He leaned back, the wooden chair creaking softly under him, and gazed upward at the dim heavens. "What a cruel paradox," he whispered, his voice lost in the wind. "The more I cherish these fleeting bonds, the more painful it becomes to sever them. But what choice do I have? To walk the path of immortality is to embrace the void within, to make peace with the shadow that no fire can dispel."
Memories of laughter and quiet dinners with Ming Chen and his father floated to the surface of his mind.
"Is the pursuit of immortality truly worth it?" he questioned, though he already knew his answer. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. Only those who reach the end of this path can say whether the price was justified. Yet I care little for such justifications."
His fingers traced the grain of the wooden armrest. "I have felt the fire’s warmth and the snow’s bite, and I know them for what they are—transient sensations bound to a body that will one day crumble into dust. If I cling to them, I too will fall. But if I let them go, I may rise. The pursuit of immortality demands sacrifice, not because it is heartless, but because it is endless."
The streets grew darker, and the snow continued to fall. Xiao Huzi’s gaze softened, the faintest hint of sadness flickering in his eyes. "One day, perhaps, I will return to this city," he murmured. "But by then, centuries will have passed and no one will remember me. I will sit here again, surrounded by strangers in a world reborn. By then, I will no longer crave warmth or companionship. My heart will be like the heavens—vast, tranquil, and eternal."
He closed his eyes, letting the cold seep into his skin, though he did not shiver. "Until that day comes," he whispered, "I will carry this cold, this ache, this silence. For in this 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 radiated from him, so subtle it seemed part of the falling snow. The firelight from the houses around him dimmed and flickered.
The snow fell heavier, blanketing the street in an untouched purity. Xiao Huzi opened his eyes, their clarity reflecting the stillness of his soul.
And in the quiet of the winter night, the seed of his immortal resolve began to bloom.
After some time passed, Xiao Huzi rose from his chair and went inside his house. With deliberate steps, he made his way to the small shelf in the corner of his house.
From it, he retrieved a pristine white scroll, its surface untouched and smooth as fresh snow. He returned to the table and spread the scroll out with care.
He uncapped a bottle of ink. Picking up his brush, Xiao Huzi dipped it into the ink, watching the bristles drink in the darkness. His hand moved almost instinctively, the first stroke flowing onto the paper like a stream finding its course.
As his brush moved, his breathing slowed, and his gaze turned blank. The world around him faded into obscurity as he delved deep into the recesses of his mind.
Each stroke carried a weight, an emotion, a fragment of something far beyond the tangible. Time slipped away unnoticed and only the faint sound of the ink brush bristling on the paper remained.
Finally, the brush in his hand stilled. Xiao Huzi blinked, his eyes focusing on the creation before him. His breath hitched. The painting seemed almost alive, radiating an aura of unease, as though it were a portal to a world on the brink of collapse.
On the scroll was a grotesque mountain made entirely of people. Twisted bodies writhed and crawled toward the peak, where a faint, almost imperceptible white light flickered. The mountain was a chaotic amalgamation of humanity, their limbs interwoven in a struggle that defied logic. If one didn’t look carefully, the light at the peak would seem insignificant, almost swallowed by the painting’s chaos.
The figures in the painting were a study in madness. Some clawed their way upward with greedy expressions, eyes glinting with an insatiable hunger.
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Others wore masks of cold indifference, as though the struggle was beneath them. Yet, despair clung to many, their faces etched with hopelessness as they faltered on the mountain’s slope.
But it was the horrifying figures that seized Xiao Huzi’s attention. Some were locked in brutal combat, stabbing and slashing without hesitation. Others had descended into madness, biting and tearing at flesh with their teeth, blood painting their faces in ghastly streaks of crimson. A few devoured the dead, their mouths stuffed with raw, mangled flesh, their eyes wide with frenzied delight. The expressions were grotesque.
Above this nightmarish scene, 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 edge of annihilation.
Despite the chaos, every figure shared one haunting trait—their yearning. No matter how twisted, indifferent, or despairing, each pair of eyes was fixed on the faint, flickering white light at the mountain's peak, as though it held the answer to their existence.
Xiao Huzi took a step back, his heart pounding. He couldn’t believe what he had created. His paintings had always been a gateway to understanding, a means to gain insights into the Dao.
Yet this… This was unlike anything he had ever painted. His previous works, though profound, had never carried this weight of dread, this sense of despair and futility.
"What… does this mean?" he muttered, his voice trembling slightly. The painting felt foreign, as though it had been created by a hand that wasn’t entirely his own.
He stared at the figures, at their desperation, their madness, their yearning. The faint white light looked small and unimportant next to the chaos and destruction of the mountain, yet it drew all the attention.
He closed his eyes, forcing his racing mind to still. "What does this light signify? What truth lies hidden in this chaos?"
As his thoughts delved deeper, he began to see the painting not as a simple depiction, but as a mirror. The mountain represented the path of immortality, a treacherous climb fraught with suffering and sacrifice.
The figures were the countless people who had walked this path, their emotions laying bare the cost of their pursuit. Greed, indifference, despair, madness—all were the trials that awaited those who sought to ascend.
The white light at the peak… It was the Dao itself. Small, distant, and almost obscured by the mountain’s horrors, yet it was there. It was real. And it was enough to drive countless souls to madness, to despair, to destruction.
A chill ran down Xiao Huzi’s spine as he realized the painting’s deeper truth. "The Dao is not a path of purity or perfection. It is a path of chaos, of struggle, of sacrifice. To seek it is to walk willingly into the abyss, knowing that it may consume you. The light may guide, but it will not save."
The grotesque figures gnawing at each other, their faces smeared with crimson streaks of blood, sent a shiver coursing through Xiao Huzi’s soul. The sheer savagery, the madness etched into their distorted features—it was haunting. His fingers trembled slightly as he traced the outline of one such figure on the painting, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Is this what I will become?" he murmured, his words laden with fear and reflection. "Will my yearning for immortality drive me to this madness? Will I tear apart others, lose my very essence, all for the faint hope of reaching that elusive light?"
The thought lingered, heavy as a mountain pressing against his chest. Yet Xiao Huzi closed his eyes and steadied his breath. He understood that this question, as terrifying as it was, could not be ignored. "I must review myself," he thought. "The heart that seeks immortality must not waver. Am I prepared for what lies ahead?"
He opened his eyes and looked deeper into the painting, into the chaos of the mountain and the faint glimmer at its peak. The truth came to him as sharp as a blade. He did not see himself as a savior, a saint who would sacrifice his dreams for the well-being of others. Nor was he a tyrant, a crazed murderer who revels in suffering, looking down upon all existence as if it were beneath him. No, Xiao Huzi was neither extreme. He was simply... himself.
"The pursuit of immortality," he murmured, "is neither noble nor vile. It simply is. It is a path chosen not for others, but for myself. I walk it not to prove a point or to impose my will, but because it is the only path that resonates with my soul."
"What I seek is not grandeur or power. I do not wish to live forever to dominate, nor do I long for eternal life as an escape from death. I seek immortality because it is my dream. My existence, insignificant as it may seem, dares to challenge the heavens themselves. It is not arrogance but a desire to witness something greater—to see the scenery from the peak of immortality, to grasp the Dao that lies beyond the veil of life and death."
His hand clenched into a fist, his nails digging into his palm. "I will not falter," he thought, his determination igniting like a roaring fire. "I refuse to live a life of regret, to stand on my deathbed and wonder 'what if?' Even if the heavens crush me, even if the earth consumes me, I will walk this path. Let the world call me mad or selfish. It matters not. For me, this pursuit is worth the price of my entire being."
"I may stumble," he admitted to himself, his voice soft but unyielding. "I may fall prey to greed, despair, or madness. But I will rise again, for my resolve is not born of fleeting emotions but of an enduring dream. Even if my body breaks, even if my soul falters, I will not stop. In my final breath, I will smile and say, 'I gave everything for my dream.' And when death takes me, I will have no regrets."
"I will carve my name into eternity," he thought, his heart pounding. "Not for others to remember, but for myself to know that I dared. An insignificant mortal reaching for the infinite—it is absurd, laughable even. But it is mine."
Xiao Huzi’s lips curved into a faint, bittersweet smile. "Immortality may be a dream, a madness, or an impossible goal," he whispered. "But it is my dream. My madness. My impossible goal. And so, I will walk forward. Step by step, no matter how dark, no matter how treacherous. This is my path."
He reached out and carefully rolled up the painting, his hands steady and resolute. The chaos in the painting mirrored the trials he would face, but the light… the light was proof that the struggle was not in vain.
As he placed the scroll back on the shelf, Xiao Huzi stood taller, his shoulders squared and his heart unshaken. The fire within him burned brighter now, its warmth dispelling the chill of doubt.
"My path may be lonely, my steps may falter, but I will never stop walking. For at the end of this journey, I will see the results. And when I do, I will know that my life was not lived in vain."