181: Chapter 180 Return

The setting sun sank bit by bit, and the light inside the room dimmed gradually.

His shadow stretched long and thin, trailing from the doorway all the way to the end of the corridor.

He stood there for a long, long time—so long that the sun completely disappeared below the horizon, so long that the light in the room faded into a grayish dusk, so long that the moon rose in the east, casting its cool, pale light inside.

Finally, he took a step forward and walked in.

He walked to the bedside and looked down at Qin Wan.

Her face showed no pain, no struggle; she lay there peacefully, as if merely asleep.

The corners of her mouth were slightly upturned, as if she were smiling or having a pleasant dream.

He couldn't understand.

This morning, she had still gotten up to make him breakfast.

She cooked porridge, steamed buns, stir-fried a plate of greens, and fried two eggs.

She didn't eat much, but her spirits were good. She even told him she wanted to go shopping on the street tomorrow to look for suitable fabric to make him a new set of clothes.

He said okay, promising to accompany her first thing in the morning.

She smiled and said it wasn't necessary, that she could walk by herself.

Looking at her smile, he felt everything was fine. He believed that tomorrow and every day after would be just like today—ordinary, peaceful, good.

How could it all suddenly be gone?

He refused to believe it.

He channeled spiritual power into Qin Wan's body, hoping to use it to awaken her.

The spiritual power circulated once within her, then returned to his own body.

Her Meridians had already withered; her internal organs had ceased functioning.

The spiritual power flowed through without any reaction, like water passing over a stone.

He increased the input of spiritual power, then increased it again, and again.

The spiritual power surged within her body, causing it to glow faintly.

But her heart did not start beating again, her lungs did not draw breath again, her eyes did not open again.

He tried every method he knew.

Feeding her Medicinal Pills, transferring spiritual power, offering his vital essence and blood, even attempting to transfer his own Lifespan to her.

Nothing worked.

She was gone, gone completely and utterly, not even a trace of her soul remained.

Yun Ming sat by the bedside for the entire night.

The moon rose in the east and set in the west.

The stars brightened, then dimmed.

He did not move, did not close his eyes; he just sat there.

When dawn first broke the next day,

he went out, found the largest pill pavilion in the city, and bought a fourth-rank Ice Soul Condensing Soul Pill.

That pill was not for saving lives; it was for preserving a corpse.

After taking it, the corpse would not decay for a thousand years, its appearance unchanged.

The price was steep. He did not haggle, paid the Spirit Stones, and returned with the pill.

He fed the pill to Qin Wan. As it entered her stomach, a faint layer of ice-blue light emanated from within her body, enveloping her completely. Her face was frozen in that moment—serene, with a hint of a smile.

Yun Ming placed her inside the map of mountains and rivers.

Within the map was a small world he had created, containing Spirit Medicine, a spirit spring, and the small wooden cabin he had built.

He settled Qin Wan inside the wooden cabin, placing her alongside the items she had used in life.

The bedding, clothes, sewing kit, pickling jar, bamboo tray for drying fish.

He arranged them one by one, placing each in its proper place.

He stood inside the wooden cabin, gazing at that serene face for a long time. Then he came out.

He withdrew the map of mountains and rivers into his Sea of Consciousness, where it hung, quiet and still.

The courtyard was very quiet.

The chicks in the coop, hungry all night, chirped incessantly.

The clothes on the clothesline were still there, blown by the wind all night, some having fallen to the ground. The vegetables bought yesterday remained in the kitchen; the carp was dead, its gills no longer moving, its eyes clouded.

The osmanthus cakes were still wrapped in oiled paper, now cold and hard.

Yun Ming lay down on the bamboo chair in the courtyard, the one he often sat in.

The chair creaked, just as it did every day.

The sun rose in the east, casting its first rays of light into the courtyard.

The light fell on his face. He squinted but did not move.

The light fell on the stone table, where half a pot of tea from yesterday remained. The tea leaves had steeped all night, turning the water dark.

The light fell on the vegetable patch in the corner. The greens were growing well, their leaves lush and green, ready to be harvested in a few days.

The woman next door woke up, drawing water in her courtyard to wash up, the sound of splashing water audible.

The breakfast stall at the mouth of the alley set up shop, the dough sticks sizzling as they fried in the wok. Children ran past the alley on their way to school, their footsteps pattering.

The newspaper vendor pushed his cart over, stopping at the courtyard gate. He pulled a copy of the official gazette from the cart, slipped it through the crack in the door, and called out, "Immortal Master, the gazette is here!"

Yun Ming lay on the bamboo chair, motionless.

He heard it, but he did not respond.

The vendor, thinking he wasn't home, called out once more. Still getting no response, he left.

The courtyard grew quiet again.

Only the chickens in the coop continued to chirp, only the clothes on the line still swayed, only the wind still blew, rustling the leaves in the courtyard.

Yun Ming lay there, gazing at the gray, overcast sky above.

The sky was empty, devoid of anything.

No clouds, no birds, no sun, no moon.

Only a vast expanse of gray emptiness, boundless and empty.

He suddenly felt very lonely.

It wasn't the loneliness of being alone; it was the loneliness of being in a crowd, of walking through a bustling marketplace yet feeling as if there was no one around.

Before, no matter where he was, no matter how dangerous or dire the situation, as long as he thought of Qin Wan waiting for him, he felt grounded, felt he had a home.

Now Qin Wan was gone. The one who waited for him was no more, the one who saved meals for him was no more, the one who nagged him to go out less and avoid fighting and killing was no more.

He lay here, in this unfamiliar city, in this unfamiliar courtyard, on this unfamiliar bamboo chair.

Surrounded by unfamiliar neighbors, unfamiliar streets, an unfamiliar sky.

He didn't know why he was still lying here.

Nor did he know where he should go.

The sun rose from the east to its zenith, then sank from its zenith to the west.

He did not move.

The chickens, hungry all day, chirped until their voices grew hoarse.

The woman next door glanced over while collecting her laundry, thinking he was asleep, and did not disturb him.

The children ran past the alley again on their way home from school, their footsteps pattering.

The hawker selling candied hawthorn passed by the mouth of the alley, his drawn-out call lingering in the air.

Dusk settled once more.

Lanterns were lit again.

The aroma of food wafted from the windows of every household, mingling together until it was impossible to tell which home it came from.

Yun Ming lay on the bamboo chair, motionless.

He remembered the few lines from the official gazette.

The expansion of the Heavenly Demon Hall had failed.

The Shenduan Sect and the Xuanhuang Pill Mansion would send representatives to thank the Zifu Immortal Dynasty.

He had even wondered if he might run into acquaintances, if he might see Jiang Wanyue, if he might hear news of the Qingxuan Sect.

Now, he felt none of that mattered anymore.

Whether they lived or died, whether he saw them or not—none of it mattered anymore.

No one would ever wait for him again.

He had become alone once more.