Following the reverberation of the strings, Tanshan pursued not just the seal, but the man himself—Xia Chunqiu must have devised some method to conceal the Chang’an Seal, else he wouldn’t have gone undetected for days after stealing it. Yet this old man, having once disrupted the qi at the foot of Ma Mountain, was a living soul with a complete hunpo[1]. Such a being could not entirely evade a monk’s discernment and deduction.

　Truthfully, anyone who had crossed paths with Tanshan could be roughly traced by the monk’s observation and deduction.

　Yet now, standing on a busy limestone street, Tanshan’s divinations yielded no clue as to Bian Yonglan’s whereabouts.

　A day before Xia Chunqiu had produced the seal for Wu-laoban’s close examination. The Chang’an Seal, deeply intertwined with the heavenly and earthly qi currents, immediately caught Tanshan’s attention.

　The two had been galloping northward at full speed. They rode through the night to reach Wandang Town, arriving at noon as a fine misty rain fell from the sky.

　Jiangnan is rainy, and even if it rains it does little to hinder the daily bustle of life. People streamed in and out of the town, an endless stream.

　“Aiyo, my apologies! The rain makes the ground slippery—I wasn’t paying attention.” Bian Yonglan and Tanshan were leading their horses into town when they saw someone stumble as they passed. Instinctively, Bian reached out to steady him.

　The man wore a conical bamboo hat and a short tunic, carrying a bamboo basket on his back. The basket exuded a medicinal scent accumulated over years. Seeing the small knife and short spade tucked at his waist, the Marquis of Wanjiang knew this was someone heading out to gather medicinal herbs.

　“The mountain paths are even more slippery. You should be more careful.” Bian Yonglan offered the warning kindly. Only after the man had walked a good distance away did he turn to the monk and ask, “Are all the people in this town… alive?”

　“They are all living beings.”

　“Then I can rest assured.” The Marquis of Wanjiang pretending to pat his heart, clearly unwilling to relive the events of Mashan Town.

　Upon entering the town, Tanshan realized neither Xia Chunyu nor his seal were here. But as the rain grew heavier, the two didn’t rush onward. They found a tea pavilion to shelter from the storm, planning to depart after lunch.

　Amidst the busy crowd beneath the pavilion eaves, Bian Yonglan couldn’t discuss important matters with the monk. Instead, he engaged in casual conversation: “Do you know what Lihu Lake is most famous for? Oh, you wouldn’t know. The lake’s silver fish are its greatest claim to fame—you won’t find them anywhere else.”

　The silver fish of Lake Li were celebrated as ‘fish ginseng[2].’ Each measured only two to three cun, their bodies gleaming silver, tender and boneless. Whether stewed, simmered in broth, deep-fried, or steamed, they were incomparably delicious. A literati who had once tasted them had penned a poem of ‘at the mercy of silver blossoms[3].’

　Yet these fish cannot survive long in any ordinary water outside Lihun Lake. To savour their freshest flavour, one must either dine by the lake itself or, like the Marquis of Wanjiang, rely on sheer luck—during the reign of the late emperor, every sixth month the governor of Kuaiji commandry would dispatch messengers on swift horses, with riders changing shifts day and night to escort barrels of fish, kept alive in water from Lihu Lake to the capital. After the Crown Prince ascended the throne, he practiced frugality and abolished this custom.

　Knowing the town held no interesting sights, the Marquis of Wanjiang could think of nothing but eating. Smiling, he remarked to the monk that he must order a fish soup for lunch.

　“It’s the season when silver fish spawn now,” the old man pouring tea chimed in, “but hardly anyone dares to catch them, for fear of depleting the stocks. If the young gongzi truly wishes to taste them, you’ll have to try your luck at the fish market. Someone’s bound to have caught a barrel or two, hoping to sell them at a premium. Head over now, and you might still be in time.”

　“Alright, I’ll try my luck then,” Bian Yonglan rose, patting the monk’s shoulder. He glanced at Linu, who had closed its eyes pretending to sleep, likely unwilling to brave the rain, and smiled gently. “Since you can’t even eat fish, there’s no point dragging you out to smell the fishy air. Stay here, drink tea, and wait for me. I’ll be back soon.”

　But this trip took more than half a shichen. Previously at the inn when this man had also promised to ‘be right back’ and vanished for more than half a shichen, the monk had waited calmly, sipping tea and listening to the rain.

　But as the rain grew heavier then eased off again, Tanshan saw Bian Yonglan still hadn’t returned. He inquired about the fish market’s location and set out to find him.

　He found no trace of him at the fish market. Returning to the tea pavilion, he was still nowhere to be seen. The monk sensed something amiss, yet unlike ordinary people, he did not search aimlessly like a house fly. Instead, he stood at the street corner, his right hand forming a mudra, opening his mind to divine the situation.

　One attempt yielded nothing; another attempt still yielded nothing.

　A hint of urgency finally crept onto the monk’s face, yet he could only allow himself to feel urgency but not panic. Tanshan closed his eyes again and carefully pushed through his consciousness once more. His connection with Bian Yonglan went far beyond ‘mere interaction.’ He refused to believe that this man had gone to some place in the world where even he could not reach him.

　And yet, he could not perceive him—Tanshan lowered his right hand, feeling a hollow space within his heart. After the emptiness came a startled realisation: opening his eyes, his gaze fell upon his left hand. There, wrapped around his little finger, was a small piece of red thread. When it had been tied there, he had no idea.

　This red thread was not a physical object, but rather a strand of karmic connection, like the countless strings of qi in the world. Ordinary people could never see it.

　One end of that red thread was tied to the monk’s little finger, the other stretching into the void. Yet it broke before extending less than a zhang.

　Tanshan knew this was because between him and that man, such a karmic bond should never have existed.

　Decades passed, dozens of meetings occurred, and only after he said it did this tiny segment of red thread emerge.

　“Tanshan, life is but a few short decades. To meet but a few dozen times is still a lifetime. What you promised me was a vow for an entire lifetime.”

　But the moment the monk thought these words, the segment of karmic red thread suddenly surged outward by several zhang, pointing straight toward the town’s outskirts.

　 “…Bian Yonglan, a lifetime vow—I promise.”

　Tanshan uttered this promise, word by word, in his heart. A pledge he had never shared with anyone, nor could he share with anyone. With each syllable spoken within his heart, the red thread grew another zhang, guiding the monk toward the direction of the person he sought.

　As the rain eased, the streets grew busier once more. Passersby couldn’t help but give the monk a second look. Though his features remained hidden beneath his bamboo hat and bowed head, clad in his monk’s robe and standing in the rain, he radiated an air of ‘unblemished by worldly chaos, untouched by earthly desires.’

　Yet none could know that this ‘unblemished by worldly chaos’ monk, standing in the street rain, held no Buddha in his heart—he was wholly, earnestly, devoted to loving one person.

　Is loving someone difficult?

　If one is willing to, it is not difficult.

　At this very moment, all the gods and Buddhas within the monk’s heart stepped back one by one, almost reverently clearing a path for a mere mortal. They respectfully cleared a path for a mortal to walk step by step to the Buddha’s side.

　He thought of his hands, his kisses, the fiery warmth in his chest that spread like a vine, scorching his palms.

　He recalled his loose hair. Each one beautiful, yet fragile in its beauty, begging to be cradled in the palm of one’s hand, cherished and treasured.

　It wasn’t that he couldn’t bear to see his heart break; it was that he couldn’t bear to part with him.

　Could you bear to see him weep? Would you be willing to let him taste the hardships he didn’t ask for?

　If he dared to kiss your lips, could you bear not to kiss him back?

　Beneath the moonlight in the inn, atop the cliff’s wind, did you ever, even for a moment, consider… that you too might wish to kiss him?

　Gods and Buddhas withdrew one by one, yet still persisted in their relentless questioning: —You have pledged yourself to my side, how can you harbour personal affection?

　Then a blade flashed—that mortal stepped beside the Buddha’s disciple, not looking back, not turning, not glancing at the gods and Buddhas. He drew a sword and swung it backward. With that single stroke, all the celestial deities were cleaved apart, each one shattering into smoke and dust.

　All court officials knew the Marquis of Wanjiang possessed three unmatched talents: a carefree and unrestrained nature, unconventional way of speaking, and peerless swordsmanship.

　Bian Yonglan’s swordsmanship was indeed extraordinary—so extraordinary that with a single stroke, he severed the Buddha’s disciple from the mortal realm.

　When Tanshan lifted his eyes again, he saw the crimson thread had stretched hundreds of zhang, pointing precisely toward the west—a bond that could never be washed away, burned, or severed. Mutual affection and a lifetime’s vow had forged their union.

　Just now, it was fulfilled—a thousand li bond tied by a single red thread.

　“You… I…”

　Five days later, Xia Chunqiu rushed back to the southwest with his disciple, traveling day and night. The moment he stepped into his private residence, a servant announced, “A friend of yours has been waiting for you here for several days.”

　Though Xia Chunqiu was never one to startle easily, upon seeing Wu Miaomiao, he found himself at a loss for words. After catching his breath twice, he pointed to the bed in the guest room and exclaimed, “I told you to track him cautiously, not to capture him! Why did you seize him!”

　“Little friend, please calm down. Listen to me,” Wu Miaomiao was genuinely unhurried, “The day after you left, I realised you were right. Leaving early or late made no difference. So I pretended to go mountain herb gathering. But when I reached the town entrance, I ran right into your shizhi and this young gongzi. I feigned a slip, stumbled closer to get a look…”

　 “Get to the point!”

　“Why the rush? The important part is coming,” said Wu-laoban, pointing to Bian Yonglan on the bed, bound like a zongzi[4] with iron chains. “This man has a primordial qi from my hometown within his soul. Can neither you nor your shizhi see it?”

　“…What did you say?”

　“It’s not merely a strand within his soul—his three hun and seven po have grown intertwined around that thread of primordial qi.” Wu Miaomiao gestured with his hands. “If that thread of qi were a tree, his mortal three hun and seven po would be vines twining around it. When the vines grow too dense, you might not see the tree itself, but I can recognize it at a glance. It’s like how human infants, even before they understand anything, can recognize their own mothers—it’s an innate kinship of blood.”

　 “…………”

　“This gongzi visited my homeland and indeed absorbed the karmic energies of both realms into his soul. Yet if used to activate a seal, it pales in comparison to this strand of primordial qi,” Wu Miaomiao observed the old monk’s furrowed brow and pensive expression, assuming he hadn’t grasped his meaning. He elaborated further, “The true qi in my homeland far surpasses that of the mortal world. But to find true qi here? It’s like taking all the water from the East Sea to brew a single bowl of medicine. Do you grasp how rare this qi is? Who knows when this strand even made its way down to the mortal realm…”

　“My shizhi is deeply attached to this man, likely precisely because he knows this secret,” the old monk shook his head slightly, recalling the strange beast that had once devoured his gu whole. “He keeps a small creature resembling a lynx by his side. It seems…”

　“Not seems—it’s another from my world. But that child can’t even speak a coherent sentence. If compared to human children, he’s still a toddler of two or three.” At this point, Wu-laoban suddenly seemed to recall something and warned sternly, “We have enough humans to open the seal. Don’t you dare set your sights on that child—our world isn’t like yours. Every life that awakens its divine consciousness is precious. There’s no reason for us to slaughter each other. It’s nothing like you humans.” Wu-laoban shot Xia Chunqiu a glance and muttered, “Don’t take me for a fool. If sacrificing your disciple hadn’t worked to open the seal, you’d have turned your attention to me. If you care so little for human lives, how much less would you value other beings? Am I right?”

　Xia Chunqiu smiled, neither confirming nor denying. He simply asked, “How many days did you wait for me? How did you get ahead of me?”

　“Three days and a bit. Unexpected, yes?” Boss Wu said smugly. “I can’t easily tap into the spiritual qi of your mortal realm, but if I’m willing to expend a bit of my true qi, I can still cast spells to conceal my qi and shrink distances. Don’t let my appearance fool you—I’m meticulous in my work. Since I dared capture someone, I won’t let your shizhi track me down.”

　“Hard to say. My shizhi is aloof and detached. If he truly doesn’t suspect anything amiss with this man, he’d likely search for the seal before looking for the person. Right now, he’s probably still chasing after me,” Xia Chunqiu said, hands behind his back. “There’s no need to wait for the right moment. I’ll go see the prince now and tell him the favour I promised him will be done tomorrow—with this man as the array’s focal point, do we have a seventy percent chance of opening the seal?”

　“If I said I was absolutely certain, you wouldn’t believe me, but I’m eighty to ninety percent sure,” Wu Miaomiao nodded. “You’re not a native spirit from my homeland, so you don’t understand—though the true qi itself lacks consciousness, all living things in my homeland owe their existence to its grace… Ai, we only need to break the seal for a moment. Tomorrow, you must spare this man’s life. Since the true qi dwells within his soul, if he were to die, I would be committing the grave sin of parricide’.”

　Bian Yonglan lay on the bed, utterly unable to recall how he had lost consciousness. He only knew that when he opened his eyes, he found himself bound tightly with iron chains.

　For two days, servants tended to him diligently, yet no one dared utter a word. Only after listening with closed eyes to this exchange did he grasp why he’d been brought here—the proud Marquis of Wanjiang would never admit he’d been captured by a demon.

　“Mother—no, Father, I know you’re awake,” the demon, well-versed in filial piety, said. The words ‘parricide’ brought sorrow flooding over him. He turned, knelt before the bed with a thud, and mimicked a kowtow, saying, “It is me who has wronged you. Please do not blame me.”

　“…………”

　“Well, in terms of seniority, you are my ancestor,” Wu Miaomiao calculated the generations after finishing the kowtow, realising he was over stepping. He hastily added, “Ancestor, I did not take your life. If there is any fault to be found, at most I would smash your memorial tablet. Please do not hold it against me.”

　“…………”

　The Marquis of Wanjiang finally grasped the situation—this creature kneeling by his bedside, kowtowing to him, was likely not human. He rolled over in bed, let out a cold laugh, and couldn’t be bothered to engage in a war of words with it. Who would compete with something not human, who was worse at speaking human language?

---

[1] Hunpo is a complete soul. A soul is made up of three hun 魂 and seven po 魄 in Chinese philosophy and religion. The hun are immortal souls which are the heavenly, earthly and human souls and leave the body after death. The po are corporeal forms which control the emotions, and remain with the body after death.

[2] Ginseng was traditionally used for medicinal properties, believed to boost energy, reduce fatigue and improve mental clarity.

[3] 银花脍鱼肥 , meant in an almost seductive way

[4] A traditional dish, glutinous rice stuffed with different fillings and wrapped in bamboo leaves