In the deepest and most silent slumber, An Jing stepped into the hazily lit street and saw a familiar martial arts school.
He remembered how in his previous life, for some reasons, he had feverishly trained in martial arts, until the world once turbulent found peace again, until the world, like a wasteland, blossomed once more with prosperity.
He had never ceased his pursuit of martial arts until 'death.'
These spirited memories of youth resurfaced, like slicing through an onion head-on; most people would subconsciously lower their gaze, unwilling to stare at the brilliant days of the past.
But An Jing in the dream confronted all of it.
Maybe it was because he had never failed the dream, or perhaps because he remained young even unto death.
Following the winding path of the dream, he arrived outside the martial arts school and looked up at its slightly aged signboard.
