After the path was cut off

The blue hawk still flew swiftly through the clouds, the wind whistling. Only a frozen silence remained on its back, so heavy it seemed to hold back time.

Under immense pressure, Li Wangxiang slowly pulled out the rolled-up family letter from his sleeve, a way he usually relieved stress.

My dear brother, longing for home:

Last night, the copper bells on the eaves of the ancestral hall suddenly rang, and in a daze, I seemed to hear the voice of my late father admonishing me. I was startled awake from my dream, put on my clothes, sat alone, and could not fall back asleep for a long time.

You wrote to me the other day, saying that your sect has bestowed "Yunyin Lake" as clan land, and ordered you to establish a gate. Furthermore, you wish to bring your wife there. I am overwhelmed with emotion, and when I pick up my pen, I don't know where to begin.

I still remember when the evil cultivators massacred our village. To protect our people, my parents, with their mortal bodies, held woodcutters at the village entrance, their blue robes stained with blood. On their deathbeds, they held my hands tightly, only instructing me to "guard our hometown." Now, I have ascended to immortality and returned after completing my studies. If my parents knew this in the afterlife, they would surely smile with joy.

Although Jingshan is dull-witted, his desire for enlightenment is unwavering. He is unwilling to marry to this day. His elder brother cannot bear to see him waste his time, so he asked his younger brother to find him a job or two to accumulate merit and energy in order to seek an opportunity for breakthrough.

Although Qingfeng is a mortal, his mind is clear and insightful. He has helped Jingshan and Qinghan resolve many of their doubts about cultivation. The books in our house are no longer of use. Now that my brother has returned, we can find some classics on history and geography, as Qingfeng has recently taken a liking to this subject.

As for Qinghan, she possesses extraordinary talent; after only three days of sword practice, she surpassed Jingshan's mastery after half a month. The other day, I happened to see her dancing with her sword under a peach tree, the sword's aura startling down a tree full of fallen petals—for a fleeting moment, she seemed to resemble the image of my younger brother wielding his sword to slay his enemies years ago.

However, his mind is very sharp, and I worry that he is too rigid and easily broken. I suggest that you prepare some protective spiritual items for him.

Although our family is well-fed and clothed, the number of refugees from outside the mountains has been increasing daily lately. Last month, Old Man Zhang from the north slope came to seek refuge with his grandson, saying that his village had been massacred by the "White Bone Path," and that all the children had been turned into lamp oil. I ordered people to open the granary and distribute food, but the soup kitchen was only up for three days before refugees arrived in droves, scrambling to get to it, turning the soup kitchen into a battlefield. Alas, manpower is limited, and our efforts are like a drop in the ocean, hardly enough to alleviate their suffering.

Even more lamentable is the widespread propagation of the "Sutra of Reincarnation" at the Xishan Buddhist Temple, which equates suffering with pleasure and having many children with blessings. I personally witnessed the monks in the temple becoming emaciated, chanting scriptures all day long, devoid of joy or sorrow; the children also showed no joy in play, their eyes filled with emptiness. How is such "blessing" any different from evil?

Recently, the spring chill has lingered, and my knee ailment has flared up again. I often sit alone in the ancestral hall late at night. The oil lamp before me flickers, and I always feel that our late father is still sternly scolding us brothers for not practicing calligraphy diligently. In a flash, fifty years have passed.

Though this letter is short, my feelings for you are deep. Please take good care of yourself.

Brother Wangchuan paused

Grain Rain Night in the Year of Jiazi