Chapter 64: Night Forgetting the River

 

The river was filled with mist and flowing water, the green mountains fading into the haze, like an exquisite ink painting.

“This might seem like a painting to mortals, but for those of us who have lit ghost lamps for thousands of years, it is the scene of life and death. When the ancient ancestors fought, corpses filled the waters of the Forgotten River,” Oni Chaijie said, loosening the rope at the stern of the boat. “Follow the ship closely, and soon you will reach Naihe Bridge.”

Yan Dan quietly observed the ghosts around her. They moved slowly, expressionless, following the instructions of the spirits. Though she had not been cast into the path of reincarnation, she had lost her immortal status. According to the rules of the underworld, leaving would not be easy. Could it be that she would spend the night forgetting the river, then be reborn as a human?

She recalled what Lord Ying Yuan had told her about the mortal world: humans lived only a hundred years, yet even in such a short span, some lived freely while others suffered. Though the path was fixed, the way one experienced it—whether with laughter or tears—was a choice.

Yan Dan followed the ghosts, drifting slowly down the Ye Wangchuan River. Beside her floated Guicha’s small boat, the faint yellow glow of a dilapidated soul-drawing lamp flickering at its bow.

Spending the night in forgetfulness meant erasing the past. No matter how she severed her attachments, she could not completely release her longing; her original thoughts and persistent feelings would remain unless she truly forgot.

Time became meaningless. Her body grew numb in the cold river, but the mortals gradually drifted out of reach. She tried to follow but could not catch up. Closing her eyes, she felt the figures vanish at the horizon where water met sky, leaving her alone on the flawless expanse of Ye Wangchuan. She watched the sun move from east to west, its reflection sparkling on the river, until its last glow faded.

The world remained quiet, endlessly empty. Only the faint whisper of wind disturbed the silence. Faces and places from the past—once familiar—now seemed like fleeting images in a mirror. When she reached out, they shattered.

Walking slowly, the river deep around her, Yan Dan had no sense of how far Naihe Bridge lay. A vast, boundless waterway stretched endlessly before her, leaving her uncertain if she had lost her way. Yet, she kept moving, believing that eventually, she would reach her destination.

The sunsets were beautiful yet lonely, a hint of crimson across the water, as if painting the river in a faint blush. She lost count of the souls who passed behind her; Oni Chaijie rowed past, sighing, “What a fool… she will not forget her past.”

Was she truly “willing to forget”?

Her body grew colder, exhaustion setting in, but Naihe Bridge remained elusive. She wondered how long—years, decades, centuries—she had drifted in the waters of Wangchuan.

Day after day, the sunsets remained brilliant. The ghosts continued their ceaseless work, rowing and lighting soul lanterns. Some rowers even took on bull-headed, horse-faced forms, shaking their heads and sighing as they passed. Yet Yan Dan herself remained unchanged, lost in time.

Finally, Guicha stopped beside her and said softly, “Do you know how long you’ve been in Ye Wangchuan?”

Yan Dan shook her head, dazed.

“Eight hundred years,” Guicha revealed. “If you continue like this, you will become nothing but pieces of ghostly flesh beneath the river. Reincarnation will be impossible, and your ignorance will persist for eternity.”

Eight hundred years… a fleeting moment of youth.

Yan Dan smiled weakly. She lifted her gaze to the Yanbo River, where the setting sun glowed like blood, painting the heavens and the earth in scarlet.

She saw a man ahead, seated at a table, carefully shaping an agarwood stove. When he noticed her steps, he turned slightly, a faint smile curving the corner of his lips.

She had not become a ghost, nor lost her soul.

Slowly, she opened her eyes and moved her body, aching from the wooden bed beneath her. The room was modest, with simple furniture and a faint brownish sheen.

As she sat up, the door creaked open. A plainly dressed man appeared, holding a bowl of steaming soup. His white-streaked eyebrows gave him an ethereal quality.

“Awake? Drink this,” he said, handing her the bowl. His hands were delicate, smooth, the sort trained for calligraphy.

Yan Dan sipped cautiously. The medicine was bitter, and though she had no immortal status, ordinary herbs seemed powerless. She could not refuse, yet her instincts told her something was amiss. Taking advantage of a moment’s distraction, she poured most of the remaining decoction into a plate of orchid grass on the bedside table, leaving only a small residue in the bowl.

The man opened a porcelain jar and poured another remedy into a bowl. “After this, drink a few sips of Tremella lotus seed soup. The bitterness will ease.”

Yan Dan eyed the bowl warily. Tremella lotus seed soup? Even under threat, she would not drink it. “…Just give me a glass of water, thank you.”

The man smiled and poured water, bringing the glass to her lips. “Why so polite, Madam?” he asked.

Yan Dan froze. “Madam?”

Though unfamiliar with mortal customs, she knew this was a term for a wife. Could it be that she had somehow been mistaken for another woman?

She hesitated, lowering her head and drinking. Then his voice rose slightly: “Madam?”

“Cough… cough!” Yan Dan coughed, startled. “You… you call me madam?”

He inclined slightly, surprise in his eyes. “What’s wrong today? If you don’t like it, I can stop.” His manner was gentle, but sharpness lingered at the corners of his eyes.

Yan Dan regarded him carefully. “I am not your wife. This is the first time we’ve met. Perhaps your wife looked somewhat like me?”

He did not look closely, merely returned her cup to the table and asked, “Do you want more water?”

Before she could answer, a woman’s carefree voice rang from outside: “Mr. Zhao! Are you in the inner house?”

He replied calmly, “I’ll come out shortly.” Turning back to her, he said gently, “You are not well, so rest at home.”

Yan Dan’s mind raced. How could she, who had spent eight hundred years in Ye Wangchuan, suddenly wake to find herself in a stranger’s house, called his wife overnight?

From outside came more murmurs: “Mr. Zhao, does Mrs. Zun’s condition still not improve?” “Heaven sees mercy. Your kindness will be rewarded, Mr. Zhao.”

Dizzy, Yan Dan struggled to comprehend. This man, gentle and calm, did not seem motivated by profit or personal gain. What had truly happened between Ye Wangchuan and here? Was this still the Netherworld?

Suddenly, soft knocks sounded at her door. A slender, unassuming girl entered, carrying a wooden tray with a comb and bronze hairpin. She leaned forward and whispered, “Mrs. Zhao, I’ll help you comb your hair.”

Yan Dan raised her head, restraining herself. “I am not Mrs. Zhao. You’ve mistaken me.”

The girl hesitated, then softly replied, “Mr. Zhao will be angry if you refuse.” She placed the tray on the cabinet, picked up the comb, and gently lifted Yan Dan’s pale hair, brushing it skillfully and patiently.

Yan Dan remained still, staring into the bronze mirror. The reflection that met her eyes was no longer her own. She finally realized: the reason Mr. Zhao and the girl recognized her as someone else was not merely resemblance…

The face reflected in the mirror was no longer Yan Dan’s original face.