Chapter Thirteen: Awakening from the Dream

The man in the green robe said nothing, only glancing at Shi Fei.

The curved blade was the treasured weapon of the Demon Sect, three feet long and weighing two pounds and seven taels. It possessed a chilling, malevolent aura described as “the profound darkness of the earth, the sorcery of the celestial moon.”

Forged from a thousand-year-old cold mountain dark iron and coated with the sect’s secret voodoo poison, anyone struck by it could not be cured by any medicine. The demonic blade was perilous; prolonged use could turn its wielder’s heart bloodthirsty and mad.

Even he, when wielding this blade, was filled with murderous intent. Only when he read the seven characters inscribed on the blade’s surface did his killing intent gradually dissipate.

To others, those characters formed a mere poem.

To him, they told a story.

But the person before him was no ordinary man. He had done many things that defied belief in his eyes.

The man in green said, “This blade brings misfortune. You should... never mind, suit yourself.”

The blade had already been given to Shi Fei, so he would let him be.

No matter how formidable the demonic blade, it was powerless against an anomaly—and Shi Fei was that anomaly.

Who else but an anomaly could turn a single divine knife technique into a divine sword technique?

Shi Fei sheathed the curved blade. He thought the man in green was a bit superstitious, believing a blade could be unlucky.

It was always the wielder, never the blade, who was ill-fated.

Blades lost their edge because of the people who wielded them.

He looked down at Qingqing in his arms and said, “I should have guessed you long ago, but I was just too foolish.”

Qingqing, slightly flustered, asked, “Could it be that you…”

In the martial world, demon disciples of the sect did not have a good reputation.

Shi Fei said, “I’m not of the martial world, so I naturally don’t care about your identity, just as you never cared about mine.”

Qingqing smiled and said, “Actually, testing you was never my true intention. I think... you’re already good enough.”

A woman willing to bring food to a man every day was a sign of trust.

Even when the man refused to practice martial arts, she still brought him meals—until the elders stopped her and made a wager.

A bet on whether the man could pass the test.

“I know, it must have been the two old Dens,” Shi Fei also smiled.

If his granddaughter liked a stranger, he would also test him.

Understandable.

Understanding didn’t mean there was no trace of resentment.

The man in green then asked, “What does ‘old Den’ mean?”

Shi Fei said, “In our hometown, it means someone highly respected and virtuous.”

The man in green smiled. “This is no place for talk. Let’s return. When we get back, I will prepare a grand wedding for you!”

Thus, Shi Fei married Qingqing in the valley.

In reality, Shi Fei had never married—only attended others’ weddings. Now, in his dream, he was wedded.

Their wedding was simple but unique; red flowers bloomed throughout the valley for them, and though few people lived there, they offered their blessings.

Within this place, rare treasures of the mortal world were worthless. Gold, antiques, bright moon pearls—all lay gathering dust in cellars.

Life here was not only comfortable but filled with ever-blooming fragrant flowers and fresh fruit plucked at will, allowing Shi Fei to sleep until he naturally awoke.

When he woke, Qingqing had already prepared his meal.

Qingqing was virtuous, gentle, considerate, and utterly devoted to Shi Fei.

It made Shi Fei feel that such a beauty could only be met in dreams.

Dreams stretched long—day after day, year after year.

He and Qingqing even had children, who grew up and began causing mischief.

He and Qingqing also aged slowly, appearing no older than thirty even in their fifties and sixties.

They would occasionally quarrel but reconciled quickly.

If they found the valley dull, they would venture into the martial world together, where the clash of swords and blades could not challenge Shi Fei’s skill.

Legends of the “Two Immortals” even arose in the martial world.

But time was relentless; one day, they would grow old and die.

No one could resist the passage of time.

One day, in the Valley of Sorrow, Qingqing lay in Shi Fei’s arms as he reclined amidst a sea of flowers.

Above them hung a full moon, its light as beautiful as the night they first met.

Together beneath the moonlight, they leaned on each other, facing death as one.

With such a life, what regrets could there be in death?

What did death feel like?

Shi Fei did not know—he only knew that closing his eyes was like falling asleep, sinking into darkness.

Then the darkness gradually faded.

He awoke!

Not that he had come back to life, but that he had awakened—from the dream!

Shi Fei opened his eyes from slumber, sitting up, bewildered as he looked around his room.

A dark chamber, a familiar yet strange bed, the cool breeze from the air conditioner left him somewhat dazed.

Who am I?

Where am I?

After a long moment, he remembered—he was Shi Fei.

He had just had a very long, unreal dream.

In the dream, he met a woman who called herself Fox. At first, he thought she was a fox demon, but upon seeing the curved blade, he realized she was human.

Is it reasonable for a man to dream of a woman?

Of course it is.

Which man hasn’t dreamed of a woman?

Which woman hasn’t dreamed of a man?

Daytime thoughts bring nighttime dreams.

If a man dreams of another man, then that’s abnormal!

But... the dream was so vivid, so long, as if he had lived an entire lifetime within it.

Half real, half illusion, yet utterly authentic. Shi Fei stared blankly for a long time, yearning for the dream’s figures, for the beautiful dream itself.

But as time passed, the scenes of the dream receded like the tide.

That’s how dreams are—upon waking, much of the dream is forgotten. Sometimes, one even doubts whether they dreamed at all.

They say one must dream six times to remember one dream.

Shi Fei was just an ordinary man; he could not recall much from the dream. The people and events blurred.

Until... he could no longer remember what Qingqing looked like.

He only remembered meeting her, living a lifetime together. Qingqing was very beautiful—but how beautiful?

What was her appearance?

He had no recollection.

Qingqing had been gentle—very gentle—but in what way gentle?

He forgot.

He remembered the joyful life they shared, but how long that life was?

He still could not recall.

He began to doubt whether he had truly dreamed.

Had he really spent a lifetime with a woman within a dream, only to romantically die together under the full moon?

Was that dreamlike, sleepwalking life really his?

He felt a twinge of loss. Though he could not recall her face, the vivid feeling remained in his heart.

Was it real?

Or false?

He did not know.

One cannot hold onto a beautiful dream.

He recalled the saying “a fleeting dream of millet”—how fitting it was for him now.

Who hasn’t dreamed sweet dreams?

So many beautiful dreams—who truly remembers them?

For a long, long time, in the dark bedroom, only a sigh was heard.

Beautiful dreams end, and reality must be faced.