Chapter 292: The Norm of the Mortal Realm

When the tongkao finished whispering into his ear, Wen Daolun nodded thoughtfully. The tongkao then drew close to the pale azure incense and took several more greedy sips of smoke before she finally, and very reluctantly, drifted back into the piece of seabed wood that served as her home.

Wen Daolun’s expression turned serious. “It’s no wonder you felt almost nothing. She couldn’t enter your spiritual sea at all.”

“Why not?”

“Every person’s spiritual sea has some instinctive layer of defense. It’s a natural barrier that rejects intruders. My tongkao only looks like a child, her yin age[1] is over three hundred years old. Slipping into someone else’s spiritual sea is normally a trivial matter for her.” Wen Daolun’s eyes glinted with curiosity. “But she just told me that the outermost layer of your spiritual sea is a maze. She lost her way several times and nearly couldn’t find her way back out.”

“A maze?” That answer was so far from what He Lingchuan had expected that he was stuck staring for a moment. “She couldn’t just force her way through?”

“You want her to force her way in?” Wen Daolun gave a short laugh. “If she tried to smash through and disrupt your spiritual sea’s structure, you could end up witless or simple-minded.”

That pulled his thoughts sharply back to the last time a god had barged straight into his consciousness. Afterward, he had felt so drained and exhausted that he could have slept three days and three nights without waking. However, he was certain that he had not turned dull or slow.

At least, probably.

Does that mean that I’m kind of durable?

“The tongkao also mentioned that the barrier she encountered is extremely tough. Even with her level of cultivation, she couldn’t break it. She also sensed that if she tried to resort to brute force, the consequences would be severe.” Wen Daolun leaned back, eyes half-lidded in thought. “What divine techniques have you been practicing?”

He Lingchuan listed them one by one.

Wen Daolun shook his head. “Judging from your age and current cultivation, there’s no way you created that kind of protection by yourself. Whoever is behind you doesn’t want your true fate to be exposed. Which means—”

He tapped the low table with a knuckle.

“Your apparent blessings and fortune may be an elaborate façade, constructed on purpose.” He exhaled slowly. “A split between body and soul, each bound to a different destiny. This kind of situation is extremely rare.”

“The body and the soul... following different destinies?” A chill climbed up He Lingchuan’s spine. That was exactly his situation.

“A person’s good fortune is limited. No one can live under an endless stream of blessings without ever paying a price. The recoil has to land somewhere, at least on the underlying structure of your fate. That’s what we call external accumulation, internal erosion. In other words, blessings on the outside, calamity within, or simply external fortune, internal misfortune.” Wen Daolun’s tone was calm as he added, “Day after day, the blessings pile up and ferment into hidden harm. Eventually, it will erupt. That is what we call no fortune left to shoulder what’s given.”

He Lingchuan rubbed his chin. “The tongkao couldn’t even get into my spiritual sea, but you’re prepared to say I’m suffering from external fortune and internal misfortune just from inference?”

“We also have those two lines of verse, don’t we?” Wen Daolun smiled faintly. “And more importantly, you’re not unique. It’s an unusual state, yes, but I’ve seen something similar once before.”

“Who?” The question slipped out of He Lingchuan’s mouth before he could stop himself.

Wen Daolun shook his head. “Someone who has nothing to do with you.”

He was not willing to say more. There was no one here who could force the issue.

Frustration pooled in He Lingchuan’s chest. He sighed. “If there’s calamity looming, you should at least tell me how to ease it. There must be some way to deal with it, right?”

“Since the Great Catastrophe of Heaven and Earth, fate is no longer entirely locked by Heaven’s decree. Part of it lies in your own hands.”

Hearing this, He Lingchuan immediately recalled the old turtle’s words: “This world does not have a single set outcome.” It was philosophical and all, but right now, he wanted clear and concrete solutions.

“Very well. Let’s try something else. Think of a single character. I’ll analyze it for you,” Wen Daolun said, as if sensing his impatience. He cleared the objects off the small table between them and set a cup of water in front of He Lingchuan. “Write the very first character that comes to mind. Don’t overthink it.”

Wen Daolun wanted the character pulled straight from the depths of He Lingchuan’s subconscious, the word that his true instincts reached for first.

Since Wen Daolun had framed it that way, He Lingchuan did not dwell on it. He wet his fingertip in the water and hovered over the tabletop for only a heartbeat before his hand moved on its own, brushless strokes scratching onto the wood.

The character he wrote was—

勇 (Courage)!

He Lingchuan really had not thought long. He had simply written from the heart.

If calamity truly dogged his steps, then what he needed most might well be this one word.

Wen Daolun stroked his beard and nodded. “Promising. Are you serving as a patrol guard, or have you already joined the Gale Army?”

“Patrol guard,” He Lingchuan answered honestly. “I’m trying to earn my way into the Gale Army.”

“Good, good.” Wen Daolun dipped his own finger into the water and wrote the same word on the table. “This is your courage. If we remove the 力 (strength) radical at the bottom, we’re left with 甬. This character has two primary meanings. First, it can refer to the handle of a great bell. If others wish to hang the bell or strike it, they must act through you, using your handle as an intermediary. Second, it can mean a narrow, walled corridor in the inner palace. Because the walls on both sides are too high to climb, people can only pass through you—the corridor—to reach their goal.”

Hearing that, He Lingchuan murmured, “So, in the end, I’m just preparing the wedding robe for someone else?”

The old turtle’s verse surfaced in his mind again. The images overlapped disturbingly well.

“From 甬 we can add the 人 (person) radical and get 俑—a figurine, a human-shaped puppet.” Wen Daolun turned and reached for a small ceramic doll on the shelf behind him. He set it on the table with a soft clink.

The doll was of a child in gaudy red and green robes, its painted face split in a fixed, exaggerated smile that was somehow both hollow and insincere. Looking at it, He Lingchuan felt a chill prickle up the back of his neck.

Wen Daolun asked mildly, “You don’t need me to explain what figurine implies, do you?”

Beside them, Sun Fuling said softly, “A body like a prison cage.”

“However, do keep in mind that both those transformations depend on removing the strength from courage. This strength may well be the opportunity you’re looking for.”

Raw power—true, solid strength—was the only reliable way to bend destiny.

That principle seemed to hold true no matter what world you were in.

He Lingchuan dipped his finger again and drew a large 力 (strength) on the tabletop. He Lingchuan stared at it for a long while, then gave a small cough and said, “The 甬 character can also be combined with the walk radical at the bottom or the water dots on the left.”

That gave 通 (to pass through) and 涌 (to surge forth).

Strength took time to accumulate. Before he was strong enough to truly wrestle with fate, was there any other way to dodge disaster? Any temporary shelter from the coming storm?

Wen Daolun turned the question back on him, “What do you think?”

“Can those two characters be combined somehow?” He Lingchuan said half-jokingly. “Could it mean that when I encounter water, I should run for my life?”

“Perhaps.” Wen Daolun chuckled. “As I’ve said, after the great catastrophe, the numbers of fate are no longer precise. Your destiny is...”

“Set, yet not set,” He Lingchuan finished for him, almost reflexively. “I’ve got it.”

Had he truly understood?

He had the sense of comprehension flickering just out of reach, as though he were grasping at light reflected on water. He understood and did not understand at the same time.

It seemed both the old turtle and Wen Daolun shared a fondness for cryptic pronouncements. Possibly because their own understanding was limited, or perhaps because some things simply defied clear explanation.

In any case, Wen Daolun chose to stop there. He rummaged around and produced a small, portable chessboard, then turned to Sun Fuling. “Girl Sun, shall we have another game?”

Sun Fuling agreed readily. “Why not? And what is Master Wen putting up for stakes this time?”

Wen Daolun almost choked. He needed a moment to recover before he could manage, “Last time was a fluke. I was simply careless.”

Sun Fuling did not budge. “If you lose this time, you’ll come to Shumin State Academy and hold five lectures.”

“Two,” Wen countered immediately. “My time is not so free.”

They haggled back and forth, finally settling on three lectures.

If she lost, she owed nothing. Given who Wen Daolun was, he could not very well ask for a wager from a junior like her.

He Lingchuan had very little love for chess. He forced himself to watch for a while, following their opening moves and mid-game skirmishes, but before long, the rhythm of stones on the board turned soporific. His eyelids drooped; his head grew heavy.

By the time Sun Fuling shook his sleeve, he realized with a start that the carriage had slowed and changed direction. They had passed back through the city gates and were now in Panlong City proper.

“We’re here,” she said.

He woke up at once. “Did Master Wen lose again?”

Wen Daolun’s mustache bristled, but he did not deny it.

He had lost again, and more cleanly than the last time.

“For one so young, your chess skill is truly...” He sighed, the words trailing off. “You remind me of someone.”

He Lingchuan asked on instinct, “Who?”

“Lord Zhong’s beloved daughter.” Wen Daolun then stepped down from the carriage, stretching his back as he straightened up.

During the return journey, a messenger had already ridden up to report that the aberrant creature[2] under the Divine Descent Platform had escaped. The soldiers had failed to catch it.

After standing for a bit in the chilly air, He Lingchuan briefly described the odd encounter with the elderly woman he had seen near his shop. He laid out his suspicions and concluded, “I don’t have proof. This is just my own wild speculation for Master Wen’s consideration.”

Throughout his account, Wen Daolun never interrupted. He listened attentively from start to finish before he finally nodded. “That information is useful. Thank you.”

Another meeting to convene, another crisis brewing. With a hurried farewell, Wen Daolun turned and strode off, his men and attendants falling in behind him like a moving wall.

The wind across the southern gate square cut like ice. Sun Fuling tugged her outer coat tighter around herself. After the comfortably heated carriage, the sudden cold felt especially harsh.

Seeing this, He Lingchuan said at once, “Let’s go home.”

The words left his mouth before he even thought about them.

He blinked.

But really, there was nothing incorrect about that sentence. Their houses sat side by side; they walked the same path and shared the same neighborhood. Calling it “going home” together was perfectly fair.

Sun Fuling did not seem to notice anything unusual in his choice of words. She nodded briskly and said, “Mm-hm, let’s.”

They were just stepping up to their hired carriage when she suddenly paused and turned to him. “You haven’t looked quite right all day. Did something happen?”

The question slipped past his guard. He responded automatically, “Nothing.” This woman was too perceptive for comfort. He had thought himself to be concealing it well.

Sun Fuling stopped walking entirely, tilting her head as she studied him. “Speak. Brooding alone in Panlong City is not a wise habit.”

He held her gaze for a moment, then let out a long breath. “I lost a comrade. A good comrade.”

Mao Tao had died, and he had not even had time to burn him a few extra paper money notes in peace.

Worse, apart from him, it seemed that no one else gave the matter much thought. No one cared who Mao Tao had been.

From the moment the coffin lid closed and the body was lowered into the earth, the name was already half gone, carried away by wind and swept aside by time.

Sun Fuling placed a gentle hand on his wrist. Warmth seeped from her palm, spreading through his skin into his bones. “Life is uncertain. Death and parting are but the norm of the mortal realm.”

She did not ask which comrade he meant. In Panlong City, such separations were a daily occurrence. Every family, every street had its share.

He Lingchuan nodded slowly. What else could he do? If he did not see it that way, how was he supposed to keep moving?

She asked, “Did you set a lotus lantern for him?”

“A what?” He blinked.

“Come with me.”

She tugged him toward a narrow street just off the square. A few houses had their doors open; it was hard to tell where shop space ended and private residence began.

These frontage homes had a natural advantage. With their gates facing the square, all they had to do was set up a small stall outside the courtyard, and they had a ready-made place of business.

Sun Fuling picked a particular doorway and walked over. “I’d like an ice lantern.”

This small shop looked like it sold miscellaneous goods. The shopkeeper, hearing the request, stepped back into the courtyard. After a short while, he emerged again, carrying a string of ice lanterns tied with straw rope.

The lanterns were carved in the shape of open lotus blossoms, about the size of a bowl. The craftsmanship was meticulous, and even the veins of the petals had been etched in fine lines. At the center of each ice lotus lay a stub of candle, no longer than a third of a pinky finger.

Sun Fuling paid, took one of the lanterns, and strolled leisurely back toward the plaza. “This shopkeeper’s work is the best. His lanterns float the smoothest.”

Just beyond the square lay a small lake. The water had not frozen over. Through the surface, He Lingchuan could see fat fish drifting lazily, their pale bellies flashing as they turned.

She handed the ice lotus to him. “Once you set it on the water, the hot springs beneath will carry it away.”

By then, dusk had thickened. After sunset, the sky in Panlong City darkened quickly. Cold crept into everything.

He Lingchuan pulled out a fire striker and lit the tiny candle in the center of the ice lotus. The weak little flame flickered uncertainly at first, then steadied, its glow shining faintly through the translucent ice petals. He held the lantern carefully in both hands, whispered a few words under his breath in place of a formal prayer—words only he and the dead would ever know—and then gently lowered the lotus onto the lake’s surface.

1. I’m not sure what this is, but it should just be the years it has existed as a yin or spiritual entity. ☜

2. Note that I've decided to change strange creature to aberrant creature, the explanation for this change will be seen much later in Chapter 407, but this will probably not concern most of you. ☜