I awoke to a grayish sky, my head pounding and vision blurred. Only a few dark clouds were visible, outlining ominous shapes against the dawn.
The cold stone slab beneath me felt like ice, as if it were draining every bit of warmth from my body.
"Father?" My voice came out hoarse, unfamiliar even to myself.
No response.
I struggled to sit up, pressing my palms against the bluestone. My fingers touched something wet and sticky. Looking down, I saw dark red blood coating my fingertips—not yet dry.
Memories flooded back.
Last night, Father and I had been practicing swordplay by the stream. The moon hung like a silver plate, our sword shadows arcing like rainbows. Father said my technique had improved, but still lacked "spirit essence." Just as I was about to defiantly demonstrate my skills again, a strange fragrance drifted from the woods—ethereal, neither quite floral nor quite perfume, yet utterly captivating.
Then...
A shadow had darted out, moving too fast to see clearly. Father shoved me aside and shouted, "It's you!" His voice carried a complex mixture of emotions—anger, relief, and something like resigned expectation.
A cold laugh. A flash of steel.
After that, darkness claimed me.
"Father!"
I jumped to my feet, nearly losing my balance as I staggered toward the trail of blood snaking across the bluestone. The crimson line led to a nearby thicket where—
There lay my father, motionless among the verdant grass. He wore his plain Daoist robe, the familiar cyan scabbard still at his waist, though the sword itself was gone. His expression was peaceful—had it not been for the horrifying wound in his chest, he might have merely been taking a rest.
"Father!" I rushed forward, my trembling hands searching for any sign of breath.
Nothing. No pulse.
In that moment, my heart turned to ash. For sixteen years, the first lesson Father taught me was: a cultivator should control emotions and desires, not suppress them entirely. Feel emotions without being ruled by them, have desires but keep them in check. Yet now, I couldn't shed a single tear—only a cold emptiness filled my chest.
"You're awake?" a raspy voice came from behind.
I spun around to see a figure in black robes standing nearby. Their face was hidden in the shadow of their hood, impossible to make out clearly. I instinctively reached for my sword, only to grasp at empty air.
"Don't be alarmed, little girl." The black-robed figure chuckled, their deep, hoarse voice carrying a disturbingly familiar quality. "I'm not here to kill you."
"Did you kill my father?" I stared at them, my voice colder than I'd ever heard it.
"Not me." The figure shook their head, a hint of mockery visible in their smile beneath the hood. "Your father knew too much. He discovered the truth, so he had to die. And you, Wei Lingwei, you've seen things you shouldn't have."
I stepped back warily. "How do you know my name?"
"I know far more than you imagine." The figure's voice suddenly softened, as if becoming a different person entirely. "For instance, I know your mother's whereabouts."
The words struck like a hammer blow to my heart. How could this be? In sixteen years, I'd never met my mother. Father always said she passed away shortly after I was born. Yet this stranger's words sparked an absurd hope within me.
"My mother is alive?" My voice quavered as I held my breath.
"Not only alive, but doing quite well." The black-robed figure said meaningfully, their tone carrying some indecipherable emotion. "Better than you could possibly imagine."
How laughable. I wanted to argue but found myself speechless.
For sixteen years, Father never spoke in detail about my mother. Whenever I asked, he would fall silent or change the subject. Was this the reason? My mother hadn't died, but... left? Why would she abandon me... and my father?
My mind was chaos, countless questions fighting to be asked first, but I didn't know where to begin.
"Who are you?" I glared at the black-robed figure, my voice trembling with anger. "What do you want?"
"Who I am doesn't matter." The figure turned slightly, pointing toward the mountain ranges shrouded in morning mist. "What matters is where you should go. Wei Lingwei, your father's death wasn't an accident, but a beginning. If you want to know the truth, go to the Tianyan Sect."
The Tianyan Sect. A place Father never willingly mentioned, only occasionally mumbling about when drunk, his expression complicated—sometimes nostalgic, sometimes disgusted. When I'd ask him sober, he would always evade the question.
After much pestering, he once revealed fragments about it being where he had trained and cultivated in his youth. When he spoke of it, his eyes always held an indescribable emotion, as if it wasn't merely a place of cultivation but carried too many unspoken memories.
The black-robed figure turned to leave, then paused as if remembering something. "Oh, I've already collected your father's sword for you. What he left behind isn't just sword techniques, but something far more important. You'll understand eventually."
"Also," their voice suddenly deepened, "Taigong's thread will soon descend again, and heaven and earth will face great changes."
Taigong? Thread? These words stirred an unfamiliar resonance in my heart. Father had mumbled similar phrases when drunk, but I'd dismissed them as drunken ramblings.
Before I could ask more, the black-robed figure dissipated like smoke into the morning mist, leaving only floating words behind: "Nothing in this world is constant, least of all the human heart. Lingwei, I hope you can see the truth more clearly than your father did."
I stood frozen, unable to move. Too much information flooded my mind at once: the figure in black, the cause of Father's death, my mother still alive, Taigong, threads, the Tianyan Sect... Each question was like a stone thrown into a calm lake, creating ripples upon ripples, with no bottom in sight.
The sky brightened as dawn broke, painting half the horizon red.
That red—so similar to the bloodstains on the bluestone. So like the flames of vengeance slowly igniting in my heart.
I looked at Father's body, my heart aching. He was gone, truly gone. Never again would anyone tell me, "Lingwei, remember, on the path of cultivation, emotion is the foundation." No one would correct my sword stance during practice, no one would bring me a bowl of hot soup when I was exhausted, no one would softly tell me stories of the outside world in the quiet of night.
Only me now. Just me, alone.
I clenched my jaw, fighting back the grief that threatened to overwhelm me. My fingertips trembled, yet not a single tear fell. Was it hatred sealing my tear ducts, or shock freezing my emotions?
"Father, I will uncover the truth," I said softly, my voice firm despite a tremor I didn't notice.
I picked up the practice sword nearby and examined it carefully in the morning light. My face reflected in the blade—pale and stern, with a fire burning in my eyes that I didn't recognize. Who would have thought that yesterday I was a carefree village girl, and today I'd become an orphan?
I carefully sheathed the sword in Father's cyan scabbard. The scabbard felt cold in my hands, yet with a subtle warmth, as if still retaining Father's body heat.
After arranging Father's clothes, I gritted my teeth and carefully lifted his body onto my back. Though Father wasn't a large man, his weight now seemed almost unbearable.
Carrying him, I walked step by step toward the bamboo forest on the back mountain, his favorite place. He often meditated there, saying the air was filled with pure spiritual energy.
"Father, you said cultivators should return to the mountains after death, becoming one with heaven and earth," I whispered, my steps faltering but never stopping. "Today, I'll take you to the place you loved most."
Deep in the bamboo forest was a flat clearing where spring sunlight filtered through the leaves in dappled patterns, and where fireflies gathered on summer nights like fallen stars. Father often said the spiritual energy was richest there, and that when he reached the pinnacle of cultivation, he would ascend to immortality from that spot. Now, it would become his final resting place.
I used the practice sword to dig a deep hole, just large enough for Father's body. My hands trembled more than once during the process, the sword tip leaving irregular marks in the earth.
Once the grave was ready, I carefully laid Father inside.
I began filling in the grave, each shovelful of dirt feeling like a heavy layer of dust covering my heart. When the last bit of soil covered Father's face, I felt a moment of disbelief—from now on, I would never see him again.
After finishing the burial, I planted a bamboo shoot at the head of the grave. I didn't erect a tombstone or carve an inscription. In this bamboo forest, everything knew who he was, no words needed.
"Father, rest in peace." I knelt before the fresh grave and kowtowed three times. "Your daughter is unfilial, unable to serve you in life, yet you've gone before me. I swear I will uncover the truth and bring your killer to justice. Heaven and earth bear witness to this oath."
When I stood, my knees were caked with dirt, my palms blistered from gripping the sword. If Father's spirit watched from beyond, would he think me too cold for not shedding a single tear? Or would he understand this was the result of his teachings on "controlling emotions and desires"?
My heart was filled with conflicting emotions, yet somehow empty at the same time.
The sky had lightened completely, shimmering with fish-scale patterns of dawn. A new day had begun. And I knew my journey was just beginning.
I gazed toward the distant mountains where a towering peak barely visible through the mist must be the location of the Tianyan Sect. Though my village was familiar, I knew I would soon leave it behind.
"Tianyan Sect..." I whispered, gripping the scabbard tightly, "I'm coming."