175: Chapter 88, Final Chapter: This is the end; the story has concluded.

When I first picked up my pen to write the very first word of this story, I was filled with easy expectations, even thinking that writing a good novel was just a simple matter of ease.

Back then, my mind was full of vivid ideas; the protagonists' features and personalities, their encounters and bonds, and the narrative arc of the story were all clearly outlined in my head.

I always thought that it was just a matter of typing those images swirling in my heart into a document word by word, letting the characters move as I wished and the plot unfold along its path, presenting a complete and moving story to the readers without much effort.

I even fantasized that I could finish it all in one go, from the beginning to the end, smoothly completing every plot point to give my characters a Perfection and provide closure to the waiting readers.

Back then, I completely underestimated the weight of creation, thinking that passion could overcome all difficulties, that inspiration would never run dry, and that persistence was the simplest thing of all.

But when I truly settled down to write, I realized once and for all that turning the fantasies in my mind into actual words was never an easy task; instead, it was so difficult that it made me want to give up time and again.

The difficulty lay in the day-after-day perseverance—not a momentary burst of passion, but the need to push aside the trivialities of life and sit before the computer, repeatedly tapping the keys through countless ordinary days and nights.

The difficulty lay in the anxiety of dry inspiration—when the plot reached a critical point, yet the mind went blank, staring at an empty document for hours without being able to write a single coherent sentence, that sense of powerlessness repeatedly tormenting the initial enthusiasm; it lay in the tug-of-war between characters and plot, needing to make every character stand on their own, to tie up every foreshadowed thread, and to make every plot point logical, without being perfunctory or failing those vivid lives I created; it lay in the guilt of facing expectations, knowing people were waiting for the rest of the story, yet the more I wanted to write well, the more at a loss I felt, and the more I wrote, the more I felt my strength failing me.

I once seriously planned out a long storyline, thinking about how many hardships the protagonists would overcome, how many long-buried mysteries they would unravel, how they would support each other in the wind and rain, and how they would embrace and smile in the warm sun. I even envisioned the most perfect ending: where all regrets could be mended, all debts forgiven, all wanderers find a home, and all lingering grievances turn into peace of mind.

I hoped to walk the entire path with them, watching them grow from youth to maturity and from hardship to a smooth road, but in the end, I still couldn't hold on until the very finish.

Halfway through, I completely lost the strength to keep writing.

It wasn't that the plot hit a dead end, or that I didn't love these characters who had accompanied me for so long, nor was it that I lacked ideas for what came next; it was simply that initial passion, which slowly wore away through the day-after-day struggle of creation.

It was like walking alone on a road with no end in sight; even though there was still scenery ahead and I knew the answers I wanted were at the finish line, my steps became heavier and heavier until I could no longer find the strength to rush toward it, only wanting to stop there and stop forcing myself.

I know that ending so abruptly is irresponsible to the readers who have been following along, and too cruel to the vivid characters under my pen.

I'm sorry I couldn't give you a complete ending, couldn't ensure every foreshadowed thread had a resolution, couldn't let unspoken confessions be voiced, or unfulfilled promises be kept. Those unresolved mysteries and abruptly ended bonds will forever remain in these unfinished pages, becoming irreparable regrets.

But life is just like that; not every story can have a good beginning and a good end, and not every expectation can come true. Just like in our lives, there are always things left half-done, dreams that cannot reach Perfection, and steps that must be stopped.

There isn't that much Perfection in this world; incompleteness is the norm.

I have always believed that my protagonists will not stop living just because I have put down my pen.

They will continue to walk well in the world that belongs to them, moving toward the morning sun, protecting each other in the wind and rain, slowly letting go of past pains, meeting new warmth and beauty, and living ordinary and stable lives.

They will have their own endings, which I don't need to write or define.

As for the unfinished plot and the unspoken thoughts, I leave them to time, and to each of you who has read this far.

You can imagine them safe and sound year after year and never parting, or imagine them each faring well and meeting again in the Jianghu; whichever it is, it is the best arrangement.

Thank you for being patient enough to finish reading this incomplete story and for accompanying me and these characters for a part of the journey. I'm sorry I can only walk with you this far.

The story ends here; it is not a Perfection, but it holds my most sincere original intentions. From now on, I wish for all of us to have fewer regrets and more smooth sailing in our respective lives, with peace, joy, and no worries year after year.

— The End