If there’s a downside to living too long, it’s the moment of “parting.”
The Feihe Mountain dragon vein was dead set against taking human form.
The sparrow never wanted too much involvement with the mortal world, disliked its tangles and complexities, and was happy just lazing around at home, sleeping the days away. When it was in the mood, it would transform into a sparrow and flit about; when unhappy, it would sink into the depths at the bottom of the mountain stream, a dragon seen at the head but not at the tail.
Yet even such a carefree, featherbrained sparrow was deeply grieved when Su Li finally “left.”
Su Li’s thoughts were always with his blade, seeking the highest realm of legendary swordsmanship—but as years went by, even he noticed something was off: while he himself grew older, the sparrow kept bouncing around unchanged.
How many years could a tiny bird live? Su Li didn’t know, but no matter how tough, a bird couldn’t go a dozen years without any sign of age!
Of course, Su Li harbored suspicions. At first, he refused to think about it, afraid that if he called out the truth, the sparrow would never appear again. So he feigned ignorance—until his hair started turning white, and increasingly strange happenings surrounded the sparrow and the occasional visits from Meng Qi and Mo Li (Mo Li aged himself strictly with time, but Meng Qi was so haphazard, sometimes forgetting and letting his martial cultivation make both of them look young in front of Su Li’s ever-improving eyes). At last, the swordsman woke up—it was obvious: all three were monsters.
But monsters were monsters. So long as they didn’t eat people, it hardly mattered.
Probably because the sparrow itself was so mindlessly cheerful, chattering merrily and with “monster” friends, Su Li was able to go with an easy heart.
As Su Li’s health deteriorated, the sparrow poured spiritual energy into him to no avail, finally flying off the mountain in a panic.
Through every kind of hardship—chased by hawks, hunted by cats, pelted by slingshots—outside Feihe Mountain, it was just a regular bird, helpless. By the time it reached Taijing, it was bedraggled and had lost half its feathers.
It had wanted to go to Qimao Mountain, but didn’t even know the way.
Taijing, at least, was big, and plenty of people were there, and it could hide on the roof of a freight cart.
Luckily, the Feihe Mountain dragon vein wasn’t entirely unlucky; at that time, Mo Li happened to be in Taijing, treating a top minister from Wenyuan Pavilion during the last years of Emperor Yongchen’s reign—a pillar who could hold up a shattered house, though by then, it wasn’t even the same “Mo Li” identity.
Meng Qi nearly didn’t recognize the sparrow—so grimy and grey, devoid of spirit, still bearing scratch marks from a near-miss with a cat.
Still, no matter how hard the sparrow tried, it could not retrieve what it loved most.
As the years passed, the spiritual energy in Su Li’s meridians faded; his health worsened day by day. Even with Mo Li there, using golden needles and rare medicine, it only slowed the decline.
In the third month after the sparrow brought Mo Li back to Feihe Mountain, Su Li departed.
He clutched his sword and was buried beneath an apricot tree in a deep valley.
He had no apprentice, nor the skills to teach one; his own grave had been dug in the depths of the marsh, but waterlogged land wasn’t a good place.
And so the Feihe Mountain dragon vein sank into the depths, grieving for a hundred years, even chilling the mountain’s spiritual energy.
What was heartbreak? Even the sparrow didn’t know. Three hundred years later, it would still dazedly perch on branches, sometimes rescuing lost trekkers or kidnapped children or injured hunters. No one noticed a single plain sparrow—those rescued always assumed they just had luck.
There were orphans amongst them too, but the sparrow couldn’t muster any concern.
None were its child.
It only had one child, and no one could replace him.
Mo Li worried for the grieving, foolish sparrow, and was sad himself.
He, too, had suffered this same pain, but more often and sooner.
But he’d had a good teacher. Early on—even without knowing Mo Li was different—Qin Lu had realized Mo Li’s subtle detachment from the world, his inability to grow truly close to anyone. So he’d hoped Mo Li would find a bosom friend, find someone to walk through life with him.
This way, when old Qin Lu passed, his disciple wouldn’t be too broken-hearted.
Qin Lu lived to be one hundred and seven—extraordinarily long-lived, even in this era, a rare thing. In Taijing or Pingzhou, such a passing was called a “joyous death.”
Mo Li didn’t care for the phrase; what was joyous about a funeral?
Death was death. Once lost, it was forever lost—what joy could there be?
Neighbors said, “A revered elder who lived long and well, dying peacefully, will reincarnate with great luck, maybe to become a great leader, while too much weeping just holds the spirit back.”
To Mo Li, it was wishful thinking.
There was no Hell, no wheel of six paths—death was death.
A flash of wisdom was snuffed out, never to return; there might be millions of stars in the sky, but none would ever be those lost.
As for “passing peacefully,” that made Mo Li feel worse. As a doctor, he knew: “dying without suffering” was a fantasy, just that the ailment went unnoticed, and the old did not truly suffer.
No disease? Then why die? Old age itself is a disease; organs stop supporting the aging body—when the hour comes, that’s all.
Qin Lu, skilled in martial arts, lived longer than most and took his own medicine, but every span has its end. When Mo Li sensed the crisis and tried to infuse him with spiritual energy to sustain him, Qin Lu refused.
He said, whether sooner or later, the day always comes.
He’d lived long enough. He’d seen his apprentices settled, even held Tang Xiaotang’s granddaughter. Life in Pingzhou’s Zhushan only got better with each year; even those seeds had taken root in the south. Beyond Pingzhou, the times changed so fast that even the wise marvelled; the lands of Wu and Jing fell to General Cheng under King Ning, and King Ning himself sailed away with the merchant fleets, opening the trade routes. Meanwhile, after Emperor Yongchen of Qi died, Qi somehow wound up with two regents, neither willing to claim the throne, and the Wenyuan Pavilion ministers kept silent for reasons unknown.
The common people could not understand, but the sages saw a whole new world ahead.
The age was changing, and at last—truly—changing.
Qin Lu went with no regrets. Holding that cold, stiff hand, Mo Li looked back at Meng Qi and remembered all his teacher’s kindness—tears blurring his vision.
Mo Li couldn’t imagine what he’d have done if Meng Qi hadn’t been at his side, or if Qin Lu hadn’t offered guidance and comfort all these years.
So he worried about the sparrow.
He tried everything. At first, the sparrow wouldn’t show itself; later, it just spaced out. In the end, only the news that Shangyun’s little dragon vein had revived managed to pull the sparrow through.
Feihe Mountain’s spiritual energy was rich; perhaps in another three or five hundred years, a second dragon vein would appear.
Who knew what the sparrow would think—it took the unseen newborn Feihe dragon vein for a companion, one to steal eggs and share a nest with (if two male birds, they’d just raise eggs together; if one was a female, she’d borrow a mate, carry the egg, then sneak away for true love). But not a child, not a brother.
A partner not yet even “born,” still waiting to be.
Mo Li and Meng Qi discussed in private—what if Feihe’s new dragon vein didn’t turn out to be a bird, or not even anything close?
Shangyun’s little dragon vein was a gerbil—pure coincidence. What if next time wasn’t so fitting? By Mo Li’s own guess (numbers too small for data), his own birth in the pool made him a fish, swift and agile.
Meng Qi, born in a cranny atop the mountain, had only space for a burrower, so he became a gerbil. It could have been a centipede or earthworm, but those are hopeless—it’d never survive outside and wouldn’t be a dragon vein’s unconscious choice.
So the new dragon vein would likely follow suit—Mo Li was pretty sure Qimao Mountain’s second would be a fish, but Feihe Mountain’s spirit vein was in a ravine, little travelled; it could be anything.
“If it’s not a bird, that’s fine too. If it’s another tree, the sparrow’s nest-building dream can still come true!” Meng Qi quipped, earning a glare from Mo Li.
All this fuss was still over nothing—why worry so soon?
Speaking of trees, one had to mention the Silang Mountain dragon vein.
Meng Qi was especially concerned that someone would discover the tree on Silang Mountain that never grew taller.
A tree is hard to move; you couldn’t just build a courtyard to enclose it (especially at a mountaintop). Silang’s spirit veins were scattered and broken; hard to find a better spot to transplant it.
If it ever awakened, if it ever took shape, the trouble would get worse, not less.
Dragon veins form fondness for their chosen shapes—after so many years living this way, those habits stick. You couldn’t see it in human form, but deep down, it never changed.
Meng Qi, for instance, loved to squirrel things away; there were always snacks at home, and he held memberships to every bakery. Even Taijing University grad students knew their stern “Professor Meng” would slip off to eat strawberry mousse in his office.
Mo Li, on the other hand, had a single passion: soaking in water. Even with total control over his body temperature, he’d rather spend all summer in water.
For that, Meng Qi had dragged him to every famous resort with “water” in its name—even every famous island abroad.
—But salt water never felt right; only spring water was comfortable.
If it wasn’t comfortable, he still wanted to soak—so much for preferences.
So, pondering his household gerbil, Mo Li worried: what if Silang’s dragon vein became human, and suddenly, seeing a fine patch of dirt, wanted to dig two holes and stand there with its feet planted?
Meng Qi howled with laughter at this.
Then, when he caught his breath, he wondered: when did he and A-Li become dragon vein neighbourhood committee elders?
Worrying about their own little one’s awakening was fine, but why did they also have to think about the sparrow’s future mate or how that dumb tree would read and blend into modern society? Big or small, these troubles seemed endless—why such bother?
Meng Qi flung up his hands: let the river find its way; there’s no point worrying now.
“The real concern is waiting for Milk-ball’s awakening.”
Milk-ball was Meng Qi’s nickname for the little dragon vein, simply because it looked like a big, creamy dumpling bobbing in coffee.
In Meng Qi’s view, this not-too-bright little dragon vein would take ages yet to achieve awareness.
Reality slapped them in the face.
One day, Mo Li came home and noticed strange sounds inside. Puzzled, he took the elevator to the roof, then—ensuring no one was around—leaped onto the balcony, slipped in and peeked into the living room.
The TV was on.
Milk-ball, taking the chance to watch TV while the grownups were out, was strutting on the coffee table, copying what it saw.
Mo Li: “…”
Quietly took out his phone.
Thus was born the most shameful, most regretted blackmail photo in the history of Shangyun’s little dragon vein.
In the shot, the gerbil, arms stiff at its sides, head held high, was strutting as if it recognized no kin. On the TV behind it, Tom and Jerry were marching with matching expressions.
Author’s note:
Milk-ball: Wow, this mouse is amazing—my idol!
————
Fat Mouse, looming above the cowering Milk-ball: Watching TV in secret? Learning to use the menu, search, and play cartoons? Trying to argue? The electric bill went up this month!
Mo Li’s thoughts: …This “awakening” method is a bit uncanny. Are there tree-protagonist cartoons? Should we get a tablet and cycle them for the Silang Mountain dragon vein?
