Crying While Filling the Pit I Dug - Chapter 115

Ling Qianyi turned over on the bed. The cold earthen pot in his arms was already warmed by his body temperature.

Outside the door, there was a knock. Ling Qianyi opened his eyes to a light gray bed cover and calmly inquired, “What’s the matter?”

The disciple outside replied through the door, “Master, the head of the Liulin Sect has sent a wedding invitation. They’ve decided to marry on the tenth day of April. You are invited.”

Ling Qianyi put his hands on the earthen pot in his arms, wearing a sour expression. After a moment, he managed to reply calmly, “Okay, I understand.”

“The disciple will leave,” the disciple responded.

Ling Qianyi lay on his side, reaching out to touch the pillow. He closed his eyes, trying to smell the lingering scent of her on it. But after so many years, what scent would she have left?

If it weren’t for luck, would they get married too? Would he no longer be the only one lying on this bed?

His eyes tightly closed, he desperately wished to sleep again. Could he see her again in his dreams? Could he hold her hand and teach her to write? Would she wait for him under the tree with the earthen pot in her arms, staring at him without blinking? Would she still hide an egg at the bottom of his bowl every day, leaving more meat for him?

But no matter how much he struggled, it was futile. The more he forced himself to sleep, the clearer his mind became.

He simply sat up, lifting the quilt, and walked to her usual desk. He picked up the pen he once used to hold her hand and teach her to write, sketching her appearance from memory.

That was the hut she used to live in. Since her death, it had become his exclusive territory.

The cabinet under the bookshelf was filled with the paper she used for practicing calligraphy. Ling Qianyi remembered how she was always somewhat careless, despite his repeated teachings. Each time she wrote or drew, she seemed to forget the strokes, abbreviating here, missing a radical there. She disliked vertical fonts, preferring to write horizontally from left to right, as if she had created a language only she could understand.

After drawing a playful picture of her writing, Ling Qianyi stopped and made his way up the back mountain.

There, she lay buried.

The grave was adorned with flowers of various colors, and the word “Miaomiao” on the tombstone had been smoothed by his fingertips over time.

He sat in front of the tombstone, leaning against it, gently stroking her name as he murmured, “Miaomiao.”

“Miaomiao, did you know that Miss Murong is getting married? It will be on the tenth day of April.”

Miss Murong was the Princess of the Demon Sect. After Mr. Fang ‘s death, Yuan Diening retired to seclusion, disregarding worldly affairs and passing on the title of head of the Wanshan Sect to him. The Princess of the Demon Sect reorganized the Demon Sect, renaming it Liulin Sect. It shifted its former style, becoming a respectable sect dedicated to guarding the peace and happiness of all people. Miss Murong later encountered a handsome young man named Wang An, and the two fell in love at first sight, desiring to marry.

He smiled bitterly, saying, “If you were still here, I doubt I could wait until the tenth of April to marry you.”

“There was a spring rain yesterday. I used the bamboo basket you usually took to the mountains to gather mushrooms. They were quite large. Aunt Cuihua cooked a chicken meal with them. I brought some for you. You should try them. Give it a taste.”

“This morning, I drank bone soup. I stewed it myself. It had the same ingredients, used the same stove you used to stew soup, and was put in the same earthen pot you used to serve me soup. Yet, it tastes so different.”

“A few days ago, I went down the mountain to Tianci Restaurant. The waiter who was once kind to you is now the storekeeper. The proprietress who mistreated you has retired to the countryside. I slept in that cowshed. After the whole night, I truly wished that when I woke up again, I could return to that year, that day, that moment, and you could feed me a spoonful of rice soup.”

“On this trip down the mountain, I also learned another fact that I never knew. I went to Xuzhou to discuss the cooperation between the two factions with Miss Murong, and accidentally learned that I was rescued on a roadside in Xuzhou. You saved me who was stabbed by you. But I clearly remember that after I went down the mountain, I found a cave and fainted there. How could I appear on the roadside if I fainted? Miss Murong told me, when she picked me up, my wounds had already been bandaged. Is that person you? You thought I hurt Senior Brother Song and stabbed me, but you couldn’t bear to let me go and healed my wounds… “

“I have renovated Senior Brother Song’s grave again. Have you met him? Have you reunited with your family? I really want to come to you. On the Naihe Bridge, you have to wait for me. I will settle the Wanshan Sect’s affairs. Once the world is stabilized, and a suitable successor is found, I will come to you.”

……

It had nearly become a daily ritual for him to visit her grave and converse with her, recounting what he ate that day, whom he encountered, the weather’s temperament, and whether he dreamt of her…

Though she couldn’t speak and seldom responded much when alive, she would always blink at him or communicate through writing in his palm. Her fingers gently traversed his palm, melting his entire being.

At times, he really wished to hold her hand and make her stop writing. At others, he wished she could be near, so close that he could inhale the fragrance of her hair, to hold her in his arms for the remainder of their days.

……

On the tenth day of April, Ling Qianyi personally went down the mountain to Liulin Sect, carrying heavy gifts, to attend the wedding banquet of the former Demon Sect Princess Miss Murong.

The wedding banquet was full of guests, and the bride and groom were enjoying a beautiful and sweet harmony. He drank the remaining wine in the cup in one gulp, one cup after another, but he could not get drunk.

……

Half a year later, on the day when the Wanshan Sect recruits disciples every five years, he walked from the ladder of the Wanshan Sect to the forest where the first question of the apprenticeship conference was to count the leaves, and touched the leaves they had counted. He found the trunk of the tree where they had made a fire and roasted two sweet potatoes, one for her and one for him.

He accepted many new disciples, and spent all his time except missing her every day on teaching martial arts to the disciples of the sect, making the sect strong, and guarding the peace of the world. This was the common goal and legacy of his master and Senior Brother Song. He couldn’t forget.

……

Two years later, Miss Murong and Mr. Wang gave birth to a pair of twins.

A year later, at the birthday party, Miss Murong wanted to ask the children to recognize him as their adoptive father. He touched one of the children’s faces and thought of her again. If they also had children, what would they be named, how many would there be, and would they look like her? The child would look like her, right with twinkling eyes, a bit silly, but also very cute.

After the banquet, Miss Murong said that there was someone waiting for him in the backyard.

Under the moonlight, he stood by the lotus pond and immediately saw a woman in gray on the bridge. 

She bore such a striking resemblance to her.

Was it her? Did she come back to find him? Or was it her reincarnation?

His heart raced, nearly leaping from his chest as he stepped on the lotus leaves, flying to the small bridge.

Yet, his newly kindled hope was swiftly cut by a deluge of cold reality. While the woman bore a superficial resemblance under the moonlight—her hair styled similarly, attire mirroring hers, and a mere 30% imitation of her posture—she lacked the genuine essence. The woman appeared refined but lacked the innate charm possessed by her. She was like a cultivated hibiscus—beautiful yet mundane, with dull eyes—while she was akin to a wild mountain flower—radiant and vibrant, with eyes brimming with intelligence.

How could clothing, a hairstyle, and facial features, which appeared similar at a glance, transform into the same essence when feigning an inability to speak?

He silently lamented his mistake. How had he been so easily deceived by the moonlight? At first glance, he believed she had returned.

Without a word, he turned and departed. Miss Murong pursued him to the gate, saying, “Brother Ling, this is Miss Song’s distant cousin. She bears a resemblance of 70% to 80% to Miss Song. You shouldn’t be alone.”

He responded lightly, “She is not her, but I only want her.”

On his return journey, he deliberately made a detour once more, stopping at Tianci Restaurant. The young waiter now acted as the proprietor, warmly inviting him inside for a rest. Opting not for the grand hall or a private room, he spent the night in the humble cowshed.

The following day, as he passed through the city gate, he encountered a group of beggars pleading for food. Leading them was a girl of eleven or twelve, her face bronzed by the sun, her small hands clutching at his clothes as she implored him for aid, explaining her brother’s illness. Following her to a dilapidated temple, he found a young child suffering from a high fever, prompting him to seek medical help and bringing them to Wanshan Sect.

In the years that followed, he financed the establishment of a righteous institution there, dedicated to caring for orphans from far and wide.

Five winters later, during a chilly ascent to her tomb, he lingered too long in the snow, falling suddenly ill. Leaders of sects from across the land paid him visits, showering the Wanshan Sect’s stores with precious medicinal supplies. 

Even Miss Murong, her husband, and children set aside their sect duties to seek renowned healers from every corner of the globe. Yuan Diening, emerging from seclusion, returned to pay her respects.

Beside his sickbed, he briefed Yuan Diening on the state of the Wanshan School and the most promising disciples, entrusting her with the school’s future. With a serene smile, he asked Senior Sister Yuan to honor him with a posthumous marriage with Song Miaomiao. Together, they were laid to rest, her earthen pot, pillows, pens, calligraphy, and his portraits of her interred as funerary offerings.

In front of his bed, disciples of the Wanshan Sect, the child he had saved, and his adopted son couldn’t help but cry. Miss Murong and Yuan Diening also frequently wiped away their tears.

Lying on the bed, clutching the earthen pot, he departed without anguish, even passing away with a smile. He knew he would find her, and she would surely be waiting for him.