Chapter Eleven: Unfinished Business

A peculiar sensation of stretching spread through his consciousness, as if it lasted only a moment, yet somehow an eternity. When Xu Yuan opened his eyes again, the world before him had transformed, bearing no resemblance to the mortal realm.

Beneath his feet floated drifting clouds, rising up to his knees; in the distance, majestic immortal palaces stood solemn and awe-inspiring. Even the very air he breathed here felt light, graceful, and pure, untouched by a single trace of earthly murkiness.

From his cross-legged meditation, Xu Yuan slowly opened his eyes, a trace of reluctance flickering within them.

A single day in the human world—yet a whole year passes in the heavens.

He had returned here once more...

No, more precisely, his true self had never truly left.

Xu Yuan’s gaze turned forward. The flowing clouds parted before him, avoiding a certain spot.

There stretched a cerulean sea, shimmering with a faint glow, its radiance waning. Strictly speaking, it was more a passage—a gateway between heaven and earth—one which Xu Yuan had come to call the “Lower Realm Pool.”

Yet he had no idea how to open or close it. The only thing he knew was that, once each year, on a certain day when the first sunlight touched the mortal world, the Lower Realm Pool would open naturally.

Whenever that happened, Xu Yuan could approach the pool and thus descend to the lower realm.

But even then, it was not his true form that descended, but an incarnation conjured by the Lower Realm Pool. His consciousness would attach to this incarnation, allowing him to roam the human world for a single day.

When dusk fell and the moon rose, the incarnation would dissolve of its own accord, and his consciousness would return once more to the heavens.

Aside from this annual opening and closing, the Lower Realm Pool would, from time to time, flicker with images—noisy and chaotic, fragmented scenes that bore no connection to one another.

Xu Yuan had spent much energy studying this, only to admit in the end that it was not something he could unravel with mere speculation.

Still, it was of little consequence. At least he could enjoy a brief reprieve once a year.

If it were to break, he would truly be imprisoned.

Though he neither hungered nor thirsted here, and could not be said to tire or feel want, what meaning was there in a world with only himself?

No amusement, no companionship, no conversation—not even an enemy.

The only thing worth mentioning was the vast and boundless expanse that surrounded him, so much like a world unto itself.

A world with only a single soul.

Xu Yuan stood up, stretching his limbs slightly.

His gaze drifted into the distance.

There, auspicious clouds glowed, cranes danced in the sky, dragons and phoenixes soared, and golden lotuses occasionally bloomed across the ground.

Immortal mansions stretched on endlessly, each corner that revealed itself was a marvel of beauty and craftsmanship.

And yet, there was no life.

Whether it was the auspicious omens or the immortal dwellings, all were but dead things.

From afar, all seemed wondrous; up close, it was nothing but emptiness.

It was like a desiccated shell of a person—appearing lifelike at a distance, but upon closer inspection, revealed to be only skin, without flesh, blood, or bone, nothing but a husk.

And the cause of all this...

Xu Yuan lifted his head, looking up.

Above, in the sky, a painting spread out—crisscrossing lines suspended in the void, like an endless spider’s web.

As his eyes beheld it, the scroll that seemed vast enough to cover the heavens began to shrink, finally condensing into a single character: “Elimination.”

Xu Yuan called it the “Edict of Dissolution.”

The Edict was not static; every moment, it shifted and changed. Yet when Xu Yuan fixed his gaze upon it, he could always seize its essence, transforming complexity into simplicity and revealing its true nature.

But that was as far as he could go.

He could see it, but he could not influence it.

The Edict of Dissolution continued to wear away at this world, not with violence, but with a slow, unceasing erosion.

Perhaps this was why no other living being existed here but himself.

Thus, almost all of Xu Yuan’s time in the heavens was spent contemplating the Edict. Now, his understanding grew ever clearer.

But a solution eluded him still.

At least the contemplation served to pass the time.

When immersed in the study, the passage of time became imperceptible. Especially when heart and mind were fully absorbed, chasing the myriad changes was a diversion in itself.

Without such diversion, even with his annual day in the mortal world, the long, lonely years in the heavens would have long driven Xu Yuan mad.

Now, having returned once more, Xu Yuan did not hesitate—he threw himself back into his contemplation of the Edict, waiting for the Lower Realm Pool to open again.

Until he found a way to break free from this prison—or until the Pool itself was destroyed, denying him even his brief reprieve—perhaps only then would he finally reach his breaking point.

...

Xu Yuan had returned, yet the effects of his actions in the human world did not disappear so easily.

Let us turn back the clock a little.

Liu’s Shop.

“Why have you come back alone? Where’s Mister Xu?”

Old Liu, whose hair was now flecked with white, looked left and right but found no sign of Xu Yuan. He asked at once.

Earlier, when Mister Xu had gone out, Ji Wu had tossed out a quick, “I’ll go keep an eye on things,” before dashing out like the wind. There was no stopping him.

And now, only one of them had returned.

Surely nothing had happened to Mister Xu?

“Mister Xu said he might cause trouble if he came along, so he left on his own and didn’t let me follow,” Ji Wu replied, scratching his head.

“He left?” A look of confusion and helplessness swept across Old Liu’s face.

Even someone like Mister Xu can do nothing but withdraw?

“Oh, right—Mister Xu also wanted me to tell you, ‘I have already avenged Old Gao.’”

Ji Wu added.

“Vengeance has been served?” Old Liu froze, swept by a flood of complicated emotions. Tears slid down his cheeks unbidden; he wanted to laugh to the heavens, yet was overwhelmed by sorrow. One hand pressed on his crippled left leg, caught between laughter and tears.

His friend was gone, his leg maimed, but at last, with Mister Xu’s return, their great wrong had been avenged.

Yet that friend would not come back, nor would his ruined leg heal.

Only the bitter resentment in his heart had, at last, found a measure of solace.

Was this enough to call it peace?

“Oh, old man, why are you crying?” Ji Wu was at a loss, flustered by Old Liu’s tears. He could never bear to see others cry, let alone an elder.

It was young Ji Wen who remained calm, asking, “What did Mister Xu do?”

“I don’t know,” Ji Wu shook his head. He had never even entered the Li family’s gates, only barely catching the sounds from within.

Old Liu wiped away his tears, regaining some composure. “If Mister Xu said vengeance was served, then it’s so,” he declared.

“How did you meet Mister Xu? And who was Old Gao?” Ji Wu seized the chance to ask as Old Liu calmed down.

“That’s a long story...”

“No rush, no rush. Take your time. I’ve got all day.”