After swimming out of the cave, Xiahua reached the shore.
She walked toward where the sun rose, journeying two days and a night before finally collapsing by the river. When she awoke, she had been rescued by kind local villagers. At that time, the nation’s state was uncertain; the village was much like Taoyuan once was, surrounded by tall mountains and dense forests, steadfastly guarding this piece of land, with no one leaving and no strangers entering.
An elderly, solitary grandmother adopted her.
The grandmother’s husband had long passed, and her son and daughter-in-law had moved to the world beyond the mountains. The old woman was too lonely, so Xiahua became her granddaughter. Xiahua kept her company as she read, and sometimes she would stare off into the distance in a daze. The old woman always asked what she was thinking about.
She would always reply, “Just spacing out.”
The grandmother never pressed her, only patted her hand gently and said, “No matter how hard it seems, it’ll pass.”
But Xiahua knew it would not.
It would never pass.
At that time, she hadn’t wanted to leave the cave. She wanted to go back and be with everyone, but she could not. If she did, she would be betraying everyone. She was the one who benefited, which meant she had no right to turn back.
Xiahua didn’t want to waste money on fuel; the village was remote, and everything was expensive, so she would always carry a stool out to read beneath the sun. The old woman was healthy, robust, and full of spirit—adopting Xiahua not to be cared for, but simply for someone to chat with.
They shared three meals a day, planted rice and harvested in busy times, and during leisure, watched the sunset and stars together.
Half a year passed, and between them grew the bond of true family.
Later, the grandmother took out her saved money, determined to send Xiahua to school. Taoyuan’s isolation meant it had developed its own system, and after leaving, Xiahua was lost for a long time, learning many characters anew, to say nothing of mathematics or foreign languages.
But the old woman simply urged her to study, with all her heart and nothing else.
Xiahua shook her head.
She wanted to study; she only feared disappointing her grandmother.
“What’s all this about disappointment?” the grandmother snapped, pounding the table. “I have money to spare! I’ve enough saved for my coffin—rest easy and go to school!”
With the grandmother’s words set in stone, all was settled.
Once at school, Xiahua studied day and night. She was several years older than her classmates and, determined to make up for her disadvantage, would chew on a single mantou all day, never letting her eyes leave her books.
Her eyesight grew even worse than Wu Mei’s, but the grandmother dug out a pair of lenses from an old box.
Everything looked so clear when she wore them.
With support behind her, Xiahua’s drive for study became nearly reckless.
Half a year later, the lenses no longer worked. When Xiahua glanced furtively at her grandmother, the old woman only tapped her brow, smiling. “They belonged to my daughter-in-law, left behind years ago—no second pair here. For better ones, you’ll have to buy your own.”
Xiahua ducked her head, embarrassed, yet smiled at herself.
After two years, she had become the top student in her class. Her teacher said she showed great promise and was the village’s hope. When the national college entrance exams resumed, she did not let her teacher or grandmother down, becoming the first from the village to gain university admission.
On paper, Xiahua was the grandmother’s real granddaughter.
The entire village threw a banquet; every child held her hand for luck, while the grandmother joyfully drank a half glass of baijiu.
Xiahua entered a nationally renowned teachers’ college. There, she refused her grandmother’s living expenses and started working as a tutor for her own income. Every month, she scrimped and saved, sending most of her money to the grandmother, and even bought herself a pair of glasses.
Big cities were so wonderful.
Xiahua rushed between activities, met countless remarkable people, but was never dazzled by the city lights.
She always remembered where she came from, knew that behind her stood the ghosts of the entire village. The events in the cave replayed in her dreams every night, and she etched a clear purpose into her life—
She had not come to this world to enjoy its pleasures.
She had to accomplish something great, to be worthy of the thousands who had died for her.
Because so many had died that she might live, she needed to save at least as many, if not more.
She drove herself mercilessly; more than once, the grandmother urged her to slow down.
“Slow down, Xiahua.”
The grandmother would brush her long hair, aching with care. “You’ve only just turned twenty—how do you already have so many white hairs?”
“There’s no need to work so hard.”
Xiahua didn’t know how to answer. In the end, she told her the story of Taoyuan Village.
She thought the grandmother would say she’d just had a strange dream.
But the grandmother looked profoundly serious.
“You’re wrong, Xiahua,” the old woman said. “They absolutely never wanted you to live your whole life weighed down by guilt.”
“They just wanted to save you.”
Xiahua was taken aback, then waved it off lightly. “Grandma, that’s not my story—why do you look like you’re going to cry?”
The old woman clutched her hand tightly without replying—simply rubbing her palm over and over.
At school, Xiahua met many interesting girls her own age—a math prodigy from a remote village, reminding her of Xu Xing; an arrogant girl from a powerful family, who made her think of Yun Mingyue (although she felt Yun Mingyue’s haughtiness was even sharper, always looking down at people); an exuberant, sunny classmate, whose family owned a factory and who, like a little fortune god, bounced around handing out exotic snacks to everyone.
And more—so many like herself, raised among mountains, now forging their own paths.
They were all ambitious, all full of ideals, gathering to talk about the future.
Xiahua’s success as a tutor led one family to recommend her to another; when the daughter from the second family got into college, they referred her to a third, whose lady of the house was kind and began to mentor Xiahua, coaching and guiding her. With this family’s endorsement, she went to work at the grassroots after graduation, then returned to the city and entered the core of the municipal government, steadily moving up step by step.
She encountered many hardships on this path, but also many benefactors.
She had a gift for recognizing talents and always saw the best in others. She supported countless children—some went on to become renowned professors, others dedicated their lives to research and served their country, others became famous entrepreneurs at home and abroad. She received many rewards, but donated all of them.
Through her initiatives and connections, more than a hundred girls’ schools were established in impoverished mountain regions—fully residential, without tuition. Countless girls escaped their fates because of her.
She helped more than a thousand people.
Yet, Xiahua was not satisfied.
Because she despised her truest self.
Day after day, the story of Taoyuan Village replayed in her mind. In the dead of night, she would wonder—if only it were all a lie.
If only she hadn’t been the one to emerge. If only her childhood had truly been miserable. If only she owed no one at all.
Then perhaps, her life would have felt a little lighter.
Xiahua died on her sixty-sixth birthday.
Her death was caused by exhaustion and overwork.
At the end, her bedside was surrounded by those she had sponsored, coming from all over the world to be there for her. They called her name, begged her not to leave, said she was a hero, that she was great, that she had led them all to places they had never even dared to dream.
Xiahua lived her whole life without a partner or children. Only the old grandmother lived with her, and after the latter passed away, Xiahua kept her spirit tablet at home, cooking three meals every day as if the grandmother had never left.
After her death, Xiahua’s name appeared in the headlines of national newspapers, and her deeds were celebrated across the nation.
She thought her life had reached a perfect conclusion, but in truth, it was only just beginning.
After her death.
*
When the riddle of an energy field is solved by challengers, the field itself dissipates.
The turbid qi clears, and the tethered spirit recalls her life.
The sixteen-year-old girl with her high ponytail aged rapidly before everyone’s eyes.
Her hair turned white, wrinkles spread from her eyes, her body bowed with age.
She did not grieve for her fading existence; her eyes were filled with peace.
She said, “I was once Zhou Xiahua. Later, I took my grandmother’s surname and became Ruan Xiahua.”
The twins’ faces grew stunned in an instant.
At last, Shen Huanhuan’s gaze was filled with understanding.
She ventured tentatively, “Do you still remember Shen Dong’an?”
At the sound of this name, Zhou Xiahua hesitated for a beat.
Then, smiling, she nodded.
“I remember the name of every child I ever sponsored.”
Shen Huanhuan spoke softly: “That’s my father, and Xiaoxiao’s.”
Shen Dong’an, one of Huaguo’s most famous architects, came from a remote mountain area. Born with albinism, he had been abandoned outside a welfare home; Zhou Xiahua herself once went there and chose children who would not resign themselves to fate to sponsor.
Later, Shen Dong’an acquired immense wealth, and in times of national crisis, donated half his fortune. He spent his life building rural schools, inheriting the keen hopes of Zhou Xiahua.
At Shen Huanhuan’s words, Zhou Xiahua seemed for a moment full of memories, soon replaced by sorrow.
She looked around at the energy field on the verge of collapse, eyes falling on the grass huts.
Inside were human-headed chickens and sheep—people who mooed like cattle—they all had perished.
Over twenty people had died in this field.
Over twenty families had suffered because of her.
Lan Lin lowered her gaze and said nothing.
Mint Candy and Zhang Du said nothing either.
Yiliang had perished here; for the dead, there was no forgiveness.
“All I ever wanted was to save people,” Zhou Xiahua said.
But that is the cruelty of the energy field: it wipes away memory, amplifies every desire, drowning all kindness.
“Will I really vanish into smoke?”
“As in—not even a next life? Total oblivion?”
Before the collapse of the energy field, Zhou Xiahua asked the others.
Shen Huanhuan hesitated for a moment before giving a slight nod.
But the despair and collapse she imagined did not come.
Instead, Zhou Xiahua broke into a smile of utter relief.
“Good.”
Zhou Xiahua said, “I’m going to find them now.”
“I’ve waited far, far too long for this day.”