Chapter 96: Time

This conversation did not spark any immediate change; it was like a drop of water merging into the ocean. The two returned to the Falling Rock Forest and continued their lives exactly as before.

Zhou Shijin’s fame in the cultivation world was gradually fading, but she never cared. She spent her days leisurely wandering and drinking, never participating in matters that could boost her reputation. Zora, on the other hand, performed missions out of habit. Because her cultivation was high, the sect would occasionally assign her extremely difficult tasks, usually involving cooperation with other sects.

"Fellow Daoist Zora, we have a plan..."

The path ahead was blocked by mountain rocks, and demonic monsters frequently ambushed from the sky, making it impossible to fly on swords. A group of people were pushing and shoving until a young man stepped forward to speak to Zora. Before he could even explain their plan, he saw the girl draw her sword with a crisp motion and swing; the mountain rocks thundered and shattered into rubble.

The man was dumbstruck, then cried out in a panic, "Wait! What if there were commoners near the rocks—"

"No need to worry," the youth who had been following Zora finally spoke, chuckling softly. "I have already scouted ahead; there are no villagers nearby."

"That... that's good then." The man had been standing very close to Zora because he was talking to her. When he asked his question, the girl turned to look at him, her face showing no emotion.

Vane stood on Zora’s other side. After speaking, he followed with a smile, fixing his gaze on the man’s face in a seemingly approachable manner. The man looked at Vane, then at Zora; the girl’s amber eyes stared straight at him without the slightest flinch. Her superior looks made the man belatedly blush. It wasn't just her appearance, but those eyes—no one had ever stared at him so quietly and intensely.

Most of the people here only knew Vane by reputation, and they were all surprised that he had even accepted this mission. After all, Vane was a lone wolf—a fact recognized by the entire cultivation world. Unless it was absolutely necessary, no one would bother him.

However, everyone’s attention was drawn to the other person during the journey. Not only because of her higher cultivation, but also because, though she rarely spoke, Vane followed behind her like a servant, occasionally picking a fruit and peeling it for her.

The fruit was sweet, but the girl seemed to despise sourness—hating it to the point where there couldn't be a hint of it. After a few bites, she would wrinkle her nose and stop. She struggled for a moment, then, adhering to the principle that food must not be wasted, she finished it bite by bite. Vane had apologized the moment she took the first bite.

Since the two leaders didn't seem strict, the rest of the group relaxed, chatting and joking as they walked. Yet, someone was always secretly watching the two of them. Eventually, that focus shifted entirely to the girl.

When did such a figure appear in the cultivation world? Was she the disciple from the December Sect who walked out of the secret realm?

Thus, when they encountered an obstacle, the man was the first to ask for Zora’s opinion. As the rocks rolled down, several hidden demonic monsters flew out of the sky, their shrieks piercing the air. Zora was merely looking at the man because he was talking to her. After Vane finished speaking, the man was still looking at her, so she continued to stare back.

"..." The man’s face turned a deep, blood-red.

"..." Zora grew a bit impatient and knit her brows.

Vane’s smile remained unchanged. "We should move forward. If we’re late, the monsters might escape."

Only then did the man hurriedly say, as if to hide his embarrassment, "Right, right! Let's go!"

Zora withdrew her gaze. Stepping over the rubble, Vane glanced at Zora’s back, suppressing the flames of jealousy breeding in the dark corners of his mind, staring ahead with a calm surface. It was normal. Zora had always been liked by others; it was the same in the past. It was only because she was dull and didn't care that those who secretly admired her could never take a step closer.

In that moment, alongside his jealousy, a sliver of base joy spread through him like a vermin in a damp place, crawling out of the mud covered in filth.

Fortunately, I have the Master-Servant Oath,

the youth thought. He had the puppet threads. Besides him, who else could be so close to her? Not even a friend.

He felt as though he had stumbled into a chance to be near her without having to spend an agonizing amount of time; their fates were linked from the moment they met. As long as she didn't treat anyone else specially, the youth could control himself, handling his emotions by burying them deep.

The System would never have guessed that this binding did more than just resurrect the Host and tie her to a target; it gave a youth the chance to get close to her.

After reaching their destination, it became a battlefield for sword cultivators. The others seemed like peripheral figures, only needed to deal with small monsters. Pure sword Qi suddenly rose, rippling outwards; the sky darkened and the earth shook. Several people seemed to see a faint sword intent within it and stood staring blankly for a long time, spiritual power racing through their bodies.

Enlightenment sometimes comes from personal experience, and sometimes from the shock of witnessing a world-shaking sight. After that, as Zora went on missions everywhere, the number of people who knew of her increased sharply. Everyone knew of Wanghua-jun of the December Sect, but everyone also knew that besides the Sword Sovereign, there was another genius sword cultivator with a chillingly pure sword technique.

A few days later, Zora received a letter. It was an invitation to meet and talk. She stared at the names at the bottom for a long time before Vane’s reminder helped her vaguely remember who these two women were.

"Then I'll go."

Vane naturally moved to follow her. Zora turned her head; he was very close. Lifting her elbow, Zora poked his chest with the hilt of her sword, pushing him back several steps.

Zora said expressionlessly, "The invitation was for me alone. I will go by myself."

"..." Vane was stunned, then said, "But I am your servant. It is only natural for me to follow."

Zora tilted her head, looking puzzled. "You're too clingy."

Since coming out of the secret realm, she hadn't spent a single day completely alone. He always had a reason to find her. Zora hadn't realized this at first, but once she did, she felt the level of clinginess was even worse than before she entered the realm.

She asked the System, and it said: [This is a sign of deepening conquest progress! It's time to add fuel to the fire!]

Zora: "What fuel?"

Drawing from past experience, the System said: [Other hosts treat their targets too well. At this point, they stop being good to them and become elusive. Some even use 'death escapes' to show hatred or simply ignore the target. Don't let the target think the Host's kindness is a given! This is a precursor to success!]

It finished excitedly, then paused strangely.

—Wait, had the Host treated the target "too well"?

Zora understood. She had no intention of listening to the System; she simply felt he was too clingy and sometimes didn't obey immediately. She had indeed been too good to him; she shouldn't be so indulgent. So, this time, she refused him.

The youth instinctively felt something was wrong, and words blurted out: "I just feel a servant should follow at all times..."

He was used to decorating his selfish desires with a layer of logic. These were persuasive words, but Zora was no longer fooled—or rather, in the past she hadn't cared and let him follow or not as he pleased, but this time she insisted on refusing. His logic went in one ear and out the other.

Zora: "Anyway, don't follow me today. You can tomorrow."

Vane: "..." He said no more.

Zora retracted her sword hilt and glanced at Vane. His emotions leaked through, his features shifting with an expression she didn't understand. He looked beautiful, like fragile transparent glass; she couldn't help but stare for a few more moments before leaving.

Zora went to the place mentioned in the letter—a fabric dyeing workshop. Someone was already waiting at the gate. Upon seeing Zora land on her sword, he bowed and came forward. "Are you the Immortal invited by Grandmother Hong?"

Zora nodded and followed the servant inside. Multicolored dyed cloths hung in the large courtyard; when the wind blew, they looked like colorful clouds, weaving a moving tapestry. Zora followed him through many twists and turns until they reached a wing of the house. Outside the door, a group of people, both young and middle-aged, were waiting. Some looked sorrowful, others covered their faces in tears; a sense of grief hung heavy in the air.

"Greetings, Immortal Master..." Someone saw her and managed a bow.

Under the gaze of the crowd, Zora pushed the door open and entered. The door closed behind her. Inside the room, there was only her and a mortal with weak breathing. The person lying on the bed seemed to sense her arrival and tried to prop herself up, but she lacked the strength and struggled painfully. Zora stood a few steps away watching her, making no move to help as an ordinary person would.

The person on the bed didn't care. Unable to sit up, she gave up helplessly and smiled. "Apologies... I truly cannot get up to welcome you personally." Her voice was that of a weak, dying person—aged and breathless.

Zora stared fixedly at the old woman’s face. "Are you Hong Yan, or Zhang Jingshu?"

"Cough, cough," the old woman coughed a few times and said, "I am Hong Yan. You can't recognize me anymore, can you..."

Only then did Zora step forward and stand by her bed. The old woman’s face was slack, covered in wrinkles and age spots. The beautiful concubine from the Magistrate’s estate was now old and withered.

Hong Yan: "Zhang Jingshu left before me... When she passed, you hadn't come out yet. She always muttered that you wouldn't die like everyone else guessed. I think... Jingshu was much smarter than me. She was definitely right..."

Back then, after these two women killed Magistrate Zhang, they faked their deaths and escaped. No one discovered they were the killers; they assumed the Magistrate’s wife and concubine had died with him. They wandered everywhere and finally settled here.

Zhang Jingshu had come from a prominent family; she knew more than Hong Yan. This woman had pride in her bones and was resilient. After facing obstacles everywhere, she took over a fabric workshop to run. Hong Yan knew nothing; fearing Jingshu would abandon her, she spontaneously learned the art of dyeing—but for a woman who had never learned anything but how to please others, suddenly learning this trade was extremely difficult.

Zhang Jingshu maintained her dignified grace but added the steadiness of a matriarch. She said little, but at the end of the day when others rested, she taught Hong Yan how to keep accounts, read, and distinguish the business traps of surrounding fabric shops. Only then did Hong Yan feel she was finally touching the real world—not in ignorance, but with the steady heart of holding onto something tangible.

They took in laborers and several children, developing the workshop step by step. Though not wealthy, they were settled and prosperous. Only Hong Yan knew how much hardship they endured to establish themselves here. Zhang Jingshu suffered even more than she did, yet she maintained a serene kindness like her name, making people think she was no different from a traditional lady of a high house.

A few years later, Hong Yan, who kept a constant eye on the December Sect, heard the news of Zora’s likely death. Her first reaction was shock and grief. Hong Yan wiped her tears, cursing the Heavens for being ungrateful and not recognizing a good person. Every curse came out; she was never a quiet or clever woman. She was lively; after her grief, she grew angry at the Heavens, pacing the room and cursing wildly.

Halfway through her cursing, Hong Yan saw Zhang Jingshu sitting steadily at the table checking accounts. She blurted out, "Zhang Jingshu, are you not sad? That was our benefactor!"

Zhang Jingshu’s eyes were lowered; hearing this, she looked up, still possessing that quiet, dignified face. "I believe the benefactor is still alive. There is no need to care for these rumors." She lowered her head and looked at the accounts again, but didn't turn a page for a long time, as if talking to herself: "If someone like me can break free from the mire and live, the benefactor surely can too..."

Hong Yan stopped talking. The next day, she awkwardly apologized to Jingshu. Zhang Jingshu was so smart; if she said the benefactor could live, the benefactor definitely would. Hong Yan thought so.

Hong Yan: "What should we do?"

Zhang Jingshu: "We can only wait."

Hong Yan: "Okay, I will wait."

For a mortal to wait for a cultivator was like an ant trying to shake a tree—a hopeless wait. Yet they waited nonetheless. When Zhang Jingshu died of old age in her chair, she was still waiting. She had her own life and wasn't overly sorrowful; she only had a slight regret—the regret of not seeing her benefactor one last time.

That girl who was a fleeting, brilliant glimpse in her life; that girl who broke free from the world and feared no words or rules. In her entire life, she had only seen Zora—the only person who made her feel "the world is so vast that even someone like the benefactor can exist."

In Zora’s eyes, it was just a minor mission. In Zhang Jingshu’s eyes, it was a scenery she could never glimpse again in her life. Even when she saw other cultivators from the December Sect, she never felt the same; she even felt they were strange. Those cultivators seemed no different from mortals. She had thought all cultivators were like Zora.

"...She was always thinking of you," Hong Yan spoke with effort on her bed. "We lived our lives well... I almost thought she had forgotten you... but even at sixty, she could still draw you perfectly... Cough, cough, fortunately you are back."

Zora sat by her bed, looking at the old woman. She had seen old people before, but this was the first time she had looked clearly at someone in that state, the first time she had stopped to see the end of a life. Following her heart and curiosity, Zora reached out and touched Hong Yan’s cheek with her palm.

Hong Yan’s eyes were half-closed, appearing exhausted and drowsy. The skin beneath her palm was loose and cold, with the ridges of wrinkles; it felt as if life force had slipped away, leaving only a layer of skin covering fragile bone. This was old age.

If this were her previous life, this would have been Zora’s goal.

Hong Yan’s clouded eyes looked at her. "You still look the same... so beautiful, especially your eyes."

Zora followed a deep wrinkle on her face with her touch. Hong Yan smiled, and the wrinkle deepened. "...With me like this, only you remember what I looked like when I was young... Do you remember?"

Zora said honestly, "It’s very blurred." She added, "But I remember your aged appearance."

Because she had never paid close attention to the appearance of an old person before; this was the first. The aging of the shell, the passing of life.

Hong Yan: "Eh, what's there to see in my old face..."

"Because this was once my wish," Zora recalled the past and said calmly. "It was the place I wanted to reach."

"..."

Hong Yan was silent for a long time. It wasn't until Zora showed a look of confusion that the corners of her eyes grew moist, though she feigned a teasing tone. "Benefactor, a mortal like me... can actually reach your ambition, can actually fulfill the wish you wanted to achieve..."

Hong Yan regarded Zora as the moon in the sky—an unchaseable moon. But so much time had passed that she almost forgot what the moon looked like. Not its appearance, but the "shape" of Zora as a person.

No one treats a dying old person like they would a young, living one. No cultivator would curiously stroke an old person’s face as if sensing old age and the flow of life. And no powerful sword cultivator would tell an old person that their appearance was her former wish.

There was no excessive sentimentality, nor the promises that others make when hearing final words. Hong Yan felt as if she had returned to the past, just facing Zora and talking; her mind grew even more peaceful. That girl who had flashed through her life seemed to be growing clearer.

Hong Yan felt her still touching her face and smiled. "...Are you curious about my face?"

Zora asked, "Mhm. What does it feel like to be old?"

Hong Yan: "Appearance is the thing you need to care about least. Actually, what I hate most is not being able to run around. Many interesting things can't be done anymore; it’s very annoying."

"I see," Zora sat directly on the floor at some point, resting her elbow on the edge of the bed and propping up her chin, her almond eyes watching her. "It is indeed very troublesome."

"What do you like to eat?" Hong Yan asked, then realized she had said the wrong thing; cultivators had long since given up food.

Zora said directly, "Osmanthus cakes, and sweet or spicy dishes."

Hong Yan was stunned, then laughed. "Me too. I especially like that one sweet dish..."

...

The sunlight slanted. They chatted casually for a moment. The old woman’s voice gradually weakened until it finally vanished at her lips. Zora watched her; as a cultivator with clear senses, she knew the person before her had died.

Zora continued her unfinished sentence to herself: "I don't like eating sour fruit at all."

Then, it fell silent. Zora pinched her face again, held her rough hand, and rose to walk out of the room. Perhaps because Hong Yan had given instructions, no one disturbed Zora. They all crowded into the room wailing, allowing Zora a smooth exit from the fabric workshop.

As she stepped out of the gate, white cloth had already been hung, announcing the mourning. It was clearly prepared in advance; like the home of any elderly person with signs of approaching death, the servants and butler had mostly settled some things ahead of time. Perhaps Hong Yan had even participated, directing how things should be arranged.

Zora looked at the fluttering white cloth, then at the alley streets where countless people were shouting and walking, with all sorts of expressions on their faces. Fresh, flowing life carried the departed soul, continuing to live peacefully in the world.

Zora watched for a long while before reacting to Hong Yan’s peaceful passing. In her previous life in the arena, she couldn't feel time, only endless slaughter. In this life, entering a cultivation sect, she hadn't had time to feel birth, aging, illness, and death before stepping into the pursuit of higher realms.

When she came out of the secret realm and saw Vane and her friends, she knew decades had passed. But only now did she perceive how long decades truly were. Zora had never separated her mindset from that of a mortal. She was Zora from her previous life from beginning to end. Even having cultivated, she treated everyone equally; in her eyes, there was only the difference in strength and between friend or foe.

The streets were bustling. The girl stood at the end of the street, took out one of Liyu’s masks, and looked at it. Then she held the mask up, looking at the tiny crowd through the round eye holes.

Zora: "So small."

She put down the mask. There was no cool breeze stirred by Liyu’s soul around her; Liyu had completely dissipated. She had long ago completed her final cultivation and truly died.

So, decades are that long.

So, this is time.

Zora put away the mask and went to a nearby pastry shop to buy a few pieces of osmanthus cake, sitting on the long bench in front of the shop to eat them one by one. In front of her was the passing crowd; some glanced at the girl buried in her cakes, others hurried past without notice.

The osmanthus cake was very sweet, covering the tiny strange feeling in her heart. A peaceful passing should be something to be happy about. Thinking of this, Zora took a few more bites before she felt she had grown happy.

The bench was high, placed on a stone platform. Zora’s legs bumped against the wall of the stone platform, her skirt billowing romantically as she swung her legs up and down.

"The owner of the fabric dyeing workshop has passed away—it's a 'joyous funeral'!" one man ran over covered in sweat, informing the fabric shop across from the pastry shop.

"Eh, has a successor been decided?"

"Yes!"

It was a joyous funeral; the people at the fabric shop muttered a few words, saying Grandmother Hong had a long life and was surrounded by loving relatives in her late years—she was blessed. Then they began to mutter about whether the change in ownership of the workshop would lead to higher prices.

A normal conversation full of the smell of daily life. That person’s death was like a drop of water falling; there were some ripples, but the massive flow of people continued to surge forward.

Zora watched curiously for a while, then lowered her head with disinterest to eat a new piece of cake. The sunlight gradually crawled onto her lightly swinging toes; it was very gentle and comfortably warm, making the girl’s pale blue skirt look exceptionally bright and dazzling.