Burying Myself to Attain Immortality

At thirty-one, I saw my father off, hating that I was neither a cultivator nor an immortal, unable to grant people long lives or bring the dead back to life.

The following year, my mother passed away as well. I buried her beside my father’s grave, then left the mortal island for a land of cultivation, hoping to give it a try.

At thirty-five, I returned from the land of cultivation without becoming an immortal. Then I saw my father-in-law off too. I marveled that he had achieved his goal of passing the scholar examinations, while my own goal remained unfulfilled.

At thirty-six, my twenty-year-old son refused to marry and resolutely set off for the land of cultivation to seek immortality and the Dao.

At forty-six, after nearly ten years away, my son suddenly met with disaster. By the time I found him, he was barely breathing and close to death. In the end, he passed away with regrets.

Overcome with grief, I aged ten years overnight, my hair turning white. Once again, I asked myself: Why was I not a cultivator? Why was I not an immortal?

The following year, my wife died of grief over our son’s passing. In the end, only my grandson and I remained, an old man and a young boy relying on each other.

At fifty-two, I looked to be in my sixties or seventies. The brother who had once gone seeking immortality and the Dao had barely aged at all, while I was already nearing the end of my life and had suffered more than my share of partings and bereavements. I lamented how brief a mortal’s life was, how birth, aging, sickness, and death passed in the blink of an eye. Then, all at once, I reached enlightenment. The Three Flowers gathered atop my head, resonating with heaven and earth. Once more, I sought eternal life…