Yin Wuzhi enjoyed feeding him, Jiang Wu always complied, like a small animal. Although calling a ruler such as him a little animal seemed disrespectful.
He didn’t pay any mind to Qiu Wuchen’s urgency.
Yin Wuzhi didn’t have much fondness for her. Even though he understood that everything in their past life had been a series of unfortunate coincidences, he wouldn’t forgive those who had harbored malice toward Jiang Wu on his behalf.
At most, he treated her like a stranger.
“Your Majesty, would you like to lie down in the next room?”
He guessed Jiang Wu might want to sleep again.
Qiu Wuchen could see Yin Wuzhi’s attitude. Needing his help, she waited patiently and said, “Yin Wuzhi, if you hate me, you can punish me, but please, you must tell me—how did you do it?”
“How could I hate you?” Yin Wuzhi replied. “You think too highly of yourself.”
Everyone has people and things they care about. In their past life, everyone had been swept forward by the tide. Yin Wuzhi didn’t hate her; if he hated Qiu Wuchen, he would have to hate his own parents as well. After all, his father had also been one of the people who drove Jiang Wu to his death.
“I’m not tired,” Jiang Wu said. “Go on, tell your story.”
He hadn’t seen the madness Yin Wuzhi had shown for the original Jiang Wu, but he could see Qiu Wuchen’s desperation for Jiang Yuan and figured Yin Wuzhi must have been even more extreme.
Yin Wuzhi sat beside him and held his fingers.
“During the years I was alive, I was always searching for a way to reunite with him.”
After the fall of Zhao, he captured the national teacher, Ku Yin. Yin Wuzhi didn’t kill him or the innocent members of the royal family he apprehended. The condition was that Ku Yin would help him find Jiang Wu.
Ku Yin agreed.
He was a pragmatic man. By that point, he knew there was no saving Zhao, but he had guarded it for centuries and felt a duty to protect the royal family.
Ku Yin was the first truly skilled practitioner Yin Wuzhi had ever met—someone who had lived for centuries yet still looked so youthful.
For 49 days, Ku Yin performed rituals. When he finally opened his eyes, he asked Yin Wuzhi, “I have one good news and one bad news. Which would Your Majesty like to hear first?”
“Just say it. If I’m dissatisfied, I’ll kill you.”
“The good news is that I can’t find his soul. If you think positively, it could mean he lived a virtuous life, endured many injustices, and has ascended to immortality—a state beyond mortal comprehension.”
“And the bad news?”
“The bad news is that since I can’t find him, it’s highly likely that when he passed, his soul dissipated completely.”
“What do you mean by dissipated completely?”
“Turned to nothingness, vanished entirely. He no longer exists anywhere in the six realms.”
That was the first time Yin Wuzhi heard about the concept of a soul dissipating.
Seeing the murderous intent in Yin Wuzhi’s eyes, Ku Yin quickly added, “My abilities are not yet profound enough to prove anything definitively.”
“You’ve lived for so long, and your abilities are still insufficient?”
“For practitioners, a mere hundred years is nothing. The one who enlightened me lived for a thousand years.”
“Where can I find someone like that?”
“I’ve heard that if you pick any direction on the continent and keep going without straying, you’ll eventually reach Canglan Mountain and Sea. That’s where immortals are said to appear frequently.”
“But that’s only a legend.”
Yin Wuzhi sought help from countless Buddhist and Taoist practitioners after that. Some were obvious frauds. Every time, Yin Wuzhi would patiently allow himself to be deceived, then take their heads when the truth was revealed.
He was deceived many times and killed many people, but each time, he waited until the very end before acting.
Because he always held out hope for the person deceiving him.
Eventually, his killings became infamous across the Divine Continent, and no one dared to deceive him anymore.
At that point, Yin Wuzhi thought that even being deceived would be better—he might not even kill them—because holding onto hope, even in the midst of a lie, was sweet.
Later, he met more and more genuine practitioners. Each one told him the same thing: they couldn’t find Jiang Wu.
Until he encountered a truly skilled master. After using a reincarnation disk to divine the truth, the master regretfully told him, “This artifact is a celestial treasure. If the person you’re searching for truly existed, no matter what form they’ve taken—be it reincarnated or a wandering spirit—it would point to a location. But now it spins endlessly, meaning their soul has scattered into nothingness.”
Yin Wuzhi asked, “Why would that happen?”
“There are always people in this world who have no desires or attachments, no hope for the next life. They don’t want to become a flower, a bird, a fish, or a human again. Without the chains of power or longing, their soul simply dissipates.”
“Then is there no hope?”
The Taoist shook his head.
“No hope in the next life either?”
The Taoist shook his head again. “Once dissipated, it’s truly gone. There is no next life.”
At that moment, Yin Wuzhi realized he had already learned this truth from Ku Yin but had refused to believe it.
“There must be a way. If immortals exist, then there must be a way.”
The Taoist said, “If you believe they still exist, then they’re around you. Everything invisible and intangible might be them.”
“What if I want to touch them?”
The Taoist was silent for a long time before saying, “Try Canglan Mountain and Sea. It’s said to be the place closest to the immortal realm.”
Yin Wuzhi entrusted the throne to his adopted son and led a group in a chosen direction. They pressed forward relentlessly—tearing through mountains, filling rivers, or detouring when obstacles were insurmountable.
He traveled for many years before finally reaching the legendary Canglan Mountain and Sea.
There, he built a Taoist temple and climbed the mountain daily to watch the waves crash against the cliffs, hoping to one day meet an immortal who could fulfill his wish.
But even as he waited until his death, he never met the rumored immortals.
Jiang Wu laid on the table, staring at his serene face.
Perhaps all those years of waiting had worn away his sharp edges. He seemed so calm and quiet now.
“And then? What happened after?” Qiu Wuchen asked. “You died, and then what?”
After his death, Yin Wuzhi left his decayed body and returned to the form he had when he was separated from Jiang Wu. His obsession kept his soul from dispersing, and he didn’t go through the Rebirth Gate.
He continued to wander at the peak of Cangshan, beside the waves of Lanhai, the place rumored to be the most likely spot to encounter immortals.
He wandered endlessly.
Until one day, he heard a voice, seemingly coming from nowhere: “Yin Wuzhi, the histories praise your life of conquest and the founding of the Xia golden age. A thousand years have now passed. Are you willing to cross Lanhai and ascend to immortality?”
Yin Wuzhi asked, “Did he ascend?”
“You are consumed by obsession, your soul refusing to disperse, unable to enter the door of reincarnation. Ascension is your only path, or you will forever remain a wandering ghost.”
“Did he ascend?”
Just when he thought there would be no reply, the voice answered: “He was meant to ascend.”
“And then?”
“Yin Wuzhi, his soul has scattered completely. You must let go.”
Souls cannot cry.
Yin Wuzhi asked, “If I want to see him, what must I do?”
The voice sighed.
“Yin Wuzhi, what a shame for such a fitting name.”
“If I want to see him, what must I do?”
The other party gave him a suggestion: Wait. Kneel toward Lanhai, and wait with sincerity.
Perhaps, one day, the one he sought would feel something in the void, his soul would gather again, and he would reincarnate into a new life.
But the voice did not specify how long to wait.
Moreover, there was one drawback to this method: once he knelt, he could not rise again until his wish was fulfilled.
For Yin Wuzhi, waiting was waiting, no matter the form.
So, he knelt.
Over time, his soul became one with Cangshan.
He could feel himself stiffening, unable to move.
The waves before him receded, slowly revealing jagged rocks.
Occasionally, he heard voices—people reciting poetry, drinking, making merry near him. The temple he had built was repeatedly repaired, the legends of Cangshan fading into obscurity. The temple’s name eventually lent itself to the mountain’s name.
Then came the noise of crowds.
Many people gathered behind him, laughing and chatting. The sound of cameras clicking became the most frequent noise.
He wondered if Jiang Wu might be among them.
He often wanted to turn around and look, but he couldn’t move.
Some bold individuals even climbed close to him, but no one could ever stand in front of him.
The cliff was too steep. He worried. He hoped Jiang Wu wasn’t one of them because the spot in front of him was too precarious to stand safely.
Jiang Wu might fall.
He hoped Jiang Wu was living well. Though he longed to see him, his deepest wish was for Jiang Wu to rediscover the beauty of the world, to live freely and joyfully, even if it meant without him.
He believed that others would surely see Jiang Wu’s worth, too.
He waited and waited, often thinking how wonderful it would be to go back, to make amends for what was lacking, to show Jiang Wu that the world wasn’t so bad after all.
Most importantly, he wanted to protect the person he had failed to protect.
He didn’t know how long had passed when a breeze swept from behind him.
The wind was small yet winding, passing through his body. It seemed like something had stopped before him.
He didn’t have time to see. In the next moment, he found himself back in the world again.
Two streams of memories flooded in. He saw his familiar love, collapsing in an unfamiliar setting.
By the time they left the Jinya Tower, the sky had already darkened.
The only word Qiu Wuchen received was: “Wait.”
If time could erase everything, it could also surely reshape everything.
Jiang Wu, tired from listening, leaned against Yin Wuzhi and dozed for a while.
When he woke, he seemed a little downcast.
Yin Wuzhi fed him something to eat and asked, “Why the long face?”
“You said we’d go out shopping.”
“Tomorrow is fine, too.”
“.” Jiang Wu didn’t think like Yin Wuzhi. He wasn’t one to act on a whim; he always needed days of preparation to leave the house. Since he’d already gone out today, he probably wouldn’t feel like moving tomorrow.
Yin Wuzhi, noticing his thoughts, said, “Then let’s wait a few days.”
“Yin Wuzhi, do you think I’m Jiang Wu reincarnated?”
Jiang Wu said this faster than usual—not fast by most standards, but quicker than his usual pace.
Yin Wuzhi reached out to wipe the corner of his mouth and said, “I like you, and it has nothing to do with whether you’re his reincarnation.”
“But you do think that.”
“Isn’t that unfair to me?” Yin Wuzhi said, “When I fell for you, I didn’t even remember who Jiang Wu was.”
“Even if I am his reincarnation, I’m not the same person as him.”
“I know.”
“If you like me because of him, I won’t accept it.”
“I know.”
Jiang Wu frowned.
His expressions were rarely this animated. Yin Wuzhi smoothed his brow and asked, “Can you guess why I lost my memories?”
Jiang Wu looked at him.
“Because over those years, I often thought: if one day your soul regathered, and you lost all your memories, how could I make you accept me again?”
“If I brought feelings for the past Jiang Wu into my love for you, what would you be? A substitute?”
“You would never accept such a me.”
“That wouldn’t be fair to you.”
“So, although I often wished to start over, I insisted that if we had another chance, I would forget everything. I wanted to face a brand-new you with a brand-new me.”
Jiang Wu thought for a moment and asked, “Did you ever consider the possibility that neither of us would fall in love again?”
“Then, it seems that our fate together has come to an end,” Yin Wuzhi said. “Even if I can never be with you again, I won’t allow myself to approach this Jiang Wu with memories of another.”
“Besides, I believe that no matter how you change, I’ll still like you, because my affection for you was never about you being especially lovable.”
Jiang Wu reluctantly accepted his explanation. “So…”
“Then tell me, what is it about you now that makes you lovable?”
Jiang Wu: “.”
Unable to answer, he glared at him instead.
Yin Wuzhi smiled slightly. “Still know how to glare, huh? Don’t strain yourself—I’ll massage them for you.”
Putting down his bowl and chopsticks, he reached out to rub Jiang Wu’s eyes. Suddenly, Jiang Wu wrapped his arms around him.
It was a true embrace, with his arms soft yet firm around Yin Wuzhi’s neck, his chin resting on his shoulder.
His clear eyes looked forward, holding Yin Wuzhi silently as he slowly said, “I had actually guessed it.”
He had guessed that he was the reincarnation of Jiang Wu, and that Yin Wuzhi’s affection was because he was sure Jiang Wu was still within him.
But he always felt that Jiang Wu was Jiang Wu, and he was himself. Even if he was now called Jiang Wu, he was separate from that Jiang Wu.
He had always believed that he was born out of nothingness, even if he couldn’t find a reason for his existence. He was accidentally brought into this body—the original soul was its own being, and he was himself, with no connection to this world.
He hadn’t clarified this with Yin Wuzhi simply because he didn’t care to. He believed he would only receive a draining answer. Who would want to be that Jiang Wu? Wasn’t it easier being a carefree, shameless soul?
He also didn’t want Yin Wuzhi’s love to stem from him being Jiang Wu’s reincarnation.
But Yin Wuzhi’s answer surprised him.
Yin Wuzhi was indeed clever and genuinely liked him.
Whether it was the previous Jiang Wu or this one, both had been given the respect they deserved.
He had no reason to reject such a Yin Wuzhi, nor the self that had once been deeply loved.
He could be, or not be—if he wanted to be, then he was; if not, then he wasn’t.
Because none of that mattered as much anymore.
What mattered most was that the new Yin Wuzhi still fell in love with the new Jiang Wu, and the new Jiang Wu had also fallen for the new Yin Wuzhi, even if both were now somewhat worn and no longer brand new.
And he had found his reason for being born.
No wonder he had never moved on in all those years; no wonder anyone who tried to harm him would be struck by lightning; no wonder he remained worry-free and unburdened.
It was because Yin Wuzhi had held him in his thoughts.
For such a long, long time.
Cangshan had turned into Wudao Mountain, crowded with tourists, and Lanhai had dried into a deep abyss, yet Yin Wuzhi kept thinking of him, remembering him.
And he, too, had never found anything or anyone worth staying for.
Everything had been determined by fate.
He hadn’t reincarnated as just anyone, hadn’t blended into the crowd of tourists, but drifted into Yin Wuzhi’s view to be seen by him.
“Yin Wuzhi.” He tightened his arms, for the first time resenting his lack of strength for not eating enough, unable to hold him tightly enough. “You’ve been through a lot.”
Yin Wuzhi replied, “Yes.”
Jiang Wu pushed him away. “What do you mean, ‘Yes’?”
“It was indeed hard on me.”
Jiang Wu: “.”
“Hold me again.”
“No.”
“Then I’ll hold you.”
So Jiang Wu had no choice but to hug him back.
“In the future, I’ll take the initiative more often. You won’t have to work so hard.”
“You feel sorry for me?”
“No.”
“Oh, are you just afraid I’ll leave you like you left me before?”
The Pessimist raised his face, his clear eyes showing a hint of tension.
Yin Wuzhi lowered his gaze, meeting his eyes. “I’m not as heartless as you.”
Jiang Wu tugged at his hair, forcing Yin Wuzhi closer, and kissed him on the mouth.
“That bad person isn’t me.”
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