Recovering from his initial shock, he tried to shove the pouch back into my hands. "I can't accept this," he said, shaking his head. "My father would kill me if he found out I took something like this."
I chuckled, gently pressing the pouch back into his hands. "It's not for your father to decide. I'm giving it to you, Ming'er. You've worked hard this year—helping me, supporting your father, growing into someone he can be proud of. I'm proud of you too. Consider this a small recognition of your efforts."
Ming Chen hesitated, his fingers tightening around the pouch as if afraid it would disappear. "But… this is too much. I don't know if I deserve it. And what about you? Won't you need this for yourself?"
I laughed softly, reaching out to ruffle his hair. "My shop does well enough, and my needs are few. As for whether you deserve it, that's for me to decide, not you. You've brought laughter and company to this quiet shop of mine. That alone is worth more than gold. Now, take it. Unless, of course, you don't consider me your Big Brother anymore?"
I raised an eyebrow, my voice playful, but Ming Chen's eyes welled up with unshed tears. He clutched the pouch against his chest as though it was something far more precious than mere gold.
"I… Thank you, Big Brother Huzi." His voice cracked. "I don't know what else to say."
I smiled. "Then don't say anything, Ming'er. Use it to lighten your father's burdens, or if there's something you've been longing for, use it for yourself. You've earned it."
From the distance, a voice called his name. His father.
Ming Chen hesitated, his reluctance visible in the way he shuffled his feet, his fingers still curled around the pouch. But eventually, he nodded. "Thank you, Big Brother. I won't forget this."
With that, he turned and dashed toward his home, the string of fireworks bouncing in his hand. I watched as the boy disappeared into the warm glow of his house, the door closing behind him, sealing him within the embrace of familial comfort.
A faint smile lingered on my lips, but it soon faded.
Snow fell in gentle swirls, blanketing the world in fragile white stillness. I exhaled slowly, watching my breath form ephemeral clouds in the air, vanishing as soon as they appeared.
Ever since I began practicing martial arts and grasping the deeper truths of the world, the desire for immortality took root within me. But now, I can't help but question— is this path truly worth it?
"The path of immortality…" I murmured, my voice lost to the wind. "It is a paradox wrapped in infinite layers of truth and illusion. To seek eternity is to forsake all that is transient. Yet, how can one truly understand eternity without first experiencing the fleeting nature of life?"
People often mistook immortality for escape. Escape from death, from pain, from loss. But immortality was not freedom. It was a shackle of its own.
To live beyond the cycles of life and death was to bear witness to an eternity of change. Empires would rise and fall, rivers would carve mountains and vanish into the sea. Faces would fade, laughter would become echoes, and even memories would erode under the weight of infinite time.
And yet, I chose this path.
Not because it was easy.
But because it was inevitable.
To remain in the mortal coil was to accept decay. To seek the eternal was to challenge the heavens themselves. This was the ultimate defiance—to claim for oneself what the cosmos denied. Immortality was not given; it was earned through struggle, through sacrifice, through unyielding resolve.
I closed my eyes. What is the Dao?
Is it the laws of the universe, the patterns of existence that bind all things? Or is it the essence beyond the laws, the eternal truth hidden beneath the illusion of reality?
Perhaps it is both.
Or neither.
The Dao is a riddle with no answer, a journey with no destination. Yet, I walk this path because I must. Because to not walk it is to deny my very essence.
The snow outside grew heavier, swirling like whispers from a world unseen. I watched it fall, and a flicker of understanding dawned in my mind.
"The snow falls, unbidden, unbound. It does not ask why it falls or where it lands. It simply is. Perhaps that is the nature of the Dao—not a thing to be grasped, but a state to be embodied. To live as the snow, to drift without fear, without attachment, yet with purpose."
And yet…
My thoughts drifted unbidden to the boy who had just left, the simple joys of our time together.
When I left this plane, what would I miss most?
It wouldn't be the people of Iron Vein Sect. It wouldn't be the rivals I had defeated or the enemies I had crushed.
It wouldn't even be the pursuit of power itself.
No.
I would miss moments like these.
A boy's laughter in a quiet shop. The warmth of tea shared in winter. The sound of ink brushing against paper in the dead of night. The fragile, fleeting joys that made life something more than just a struggle for eternity.
I felt cold.
Not the cold of winter.
But something deeper.
An ache rooted in my very soul.
A quiet, bitter pain.
This… this was the weight of mortality. The longing for what must be left behind. But perhaps it was this very pain that gave meaning to the pursuit. To sever these bonds was not to discard them, but to honor them.
For only by letting go could I rise above.
To tread the path of immortality was to embrace solitude. Not as a curse, but as a crucible. Loneliness was the forge in which the soul was tempered, the fire that purified the heart.
And in this solitude, one discovered the self.
Not the self defined by others.
But the self that existed beyond all definitions.
Eternal.
Unchanging.
I let out a slow breath, closing my eyes. I did not shiver. "Until that day comes, I will carry this silence. This ache. This loneliness. For in solitude, I will find my true Dao. Not for glory. Not for power. But for understanding. To tread this path is to become a madman, perhaps, but it is the only path I choose."
A faint ripple of energy stirred around me, subtle as the falling snow. The firelight from the houses flickered.
I exhaled slowly, watching the white expanse grow untouched and still. And in that quiet moment, the seed of my immortal resolve took root.
After some time, I rose from my chair and stepped inside. The air within my small dwelling was colder than the streets outside. I made my way to a shelf in the corner, reaching for a pristine white scroll—its surface smooth.
At the table, I unrolled the scroll with deliberate care. The ink bottle lay beside it. I uncapped it, dipped my brush, and watched as the bristles drank in the darkness.
Then, I began to paint.
As the first stroke touched the paper, my breath slowed. My mind emptied. The world faded into obscurity. There was only the ink, the brush, and the movement of my hand—an unspoken dialogue between my soul and the void.
Time slipped away, unnoticed. Only the faint sound of bristles gliding over paper remained.
When the brush finally stilled, I blinked, emerging from the trance. My gaze fell upon the painting before me, and my breath caught.
A grotesque mountain loomed across the scroll, formed not of stone, but of writhing bodies. Twisted figures clawed and crawled toward its peak, their limbs interwoven in a frenzied, ceaseless struggle. At the summit, a faint, almost imperceptible white light flickered—small, nearly swallowed by the chaos below.
The figures… they were terrifying. Some climbed with greedy, wild eyes, their expressions twisted with hunger. Others bore masks of cold indifference, their gazes empty yet resolute. And then, there were those who had already given in—eyes filled with despair as they collapsed along the mountain's slope.
But the worst were the ones who had abandoned all reason.
Some were locked in brutal combat, stabbing and slashing without hesitation. Others had descended into madness, biting, tearing, their teeth sinking into flesh, their hands slick with crimson. A few devoured the fallen, their mouths stuffed with raw, mangled flesh, their eyes alight with frenzied delight.
Above it all, the sky loomed blood-red, streaked with veins of black. The air in the painting felt suffocating, oppressive, as though the world it depicted teetered on the brink of annihilation.
Yet despite the madness, every figure—no matter how twisted, broken, or lost—had their eyes fixed on that flickering white light at the peak.
A sick realization churned in my stomach.
I took a step back, heart pounding.
"What… is this?" I murmured, my voice barely audible.
I had painted many things before. I had used my brush as a gateway to understanding, a means to glimpse the Dao. But this… This was something else. This was not a vision of clarity or enlightenment. This was horror.
I swallowed hard, staring at the desperate, contorted figures. The light at the peak was so faint, so insignificant next to the endless suffering below. And yet, every single being in the painting reached for it.
I closed my eyes, forcing my mind to still. "What does this light signify? What truth lies hidden in this chaos?"
And then, it struck me.
This was the path of immortality.
A mountain of writhing souls, each sacrificing, suffering, devouring, clawing their way upward, chasing a light so distant it may as well be a mirage.
This was the true face of the pursuit of immortality. No grand elegance, no divine ascension, only an endless climb through suffering, where most would die forgotten, buried beneath those who stepped over them.
And at the peak… the white light. Small, faint, nearly swallowed by the chaos, yet impossibly present. The Dao.
A cold shudder ran through me.
"The Dao is not some pure, benevolent force," I murmured, my fingers hovering over the inked lines. "It is chaos. It is struggle. It is sacrifice. And to seek it is to walk willingly into the abyss, knowing it may consume me."
I traced the contours of the desperate figures—those locked in battle, those devouring the fallen, those with hollow gazes as though already lost. A figure in the corner drew my attention—a man with a blade in his hand, his face emotionless as he severed the arm of another, stepping over the dying without a second glance.
I swallowed hard.
"Is this what I will become?"
The question lingered, heavier than stone. Was I prepared for that fate? Was I willing to cast away everything—friendship, warmth, even my own humanity—for the sake of an endless dream?
I clenched my fists.
The truth was, I had already begun.
I had never sought immortality for power. I did not crave dominion over others, nor did I pursue eternity out of fear of death. My path was not one of righteousness, nor was it one of malice. It was simply… mine.