Yan Zhu originally intended to use the old kitchen stove to make a fire and cook some rice. However, upon venturing into the small detached kitchen outside, she found nothing there save for layers of thick dust, while the rice urn was so utterly empty that mice could have comfortably run races inside.
A clever housewife finds it hard to cook a meal without rice, let alone someone as inexperienced as her, leaving her with no choice but to temporarily abandon the idea.
Which meant they were simply going to go to bed hungry tonight.
She gently broke this grim piece of news to the little tail lingering right behind her.
A pair of painfully thin, bony little hands reached out to clasp her fingers. The young girl pressed her lips together and gave a slight shake of her head, looking rather like she was throwing a stubborn tantrum, or perhaps simply displaying a quiet, unbreakable resilience. “I’m not hungry at all.”
Yan Zhu rubbed the top of the child’s head. The dry, frizzy strands of hair didn’t feel particularly pleasant to the touch, but every single time she received a headpat, the girl would instinctively narrow her eyes into slits, wearing an expression of relaxed and endearing comfort, much like a small, gentle animal being lovingly soothed.
Yan Zhu truly adored seeing that exact expression on her face.
“Tomorrow, I won’t let you go hungry.”
Yan Zhu uttered the promise aloud. By nature, she was a deeply earnest person who rarely made casual guarantees, but whenever she did give her word, she would invariably see it through to the end.
“It’s okay. I’m already used to going hungry.”
The child’s voice lacked its previous pristine clarity, as though something had been swallowed down, heavily clogging her throat.
Yan Zhu felt as if she had just forced a jagged piece of cold iron past her windpipe, the bitterness scraping her insides until they stung. The more sensible the child was, the more agonizingly her heart ached.
She was merely a six-year-old child! If she couldn’t be cherished and held gently in the palm of a hand, how could she possibly be forced to endure a life as cheap and trampled upon as roadside weeds?
“I’m going to take you away from here.”
I will take you away from this place as quickly as possible, I promise.
A tiny, frail body suddenly flung itself fiercely into her arms, a muffled voice drifting past layers of fabric straight into her ear.
“Yan Zhu, my name is Song Qing,” the girl whispered.
Yan Zhu gently patted the child’s trembling hands. “I know. I know your name is Song Qing. I came here specifically to find you, and I am going to take you away.”
Song Wenqing nodded against her chest, though in the shadowed corner where the other person could not possibly see, her hands clenched fiercely into tight little fists, her fingernails digging deep and biting painfully into her own flesh.
By this time, the nocturnal veil had fully descended, with a bright moon hanging high in the sky. Massive swaths of silver moonlight poured down through the shattered, decaying roof of the thatched cottage, scattering across the earthen floor like a layer of thick frost.
Song Wenqing poked her head out from beneath the patchwork quilt, her amber eyes wide and luminous as she earnestly gazed at the figure sitting quietly by the wooden desk.
The moonlight seemed to harbor a distinct partiality toward her, pouring its pristine, chilly silver entirely over her frame, draping her in a faint, luminous aura like a translucent gown.
“Yan Zhu… aren’t you going to rest?”
Yan Zhu had been resting her chin in her hands while leaning against the tabletop to ponder matters. As her consciousness grew increasingly hazy and she nearly drifted off to sleep, she jolted awake instantly at the sound of that voice.
“…That bedstead is simply too small,” she straightened her posture slightly, forcing herself to maintain mental clarity. “I can just rest my head on the desk for a little nap.”
This explanation apparently lacked any real persuasive power. No sooner had the words left her lips than she watched the little creature who had previously been tucked inside the bedcovers toss off the blanket, place her feet on the floor, and stumble slightly as she made her way over.
Her sleeve was given a light, hesitant tug, and a gaze as tangible as physical weight settled heavily upon her.
“Together.”
As soon as the single word fell, Song Wenqing bent down to drag another stool over, pulling it right alongside Yan Zhu’s. Her posture made it unmistakably clear that she intended to rest by the desk right beside her.
Yan Zhu motioned for her to return to the comfort of the bed, but Song Wenqing merely repeated, “Together.”
After the third repetition of the word “together,” Yan Zhu chose to surrender. In the end, the two of them lay down on the narrow bed together.
It was undeniably cramped.
The bedstead was small enough that it could barely accommodate Yan Zhu alone; while Song Wenqing could usually sleep on it quite comfortably by herself, the moment the two of them squeezed onto it together, the space instantly became suffocatingly tight.
Yan Zhu had no choice but to lie strictly on her side, staring into those amber eyes gazing up at her unflinchingly through the moonlight. She let out a soft, helpless sigh.
“Can’t you fall asleep?”
“Would you like me to tell you a story, or perhaps sing you a song?”
Isn’t this precisely how young children needed to be coaxed into slumber?
Yan Zhu had been utterly corrupted by the television dramas and films she had watched in her past life. At this precise moment, she had no inkling of what kind of hidden troubles this casual offer was planting for her future self. Had she known, and had she been granted a second chance, she would have rather died on the spot than uttered a single extra word.
The corners of Song Wenqing’s lips curled upward in a subtle arc; a profound sense of happiness blossomed within her chest.
A child’s affection for someone is remarkably simple, it consists entirely of offering the other person the absolute best thing they possess.
And the only thing Song Wenqing owned in this world was a dilapidated, rotting bed.
Greedily, she reached out to clutch the other person’s fingers. Because her small palms were still far too tiny, no matter how hard she strained, she could barely manage to wrap her hand around four of Yan Zhu’s fingers.
“Yan Zhu, sing me a song.”
“Alright then, today I’ll tell you the story of… Chang’e flying to the moon…”
Singing, good grief, singing aloud to a child was simply too embarrassing.
She wouldn’t do it, absolutely not!
Fortunately, although a distinct look of disappointment flickered across young Song Qing’s face, she was still willing to listen as the tale continued.
One spoke while the other listened, and imperceptibly, both gradually drifted downward into the depths of a gentle slumber.
“Yan Zhu, will you fly away just like Chang’e?”
Early the next morning, before her consciousness had even fully returned to her body, a sudden question was hurled straight at her from the side. Yan Zhu was caught entirely off guard, stunned into a complete blank slate for a good long while before she finally managed to process it.
“Of course not. I’m merely a mortal human being; I can’t fly.”
Yet, to Song Wenqing’s young ears, this sentence carried a terrifying implication:
If Yan Zhu ever learned how to fly, she would simply fly away.
A deep-seated anxiety planted its roots within her fragile, infant heart right then and there.
Looking anxious, Song Wenqing tightly clutched the hem of the other person’s garments, terrified that if she let down her guard even for a split second, this “immortal being” would suddenly learn how to fly and vanish into the sky.
Yan Zhu remained entirely oblivious to the monumental misunderstanding her words had caused the child. Taking the girl’s hand, she prepared to head out into the wilderness to forage for some ingredients so they could spark a fire and cook a meal.
Whether due to sheer terrible luck or something else, they had barely walked a short distance when a sudden commotion erupted behind them.
The group of teenage bullies she had encountered yesterday came stampeding past like a violent gale, sprinting wildly across the grass. One of them headed straight toward Song Wenqing with the clear intent of barrelling into her, and only Yan Zhu’s lightning-fast reflexes, yoking the little girl out of harm’s way at the absolute last second, prevented him from making impact.
Taking advantage of that momentary chaos, the rest of the gang had already surged forward to encircle the two of them entirely.
Though they could not see Yan Zhu, pairs of malicious, vicious eyes locked firmly onto Song Wenqing.
The ringleader was the exact same boy from yesterday. Weighing a thick, sturdy wooden club in his hand, he advanced step by terrifying step.
“My mom and dad aren’t home today, and the others are tied up with chores elsewhere, let’s see who’s going to save you this time!”
“It’d be best if we just beat her half to death, hahahaha…” someone else chimed in from the peanut gallery, prompting raucous laughter from all the surrounding boys.
One of the boys was even holding a newly hatched nestling in his palm. Eager to display his formidable prowess before his peers, he deliberately tore the wings right off the tiny, fragile creature.
“Let me play with it.”
The boss’s command was absolute. Though the boy holding the bird felt a brief pang of reluctance, he obediently and respectfully offered up the dying fledgling.
The pitiful little creature ended up in the ringleader’s hands, where its neck was snapped with a brutal twist.
The surrounding youths burst into applause, cheering wildly for this “amusing” spectacle.
Everything happened with such terrifying velocity that Yan Zhu hadn’t even managed to intervene before watching them snuff out a life in a matter of seconds.
Vicious little monsters.
The exact phrase naturally popped into her mind.
Her body trembled faintly with white-hot rage. The piercing, miserable shrieks of the dying bird reminded her acutely of the newborn kitten she had once found beaten to death by several boys beneath her old apartment building.
That video of a tiny kitten’s neck being crushed, a kitten that had just arrived in this world and had never even laid eyes upon humanity, struggling with that exact same heart-wrenching, desperate agony before drawing its final breath…
Perhaps because her emotional state was running dangerously high, Song Wenqing suddenly lifted her chin, gazing upward as she whispered softly, “Yan Zhu.”
“Hah! Who is that little monster talking to?!”
The pack of boys across from them reacted like flies catching the scent of rotting meat, immediately turning their aggressive interrogation toward her.
The ringleader’s face darkened menacingly as he savagely hurled the bloodied, lifeless carcass of the bird straight at them.
As if serving as a predetermined signal, the surrounding boys began tightening their circle.
Before their clubs could come crashing down, Yan Zhu frantically rummaged on the ground until her fingers brushed against a sturdy branch suitable for defense. Her intention was to charge fiercely in one direction, carve out an opening through sheer force, and drag the child out to safety.
The strategy was sound, but unfortunately, it stalled right at step one.
The group of boys could not see her, but they could see a wooden stick hovering autonomously in midair. A large number of them froze dead in their tracks on the spot.
“Gh-Ghost! It’s a ghost!!”
Someone shrieked in absolute terror, their legs turning to jelly as they collapsed backward onto the earth.
Triggered by that terrified scream, the rest of the flock panicked instantly. Scattering like panicked birds, they bolted in twos and threes, fleeing out of sight in the blink of an eye.
Yan Zhu blinked in bewilderment. Once she processed the situation, she handed the stick directly to the trembling Song Wenqing beside her.
She parted her lips, intending to articulate her tactical breakthrough, but suddenly felt as if her entire head had been trapped beneath a bronze bell struck violently from the outside. A wave of dizziness washed over her, and her body swayed unsteadily, threatening to collapse.
“Yan Zhu, !”
She heard Song Wenqing’s panicked, frantic cry, but her eyelids grew too heavy to lift, plunging downward until the surrounding world faded into total, impenetrable darkness.
How much time elapsed? Yan Zhu could not tell. When she finally “woke up,” she found herself sitting amid an indescribably chaotic, formless expanse of space, overcome by a boundless, bottomless sense of loneliness.
It felt as though she had drifted entirely alone through the cosmos for tens of thousands of years, utterly failing to encounter the trace of any kindred spirit. She finally understood that she would never run into a second life form carrying the same civilizational imprint as her own.
It was the profound isolation of counting stars in eternal silence, holding a lone lantern through an endless night, drifting aimlessly like a single leaf upon a vast, desolate ocean.
Yan Zhu felt as though her throat was being constricted by an overwhelming sorrow, nearly choking off her breath. Lowering her gaze, she refused to cast another glance toward the boundless void around her.
These grand, magnificent concepts were far too perilous…
“The Dreamless One…”
A deep, resonant voice echoed as though rolling down from the distant edges of the cosmos, harmonizing perfectly with the rhythmic laws of the Great Dao.
“The Dreamless One… from whence do you hail?”
The Dreamless One…
Reminded by this specific title, Yan Zhu finally caught a glimpse of the truth she had been searching for. Like a clever child discovering candies hidden away by adults in a quiet corner of the house, she broke into a sly, knowing smile.
, So it was you playing tricks this whole time, you old monster.
Qingtong, the most ancient and venerable tree spirit across this entire land.
This colossal lineage had once flourished brilliantly in primordial antiquity, giving birth to many peerless prodigies; it was one of the exceedingly rare tree spirit species capable of transitioning their cultivation into true immortals.
Regrettably, following the catastrophic war between gods and demons, the pathways between the two realms were permanently sealed. Having gone nearly a thousand years without waiting for a single phoenix to grace its branches with its presence, the lineage had slowly withered into decline.
The laws of the mortal world seemed uniquely biased toward humanity, suppressing beasts, spirit beasts, spiritual flora, and mystical trees alike once they reached a certain threshold, preventing them from progressing any further.
Some simply awaited the arrival of their inevitable lifespan limits, while others desperately gambled everything by challenging heavenly tribulations in pursuit of human form… Naturally, there were also those who chose to seclude themselves deep within remote mountains, weathering the Age of Dharma’s Decline in hopes of an eventual resurgence.
Qingtong possessed a lifespan of astonishing length, yet lacked any fondness for strife, leading the majority of its kind to choose the latter path.
The stretching epochs of time were simply too excruciatingly desolate to endure, leading them to cultivate a deep fondness for listening to the past lives of humans.
Such a vast accumulation of witnessed eras endowed them with astonishing wisdom. Qingtong gradually came to realize that human beings were creatures inherently prone to deceit, their verbal accounts frequently diverging wildly from historical truth.
Thus, they mastered arcane dream-weaving techniques, compelling humans to re-enter dreams and personally re-experience everything they had once lived through, thereby harvesting entirely authentic accounts.
Yet, this particular Qingtong tree had never anticipated that Yan Zhu would prove to be an entirely unquantifiable variable, one capable of completely throwing its meticulously planned domain into utter chaos.
“The Dreamless One… from whence do you hail?”
Yan Zhu lifted her chin, her eyes sparkling with vibrant mirth.
“Are you truly dying to know the answer to that?” she asked, not waiting for the ancient voice to respond before continuing, “In that case… hand me a piece of your wood, and send me right back into that dream.”
“Then, and only then, will I tell you.”