Fang Songhe dared not move Chongyang any further. "What's going on?" he asked.
Chu'he also turned to Ninth with nervous eyes.
For the first time, Ninth lost his usual stubbornness in confronting Fang Songhe. Gazing at the child whose eyes were dim with exhaustion, he explained:
"Sixty years ago, he was already dead. By some twist of fate, he fused with the Netherbloom. The flower and he became each other's roots, allowing him to live until now. But now that he’s separated from the Netherbloom’s nourishment, the flower must absorb him to survive."
"He created such a vast illusion—his body couldn’t possibly endure it."
"If we don’t save him, he’ll become sustenance for the flower. If we do, at least he can remain somewhat human."
Ninth lowered his gaze, taking Chu'he’s hand gently. "His body is already broken, A-He. There’s nothing more I can do."
Such is the way of the world—disappointment is often more common than fulfillment.
Chu'he looked down at the child resting on her lap and reached out, her fingertips lightly brushing his soft hair in a tender motion.
Chongyang lifted his eyes, meeting her gaze. "I’m not in pain," he said.
She took a deep breath, swallowing the lump in her throat, and clasped his hand. The moment their fingers touched, she felt an eerie coldness.
"Chongyang, we’re all here with you."
With great effort, Chongyang tugged at the corners of his lips, forming something like a smile. "Mm."
Fang Songhe’s voice was hoarse. "This is my fault. That day, I was the one who cut through the vines..."
Back then, he had followed Song Chunming’s trail to Wutong Village, only to discover that Song Chunming had lost his memory—and was now accompanied by a woman. In his amnesiac state, the two had married.
Fang Songhe was grateful to the kind woman for saving Song Chunming, but something felt wrong. How could she marry him without knowing if he already had a family?
Moreover, Song Chunming did have a fiancée. Fang Songhe intended to tell him the truth about his past, but he was ambushed. Injured, he fled and stumbled into a deep pool.
He thought he was doomed, but instead, he found a child imprisoned in the depths. His first instinct was to save him.
If he hadn’t done so, Chongyang’s symbiosis with the Netherbloom would have remained intact, and today, he wouldn’t be facing dissolution.
"It was… my choice," Chongyang said slowly, his gaze fixed on Fang Songhe. "I… chose this."
Born with features unlike anyone else’s, Chongyang had never known what it meant to be loved.
His mother fell ill after giving birth to him. His father died searching for medicine, tumbling off a cliff. And the villagers—every misfortune they suffered seemed tied to his existence.
So when his mother drove him out, even he believed it.
With nowhere to go, he curled up beneath the village’s banyan tree. That was when the stranger arrived.
The white-haired man had an ethereal beauty. Perhaps because they shared an otherworldly resemblance, he looked at the child huddled on the ground and smiled, placing a piece of candy in his palm.
"Would you like to come with me?"
In Chongyang’s memory, no one had ever smiled so kindly at him. No one had ever given him sweets.
His meals had always been spoiled, rotten—so much so that he thought all food tasted that way. No matter how foul, he never questioned it.
The taste of that candy? Too distant to recall. Only that it was strange.
He thought someone finally wanted him. He clung to the white-haired man’s shadow, only to step into another abyss.
When his body no longer held value, abandonment was inevitable.
Chongyang’s life was a tapestry of cruelty. The only warmth and joy he remembered came sixty years later, woven by three travelers who stumbled into his village.
He didn’t understand right from wrong. No one had taught him how to be a good child. He only wanted to be loved, to have a family like any other.
A family with him, a gentle father, and a mother who cherished him.
But perhaps because he forced what was never his, the heavens saw fit to take him back.
Yet he felt no regret.
That man had once said: People must always make choices. Whether the outcome is good or bad, it’s the consequence of their decision.
Now was his time to bear that consequence. So he wouldn’t regret it.
Chongyang looked at the three before him. "I’m… sorry."
Fang Songhe shook his head. "None of this is your fault."
Chu'he added softly, "No one blames you."
Chongyang’s gaze shifted to Ninth, who had never liked him.
Ninth remained silent.
They shared similar features—perhaps, in some way, similar souls.
For things they lacked, for things never meant to be theirs, both would grasp at any means to claim them. But where Chongyang was cursed with misfortune, Ninth had been luckier.
Like Ying Suifeng. Like Yi Moli. Like Chongyang now.
Still, Chongyang watched him, fractured eyes holding a hidden plea.
At last, Ninth spoke. "From the beginning… you never had a choice."
Chongyang’s fate had been twisted by cruel hands. Before his parents could instill in him any sense of morality, he was already stained with obsession. And fate, unkind, denied him even a sliver of luck—sealing his tragedy from the start.
So Ninth didn’t blame him either.
No one blames me.
Half of Chongyang’s face had already crumbled, fragile as dried leaves in the wind. Yet with his last strength, he mustered an incomplete smile.
"I think… I see them… Father and Mother… They’ve come… for me…"
"And… the villagers…"
"They’re all… smiling at me…"
"Can I… go?"
Fang Songhe nodded slowly. "Go."
Chu'he held back the mist in her eyes, watching him. "We’re right here. Don’t be afraid. And… Ninth is here too. If anyone dares bully you, he’ll dig them out of their graves and teach them a lesson!"
Ninth wanted to say he didn’t do grave-digging dirty work. But glancing at the child’s fading form—remembering how he’d once called him Father—he swallowed his retort and gave a quiet hum of agreement.
So… there were people who cared for him after all.
In the end, all that was unfulfilled became fulfillment.
Chongyang closed his eyes, his body light as paper soaked in rain and dried by sun. As his last breath escaped, the wind swirled gently around him.
Chu'he felt her palm suddenly empty—the faintly cool skin she had just touched moments ago now dissolved into countless specks of dust, carried upward by the wind. They glimmered briefly in the sunlight before merging completely with the dust of the world.
She murmured, "If there is another life, I hope yours will be less bitter."
