptable.
Nongmin bit into the candied hawthorn on the skewer. The sweet and sour juice mixed with the delicate crack of the sugar glaze. The flavor grounded him. It was a strange contrast to the mental whiplash he'd just endured. His mother still held him gently by the wrist, guiding him forward through the path as if he were no older than five.
And right beside him, like an unwanted shadow that refused to disperse even under direct sunlight… was Da Wei.
Nongmin's gaze slid sideways, not with annoyance but with cold curiosity. His Heavenly Eye spun, not outward, but inward, reaching into the nearby timelines that splintered like hairline cracks in the porcelain of fate. A single question formed in his spiritual voice, spoken through Qi Speech, a language only wieldable by cultivators whose soul had surpassed the threshold of mortality.
"What are you doing, Da Wei?"
The man walking beside him didn't respond aloud, but in the alternate futures, Nongmin saw it.
"Watching you," Da Wei said in one strand of time. "Making sure you're not lying. Or doing anything weird. You know… Emperor stuff."
Nongmin returned to real-time and scoffed, a short, dry exhale that carried with it the precise measure of disdain he deemed appropriate.
His mother turned her head slightly, her eyes peeking at him through a curtain of dark hair. "What's so funny?"
Nongmin hesitated. His mind turned. For a moment, he debated telling her. Then, with the faintest smirk forming on his lips, he gestured at the man beside them with his skewer.
"Mother," he said in his proper, regal tone. "Is it just me, or is this commoner a bit of a bother?"
Xin Yune blinked. Her pace didn't change. "Oh, I think it's fine for him to hang around."
Nongmin stopped walking. His body remained calm, but his heart shuddered ever so slightly with an unfamiliar sensation.
Betrayal.
His mother—his ally, his constant—had just sided with Da Wei. The man who once threatened to dance her on a pole to summon him. The man who just tried to steal his tanghulu. The man who, by all logic and structure, should not be here.
Well, it was kind of his fault he was here…
Nongmin narrowed his eyes.
"Why didn't I check that response beforehand?" he thought bitterly. "If I knew Xin Yune would side with him…"
Then realization hit.
"I wanted to manipulate her. Just now… I thought of using the Heavenly Eye to predict her answer. To nudge her toward the response I wanted."
Nongmin's throat tightened. The taste of hawthorn lingered in his mouth, but it now felt oddly bitter. A low tide of guilt swept through his chest, cooling his qi and coiling it around his heart like a silent reproach.
He remembered the promise he made.
Long ago when he first opened the Heavenly Eye, when the world felt like a scroll to be rewritten, he had drawn a single line in the sand. "I will not use this power to manipulate Mother. Not even once. Not even for her safety. Especially not for my comfort."
He bowed his head slightly. Not to anyone. Just to himself.
"Fool," he told his inner voice. "You nearly crossed the line without realizing it."
Beside him, Da Wei remained quiet. His hands were behind his head, walking as if this were all a stroll and not a moment of emotional upheaval.
Nongmin bit into the next hawthorn.
The sugar cracked again.
This one was a little sweeter.
The past few days had unraveled more than he liked to admit.
He had stood at the height of cultivation. Held the Heavenly Eye. Read infinite threads of reality. He was supposed to know better. But now—walking beside his mother and Da Wei trailing like a persistent shadow—Nongmin couldn't keep lying to himself.
He had manipulated her.
Not just in minor ways. Not just with harmless white lies or calculated omissions. No, he'd wielded the Eye like a scalpel, cutting and suturing moments so subtly even she hadn't noticed. A soft suggestion here. A spontaneous encounter there. A few nudges to ensure that she stayed in the capital a little longer, saw a certain flower bloom, heard a melody drift from the right street at the right time.
And all for what?
To buy her a smile. A few moments of joy. A sense of peace that wasn't born naturally but designed.
Because her time was running out.
For centuries, Nongmin had exhausted every method to lengthen her life. He'd searched forbidden ruins, bartered with timeless existences, and even attempted to rewrite destiny itself, only to be met with the same cruel truth: there was no clear path forward. No pill. No art. No deal worth making. Even he, with all his gifts, couldn't cheat fate for her.
And so, slowly, despair gave way to something else.
Resignation.
He stopped looking for answers and began searching for something harder to define. He started asking: What does happiness look like?
That was when he realized something horrifying.
He didn't know.
He lacked imagination. As much as the Heavenly Eye could see, it couldn't create. It worked with probability, causality, and memory. But it didn't dream. And without that, he was lost.
So, step by step, he tried.
He looked into tens of thousands of futures, breaking himself apart across a million potential lives. He viewed them all with cold scrutiny and a growing ache in his heart.
There were futures where she died in his arms, smiling. Others where she never smiled again, growing bitter at the burden of an immortal son. Some days ended quietly with tea and silence. Others ended with unspoken regrets and words left unsaid. All of them were… wrong.
Until he stopped looking at himself.
He cast his gaze outward.
Zhu Shin had a conversation with her on a riverside bridge: nothing dramatic, just heartfelt. His mother laughed, truly laughed, and Nongmin had replayed that moment dozens of times.
Sikao Biaoji, of all people, had a loud and heated argument with her about something absurd: peach wine, perhaps. It ended with both of them hurling insults and giggling like fools.
There were futures where she never saw her son in her final moments. And yet… she died happy.
Why?
Because she lived. Truly lived, with people who saw her neither as the Emperor's mother nor the Divine Physician, but just as Xin Yune.
And then… somewhere in the thousands of threads… he saw it.
Da Wei.
A stranger. An anomaly. A man who walked like a mortal but defied every expectation. Nongmin had never liked him. Still didn't. But… the threads were clear.
In reality after reality, Da Wei was there.
He made her laugh. He annoyed her. He challenged her. Sometimes they fought. Sometimes they just sat under the stars, saying nothing. But each time, each thread, ended the same way:
She smiled.
And in some of those futures… rare, golden ones… she died smiling. It was the kind of smile he used to see when he was just a boy everytime he made small mistakes or just made a poor joke.
In a quiet field. In a bustling street. In a tiny cabin far from civilization. The location changed. The people changed. But Da Wei was there. Always.
And in those same futures, when Nongmin finally looked at himself, he realized something terrifying.
He was… at peace.
And so, back in the present, biting into his candied skewer, Nongmin said nothing as Da Wei walked beside him.
He didn't need to ask again what Da Wei was doing.
Because now… finally… it all clicked.
Da Wei wasn't his enemy. Nor his pawn.
He was the piece Nongmin never knew he needed. The piece he couldn't move, couldn't predict… but the one that made the whole board make sense.
And as the final hawthorn disappeared from the stick, Nongmin whispered under his breath, barely audible:
"…So that's the answer."
His mother looked at him. "Hm?"
He blinked, offered her a smile, not one he rehearsed or calculated, but something soft and unguarded.
"Nothing," he said.
Just… everything.
The scent of roasted chestnuts and spiced meat skewers drifted lazily through the streets of the Imperial Capital, as the sun dipped into a gold-tinged horizon. The clamor of children, merchants, and cultivators wrapped the trio in a living, breathing nostalgia.
Nongmin walked slowly, hands tucked behind his back, as his mother practically skipped ahead, dragging him by the wrist. A full-grown man with the Heavenly Eye and enough political power to shift continents… and yet, here he was, being towed along like a stubborn boy too proud to admit he enjoyed the attention.
She stopped every few stalls to buy something—sweet lotus root, grilled tofu, sugar-dusted rice cakes—and he ate all of it without resistance. Not because he particularly wanted to. But because she offered.
Da Wei trailed just behind them, arms crossed, eyebrows slightly raised. His presence was casual, but Nongmin knew that the man was observing everything, him especially, with the suspicious patience of someone waiting for a snake to show its fangs.
"Hey," Da Wei said, "you should talk more."
Nongmin didn't even look back. "About what?"
"Anything. You've got a squeaky little voice, but we've heard worse. You might as well use it."
Nongmin frowned. Squeaky? He turned halfway and glared. "My voice is dignified. Elegant. Measured."
"It's nasally," Da Wei corrected. "You sound like a baby duck pretending to be a tax collector."
His mother stifled a laugh. Nongmin gave her a betrayed look.
"You know," Da Wei continued with a smirk, "as a former teacher, I feel morally obligated to make awkward kids speak up in class. Consider this homework. Talk. Tell us a joke or something."
Before Nongmin could respond with the full might of his dignity, his mother clapped her hands with delight. "Oh, oh! I have one!"
Nongmin froze. "No."
"Yes!" she beamed. "Do you remember the time you got your little robes stuck in the well pulley and you spun around until you passed out?"
Da Wei raised an eyebrow. "Please. Elaborate."
"No need…" Nongmin started, but she'd already begun.
"So he was six, right? Went out to practice some ancient technique involving balance or whatever. But he tripped, got tangled in the rope, and the pulley launched him like a roast duck on a spit! Round and round he went… arms out, eyes spinning… until he flopped down and fainted! The servants were terrified. Thought he was possessed."
Da Wei burst out laughing, holding his sides. "You passed out?! That's gold."
"I was calibrating my meridians," Nongmin said stiffly.
"Oh, is that what the chicken noises were for?" Da Wei asked, trying to catch his breath.
"I didn't make…"
"And then," his mother chimed in again, "there was the time he tried to impress the girl from the carp clan by flying on a sword. Only, he forgot to bind the soul core to it and crashed into the lotus pond. He came up looking like a soggy turnip."
"Mother," Nongmin said, voice brittle.
"Even the koi pitied you," she said fondly, patting his head.
Da Wei leaned closer and whispered just loud enough for Nongmin to hear, "I'm gonna collect these stories like spirit stones."
Nongmin stared straight ahead. He tried not to let the flush rise to his cheeks. He reminded himself, he chanted it like a mantra, that he was the Grand Emperor. A wielder of cosmic secrets. Master of nations.
…And yet, right now, he was just a boy again. A boy walking through familiar streets. A boy whose mother had a hand on his wrist, and whose dignity was steadily unraveling.
But in the warmth of her laughter, and the echo of Da Wei's chuckles, he found, much to his own horror, a faint smile creeping onto his lips.
He didn't suppress it.
Not this time.
The moon hung low and full over the Imperial Capital, its silvery light bathing the city in quiet reverence. The night breeze carried a lazy coolness, rustling leaves and lanterns as the city began to fall asleep.
Within the palace's inner courtyard, tucked behind walls that had heard a thousand secrets, Nongmin sat cross-legged on a cushioned mat, a plate of candied hawthorn beside him, and his mother humming as she combed her long black hair.
The room was humble by imperial standards: no jade tiles, no gold-rimmed curtains, only soft silks and woven mats, the way she preferred it. It was the room she had once slept in before he ascended to the throne, untouched even after all these years.
"Are you going to keep staring at the floor, or are you going to talk to your mother?" she said without looking up.
Nongmin blinked. "I am talking to you."
"No, you're mumbling."
"I am dignified."
She gave him a flat look through the mirror. "You're sulking."
He crossed his arms. "I am not sulking. I am… contemplating."
"Sulking," she confirmed.
He looked away.
This wasn't going well.
Nongmin had spent the entire evening trying to "usher in" his childish side. After all, he had combed through hundreds, no, thousands, of alternate realities in search of the best ending for her. And more often than not, the ones that made her happiest were the ones where he stopped trying to act like a god and just was her son.
So he tried. He really did. He had let her feed him candied fruits again. He let her ruffle his hair. He even sat on the floor cross-legged instead of his usual upright lotus stance like some transcendent elder about to deliver a sermon.
It was hard. Incredibly hard. Every time he relaxed, he caught himself monitoring the Qi flows of the palace, or checking his precognitive threads. Every time he tried to smile, it felt like a negotiation with his own muscles.
Still, he persisted.
"I brought something," he muttered finally.
His mother turned, interested. "Oh?"
He reached into his sleeve and awkwardly produced… a hand-drawn picture. It was old—centuries old, from the first years after he inherited the Heavenly Eye. A child's drawing, depicting a crude version of her holding his hand, standing in a garden with stick flowers and a crooked sun.
She blinked.
"I thought you threw that away," she said softly.
"I archived it in a pocket realm," Nongmin said, averting his eyes. "For preservation."
She laughed. Not the amused kind. The moved kind. The kind that made his chest tighten. She took the drawing with delicate fingers, and for a long time, didn't say anything. Just smiled at it.
"You really were a strange boy," she said fondly.
"I still am," he admitted.
"Mm. Except now, you hide it under layers of cosmic awareness and imperial posture."
Nongmin hesitated. "Is that… bad?"
"No," she said. "But it's okay to peel those layers back. Just a little. Sometimes."
There was a pause. A long, comfortable one.
"…Do you want to braid my hair?" she asked suddenly.
He froze. "No."
"Too complicated?" she teased.
"It's illogical," he grumbled. "My dexterity is meant for qi threads, not vanity rituals."
She handed him the comb.
He stared at it like it was a sword made of scorpions. Still, after a moment, he sat behind her, carefully parting her hair like he'd seen her do countless times. His hands were clumsy, his movements stiff, but he tried.
Each pass of the comb brought with it memories of being small, of sitting exactly like this, of her humming old lullabies as the world outside faded away.
And for a few rare minutes, Nongmin didn't feel like the Emperor. He didn't feel like the wielder of the Heavenly Eye. He just felt like a son again.
She didn't comment on the crooked braid. Crooked only because of his emotions. Xin Yune only leaned back slightly, resting her weight against him.
"I missed this," she murmured.
He didn't answer. He didn't trust his voice.
But in his heart, cold, calculating, and often unbearable even to himself, he etched the moment down as sacred.
He would remember this night, not through a vision, not through a reality thread, but for what it was: something he'd lived, awkwardly, honestly, and with all the childlike love he could summon.
It was love.
Plain and simple.
But just as complex as it was incredible.
118 The Painting
The night had long fallen over the Imperial Capital, draping the palace in moonlight and velvet stillness. The kind of quiet that only came when all the servants were dismissed and the world itself agreed to pause.
Xin Yune gently closed the lacquered door to the inner chamber, the soft click echoing like a whisper. Da Wei had excused himself with a grin and a respectful nod, saying something about "not wanting to interrupt the bedtime ritual of royalty."
She knew what he meant. Knew that it was his way of giving her space. She appreciated it.
Now, it was just her and her son.
Nongmin had already curled under the thick quilt of embroidered clouds and mountain motifs. His head rested against the pillow, silver strands of his long hair splayed over the silk, his breathing steady. Still too regal, too still. But for once… just for once, he had let her lead him into bed. Like he used to.
She sat at the edge of the bed and reached for the old, worn book she had pulled from her personal shelf. The leather cover was cracked, the title faint from decades of use: The Heroic Farmer and the Snake.
"This one again?" she asked softly, brushing a strand of hair from his cheek.
He didn't open his eyes. "It's the most mathematically inconsistent."
And it was the story she'd read most to him.
She chuckled. "Is that so?"
Opening the book, her voice took on the same gentle rhythm she had used centuries ago, back when his hair was shorter and his legs dangled off the bed.
"Once, there was a farmer, brave and plain. He lived with his daughter near the edge of the Whispering Forest. One day, a venomous snake bit the daughter while she picked herbs. The farmer had no medicine, no power, and no hope."
Nongmin opened one eye. "Why would they live by the forest if it was known for snakes?"
It was strange, hearing him ask such a question for the first time… when normally, he always have an answer.
"Shh. He's a farmer, not a strategist," she said with a teasing smile.
He closed his eye again.
She continued reading, her voice threading through the room like warm wind:
"But the farmer did not despair. He went into the forest, found the snake, and captured it alive. Instead of killing it, he struck a deal—he offered food and warmth if the snake spared his child. The snake, surprised by mercy, wept. It produced from its fangs a single drop of crystal venom—the antidote. The girl was saved."
She glanced down. Nongmin's breathing hadn't changed, but his lips were faintly parted, and his hands, so often poised in mudras or commanding gestures, were now just hands, resting still beneath the covers.
Nongmin no longer had use for sleep, given his cultivation… but there was no stopping him from falling into one anyway…
This was the closest she'd ever get him back. Not the Emperor. Not the Divine Sovereign. Not the wielder of the Heavenly Eye. But her child. Her little boy.
A soft smile tugged at her lips, unbidden and gentle.
"The farmer and the snake became friends," she finished, "and from then on, no beast in the forest ever harmed another soul. Not because of fear, but because of gratitude."
She closed the book quietly and set it aside.
"You always hated that ending," she murmured.
"…It's not realistic," came Nongmin's half-mumbled voice, barely audible. "Snakes don't… cry."
"I know," she whispered, brushing his forehead with her hand. "But maybe some do."
There was no answer after that. Only silence.
She stayed there a while longer, watching him. Not because she thought he'd disappear. But because she wanted to remember this, truly remember this.
If this were a reenactment of the past, then so be it. It wasn't perfect. But it was enough.
Enough for a mother who had spent lifetimes waiting for this one simple moment:
To tuck in her son.
To tell him a bedtime story.
And to know, even just briefly, that he listened.
Nongmin lay there with his eyes closed, his breath deep and regular, but Xin Yune knew better. He had likely forced himself into sleep using cultivation, an unnatural quiet meant to simulate something peaceful. But even that choice was telling. He wanted her to believe he could still sleep beside her. Like before.
She didn't disturb him.
Quietly, she rose from the bedside and walked toward the door. Every step felt heavier than the last.
Her fingers wrapped around the cold brass handle.
She didn't need to test her pulse or sense her own life force. She knew. She had always known. Her time was close. She could already feel herself beginning to drift, like embers that refused to catch flame no matter how much breath was blown into them.
She was ready. Or at least, she thought she was.
And then…
A gentle tug.
The sensation was faint at first, barely noticeable. But it stopped her dead in her tracks.
Her eyes shifted to her sleeve. A hand. His hand.
She turned slowly.
Nongmin was no longer asleep. His eyes, open and uncertain, stared at her with something rawer than calculation. Vulnerable. Trembling.
"…I don't want to see you go," he said, voice barely more than a whisper.
Her heart twisted. There was no grandeur in those words. No imperial edge or philosophical acceptance. Just a simple, childlike truth.
"But I have to go," Xin Yune answered gently. She turned her full body toward him, her face soft, even if her soul weighed heavy.
His grip didn't tighten, but it didn't let go either. He searched her face as if some different answer might be written there, hidden in the wrinkles that had come from time, not technique.
"You're not coming back," he said.
"No," she replied, the word firm but quiet. "I'm not."
The silence between them grew like vines, reaching, curling, unsure whether to strangle or protect.
Nongmin looked away for a heartbeat. She could see him wrestling with something.
Then he looked back, and with a tremor in his voice, he said, "I want to be there… even if you go… forever… I want to be there."
Xin Yune felt something splinter inside her.
There it was again. That small spark of her son she thought she had lost forever. Not the one who commanded armies or read the timelines of endless possibilities, but the boy who once cried when she was gone too long buying food in the market or just roaming around. The boy who stayed awake until she came home from healing others, just to know she was still alive.
That boy was still here.
Her hand reached out and touched his cheek, her fingers trembling slightly. She smiled, small and pained, but deeply grateful.
"You'll be there," she said. "And knowing that… it heals me more than any technique ever could."
She didn't need the Heavenly Eye to know this was the truth.
Her son wouldn't try to stop her. He wouldn't beg, or bargain, or twist fate to trap her here.
He would just be there.
And that, in the end, was all she had ever needed.
Xin Yune stood in the quiet stillness of the room, her son's hand still gently wrapped around her sleeve, his eyes reflecting flickers of things she could never quite read. Her heart was heavy, but not with dread anymore, just with time. Time that had run its course.
Then, an idea sparked within her like a sudden gust of spring wind through old leaves.
She snapped her fingers. "I have an idea," she declared, with that same mischievous glint she used to have when Nongmin was still small enough to carry on her back.
Nongmin's head jerked up instantly. "Da Wei…" she began.
But her son was already moving. Before she could say another word, he darted forward and clasped her wrist with urgency, almost desperation.
His gaze sharpened, not with anger, but understanding. As if he had already seen it.
"He already knows what I'm thinking," Xin Yune realized, heart warm with bittersweet amusement.
Without a word, they flew.
They took to the skies like streaks of wind-touched silk, moving above the roofs of the Imperial Capital. The city was hushed at this hour, the lanterns dimmed to gentle glows, and the stars bloomed bright above.
They found him not long after.
Da Wei sat alone on a rooftop, legs crossed, back straight, eyes tilted up toward the heavens. He was staring at the stars, one hand resting atop his knee while the other nursed a skewer of half-eaten roasted mushrooms.
He didn't startle when they arrived. Instead, he tilted his head lazily toward them.
"What's the occasion for the imperial mother and son to grace me with their presence?" he asked with a smirk.
Xin Yune stepped forward, her voice soft but certain. "I have a request."
Da Wei gave a mock bow, still seated. "Then I shall oblige. What is it?"
Xin Yune turned to look at her son, who now stood at her side again, cloak fluttering gently in the night wind.
"Can you paint us?" she asked.
There was a pause.
Then Nongmin added with an unusual lightness to his tone, "Let's go to the courtyard. I'll fetch the canvas, easel, brushes, and paint."
Da Wei blinked. "Seriously?"
"Seriously," Nongmin replied.
The three of them descended to the courtyard shortly after. Nongmin vanished for a moment and returned just as swiftly, arms loaded with a lacquered wooden easel, a folded canvas, a case of thick-haired brushes, and ceramic jars filled with rich pigment.
As the easel was set up under the open sky, and the canvas stretched across its frame, Xin Yune took a deep breath.
This was a moment carved out of reality.
A painting not of power, not of immortality.
Just of a mother. And her son.
The canvas was enormous.. It was taller than any man and wider than a banquet hall door, its pristine surface fluttering slightly in the courtyard's early spring breeze.
Da Wei stood before it in silence. He stared at the sheer size of what he'd agreed to paint, lips parting slightly as though to question his own life choices.
"…This thing is taller than a carriage," he muttered. "I can't believe a small-looking easel could hold this much weight."
But then he gave a small shrug, rolled his shoulders, cracked his knuckles, and got to work.
Xin Yune couldn't help but laugh. It wasn't the size of the canvas that amused her… it was him.
Da Wei darted back and forth in front of the painting like a man possessed, each step exaggerated, each retreat a long stride as though the ten paces back gave him mystical insight. He leaned in to dab a bit of color on one edge, then practically dashed back across the yard to squint, tilt his head, and nod like a scholar contemplating divine scripture.
"You know," she said, smiling, "with your cultivation, I'm fairly certain you don't need to move like that just to paint."
Da Wei, brush in mouth, shot her a mock glare. "Art… requires drama."
"You're such a child," she teased.
"Flattery," he mumbled through the brush as he peeked back and forth from behind the canvas.
As for Nongmin, he stood at her side under the broad leaves of the bodhi tree, silent but attentive. His hand rested gently in hers, small fingers curling around hers with a grip that tried to hide its nervousness.
He wasn't trying to act like the Grand Emperor. Not tonight.
He was simply her son.
She told him a few jokes to fill the time. Some of them were old and corny, ones she'd told him when he was no older than five. Others were more biting, teasing the way he always sat too straight or how he once tried to fight a goose and lost.
To her surprise, he laughed.
Not a lot. Not loudly.
But it was real.
And as Da Wei painted, brushing in the shadows of leaves above them, dabbing amber light into the corner where the lanterns hung, lining the gentle slope of their shoulders together, Xin Yune felt something long buried in her heart rise to the surface.
Not regret.
Not sadness.
But peace.
She leaned gently into her son. Nongmin shifted just slightly to lean back.
They didn't speak.
They didn't need to.
Under the bodhi tree, with Da Wei's hurried brushwork dancing like fireflies across the canvas, a quiet moment was etched, not just into paint, but into memory.
The brush whispered across the canvas, a soft, wet rhythm beneath the rustling of the courtyard's leaves. Lantern light glowed amber and gold, casting soft halos around Da Wei's flitting silhouette. He was painting furiously now, strokes quick but deliberate, his brow furrowed as if chasing a fleeting dream he could only capture with each sweep of color.
Xin Yune stood beneath the bodhi tree, her hand still clasped in Nongmin's. His palm was warm, but the quiet pressure of his grip betrayed an inner tremble. She glanced sideways at her son, whose expression betrayed little. The mask of the Emperor still lingered, even now.
And then, a voice entered her mind. Clear, solemn, and spoken in the ethereal tones of Qi Speech… that rare, intimate language of soul to soul.
"Theoretically," Da Wei said as he painted, "I can ensure you live just a bit longer, you know? The spell I used, Divine Word: Life, it could maintain your existence, as long as I cast it… every day."
Xin Yune didn't look away from the tree's leaves above. She watched the way the branches swayed and let the silence stretch before responding in kind.
"No need, Da Wei." Her tone was gentle but firm, like a mother refusing a child's last-minute plea. "I'm tired. I just want to have fun… and go happy. Don't give me false hope."
From his place before the canvas, Da Wei's brush halted mid-stroke. He didn't face her, but his reply came sharp and quietly frustrated.
"That's a bit selfish, no? And how do you know the hope's false… when you haven't even tried?"
Xin Yune closed her eyes briefly and exhaled.
"Thing is…" she responded slowly, "I can be selfish. It's called free will." She gave a faint chuckle, not bitter but worn. "And if your methods really worked, my son would've tried them already. Told me otherwise. Begged you to do it, regardless of what I think. There would be tears and then drama. Then surprise, I get to live after all. But. Truth is. That was never I the cards for me. I am done."
A pause. The wind caught the canvas and fluttered its edge like a turning page.
She continued, softly now. "Knowing Nongmin… If your idea had even a sliver of a chance, he would've seen it already. The same way you summoned him in that abandoned warehouse, you probably asked him to look into the future. Asked him if your spells would work. In fear of ruining the rather nice mood right now, you decided to conspire with my little Nongmin as you tried to make a desperate bid to see a way out. But guess what, it's a dead end."
She didn't need confirmation.
Unlike her son, Xin Yune had always possessed imagination, an abundance of it. Her years as a healer, a mother, a woman who survived wars and betrayals, had not dulled that creative spark. Even without the Heavenly Eye, she could see the hidden shape of things.
And right now, the shape of truth stood quietly in the hand she held.
Suddenly, she felt a tug at her sleeve.
She turned and looked down.
Nongmin was crying.
His face hadn't contorted into a sob. He didn't wail or shake. But his eyes, those golden, calculating, ancient eyes, now shimmered wetly, tears sliding down his cheeks like raindrops over stone.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to.
"…What is it?" Xin Yune asked, softly, though she already knew.
When their eyes met, the mask of the Emperor fell away completely.
He was just a boy.
Her boy.
"I'm sorry," he said so quietly it wasn't clear if he spoke it aloud or with his heart. "I… don't want to see you go."
She pulled him close, wrapping her arms around him without hesitation, pressing his head gently against her shoulder.
"I know," she whispered. "And I'm sorry too."
Behind them, Da Wei said nothing. He only painted, his strokes slower now, more careful, as though he knew the image before him would never come again.
"Done," Da Wei said, his voice quieter than usual.
He stepped away from the massive canvas, his hands stained in streaks of crimson and gold, flecks of azure and green dried at the edges of his sleeves. With careful strength, he grasped the easel and dragged it in a wide arc, rotating it in place until the painting faced them.
Xin Yune stared.
It took her a moment to breathe.
The painting was towering, easily twice Da Wei's height, and vibrant, like something born of a dream. Beneath the old bodhi tree, lit by warm lantern glow, she stood beside Nongmin, hand in hand. The details were stunning. The way her head tilted slightly, the gentle laugh caught in the lines of her smile. The calm tension in her son's shoulders, as if unsure how to act, yet willing to try for her sake.
There were stories woven in the background too. A basket of tanghulu skewers rested at her feet. A few stray petals drifted down from the tree's crown, glowing with a faint, silvery shimmer. Even the bark of the bodhi tree was textured with dozens of carvings: names, hearts, and phrases long faded, etched faintly into the wood. Life, memory, and love—pressed into canvas.
Xin Yune smiled, bittersweet.
"Thank you, Wei," she said, her voice steady despite the crack in her chest.
Da Wei opened his mouth, but no words came. Instead, he looked at her with something unreadable in his eyes. That of half admiration and half grief.
Xin Yune turned to him, her expression gentle. "In life," she said, "there are just… people and things you can only let go."
Da Wei grimaced. "Doesn't mean it's easy."
"No," she agreed, her voice softer than the wind. "But sometimes… letting go is the only way forward."
And then she felt it… a sudden weight against her back, a thud of small arms clumsily wrapping around her waist. Her heart clenched.
"Mom…" Nongmin's voice broke. "Mom…"
She turned, only to see her son crying again, this time no longer hiding it behind imperial stoicism. His grip around her tightened, desperate, trembling.
And then she saw it.
Her left arm, glimmering.
Tiny silver motes of light were unraveling from her skin, drifting up like fireflies to the sky.
It had begun.
"Oh…" she whispered.
Still, she smiled.
With her right arm, the one that remained, she cradled her son close, tucking his head against her shoulder just as she had when he was small.
"My little Emperor," she said, voice warm and full of pride, "you've made your mother so proud. And so very happy."
Her light was spreading now, up her shoulder, along her collarbone.
"But more than that…" she whispered into his hair, "I want you to be happy too. Let this be my dying will, my little Emperor…"
She kissed the top of his head.
"...find a happy ending for you as well."
Her body shimmered, light blooming across her form in slow, rhythmic pulses. Her breath, steady and calm, faded with the last syllable.
And then, gently, softly, Xin Yune dispersed into the wind.
Silver lotus petals scattered where she once stood—weightless, delicate, rising into the air like stars returning to the heavens.
Nongmin fell to his knees, arms wrapped around the emptiness she left behind, the scent of her warmth still clinging to the space.
Da Wei stood still beside them, the painting behind him a living echo of what once was.
And above, beneath the quiet sway of the bodhi tree, the petals of the final lotus danced with grace—her last goodbye.