The third prince of the imperial family, Xie Chu, was born with a heart free of worldly desires, with the chill of mountaintop snow in his very bones. The day he stepped outside the palace at the age of eight, his master walked ahead while he counted the stone steps behind him. By the ninety-ninth step, the cries behind him had faded until they were as faint as icicles melting from the eaves.
So this was all the mortal world amounted to.
Xie Chu was untouched by worldly concerns, with a naturally cultivated Daoist heart. He was born suited to cultivation. The affections of the mortal world were like willow fluff clinging to his clothes: easy enough to brush away, and certainly not worth his effort.
His heart was colder than other people's from birth, and his talent for cultivation was extraordinary. The day he entered the world with his sword after reaching great mastery, he happened upon demons and monsters tearing the roof tiles from the capital, Shangjing.
It was a time of turmoil. Demons and ghosts invaded, and Daoist priests descended from the mountains. In a fractured dynasty of shattered porcelain, the currents of fate converged, and a catastrophe engulfed the mortal world.
The young Daoist Xie wore white, using a branch as his sword, the mountain wind filling his sleeves.
He healed the living and divined the dead, caught ghosts in the world of the living and settled affairs in the underworld. He crossed the snows of the northern frontier and weathered the rains of Lingnan. Before he knew it, his bundle was full of fragments of worldly life.
Over the years on the road, he had taken up too many threads of karma still warm with human touch. He could neither avoid them nor escape them.
Xie Chu was the most divine person Xue Rang had ever seen.
That gentle, modest young Daoist had clear, bright features, like frost on bamboo. When he spoke, his voice carried the mountain breeze. His snow-white wrist often slipped out from beneath his robe, bringing to mind a handful of fresh snow offered by a believer before a Buddha.
With a black saber in hand, Xue Zhu Yu had fought the Thirteen Iron Feather Riders alone and fled for his life for twenty years. After meeting Xie Huailang, all he wanted for the rest of his life was to hold that pale, slender wrist, tightly and for as long as he could, like someone trying to scoop the moon from a stream, afraid even the faintest glimmer might slip through his fingers.
But Xue Rang also hated Xie Chu more than anyone.
The man's compassion flowed over pebbles like a stream. Did you think that tenderness was meant for you alone?
Xue Rang had seen him perform rites for the dead, then use the same handkerchief to wipe a tombstone and his own palm. Moonlight soaked his robes impartially, dusting the living and the dead alike with a cold frost.
To Xie Chu, every life in this world was the same. All things entered his sight but not his heart. He treated everything living and dead alike.
In Xie Chu's eyes, Xue Rang was no different from an eternal river or a vast mountain, from the stars of the universe, or the wild grass on a cliff's edge, a butterfly with a broken wing, and all those people he had casually saved who foolishly fell for him.
Xue Rang truly hated... how Xie Chu was kind to everyone.
This man who held the whole world in his heart was the most heartless of all.
Xie Chu cultivated the path of unfeeling. He had always believed that he must be free of heart and emotion, and transcend the mundane, to attain the Dao. Yet it was precisely those occasional stirrings of his heart that made his hands steadier as he formed his spells.
Under the unspoken gaze of the person before him, Xie Chu suddenly understood: the true path of unfeeling was to learn to be like the wind in the mountains, brushing past new shoots and withered branches alike, witnessing joy and making room for sorrow, yet never stopping.
Just as Xie Chu attained enlightenment and truly achieved the Dao, a scalding tear fell onto the back of his hand.
Xie Chu spoke in his usual gentle voice, compassion like melting snow gathered between his brows. Yet every word struck at the most painful place, as if he wouldn't stop until he'd carved out a bloody hole.
"All living beings suffer, and all things are ultimately empty."
"Donor, you are attached to appearances."
25.05.08
Theme: I know this world is as fleeting as dew. And yet, and yet.
