It seemed no different from previous winter solstices, with the first snowfall always arriving around this time.
Yet something felt amiss. The streets beneath the snowy night were eerily quiet, as if they had never known bustle or fireworks, lying silent under a thick, quilt-like blanket of snow. Faint, flickering lights glimmered in households along the lanes. A night watchman, draped in fur, emerged from the alley’s end, shivering as he huddled into himself. His large, frostbitten and cracked hands struck the gong, and as he opened his mouth, the biting wind rushed in, mercilessly scattering the warmth from his breath. He shuddered violently, trembling even more. The gong rang, and his voice called out.
Yet in the deathly stillness of Taiping County, neither the watchman’s gong nor his voice could be heard. It was as if this heavy snowfall was striving to bury what it sought to conceal, masking what it wished to hide. Only, no one had noticed.
“The snow is truly heavy this year,” murmured the young man on the high platform, hands clasped behind his back as he gazed up at the snow-filled sky. Behind him, the hall was brightly lit, a chessboard already set. Under the mist rising from a small red-clay stove, two delicate pale-blue teacups were arranged. Beneath the cloud-like, lingering white froth lay emerald-green tea. The tea on the opposite side of the chessboard still retained a trace of warmth, though the friend he was to play had yet to arrive.
He closed his eyes and stood facing the wind, hands behind his back. The cold wind whistled, his wide sleeves fluttering as it rushed through them with a rustling sound. The delicate jade pendant adorned with bell charms at his waist clinked softly against his side, stirred by the breeze.
The deep blue night was shrouded by snow-laden clouds, yet the snowy mountains in the distance shimmered with faint, continuous glimmers of light.
Finally, a trail of footprints extended across this pristine, featureless canvas of snow.
As if sensing something, the young man on the platform fluttered his eyelashes before opening his eyes. He snorted softly, flicked his sleeve, and turned to stride into the brightly lit hall. Behind him, the two redwood carved doors closed automatically. Lifting the hem of his robe, he sat down, poured himself a cup of tea, and with his other hand, picked up a cold white chess piece from the box, placing it on the ever-changing grid of the board.
The door opened without a sound and closed just as silently, blocking the flowing cold wind from outside. The newcomer wore a black cloak dusted with snow, concealing his form entirely. In stark contrast to the dark cloak was his hair, as white as snow.
He walked straight over, circling behind the young man and leaning in close. The distance between them was intimate, and the young man could feel the chill emanating from him. As he spoke, a puff of white mist escaped his lips. “Fu Yun, I’ve kept you waiting.”
“Hmph, such grand airs,” Fu Yun replied, his tone tinged with displeasure at the other’s gentle, apologetic words. It was he who had made the appointment, yet he had been left waiting until midnight—how could a few words dissolve the frustration in his heart?
“It was my fault for not being punctual,” the guest said. “On my way here, I found something I thought you might like. It took some time to bring it, hence my delay. Take a look first—perhaps you’ll like it as soon as you see it.”
The confidence in the white-haired visitor’s tone piqued Fu Yun’s curiosity. The cloak kept the cold wind out, naturally preventing Fu Yun from glimpsing what might be hidden beneath the guest’s garments. Yet he didn’t want to reveal his curiosity. “Oh? And what if I don’t like it?”
The guest’s hands moved within his cloak. Fu Yun couldn’t tell what he was fumbling with underneath. He freed one hand to undo the cloak, and as the knot came loose, the garment slid off, revealing his other arm cradling a snow-white fox fur coat. Charcoal had been lit early in the room, burning with a bright red glow. Because the room had discreet ventilation openings and was decorated with exquisite ornaments to buffer the wind, the outside air flowed inside, warm and not at all stifling.
Fu Yun had thought the guest brought some curious novelty to amuse him, but it turned out to be just a fox fur coat. He couldn’t help but feel disappointed. “Is that all?”
The guest brought the fox fur coat closer to him. “Take a closer look.”
Fu Yun glanced over, then his gaze stuck to the coat and wouldn’t move away. To be precise, it was the infant inside the fox fur coat.
The baby’s features had already unfolded, unlike the wrinkled appearance at birth. Its whole body was curled up, eyes tightly shut. Its pink, tender skin, set against the snow-white fox fur, looked as warm and smooth as jade. Just looking at its face made one want to reach out and poke it. As Fu Yun thought this, his finger was already poking forward. Worried his nail might leave a mark on the baby’s cheek, he used the pad of his finger instead.
“This child…” Fu Yun narrowed his eyes, looking at the guest. The baby was wrapped in the fox fur, its complexion rosy, with additional clothing inside to keep it warm. Logically, it shouldn’t be so cold and its breath so faint.
“When I found her, she was already like this—as if forced into a state of suspended animation and abandoned in the icy snow. If I hadn’t come across her, she probably wouldn’t have been discovered until dawn tomorrow by the common folk.” The guest shook his head and added, “Also, these two things were left with her.” A jade pendant engraved with the characters “Danqing” and a half-person-tall scroll of painting. Fu Yun unrolled the scroll, but the silk-white surface was completely blank.
Fu Yun stared at the guest for a long moment, then swiftly snatched the baby from his left arm without waking the child in the slightest. “She’ll be uncomfortable like this. Alright, Danqing stays. You may leave.”
The guest’s expression instantly turned somewhat unpleasant. “Kicking me out already?”
Fu Yun paid no attention, cradling Danqing protectively as if guarding his own offspring, not sparing another glance at the guest.
The guest felt defeated but had to bring it up. “Do you even know how to care for a child?”
Fu Yun was already carrying Danqing downstairs, leaving behind only a distant, stiff and defiant reply: “No, but it’s none of your concern.”
The guest sighed softly. Was entrusting Danqing to Fu Yun a good choice? But the situation was urgent, leaving no other options. With this thought, he closed his eyes and held his breath. His cloak billowed without wind as he transformed into a streak of ink-like light that shot through the door crack straight into the sky.
Snow continued to fall, drifting down just like the snow on that Mount Hua in another virtual world.
Danqing loved playing games, using a Taoist priest character. Her usual hobby was logging into the game and staring blankly at the Taoist priest on screen.
That day, while admiring the Taoist priest riding backwards on a donkey along Mount Hua’s narrow path on her screen, she forgot she had pressed auto-walk. Thus, the silly donkey, swaying its head left and right, happily trotted its little hooves toward the cliff.
Princess: “No, you can’t be this foolish! You must live on. I will wait for you forever—ten years, twenty years, I will wait eternally.”
Li Mu Yun: “No! This should not be our fate! We have done nothing wrong, so why must we endure such pain?”
Li Mu Yun: “Qing’er, come with me. Don’t hide here anymore. No one in heaven or on earth will be able to tear us apart.”
Princess: “No! You’re already badly injured. Taking me along as dead weight, you won’t make it out.”
Li Mu Yun: “What if we don’t make it out? Dying together is better than enduring this torment.”
Princess: “No! Brother Yun, you can’t die for me. If that’s the case, then I’d rather die first!!”
Large blocks of text filled the entire channel, yet there was no corresponding dialogue in the headphones—the conversation had already passed. Danqing was momentarily stunned. Huh, how did it get to this part? When the princess’s melodious singing voice came through, Danqing felt as though she had forgotten something.
Princess Yu Qing: Do not ask whether the swordsman’s love is too painful to recall or too hard to keep…
By the time she snapped back to reality and remembered she had forgotten to stop the auto-progress, it was too late—
“Damn it, help!” She plummeted through the air in free fall, both her and her donkey.
A fellow disciple doing the quest beside Princess Yu Qing and Li Mu Yun was also taken aback. “Jumping down so soon? They’re still here!”
Princess Yu Qing: Brother Yun… see you in the next life…
Li Mu Yun: No!!! Qing’er!!! Qing’er!!
Li Mu Yun: Qing’er!!
Danqing, who had died from the fall and was waiting to respawn, watched as the two NPCs jumped down one after another. Their bodies twitched slightly, clinging to their last breath. Oh, right, the fellow disciple also jumped down, failing to execute the double-jump properly before landing and splatting to his death.
“Junior brother, they’re committing suicide for love. Why did you jump down too…”
“Senior brother, why did you lose hope…”
The two dead players were somewhat speechless.
Danqing’s respawn timer had run out. She had actually been waiting to see what would happen to the two gravely injured NPCs, but unfortunately, the quest ended here. A tiger was crouching by the distant stream, so even if they miraculously survived with their last breath, they would likely end up as tiger food.
Sighing over the sentimental quest, she clicked to respawn at the camp. Suddenly, a sharp, needle-like pain pierced deep in her brain, followed by what felt like a dull blow. Danqing clutched her head with both hands, her lips trembling uncontrollably. She bit down hard, soon drawing blood. Her throat longed to cry out in agony, but she had lost even the strength to whisper or moan. The slightest whimper only intensified the pain in her head.
Her breathing gradually quickened, growing rapid and shallow, with more air drawn in than exhaled. Her head ached until it grew numb, and she felt dizzy and disoriented. Danqing’s vision blurred, and finally, everything went black as she lost consciousness.
When she opened her eyes again, she saw Fu Yun teasing her.
What was going on? Danqing tried to speak, but all she heard was the sound of a baby’s wailing.
“Danqing, don’t cry. Be good, don’t cry.” Fu Yun, not understanding, quickly soothed the Danqing in her arms.
The Danqing this person was talking about… could it be herself? Danqing had some idea but didn’t dare to believe it. “Wah…” Every time Danqing tried to speak, all that came out was the cry of an infant, prompting Fu Yun to keep comforting her.
Danqing couldn’t understand it at all. So many fellow disciples had jumped off the cliff—why was it only her who had regressed to childhood? And who was this person in front of her?