Spirit Plant Entry: Immortality Begins with Farming

One hand.

Warm, soft hands, with calluses on their fingertips from years of needlework, gently held his hand.

It was so real that Yin Jiu's heart stopped.

Yin Jiu slowly turned around.

Xiaodie stood at the door, wearing that pale yellow dress—the fabric he bought with his first month's sect salary, which she sewed herself, with a few crooked little flowers embroidered on the cuffs.

She tilted her head to look at Yin Jiu, her eyebrows curved, her smile as bright as the early spring sunshine.

"Ninth Brother?" She shook his hand. "What are you daydreaming about? Didn't you promise to come see the lanterns with me today?"

Yin Jiu's lips trembled.

Yin Jiu could feel the warmth of Xiao Die's palm, smell the faint scent of soap on her body, and see the tiny shadows cast by her eyelashes under her eyes.

Everything was exactly the same as I remembered.

So perfect...it's terrifying.

"Xiaodie..." his voice was hoarse, "you..."

"What's wrong with me?" Xiaodie leaned closer and poked his cheek. "Ninth Brother is acting strange today. Is it because you've been cultivating too much?"

She pulled him outside.

Yin Jiu followed, one step, two steps. His steps felt heavy, as if filled with lead. He could feel Xiao Die's fingers clenching between his, warm and firm. He could hear her humming an unknown tune, a light and cheerful melody.

By the time I reached the door, it was already dark outside.

The light from lanterns shone through the depths of the streets and alleys, spreading a warm yellow glow. In the distance came the sounds of people, laughter, and vendors' cries. The air was filled with the sweet aroma of roasted chestnuts, the smoky scent of roasted sweet potatoes, and the lively, bustling atmosphere unique to a night market.

Xiaodie was about to step out the door.

Yin Jiu stopped.

"What's wrong?" Xiaodie turned to look at him, her eyes sparkling with the light of the lanterns. "If you don't leave now, the lanterns will be closing up shop."

Yin Jiu remained silent.

He just looked at her, carefully and closely. He looked at her eyebrows, her eyes, her nose, and her lips. He looked at her pale yellow dress, at the crooked little flowers on the cuffs, and at the wooden hairpin he had given her in her hair—the tip of which was carved with a clumsy butterfly.

Looked for a long time.

Then, he said softly:

"You are not Xiaodie."

Xiaodie's smile froze for a moment.

"What is Ninth Brother saying?" Her voice was still light, but her grip on Yin Jiu's hand tightened slightly. "Who else could I be but Xiao Die?"

"Xiaodie is afraid of the dark," Yin Jiu said.

His voice was so calm that even he was surprised.

"She never dared to go out after dark. Every time I went to see her, she would ask me to arrive before dusk, saying that as soon as it got dark, she felt something outside the window."

He paused, then raised his other hand and gently brushed away the stray hairs from Xiaodie's forehead.

The movements were as gentle as touching fragile porcelain.

"And another thing," he said, "Xiaodie has a very small red mole behind her right earlobe. She says it's a birthmark, and she always tries to cover it with her hair when she combs it, afraid it won't look good."

He ran his finger across Xiaodie's right ear.

The skin is smooth, and there's nothing there.

The smile on Xiaodie's face vanished completely.

Her eyes were still fixed on Yin Jiu, but the light within them gradually dimmed. It was as if someone had blown out a lantern, leaving only empty darkness.

"Why..." she began, her voice changing.

It was no longer the clear, youthful voice. Instead, it was something... a mixed, distorted sound, like many people whispering at the same time.

"Why won't you spend more time with me...?"

Her skin began to crack.

It wasn't cracking; it was peeling off piece by piece, like weathered plaster. What was exposed underneath wasn't flesh and blood, but something black, viscous, and constantly writhing.

Countless faces appeared on the surface of that thing—some were Xiaodie's, some were Yin Jiu's, some were Xuan Gu's, and many more unfamiliar faces, all roaring silently.

The room began to warp.

The dressing table collapsed, turning into a half-rotten skeleton, still maintaining the posture of dressing in front of the mirror.

The bed cracked open, gushing out thick, black mud, from which emerged bony hands.

The night outside the window turned into a rolling sea of ​​blood, and severed limbs could be seen floating in the blood waves.

Yin Jiu stood still, without moving.

He watched as "Little Butterfly" completely disintegrated, watching the face he had longed for for two hundred years melt into the pitch-black darkness.

Then he smiled.

I laughed so hard that tears came out.

"You know what," he said softly, facing the writhing darkness, "I've tried many times over the past two hundred years."

"I tried using forbidden techniques to summon your soul, I tried using blood sacrifice to exchange for a sliver of your lingering resentment, I tried locking myself in an illusion array, reliving every moment we spent together over and over again."

He took a step forward, stepping into the surging black mud. The sticky, cold sensation enveloped his ankles.

"Every time, I know it's fake," he said. "Every time, I know you're lying to me. But I still choose to believe."

"Because as long as I believe, I can see you again. Even if it's just for a moment, even if the price is shortening my lifespan, damaging my soul, or becoming this inhuman, ghostly state I am now."

He stretched out his hand, palm up.

The darkness hesitated for a moment, then spread out and coiled around his fingers. The touch was icy cold, with a stinging pain.

"But not today," Yin Jiu said, her voice soft but firm. "Today, I have more important things to do."

He suddenly clenched his five fingers!

Darkness shrieked, struggled, and tried to devour him from his palm. But Yin Jiu paid no heed.

He gripped it tightly, until his knuckles turned white, until his palms were corroded and hissed with white smoke, until the darkness began to melt away.

"Xiaodie is dead." He said each word carefully, as if speaking to himself. "She died two hundred years ago. It was my fault for not protecting her. It was my fault for chasing after that damned herb. It was my fault for leaving her alone in that rainy night."

"She's afraid of the dark. That night, the rain was so heavy, the thunder was so loud, and she was all alone... how scared she must have been."

Tears finally rolled down her cheeks.

These aren't tears of sorrow. They're something more complex—relief? Regret? Or perhaps the courage to confront the truth, two hundred years overdue?

"So," Yin Jiu raised his other hand, and seven bone spurs burst forth from his back, spreading out in the air to form a barrier, "I can't play with you today."

He closed his eyes.

The bone spurs trembled in unison, emitting a sharp buzzing sound.

The illusion was completely shattered.

But at the last moment, he heard a soft sigh beside him. It was very soft and gentle, like a spring breeze blowing through the willow branches.

Then, a familiar voice spoke in a volume only he could hear:

"Ninth Brother."

"let it go."

Yin Jiu shuddered.

He opened his eyes abruptly, only to see fragments of collapsing illusions. But that voice… that voice…

It's hers.

It really is hers.

It was not an imitation of Jingling, nor a deception of the illusion.

It was the tone and warmth that belonged only to Xiaodie, which he had repeatedly depicted in the deepest part of his memory during every midnight dream for the past two hundred years.

She told him to let go.

Yin Jiu stood there, his bone spurs trembling in the air.

He looked down at his outstretched palm—where scorch marks, corroded by darkness, remained, the flesh torn and the bone exposed.

It hurts.

But compared to the dull pain of "what ifs..." that has gnawed at his soul every moment for the past two hundred years, this physical pain is almost negligible.

Yin Jiu slowly clenched his fist.

He clenched the last trace of Xiaodie's tenderness in his palm.

Then, Yin Jiu turned around and faced the battlefield in reality.

Facing Jing Ling.

He was faced with the existence that utterly crushed even the last vestige of his self-deception.