Chapter 31

Miao Hong’er patted her on the back, handing over some water. “You okay? Did something go down wrong?”
Mu Xue coughed until her face turned completely red, waving her hands frantically.
For Mu Xue, those words felt like a bolt of lightning out of a clear blue sky.
She’d been reborn, slept away a hundred years, and woke up to a world turned upside down.
Everyone kept insisting her once-little disciple had been in love with her all along. At first, she’d brushed it off as idle gossip; just rumors, nothing more. But now, face to face with Xiao Shan, and hearing him, in front of everyone, firmly call her the love of his life, she had nowhere left to hide.
There was no avoiding it. She was finally forced to face the truth.
Mu Xue caught her breath for ages, then quietly climbed out of her senior sister’s arms, sneaking a glance at Cen Qianshan on the other side of the fire.
Beneath his cloak, soft hair fell across his brow, shifting shadows outlining his angular face, while the flickering campfire scattered starlight across those dark eyes.
He seemed utterly lost in the flames, lost in thought about who-knew-what.
Mu Xue realized, deep down, she’d never truly understood what Xiao Shan carried in his heart.
He had always been an unnaturally thoughtful and considerate child. Around her, he was all soft smiles and gentle teasing, organizing every detail of life with perfect care. She’d only ever felt cherished and looked after by him. Honestly, if anything, it was less her taking care of him and more the two of them caring for each other, year after year.
Mu Xue had to admit: in her last life, she’d gotten addicted to artifact refinement and barely spared a thought for the disciple who never needed any care at all.
She had no idea when that little boy suddenly shot up, slender as a bamboo shoot, glowing with a quiet brilliance. She never even noticed when his springwater gaze grew so hot and unwavering.
When did it become love? When did passing fondness root itself deep as obsession, lasting a hundred years?
Mu Xue watched the firelight painting his delicate, drawn features and thought about all those feelings she never once acknowledged, yet he’d kept them close, stubborn and undying, through lifetimes alone.
Yellow sand swept across the earth, wind rushing over endless broken stones, and the campfire's sparks tangled with the fading stars. Uncle Zhong plucked his zither, drawing out a mournful melody that echoed in the endless night, longing scattered across the land.
Miao Hong’er noticed how listless Mu Xue looked. She crouched down beside her, whispering, “What’s wrong? You barely ate a thing at dinner. Don’t like the Eight Treasure Duck?”
“No, not at all!” Mu Xue shook her head fervently. “This is hands-down the best duck I’ve ever tasted. Senior Sister, where on earth did you learn to make it?”
Miao Hong’er paused for a moment. “Actually, Master took me out for this dish when I first joined the sect.”
“When I was little, my hometown was hit by famine one year. So many people starved to death. My younger siblings, my brother and my sister, died back then, too.” She tore off a drumstick and handed it to Mu Xue. “I remember lying there, sure I was about to die myself, when Master showed up, took me in, and asked what I wanted most. I said I wanted to eat Eight Treasure Duck, the most delicious duck in the world.”
Miao Hong’er reached out and ruffled Mu Xue’s hair. Back then, she hadn’t been much older than Mu Xue was now. She even had a little sister, and, although their family was dirt-poor, the two girls were always close, forever chasing each other around the kitchen water vat.
It was ages ago, but she could still remember every moment, clear as yesterday.
That year the famine hit, fields shriveled and homes emptied. Parents sold their kids off, switching sons and daughters for food was nothing unusual.
Weak with hunger, Miao Hong’er sprawled on the battered earthen cot at home, with no will to move at all. She overheard her father whispering with a neighbor in the courtyard.
Soon after, her father stepped inside, eyes flaming red, and took her by the hand. Miao Hong’er followed without protest, already knowing what was about to happen. She was too tired and too hungry to resist. If she died, who knew, maybe it’d save her little sister instead.
But her tiny sister lunged at her, clinging to her legs with every ounce of strength. “No! Big Sis can’t go! If anyone gets eaten, let it be me!”
Those little hands and stick-thin arms, no idea where the strength came from. No matter how their father yelled or beat her, she wouldn’t let go.
He stamped his foot, swiped away his tears, and left. Never came back.
She took her sister to the water jar and filled their bellies with water. They curled up on a heap of firewood, watching a patch of sunlight filter down through the roof tiles.
“I’m so hungry, Sis…”
“Just hold on a bit longer. Tomorrow morning, I’ll go check that pond behind the mountain. Sometimes ducks land there, I might just catch one.” Miao Hong’er, her limbs too heavy to move, started spinning stories for herself and her sister. “Once I get it, I’ll make the world’s best roast duck.”
Her sister swallowed weakly, eyes shining. “I wanna try it so bad… If you catch a duck, can you make it just like the ones in the big restaurants? Juicy drumsticks… just one huge bite…”
“Deal, Eight Treasure Duck. I’ll catch two: one for you, one for me. ...Sis?”
Her tiny sister, all skin and bones, was lying beside her, eyes closing slowly, a faint smile on her face, still dreaming of her sister’s cooking. She never woke up again.
After that, Miao Hong’er’s path was shaped by food, searching the world for new flavors, never quite able to fill the emptiness inside.
“If the Road of the Dead truly lets you see those you've lost, then I’d like to see my little sister one more time too.” Miao Hong’er shared her story with calm composure, but by the time she finished, everyone had fallen silent.
After a long, weighty pause, Fu Yun was the first to get up. “Let’s go, Senior Sister. To the Road of the Dead.”
The Road of the Dead overlapped with the Divine Path. The group pressed forward, following the winding trail of multicolored stones.
Little by little, they realized the path was getting crowded, when had so many begun to walk alongside them?
There were merchants jostling with porters, dignified men in crisp attire, and noblewomen holding parasols. Silver-haired fishermen, tiny children with messy hair; dazzling courtesans and upright young scholars mingled effortlessly in the throng.
All of them wore the same ashen pallor; their bodies faint and translucent. Yet their comings and goings had the lively orderliness of city life, echoing the world of the living down to every detail.
As the last sun dipped low, witching hour approaching, lanterns kindled one by one along the roadside, casting ribbons of light.
At the end of those glowing lanterns loomed the silhouette of an ancient city, grand and indomitable. Its iron-barred walls soared skyward, stretching as far as the eye could see, city limits fading into the haze.
“Hurry, the city gate’s open, better get inside before it closes!” An elderly couple, arms full of travel-worn bundles, hurried past Mu Xue and the others, fingers tightly entwined. Look closely: the husband’s skin barely clinging to his bones, skeleton gleaming through; the wife’s appearance tidy and intact, a newly departed soul.
“Hey, slow down, brother! Wait up for the rest of us!” A squad of armored warriors charged after a lone figure in the distance. Ahead, a bearded man with an arrow through his chest turned to see them, pausing with a helpless, bittersweet smile.
The gathering procession was a mosaic of height, age, body, gender; everyone and anyone joined the stream, and every so often, a hulking, monstrous demon god slipped in, jostling quietly as the strange parade shuffled toward the city.
Uncle Zhong pulled out two strips of spirit money and hooked them over his ears. The moment he did, his aura shifted from vivid life to ghostly chill, indistinguishable from the droves of lost souls shuffling forward.
Fu Yun, Miao Hong’er, and Mu Xue exchanged glances and quickly emulated him, paper charms dangling from their ears.
Cen Qianshan, however, brushed aside the ghost money offered. Instead, he dipped his finger in cinnabar and wrote an arcane line of crimson script through the air. The mysterious symbols shimmered in the empty space, then flew and pressed themselves onto his own face.
The runes started at the corner of his left eye, snaking down his pale skin to his neck, a striking, enigmatic sight.
With his marked eye now open, Cen Qianshan's aura rippled, somewhere behind him, a chilling wail echoed. The spectral figure of a horned ghost king materialized at his back. He summoned its power and slipped seamlessly into the throng of spirits.
“That’s the Six Paths Demonic Wheel Art, it’s hellishly hard to master. Judging by his technique, he must’ve already reached the Hungry Ghost Path, only then can he summon a ghost king to cloak his living presence. Some demonic cultivators really are prodigies these days.” Uncle Zhong praised, then hurried after him.
All around them, the dead shuffled on in their trance, none the wiser that a handful of the living had snuck among them.
At last, they arrived at the city gates. Seated atop the wall was a demon god, chalk-pale and long of face, with a hooked beak for a nose. Crimson wings unfurled at his back. He gripped a heavy rod, unmoving as Cen Qianshan slipped inside. But just as Uncle Zhong and the others approached, the demon’s face twisted in anger, he thumped the rod sharply against the brick, blocking their way.
“This is the Road of the Dead. The living may not enter.”
His voice had an odd, unsettling rhythm; heavy with authority, it pressed on their hearts, making defiance feel unthinkable.
Uncle Zhong didn’t bat an eye. He calmly pulled three thin signal incense sticks, lit them, and planted them in the earth. Their delicate fragrance rose in soft blue ribbons, smoke curling to the clouds above.
The demon god sniffed, blinking in surprise, then inhaled deeply, his expression noticeably lightening.
Uncle Zhong produced a tucked-away roll of gold and silver paper ingots, setting them ablaze until they crumbled to ash.
“Living, are you? At least you have some manners.” The demon broke into a greedy grin, nostrils twitching as he greedily sucked in the fumes.
Two more rolls burned away, and Uncle Zhong, noting the guard’s improved mood, discreetly signaled Fu Yun and the others to walk on through the gate.
The demon was far too busy basking in incense and offerings to bother stopping them any further; he simply pretended not to see.
The city gates loomed impossibly high, the doors nearly scraping the sky, with only a bright, narrow strip open in the center. Standing beneath them, you felt both how vast the world truly was, and how impossibly small you yourself became.
Uncle Zhong, Senior Brother Fu, and Senior Sister Miao each stepped through the gleaming light beneath the gate. Mu Xue followed in their footsteps.
Just moments before, the city gates had been plunged in murk and chaos, but with a single step, the world spun.
Gone were the billowing sand and the crush of the dead, their noise faded into utter silence.
The world was bright. Still.
Mu Xue blinked, and found herself standing in a quiet courtyard of whitewashed walls and blue-tiled eaves. There was a well, a gourd trellis, an old swing, a creaky wooden rocking horse.
Though she’d never set foot here before, everything about it tugged at the edge of her memories, oddly familiar.
A young woman with a woolen shawl draped around her shoulders stood in the courtyard, smiling and holding out her arms to Mu Xue.
“Xue’er, my dear Xue’er.”
“Mother?” Mu Xue murmured, lost and bewildered. A second later, she was swept up in a warm embrace.
Her mother’s shawl was soft as clouds against her skin, smelling sweetly of peace and home. Vivid memories, long thought forgotten, came flooding back,
In the freezing shadows of Fuwang City, a hungry, shivering orphan had once desperately longed for arms like these.
During those long years of study, lashed raw by her Master’s whip and forced to kneel, it was this embrace she’d secretly cried out for, over and over.
And in the wilds overrun by monsters, after some bloody battle, lying half-dead in the snow and ice, she'd dreamed of nothing more than this warmth, this shelter.
Year after year, the child in her had learned not to hope, struggled to stand alone in the harshness of life. She’d convinced herself she was strong, that the childish longing was gone forever, that she’d outgrown such dreams.
It wasn't until this very moment, wrapped in her mother's embrace, that she finally let out a long sigh, realizing deep down she'd always longed for this, always hoped for it, no matter how many years had passed.
"I'm so sorry, Xiao Xue. I left you all alone in this world when you were just a child. My sweet girl, you've suffered so much." Her mother's gentle voice sounded above her head.
Mu Xue looked up; her mother's face was exactly as she remembered, as if pieced together perfectly from memory.
"Mother, why did you teach me the secret art?" This was the question that had weighed on her heart for so many years.
If her mother hadn’t passed down the Infinite Rebirth Cycle Secret Art, she wouldn’t have to appear here on the edge of the netherworld. She could’ve, like Mu Xue, enjoyed endless cycles of rebirth, lifetimes upon lifetimes to seek the Great Dao, eventually ascending, and attaining eternal life.
What could possibly be worth giving up such a supreme, unrivaled happiness?
Her mother stroked her hair and smiled, gentle and warm. "There are countless paths to the Dao. Everyone has to make their own choice. Maybe, one day, you’ll understand, there are things in this world just as precious as that ultimate Dao you seek."
"To me, Xiao Xue, you are my Great Dao. My lovely daughter, you matter more than all the treasures in the world."
Her mother's warm features began to blur.
Mu Xue opened her eyes and found she was past the gate, lying on the steps inside the city wall. The others were still inside, only Cen Qianshan was sitting beside her, keeping watch.
She sat up and reached to touch her cheek, her fingers came away damp.
"Wait… I was crying?" she said in disbelief.
Cen Qianshan glanced back at her, remaining silent.
Only that clumsy tin puppet, powered by spiritual energy, chugged laboriously up the steps. When it reached Mu Xue's feet, it raised all four limbs in a ridiculously exaggerated gesture, then deliberately tumbled down the steps, sprawling flat at the bottom.
Mu Xue burst out laughing.
This had always been her favorite game, as a child, she’d watch her squat, chubby puppet work so hard to climb the stairs, and then, with a flick to its tiny forehead, send it tumbling down two or three steps.
Every time, the puppet would put on an over-the-top performance, letting out a pitiful "ow!" and splaying itself like a starfish, playing dead until she couldn't stop laughing.
"Thank you. I feel much better now." Mu Xue wiped away her tears. "I saw my mother in there… behind the door."
"I didn’t see her." Cen Qianshan spoke up suddenly. He sat on the steps, elbows on knees, long fingers gently twitching as he controlled the puppet, his face as unreadable as ever.
Mu Xue felt a little guilty, of course you didn’t see me, because I was right here all along.
"For us demonic cultivators, dying to a heavenly tribulation usually means utter obliteration, body, soul, Dao, everything vanishes." Cen Qianshan flicked a finger, guiding the little tin puppet toward him. "I tried everything to gather Master’s soul, but nothing worked. Yet just before, her soul appeared before me, perfect and whole."
He turned to Mu Xue. "Do you know why?"
Mu Xue: "...Huh? Me?"
Thankfully, Cen Qianshan didn’t really expect her to answer.
The tin puppet wobbled closer to him, and he caught it in his palm with one decisive motion.
His long lashes lowered as he gazed at the tiny puppet, almost muttering to himself, "No matter what, I’ll find Master. This time, I won’t let her leave me again."