Chapter 285: Ending

Chapter 285 The End

As the dream faded, Xie Shu pulled Xiao Wu into his arms and brushed a light kiss against his cheek.

He said, "I won’t give you a chance to hate me."

His form dissolved entirely.

Xiao Wu gazed motionlessly in the dream for a long time. When he woke, he wiped his lashes, dabbing at the faint moisture.

He turned the carriage around.

The obsidian carriage swept across the vast snowfield. Viewed from the sky, it was like a long ink stroke dragged across pure white silk. Behind it, the ancient glaciers reflected deep blue shadows.

Xiao Wu returned to Wuwang Palace.

Xie Chunshan’s body was placed back in the main hall. It had been well cared for—his complexion was rosy as ever, his expression gentle and serene. His foxy eyes, usually crinkled with mirth, were now closed, and his lips held a peaceful smile, as if he were caught in an endless pleasant dream.

This body was propped up by Wu Buke’s alchemy.

One dose a day, each priceless.

The finest medicines in the palace had been used to refine these pills, all rare and precious treasures. Even the palace’s reserves had been tapped into. With Wuwang Palace’s accumulated wealth, it would be exhausted within months. If the body did not awaken, even Wuwang Palace could no longer afford to sustain it.

Xiao Wu understood this.

He knew it might all be futile, a waste of effort and resources—clinging desperately at the only thing left in his grasp, only to watch it slip through his fingers like sand.

Such was fate. It could not be forced to stay.

Wu Buke’s already thinning hairline grew even sparser. Despite exhausting all his knowledge, he could only barely maintain the body’s vitality, unable to rouse it. Just as he was about to deplete the palace’s entire stockpile, Xiao Wu spoke: "Stop."

Wu Buke froze. "What?"

Xiao Wu repeated, "Stop."

His tone was unnervingly calm.

At the time, he was sitting by the bedside, tending to Xie Chunshan with a silk handkerchief. Xie Chunshan was still dressed in his Palace Lord robes, his skin warm, his heart still beating within his chest. Xiao Wu, white-robed in his Immortal Lord guise, wore the same cold expression as in years past—as if nothing had changed. Xie Chunshan was still the Demon Sect Palace Master, and Xiao Wu had never ascended to the position of Mystic Leader. They would have spent a peaceful afternoon together, Xie Chunshan waving his fan beneath the wisteria arbor while Xiao Wu ate squirrel-mandarin fish.

Wu Buke bowed respectfully. "...Might the Palace Lord specify when to stop?"

Xiao Wu tucked the blanket around Xie Chunshan. "...Today."

Delaying would only compound the pain. Yet uttering these two simple words, which he had pondered countless times, sapped his last strength.

"As you command."

Wu Buke saluted and withdrew.

Before closing the door, he cast one last glance inside. The setting sun cast amber shadows through the window lattice, and the white-robed Immortal Lord’s figure was hidden behind the gauzy curtains, like carved jade.

A cultivator’s senses far surpassed those of ordinary men. Sitting by the bed, Xiao Wu could perceive the slowing then stopping of the body’s heartbeat, the fading of its breath, the cooling of its warmth.

He touched Xie Chunshan’s fingers—colder than Arctic winds.

The corpse was placed in a coffin and buried at the foot of Wuwang Mountain.

Throughout the ages, most Lords of Wuwang Palace met untimely deaths. Once weakened by age, they were replaced by newcomers. Thus, for centuries, none had ever been granted a proper grave.

Xie Chunshan was an exception.

Not only did he have a burial site and a tomb, but he also had someone to escort his coffin. Xiao Wu, dressed head-to-toe in white mourning robes, wore a white headband folded to three fingers' width as he followed the procession all the way to the funeral altar.

The Demon Palace had never held a funeral before. The funeral officiant was invited from a town at the foot of the mountain. The old man, upon hearing it was for the Demon Palace, his legs shook with terror. But as they journeyed together, he found that the presiding Palace Lord was young and handsome, and surprisingly approachable—except for one thing: he refused to have Xie Chunshan’s name engraved on the tombstone and would not kneel or offer incense.

Perhaps it was because, though the body was buried, Xiao Wu never truly believed Xie Chunshan was dead. In folk belief, once a name is carved on a tombstone and descendants offer incense in worship, it truly marks the separation between the living and the dead.

Afterward, Xiao Wu began reforming the cultivator and demonic factions.

New rules were established for the demonic cultivators of Wuwang Palace. If they committed arson, murder, robbery, or other wicked deeds, the Palace Lord himself would deal with them. For a time, the demonic cultivators walked on eggshells, and incidents like the one Song Xiaoyu had encountered—where innocent people were forcibly taken as servants—ceased entirely.

Later, Xiao Wu went to Shangling Sect.

Still wearing the snow-white bamboo hat Xie Chunshan had fastened for him, he pierced through the mountain guard array alone and met with the sect leader, Xiao Xu.

The crimes of Daoist Cangshan were exposed to the world, and the sect purged its ranks. Once everything was settled, Xiao Wu left Wuwang Palace.

He began traveling the world, becoming a wandering cultivator without affiliation.

Because Xie Chunshan had often spoken of Zhongnan Mountain, Xiao Wu built a thatched cottage there. He tried planting flowers, but orchids were delicate—he killed dozens of pots before mastering the art of watering them. By the following spring, the flowers in his courtyard rivalled the beauty of Xie Chunshan’s garden.

He even learned to drink.

Xie Chunshan’s favorite Peach Blossom Wine—Xiao Wu had brought a few jars with him. At first, he only took tentative sips, coughing and wondering why Xie Chunshan loved such a bitter drink. But gradually, he began to appreciate it.

Drunkenness blurred the passage of time, letting him forget everything. Occasionally, when he was completely drunk, he would hallucinate Xie Chunshan standing before him, smiling as he waved his fan, raising a cup to toast with him.

When loneliness became unbearable, Xiao Wu would go to Yunzhou.

Yunzhou was one of the largest cities in the world, thronged with caravans and wayfarers. Xiao Wu would visit the teahouse he and Xie Chunshan had frequented, sitting in their usual spot, gazing out the window at the crowds below, and ordering the same squirrel-shaped mandarin fish they had once shared.

As the temple fair approached, Yunzhou grew even livelier.

Pedestrians and vendors from all corners of the land gathered, jamming the streets shoulder-to-shoulder. Shops selling sugar paintings and candied hawthorns put up their signs early, and everything thrived, brimming with the hustle and bustle of human existence.

Xiao Wu no longer wanted to return to Zhongnan Mountain.

The cottage was too cold, too quiet, with only the chirping of birds and insects breaking the silence. In the dead of night, it felt as if the entire world had forgotten him.

So he took a room at an inn.

When the waiter asked his intended length of stay, Xiao Wu thought for a moment and said, “Until the temple fair ends.”

When the fair ended, perhaps he would meet Xie Chunshan. If they met, they could return to Wuwang Palace or Zhongnan Mountain together. If not…

Xiao Wu didn’t know.

He instinctively rejected that possibility, unwilling to even consider it.

Xiao Wu settled in the city.

As the temple fair drew nearer, Yunzhou swelled with revelers, and Xiao Wu grew increasingly restless. He didn’t know why—only that he found no peace whether sitting or lying down, his agitation unbearable. He wandered along the central axis of the city, back and forth, tossed about in the human tide like a lone boat in a flood, unable to find an anchor.

So he started drinking again.

He haunted every wineshop in the city, drinking from night until dawn, until days and nights blurred, as if only this could help him escape the possibility he refused to face.

Xiao Wu thought, back when he was still the Mystic Leader of Shangling Sect, none of his fellow disciples could have imagined that Lord Pingwu—who had once religiously avoided wine—would one day drink so much.

Xiao Wu wasn’t sure himself.

One night, drunk and dazed, he was startled awake by the drumming outside his window. He pushed the window open and saw lanterns and decorations hung everywhere, and suddenly realized—the temple fair was underway.

Amid swirling lights and dazzling lanterns, Xiao Wu found himself before a mask stall.

The vendor’s brush never paused, dabbing vermilion paint onto colorful masks, quickly producing several fox masks. People happily paid, donned them, and left, while Xiao Wu stood frozen, noticing a handful of masked men.

He studied them one by one.

This one was too short, that one still a child, this one lacked grace, that one had a roguish air.

None of them were his Xie Chunshan.

He lost track of how long he waited in the flickering light—until the masks cycled through twice, until the night deepened and the crowd thinned, until hope had nearly left him. Then, at the far end of the street, he caught sight of a man wearing a fox mask.

The man was tall and slender, clad in a black robe with gold-trimmed edges, holding a bamboo-framed folding fan. He, too, was glancing around as if searching for someone.

Xiao Wu moved toward him.

A nervous dread gripped him, like the hesitation of returning home after too long. He didn’t dare approach directly, only trailed behind at a distance, studying the man head to toe, as if searching for proof in every detail that this was Xie Chunshan.

Hmm, a fine figure, long legs, movements as fluid as flowing water, fingers elegantly jointed, the fan flicked open with practiced grace—about eighty percent like Xie Chunshan.

But the rest, Xiao Wu couldn’t be sure.

The man unfolded his fan, revealing an ink-splashed landscape painting. In the lower right corner was a seal, likely bearing the owner’s name.

In the fading lantern glow, Xiao Wu caught a fleeting glimpse of the character "Xie."

His breath caught.

His heart raced, his blood pounding, the lingering alcohol flushing his cheeks. Xiao Wu had never known himself capable of such urgency—so urgent he couldn’t spare the time to push through the crowd. Without thinking, he used the Shangling Sect’s movement technique, streaking like a shadow to stand just a foot behind the man before hastily reaching out: "Excuse me—"

The next second, he saw the seal clearly.

Not Xie Chunshan.

It felt like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over him. His heart plunged into the frozen wastes of the far north. To find and lose again—the wild swings between hope and despair brought forth a surge of sorrow and frustration. Xiao Wu stood frozen, struggling to steady his trembling fingers.

...If this wasn’t Xie Chunshan, then where was he?

What if, in those two minutes he’d been gone, he had missed Xie Chunshan passing by?

Anxious and regretful, he desperately wanted to return to the mask stall. Without hesitation, he turned and strode off.

But after a few steps, a quiet sigh came from behind him.

Someone murmured, "Little Immortal Lord, where are you going?"

The tone was calm, laced with a hint of amusement, like a noble on a casual stroll.

—It was Xie Chunshan’s signature cadence.

Xiao Wu whirled around.

Across the street, the man lifted his fox mask, revealing a handsome face illuminated by the lantern glow—undeniably the face of an old friend.

Xiao Wu stood motionless, staring unblinkingly at Xie Chunshan. He dared not step forward, afraid it was a phantom born of longing, nor could he leave, terrified that if he blinked, he might lose Xie Chunshan again.

Xie Shu sighed again and folded his fan.

From a distance, he gave Xiao Wu a casual bow, smiling as he said, "Lord Pingwu, it's been a long time. Let me reintroduce myself."

"I am Xie Shu, courtesy name Chunshan. If you'd like, you may also call me Xie Chunshan."

His answer came in the form of a sudden hug.

Xie Shu laughed and gently held him back, flipping open his fan with a gesture. Only then did Xiao Wu notice the line of poetry boldly inscribed upon it.

—Where the plains end, there stands Chunshan.

Now, the wanderer has come home.