"Enjoying mortal wine, weaving toys for children..." Ruo Xianxue’s voice echoed once more, though this time it was devoid of mockery. There was a contemplative lilt to her tone. "Zhi Xuan, do you realize that every wood shaving you discard is actually a piece of your inner burden being peeled away?"

  Zhi Xuan did not offer a verbal reply. He sat back down on his wooden bench, picking up a fresh piece of lightning sandalwood. His eyes, now a deep, ink-black, stared intently into the grain of the wood.

  "Ruo, look at this wood," Zhi Xuan communicated internally. "It grew for hundreds of years, absorbing rain and sunlight, only to be toppled by lightning. Yet, its fragrance only emerges after it is carved and wounded. Don't you feel that the destiny of these mortals is far more honest than the path of immortality we chase?"

  He began to move his chisel. This time, his movements were no longer merely breaking or shaping. He began to chase something subtler—an invisible line connecting the life of the tree to the form he was about to create.

  Time flowed like the river water behind his house; before he knew it, autumn had greeted Cangyun Village with its orange cloak. Zhi Xuan spent his days with fingers dancing across wooden surfaces, letting fine dust cover his grey robes, which had begun to fade in color.

  "The path of immortality we chase is but an effort to swim against the current of reincarnation," Zhi Xuan continued mentally, pressing the chisel deeper. "But here, I am learning to flow with it."

  In his hands, the sandalwood began to reveal an unusual shape. He was no longer carving animals or carts. This time, he was crafting a long tube adorned with interlocking cloud engravings. It was an order from Uncle Zhao, the land manager, who wanted a vessel to store his family’s ancestral lineage scrolls.

  Every cloud line he etched into the wood seemed to carry a breath of the silent heavens. Zhi Xuan worked with a precision that was almost nonsensical for an ordinary human; he used no bronze measuring tools, instead relying on the vibration of his own heart to determine the direction of the carvings.

  As the autumn sun began to sink behind the hills, a warm orange light slipped into his workshop, illuminating the scattered wood chips like pieces of mortal gold. In the distance, the sound of cowbells returning to the pens and Nalan Yu’s laughter as he chased chickens in the backyard served as the background music to his labor.

  "Brother Zhi!" Uncle Zhao’s raspy voice broke the silence. The old man appeared at the threshold, looking more tired than usual. His wrinkled face held an anxiety he tried to hide behind a stiff smile. "How is it? Is my ancestral vessel finished? Tomorrow is the ancestral memorial day, and I want to place the lineage scrolls in a worthy place."

  Zhi Xuan lifted his head, giving a final swipe with a soft cloth over the wood's surface, which now shimmered a deep maroon. "It is finished, Uncle Zhao."

  He handed over the wooden tube. As soon as Uncle Zhao’s hand touched the lightning sandalwood, the old man jolted. He felt a warmth spreading through him, as if the wood were not a dead object but a sturdy guardian. The cloud patterns carved by Zhi Xuan seemed to move when viewed from the corner of the eye, creating an illusion of eternity amidst transience.

  "This... this is too beautiful," Uncle Zhao whispered, his eyes welling with tears. "It’s as if you didn't just carve wood, Brother Zhi. You carved a prayer into it."

  Zhi Xuan only nodded slightly. "This wood witnessed many seasons before it fell. It knows how to guard memories so they do not fade with time."

  Uncle Zhao placed a small pouch of silver coins on the table, but he also set down a blue cloth bundle that smelled of herbs. "This silver is for your wages, and these are Pale Moon flower seeds from my garden. My wife said your house needs a bit of color so it doesn't look so much like a forest."

  Zhi Xuan accepted the seeds with hands that now bore rough calluses—a badge of honor for a craftsman. After Uncle Zhao left with a lighter step, Zhi Xuan stood in front of his house, staring at the seeds in his palm.

  "Carving wood to preserve the past, planting seeds to wait for the future," Ruo Xianxue murmured. "Zhi Xuan, your inner self is changing. Your ocean of essence, which usually churns with bloodlust, now feels like a calm lake under the moonlight."

  Zhi Xuan walked toward the small patch of earth in front of his window. He knelt, digging into the moist soil with his fingers, and buried the seeds there. "Weaving the law does not begin with manipulating the sky, Ruo. It begins with understanding how a speck of life struggles through the earth to greet the sun."

  Autumn passed with a biting wind, bringing yellow leaves into the stream behind Zhi’s house. The Pale Moon flower seeds he planted had begun to sprout—a fragile green life amidst a landscape beginning to cool.

  Zhi was no longer known merely as a woodworker; he had become part of the very pulse of Cangyun Village. He now tied his black hair with a simple leather cord, and his grey robes bore several patches at the elbows. He no longer radiated the coldness of death; now, his aura was the serenity of old wood that had weathered a thousand storms.

  One afternoon, as a thin mist descended from the peaks of Yao Gu, a luxurious carriage—contrasting sharply with the village’s simplicity—stopped in front of his workshop. The carriage was escorted by four armed men with the energy ripples of the Divine Wheel Sanctum stage. To the villagers, they were formidable warriors, but to Zhi’s sealed consciousness, they were mere pebbles.

  From the carriage stepped a middle-aged man dressed in gold-embroidered silk, his face marked by a rigid air of authority. This was Great Master Lu, the ruler of a small town at the mountain's foot who controlled the medicinal trade routes.

  "So, this is the place?" Master Lu’s voice sounded arrogant, his nose wrinkling at the scent of sawdust and the smell of iron from Da Zhu’s forge next door. "A craftsman who can reportedly make dead wood breathe?"

  Zhi did not rise from his position as he planed a wooden block. He only glanced briefly through the corner of his eye. "I am just a woodworker, Master. What are you looking for in a place filled with dust?"

  Master Lu stepped inside, ignoring the sawdust clinging to his expensive shoes. His eyes swept the room until they fixed upon a coffin Zhi was working on in the corner. It was unfinished, yet the carvings on its surface—representing a calm flow of water—looked so real that one who gazed at them seemed to hear the murmur of a river.

  "I want that coffin," Master Lu said, his pudgy finger pointing toward the wood. "My father is old and his end is near. I want him buried in the finest wood. Name your price; gold is no issue for me."

  Zhi stopped his hand's movement. He set down his plane and looked at Master Lu with deep black eyes, as if weighing the soul of the man before him. "Gold is not the price here, Master. If you want it, I can finish it now."

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  Master Lu laughed dismissively, the sound jarring in the silence of the workshop. "Gold is not the price? You truly are a strange village craftsman. Then what do you want? Land? Slaves? Or do you want me to make you an official supplier to my estate?"

  Zhi stood slowly, his tall frame casting a long shadow under the slanted afternoon sun as he walked toward the coffin. "I want none of those three. Do you wish for this coffin to be engraved with your father's name? Or perhaps you have a specific request regarding the form of the carvings?"

  Master Lu fell silent for a moment, his sky-high pride seemingly blunted by the depth of the young man’s eyes. He cleared his throat, trying to regain his momentarily shaken composure. "My father was a warrior in his youth. He loved mountains and tigers. Carve a tiger roaring upon a mountain peak on the lid. Let everyone know that the one resting within is a mighty soul."

  Zhi Xuan stared at the wood's surface. He did not immediately swing his chisel, but instead caressed the wood grain with his fingertips, as if asking permission from the spirit of the tree he had shaped. "Tigers and mountains... they are symbols of strength. However, Master Lu, even the mightiest tiger seeks a quiet cave when its end comes. Do you want him remembered for his sharp claws, or for the peace he found at the end of his life?"

  "What do you care!" Master Lu barked, though there was a slight tremor of doubt in his voice. "Just do as I say. Tomorrow afternoon, I will send a carriage to collect it. If you fail to satisfy me, do not expect this workshop to remain standing on this land."

  Zhi Xuan did not return the threat. After Master Lu’s entourage departed with a cloud of dust, he sat back down. Under the dim light of an oil lamp, he began to carve. However, he did not carve a tiger pouncing or roaring with rage.

  Under his fingers, the figure of a great tiger began to emerge upon the sandalwood surface. The tiger was sitting peacefully atop a cliff, gazing toward the rising moon. No fangs were shown, no claws struck the earth. There was only a silent majesty, as if the king of the forest were relinquishing all his glory to merge with nature.

  That night, Zhi Xuan did not sleep. He spent the time polishing every carving with peanut oil he made himself, until the lightning sandalwood emitted a deep glow, as if it held the moonlight within.

  The following afternoon, Master Lu’s carriage returned. The wealthy man stepped in arrogantly, but his pace stopped when he saw the finished coffin in the center of the room. He approached, his eyes fixed on the carving of the tiger gazing at the moon.

  Initially, anger flashed across Master Lu’s face because his command for a roaring tiger had been ignored. However, the longer he stared at the carving, the more his hardened heart began to soften. He remembered his father, who now lay weak in bed—an old man who no longer spoke of war, but instead spent his time staring blankly out the window, exactly like the tiger upon this coffin.

  "This..." Master Lu touched the carving, and instantly he felt a soothing coolness wash away his restlessness. "How did you know... that this is what he truly needed?"

  Zhi Xuan stood in the corner, his shadow falling over a pile of wood shavings. "A coffin is not a stage to flaunt wealth, Master. It is the final harbor. Your father does not need rage to bring to the grave; he needs peace so his soul may depart lightly."

  Master Lu was silent for a long time. He signaled his guards to lower a large bag of gold, but Zhi Xuan shook his head slowly.

  "Uncle Zhao already paid my land taxes this month with silver. For this coffin, I only ask one thing," Zhi Xuan said in a calm voice.

  "Name it," Master Lu replied, this time with a far more respectful tone.

  "If one day refugees or poor citizens pass through your city hungry, feed them and do not drive them away with your guards' swords. That is the price of this wood."

  Master Lu stared at Zhi Xuan in disbelief. In the world of Yao Gu, filled with intrigue and the struggle for essence, it was his first time meeting someone who traded such a masterpiece for a deed of kindness that was trivial to the wealthy. Yet, under Zhi Xuan’s black gaze, which seemed capable of piercing through his soul’s veil, Master Lu could only nod in obedience.

  "I will fulfill my promise," Master Lu spoke softly, his voice losing the arrogance it once held. He ordered his guards to transport the coffin with extreme care, as if they were moving the body of a sleeping god.

  After the luxurious carriage disappeared around the bend of the village road, Cangyun Village returned to its original rhythm. Da Zhu’s hammer resumed its rhythmic thumping, and the aroma of ginger porridge from Auntie Mei’s eatery filled the air once more. Zhi Xuan returned to his workshop, which now felt more spacious after the large coffin was taken away. He picked up a broom and began to sweep the remnants of the sandalwood shavings.

  He walked to the corner of the room, where a very small and hard block of black wood lay on his workbench. This wood was not from the back forest, but an ancient black wood he had found buried under the riverbed a year ago. The wood had absorbed earth minerals for thousands of years until it weighed more than iron.

  Zhi Xuan took a small chisel, its tip sharpened to the thickness of a cricket’s wing. He began to carve something extremely delicate. Not for an order, not for sale. Second by second, hour by hour, Zhi Xuan submerged himself in silence. The oil lamp's light danced on the wooden walls, showing the tall shadow of the craftsman hunched in deep focus.

  Under his fingers, the black wood began to form the silhouettes of two women, both wearing veils; one held a stalk of ice lotus, and the other a pure leaf. The carving was so detailed that the folds of their silk clothing seemed to rustle in the wind, and their eyes—though made only of black wood—radiated an aura as if staring back at him.

  "You miss them," Ruo Xianxue whispered.

  Zhi Xuan stopped his chisel's movement for a moment. The thin metal tip still rested on a delicate wooden lotus petal. He did not deny it, but he did not confirm it either. In the silence of his workshop, only the soft crackle of the shortening lamp wick could be heard.

  "Longing is a word too heavy for one trying to forget the weight of the world," Zhi Xuan replied internally. "I am merely immortalizing a law. The law of tenderness that can endure in the midst of a cold storm. Are they not the embodiment of that essence?"

  He resumed moving the chisel, this time adding a touch to the fingers of the wooden statues. Every stroke he made seemed to draw, bit by bit, memories from the depths of his soul—the scent of snow lotus from Zhu Qinglan and the pure leaf of Ye Xishui. In the eyes of a mortal, these were merely beautiful black wood carvings, but for Zhi Xuan, they were a knot of karma he was weaving in silence.

  As the night grew deeper, the silence in Zhi Xuan’s workshop felt heavy, broken only by the sound of fine shavings falling to the floor like secret whispers. The black wood statues had now revealed their perfect forms. Two figures who, though made of the hardest earthly material, seemed to radiate a gentleness that transcended the mortal realm.

  Zhi Xuan set down his chisel. He took a piece of dull silk and gently wiped the wood dust from the statues' faces. For a moment, the flickering lamplight gave the illusion that the wooden eyes trembled, reflecting the remnants of the longing he had tried to bury under piles of wood shavings for months.

  "Twelve seasons have passed since you stepped foot in this village," Ruo Xianxue’s voice broke the silence, sounding more real this time, as if she were standing in a dark corner of the room. "You have carved thousands of carts, hundreds of coffins, and now... you carve memories. Tell me, Zhi Xuan, have you found the Reincarnation you sought in the eyes of these mortals?"

  Zhi Xuan grew silent, his eyes fixed on the black wood statues before him. "Reincarnation is not about the body returning from the grave, Ruo. Look at these statues. This black wood died thousands of years ago, buried in cold mud. Yet tonight, it is born again as the figures I know. Is that not a cycle?"

  He stood up, his body feeling stiff after hours of hunching over. He walked to the door and opened it. Outside, summer had arrived with a cheerful bustle; almost all the carts and carriages traveling the road came from his workshop. Zhi Xuan walked forward and, as usual, Nalan Shu and Nalan Yu—who now looked significantly grown—ran toward his workshop.

  Nalan Shu was no longer the little girl with messy pigtails; she had grown into a teenager who was beginning to understand etiquette, while Nalan Yu was now half as tall as Zhi Xuan’s shoulder, his arms looking stronger from frequently helping Da Zhu in the forge.

  "Uncle Zhi! Look what I brought!" Nalan Yu exclaimed, raising a small, gleaming axe. "Uncle Da Zhu helped me forge this for three days. He said a woodworker shouldn't just have sharp chisels, but also an axe that can split bad intentions!"

  Zhi Xuan offered a thin smile, his eyes observing the small axe. He could feel the ripples of energy from the steel—raw, yet full of honest vitality. "Good steel, Little Yu. But remember, an axe is only an extension of your hand, and your hand is an extension of your inner self. If your inner self wavers, even the strongest steel will blunt against a piece of wood."