I wrote these stories on and off for more than half a year. Outside the window, the peach blossoms bloomed and withered, then bloomed again.
I know that if I told these things, not everyone would believe me. People love hearing strange and fantastical legends, but may not be willing to believe that there truly is a group of people in this world who spend their entire lives protecting things that seem insubstantial and unreal.
The lineage of Celestial Masters has been passed down for nearly two thousand years. They seek neither fame nor fortune, neither wealth nor status. They seek only clarity between Heaven and Earth, and peace in the human realm.
Even now, the peach blossoms on Mount Longhu bloom year after year. But there are fewer and fewer figures gripping peachwood swords.
I don't know whether, a hundred years from now, anyone will remember that there was once such a group of people, and that there were once these stories.
Enough. Enough.
The paper is short, but the feelings are long. I have said all there is to say.
Twelfth month of the Bingwu year, the final words of a certain family
