A century of vicissitudes, and few old friends remain.
Time flies, flowing like the endless river of the Milky Way, and a century has quietly passed.
A century is enough for dynasties to rise and fall in the mortal world, and for the cultivation world to take on a new look. The earth-shattering event that occurred at the source of the Qingtian River, known as the "Cataclysm of Rebirth," has gradually settled from being a topic of conversation that initially shocked the world into a legend recorded in ancient texts, becoming a part of history.
A new order was established on the ruins of the past and the newly reborn land. After the initial confusion and reflection, the major sects gradually recovered their strength, but the boundaries between them were no longer as clear-cut as before, showing more restraint and cooperation after the calamity. The demonic path and the demon race also seemed to have restrained much of their former eccentricity, finding a new way to survive in this world where the spiritual energy was becoming increasingly pure and abundant.
The Qingtian River, once a "river of calamity," is now a veritable "sacred river." Its waters are crystal clear, imbued with spiritual energy, and its banks are teeming with life, nurturing countless creatures and becoming a sacred ground for many cultivators seeking enlightenment and destiny. The legend of the "saint" and the "guardian" who sacrificed themselves to reverse the tide of fate is still occasionally mentioned in the riverside teahouses and taverns, and in the conversations of cultivators, though the details have faded, and it has acquired a touch of mythology.
On this day, an inconspicuous little boat with a green canopy slowly sailed on the calm Qingtian River. At the bow stood a woman dressed in an elegant green robe, with a tall and dignified figure and a calm demeanor. Her face was veiled by a light veil and a hat, making it difficult to see clearly. Only a sense of indifference and detachment, which had been tempered by the passage of time, lingered around her.
It was Mo Xiaoyu.
A century has passed, yet it has left few marks on her face; the lifespan of the Foundation Establishment stage is still quite long. But her eyes, hidden behind the veil, are even more profound than they were a century ago, like a still well reflecting the familiar yet unfamiliar scenery rushing past on both banks, without the slightest ripple.
She traveled along the Qingtian River, not aimlessly. She was walking, observing, and fulfilling her promise to "see this new world for him." She had witnessed how newly established cultivation cities rose from the barren land, how ordinary villages lived in peace and prosperity under the nourishment of spiritual rain, how new sect prodigies were full of vigor, and she had heard many legends, some true and some fictional, about "Xie Yunzhi" and "Mo Xiaoyu."
She simply watched and listened quietly, like a detached passerby, rarely lingering and never interfering.
The small boat drifted downstream, arriving near a majestic, continuous mountain range. In the distance, familiar palaces and pavilions could be seen faintly visible amidst the swirling clouds and mist, their flying eaves and brackets displaying a magnificent and ever-changing atmosphere. However, the spiritual light of the protective array enveloping the mountain gate seemed slightly different from that of a hundred years ago, lacking some of its sharpness and gaining a more profound and robust quality.
Qingyun Sect.
Mo Xiaoyu steered the small boat to a secluded river bend, dozens of miles from the mountain gate. She did not go ashore, but stood quietly at the bow, gazing at the immortal land that had once held countless humble hopes and heartbreaking memories for her.
A century has passed, and things have changed.
She could vaguely sense that there were several unfamiliar Nascent Soul auras within the sect, and some familiar figures were gone. The past grudges seemed to have long since vanished with Su Qingqing's madness and disappearance, the decline of the Su clan, and the revelation of that mind-blowing truth. The Qingyun Sect was still the leader of the righteous path, but its rules seemed more enlightened, and its disciples held less of their former arrogance.
Just then, a slightly aged yet still righteous divine sense gently swept across the river bend, pausing slightly on her small boat.
Mo Xiaoyu neither avoided nor responded; she simply stood there quietly.
A moment later, a streak of azure light flew out from the Azure Cloud Sect and landed on the riverbank, revealing the figure of an old man. His hair and beard were all white, his face was thin, but his back was ramrod straight; it was Elder Xuan Shi. However, compared to a hundred years ago, he appeared much older, and his aura carried an undeniable air of age. Only his eyes remained sharp, but now they were filled with complex emotions.
In his hands, he held a long object carefully wrapped in plain brocade.
"You...you're back." Elder Xuan Shi looked at the figure wearing a bamboo hat at the bow of the ship, his voice a little dry, with a slight, almost imperceptible tremor. Although he couldn't see the face under the bamboo hat, the unique temperament and the Daoist aura that subtly blended with this world made him recognize the person instantly.
Mo Xiaoyu nodded slightly in response, without saying anything.
Elder Xuan Shi remained silent for a moment, then gently placed the plain brocade package on the bluestone by the riverbank and slowly opened it. Inside lay the ancient Zhan Yuan Sword. The blade was still dull, yet spotless, clearly having been carefully cleaned and preserved.
“This sword… should rightfully be returned to its rightful owner.” Elder Xuan Shi’s voice was deep. “The sect… owes him a great debt, and it owes you a great debt as well. On behalf of the sect, I apologize to you…” As he spoke, this discipline elder, who was known for his uprightness and strictness, bowed deeply to the small boat and remained there for a long time.
Mo Xiaoyu looked at the sword and the bowing old man, her heart feeling little. The hatred had long since faded with the passage of a hundred years, leaving only a distant, wistful feeling across time.
She gently raised her hand, and a gentle force lifted Elder Xuan Shi.
"The past is past." She finally spoke, her voice as calm as the river before her. "I'll accept the sword. His things shouldn't be left to languish."
With a flick of her wrist, the Zhan Yuan Sword emitted a barely perceptible hum, transformed into a streak of light, flew into the small boat, and lay quietly at her feet.
Elder Xuan Shi straightened up, gazing at the woman before him, her aura as calm as the sea. The figure of him, panicked outside the Scripture Pavilion a century ago, yet resilient and unyielding in the bloody battle of Black Wind Ridge, seemed to overlap with the woman before him, yet also felt as if separated by countless mountains and rivers. He knew that some wounds could never be healed. Some partings were already inevitable.
He said nothing more, only taking one last deep look at the small boat and the figure at its bow, as if trying to imprint this moment into his heart before transforming into a stream of light and returning to his sect. His departing figure carried an indescribable desolation and loneliness.
Mo Xiaoyu sheathed the Zhan Yuan sword and, without pausing, steered the small boat downstream.
Several months later, the small boat reached a tributary of the Qingtian River. The river narrowed, the current became gentle, and the banks were lined with rolling hills and scattered villages. Outside a small, seemingly peaceful and ordinary village nestled against the mountains and beside the water, Mo Xiaoyu stopped the boat again.
Her gaze passed over the wisps of smoke rising from the chimneys and landed on a large locust tree at the village entrance.
There, several young children were playing and laughing. One of them, a boy of about seven or eight years old, was wearing a coarse cloth jacket and had a tanned complexion. He was riding a bamboo pole and playing a game of "riding horses and fighting" with the other children. He was laughing very brightly, and his eyes were full of carefree energy.
Mo Xiaoyu's gaze lingered on the boy's face for a long time.
The child's features, faintly and indistinctly, bore an uncanny resemblance to the person in my memory. It wasn't a complete copy of their appearance, but rather that pure smile, that innocent and bright gaze, as if piercing through the dust of a century, bringing a faint yet familiar stirring of emotion.
Is it a coincidence? Or is it the reincarnation of a lingering soul, orchestrated by fate?
Mo Xiaoyu didn't know, nor did she want to delve into it. She simply watched quietly from afar. She watched the boy fall during the game, then get up without a care and continue chasing and laughing; she watched him being called home by his mother for dinner, turning back to make faces at his friends as he ran…
Beneath the light veil, the corners of her mouth unconsciously curved into a very faint, gentle arc.
That's...good.
Forget the past, born into ordinariness, growing up in peace and happiness, no longer burdened by any heavy destiny or responsibility. Perhaps this is another kind of life he once longed for but could not obtain.
She did not appear or disturb them, but silently kept this distant gaze and blessing in her heart.
As the sun sets, it bathes the village in a warm golden light. The sounds of children playing gradually fade into the distance, and wisps of smoke rise from the chimneys, creating a scene of peace and tranquility.
Mo Xiaoyu withdrew her gaze, steered the small boat, and quietly left the tranquil river bend to continue her journey.
Few of my old friends remain, but the mountains and rivers remain the same.
She carried his sword and his memories as she walked through this new world they had won with their lives.
Loneliness, but not desolation.
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