In the dream, a white-robed elder's voice echoed solemnly: "The enlightenment most mortals seek is born of suffering. When pain exceeds endurance, they sever ties rather than release them. Thus they swing between stubborn attachment and hollow renunciation, boasting of wisdom and virtue—yet never ask: What does your heart truly desire?"
A waterfall thundered over jagged rocks, its roar drowning all other sounds.
Ming Xuan hovered between sleep and wakefulness, the elder's words lingering as he dreamed of lying on a sun-warmed boulder. When consciousness fully returned, he found himself in a wooden hut, the bubbling of cooking broth blending with the endless rush of water outside. For a disoriented moment, he thought he'd left the mortal world behind.
He tried to sit up. His wounds had mostly healed—no critical damage remained. The hut was simple but fragrant with fresh-cut timber; neatly stacked firewood and an orderly cupboard spoke of human habitation. Yet... an undertone of grave soil clung to the air. Following the sound of water, he stepped outside.
A waterfall cascaded ahead, not tall but fierce, its plunge churning the pool below. The hut stood on the opposite bank, where a pot of radish soup simmered over a fire.
The grave scent intensified.
"You're awake."
Ming Xuan turned. A woman stood there—hair black as ink, skin pale as snow, lips like cinnabar, eyes deep with compassion. She wore white robes like frost over a scarlet skirt, her wooden sandals silent on the earth. Her movements held an otherworldly grace, as if she were a deity descended to mortal realms. Yet Ming Xuan sensed a profound sorrow in her, rootless and hollow, like a fading god bound by duty.
One glance, and his soul trembled. This is fate.
For now, she was simply his savior.
"I am Luo Shuizhan," she said. A traveler who'd built this hut as a temporary refuge. Two days prior, she'd found him near death not far from here and brought him back.
She ladled out two bowls of soup, passing one to him.
"You were badly wounde"You were badly wounded when I found you. I used herbal paste to stop the bleeding—has it helped?"
Ming Xuan trusted her inexplicably. He drained the bowl and bowed in thanks.
She waved it off with a smile, then studied him. "You're not human, are you?"
With a flick of her wrist, a longbow materialized in her grip, its surface glowing white—a magical weapon, one that recognized his nature. Before he could speak, she snapped her fingers. His hair flashed from black to silver.
"I was cast into this world against my will," he said, meeting her gaze as he downed a cup of tea. His voice was steel wrapped in frost. "You saved me. I've no way to repay you. I expected you'd kill me the moment you knew."
Shuizhan dropped the bow and stepped closer. "I won't." She tilted her head. "Now, little demon—who are you?"
After his account, she walked to the waterfall's edge, her back to him as he changed clothes. For a long time, she watched the torrent, its droplets shattering like jade against the rocks.
Ming Xuan joined her. The spray dampened her sleeves as they stood in wordless harmony, the moment stretching like the river itself—endless and serene.
Finally, Shuizhan spoke, her voice a mountain stream weaving through stone. She began her story.