The kiss was like a fire, burning his very soul— Bian Yonglan had never known this cold and aloof man could radiate such feeling when truly passionate.

　They had shared intimate moments before, and he’d thought he understood his strength, his warmth. Yet this kiss sent him reeling, utterly disoriented. When he finally caught his breath, he uttered a word for the first time in his life: “Don’t…”

　“Lanlan, do you realise that saying ‘don’t’ sounds like you’re coaxing me?”

　The sound of the monk’s voice was deep but his movements gentle. As he spoke, clothing became undone, silk sashes parted softly. Clothes mingled indistinguishably, sliding to the ground together, while two figures entwined, also indistinguishable.

　Under the canopy of the sky, moonlight carpeted like snow—no, more than snow. Even real snow would have melted away amidst their tangled forms.

　Bian Yonglan lay upon his own robe, feeling himself transformed into something akin to thin cloth—a robe was at least a piece of fabric, but he had become a thin sheet of cloth, held in someone’s palm, crumpled and flattened, smoothed only to be crumpled again, as if every thread and weft were to be pulled out and pinched between fingertips.

　He said ‘don’t’, yet it was only a word spoken in a panic. What followed was merely whispered whines—don’t want this, don’t want that, yet both this and that offered endless delight.

　Desire flows like water, formless until it meets the mountains, tracing the shape of the mountain as it flows—he drew his head down, whispering softly into his ear, describing the contour of those mountains.

　“Yonglan…” The monk ceased being a monk, becoming merely an ordinary man. With a low sigh, he too pressed his lips to the ear, whispering to the man beneath him, telling him how high the mountain rose, how deep the water ran, and how utterly blissful he felt.

　Like torn silk, like ripped brocade. Silky smooth, fiery hot. Like a waterfall cascading from the heavens, fierce and unrestrained.

　He no longer said ‘don’t’. He wanted—desired but could not. His eyes nearly blurred with tears as he gazed at him, pleading softly: “Dashi… deliver me…”

　“Deliver you where?” The monk bowed his head instead, kissing his damp brow and eyes with meticulous care, refuting him with a kiss for each word. “My Yonglan, from this day forth, you shall remain by my side. You shall go nowhere.”

　In this world there is a saying: better to destroy ten temples than to a single marriage.

　The Buddha does not deliver from yearning, nor does he destroy fated marriage. When the two lay exhausted and asleep, a strange sight suddenly appeared in between heaven and earth. For over thirty years he lived among mortals, yet never once in his life did Tanshan ever dream.

　It seemed as though he were born incapable of dreaming, yet in this strange realm, he finally dreamt. And in that single dream, he dreamt ten thousand years.

　Amidst this strange realm, spiritual qi suddenly coalesced into celestial flowers.

　Resembling orchids and lotuses, yet fleeting as short-lived night-blooming cereus[1]—this realm’s true qi had been bestowed by a Golden Immortal. After a million years, it had fused with the very fabric of this world, unable to return to the immortal being’s body. Yet, sensing his divine arrival, it instantly transformed into floral forms, a myriad flowers blooming and fading in unison as an offering.

　When Bian Yonglan woke, the sky was already bright. He smoothed his robes and, seeing the monk still fast asleep, went alone to the streamside to wash.

　The vegetation here remained evergreen, neither withering nor fading. As Bian Yonglan cupped water to rinse his face, he glanced upstream and saw a blossoming tree above the stream. A single flower drifted down and was carried by the flowing water to rest in his hand.

　Bian Yonglan cradled the flower and returned to the ancient tree beneath which they had slept entwined. There he found the monk already dressed, though perhaps somewhat dazed from waking, eyes lowered as if lost in thought.

　“Here. For you.” A gentle breeze brushed past. Standing in the dawn air and morning dew, Bian Yonglan smiled as he offered the monk a flower. “Since you gave me the prayer beads, this Marquis in turn will also give you gift.”

　The words had barely left his lips when the Marquis of Wanjiang felt a blush of embarrassment. Having committed all manner of absurd acts, why was he suddenly feeling shy now? “… This flower wasn’t just carelessly plucked by my hands, but fell of its own accord. It seems willing to lend itself to this Marquis’s offering to the Buddha.”

　Resembling magnolia, yet not magnolia—this realm knew no earthly magnolias, yet bore flowers mirroring their form. Plump petals like purple jade rested upon his fingertips.

　Bian Yonglan watched as the monk lifted his eyes slightly. For some reason, he seemed to hesitate for a moment before reaching out to take the flower.

　He didn’t know why the monk had hesitated, nor did he have time to think too deeply. His heart and eyes were filled only with the beauty before him—the monk’s slightly raised gaze held so much, too much emotion, so profound it seemed to possess weight, gathering heavily in his eyes and finally settling at the corners. Those naturally lowered corners were weighed down by that emotion, as if unable to bear the burden, preventing his gaze from lifting even a fraction.

　Then the monk smiled—and with that smile, his countenance truly became stunningly exquisite, beautiful as a true immortal.

　“You were born an immortal. Immortals must not meddle in worldly affairs.”

　A dream spanning ten thousand years, ten thousand years before the mortal realm. A Golden Immortal stood far beyond the heavens, witnessing this world where sentient beings had just begun to awaken to wisdom, yet were destined for suffering and ruin. For within the mortal realm, another realm was newly born. The two realms could not coexist. The mortal realm was a scene of utter desolation. Those newly enlightened beings struggled desperately amidst celestial fires, earth-shattering quakes, and raging floods. As insignificant as dust, they nevertheless dared, in their dust-like form, to challenge the heavens and earth.

　Heaven had its own laws, immortals their own laws. Yet a passing immortal chose to defy heaven for this mortal realm. With a flick of his wrist, he conjured a writing brush and inkstone. Drawing upon the essence of his own heart’s blood, he dipped the brush in crimson to write the characters ‘Chang’an’ upon the sacred inkstone, sealing the newly born realm within its depths.

　The inkstone transformed into a seal, descending to the mortal realm alongside the divine brush. Though the immortal’s stroke could determine the fate of the universe, he refused to favour any one realm. Thus, he bestowed all the spiritual power of his golden body upon the heavens and earth within that seal. As one who attained the rank of immortal through the Way of Compassion, his Dao-heart remained steadfast throughout the ages. Whether or not he could withstand Heaven’s punishment was not within his divine thoughts.

　“Since you insist on saving this mortal realm, then become mortal yourself.”

　The heavenly retribution arrived in an instant, yet heavenly law sighed softly, condemning him only to fall into the mortal world. Evidently, even the heavens showed mercy, willing to spare a sliver of life for this most holy and benevolent immortal.

　Yet he was not the only divine being cast down. Within the newly born realm, a primordial spirit of heaven and earth had emerged. Though devoid of divine essence or intellect, it too seemed to harbour a sense of unwillingness. As the seal was cast, a sliver of its true qi broke free, plunging into the mortal world alongside the immortal. Without anchor or sustenance, it should have perished in this mortal realm.

　“…………”

　The immortal, unable to bear witnessing this fragment of primordial spirit disappear, sought out a human infant born without soul or spirit. With the last thread of his divine consciousness, he aided it in forming the three hun and seven po of a mortal being. Thus, the consciousness of a true immortal was consigned to eternal slumber.

　The infant, now endowed with hunpo, let out a cry—for all human children must wail at birth. Yet this child’s cry seemed somehow different from others.

　For a fleeting moment, he glimpsed a pair of eyes. It felt as though a pair of eyes had gazed deeply at him for the last time, in the blink of an eye. Within that single glance lay pity and affection.

　He wept for that single glance of compassion, and wept until he forgot—now whole with three hun and seven po, destined to live life after life as mortal, he remembered nothing more.

　Though a Golden Immortal’s power could seal an entire realm, not even an immortal could sever two worlds utterly.

　Two thousand years passed, five thousand years passed, seven thousand years passed. The sealing power gradually faded and vanished. Yet at the foot of Bigan Peak, an old man and a young man, a teacher and a disciple, slowly approached. The Golden Immortal, though his divine consciousness had long since fallen silent, still held in his heart the blood essence that refused to forget its duty to protect this mortal realm. Thus, from the tip of his brush, two drops of residual blood transformed into two human forms.

　These forms took on the compassionate visage this mortal realm recognised. The two disciples possessed no memories of their immortal origins, remembering only one sealing technique, one path of contemplation, and one innate cultivation method bearing a name from birth.

　That cultivation method was called the Aspects of All Beings.

　“Do you know where Heaven’s retribution fell?”

　A sighing question echoed in the dream. Upon awakening, the monk understood the answer.

　He had attained the rank of Immortal through the Path of Compassion, yet interfered in human affairs with his immortal form. Heaven punished him because that transcendent, lofty compassion defied the true meaning of compassion—so Heaven decreed he must experience the human world, witness all beings, observe people, understand people, become human, and contemplate…

　You have become human, are you still willing to save others?

　Tanshan lifted his eyes slightly, accepting a flower—before him stood not multitudes, only this one person alone.

　After three millennia of cycles, he had finally, for this one person, truly become human.

　At last, he had become a person. Joy filled his heart, for this one had walked towards him through the dawn breeze and morning dew, cheeks flushed, smiling as he offered him a flower.

　Anger filled his heart, for he understood the choice Heaven had left him—a choice that had awaited him for ten thousand years.

　Sorrow filled his heart, for in accepting that flower, he had given his choice, which had waited ten thousand years, a final, settled answer.

　Fear filled his heart, not for the fate he had chosen, but for the one he cherished and guarded within his heart… He had wished for that one to live a life free of sorrow, a life of joy, a life ignorant of what grief and suffering meant… Yet it seemed this wish could not be fulfilled.

　Hatred filled his heart, precisely for this mortal world he was willing to sacrifice himself to protect… Was this mortal world… was it worthy?

　Yet he also had desire in his heart: having become human, he finally understood people.

　Selfishness, greed, his Yonglan… Should have been forever remembered, forever unchanged, ever present in his heart, year after year by his side; pain and regret, envy and longing—had he known this day would come, he would rather never have seen himself, never remembered a single fragment of himself… Those mortal companions fortunate enough to share a lifetime in this world, to grow old together hand in hand. Truly, at this very moment, they earned the envy of the immortals. And then there was affection and love. Only after becoming human did he comprehend human love, neither grasping nor letting go, regardless of the consequences.

　It turned out that so-called love was simply this: on an ordinary morning, he took a flower from a hand.

　He looked, understood, smiled, then took the flower. He made a choice, scaled the precipice of a single thread of heaven—the monk plucked the flower, smiled, and attained Buddhahood instantly.

　“…Yonglan, come.”

　The Buddha spoke the word ‘come,’ yet stepped forward himself, positioning himself before the man.

　He lowered his head, leaning in to kiss him deeply and tenderly—Bian Yonglan watched as Tanshan bent down, his lips meeting his own with a smile. Instinctively, he closed his eyes, yet a flicker of unease unexpectedly crossed his heart.

　Why was he uneasy?

　He asked himself this, and in that instant of closing his eyes, he seemed to glimpse the depth of affection in the other’s gaze. It was profound, so weighty that it solidified into tangible form, becoming…

　Bian Yonglan opened his eyes, staring fixedly at the figure before him. His own eyes held no trace of affection now, only utter bewilderment.

　He had no time to ask this stranger, “Who are you?” before the next instant, his form vanished entirely from this fake realm.

　The True Buddha raised his hand, using his golden body as a conduit and karmic force as his pledge. With palms pressed together and eyes closed in a smile, he accomplished what had eluded him ten thousand years prior—breaking the seal upon this realm. Now, the two realms seemingly neither close nor distant, as fragile as a pile of eggs, were awaiting his next choice.

　If he were born as a human and was still willing to save others, then Heaven’s Will would have granted this true compassion, permitting him to temporarily fashion a golden body, sacrificing one life to save countless others for the second time. Had he refused to save them, no punishment would have followed; the penalty had been paid ten thousand years prior. Henceforth, each realm would abide by its own destiny. When they converged again, one realm would endure, the other perish.

　Having attained Buddhahood, he chose the path of compassionate salvation. Beneath Heaven’s Will, this is the only true Buddha who has been cultivated in all the realms of the heavens. With a smile on his face, raised his hands in prayer, and with his own strength, severed the two realms utterly. Henceforth, each would endure in lasting peace.

　To undertake such an act of defying heaven and altering fate was to court the inevitable consequence: the shattering of his golden body and the extinction of his divine soul. Ten thousand years ago, Heaven’s Will might have shown a measure of leniency towards a True Immortal; ten thousand years later, even the True Buddha was beyond its aid.

　Yet, between the reformation of his golden body and its complete disintegration, he remained the sole True Buddha across all realms. With his Buddha-form, he kissed a mortal, sealing away his memories, bestowing upon him the merit of saving the world, and sent him back to the mortal realm.

　The Buddha left chang’an[2] for the two realms, bestowed merit upon mankind, and for himself—a single tear.

　Only a single tear finally fell to the earth.

　As the tear touched the ground, mountains and rivers wept in sorrow.

---

[1] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Night-blooming_cereus

[2] This sentence here actually reads as: The Buddha left a ‘long peace for the two realms,’ which is what 长安 means