"All things bear yin and embrace yang; the qi between them brings harmony. Cui Chonghe." Qin Ming pondered the words, then dipped a finger in tea and wrote "Qin Ming" on the table.
In those blurred, fragmented memories, Cui Chonghe was his name.
"Why did I end up here, remembering my name as Qin Ming?" He stared at the words on the table. Which part was real, and which was false?
When he had been dressed in rags, covered in blood, and utterly destitute, he had never forgotten that his name was Qin Ming. Why, then, was he gradually recalling another, hazy life?
Qin Ming thought it over and took a deep breath. The drifting colored mist around the Three-Colored Flower carried a rich fragrance. As those blurred memories flickered, the scent grew stronger, making the scene feel all the more familiar.
Soon, a scene from the past surfaced in his mind: a group of people in splendid robes and fine jade, all watching a boy whose face still held a trace of childishness with concern.
On the jade table before the boy sat a Three-Colored Flower and a jar of medicinal liquid brimming with vitality.
Qin Ming wondered who those people were, and who the boy was. They all looked somewhat familiar, but he could not remember.
When he had first awakened in this remote place, the first thing he remembered was that his name was Qin Ming. Later, with each New Life, he had recalled the Silk Scripture and his grandfather.
"I was there too, but farther away, quietly watching the boy consume the Three-Colored Flower and the vitality-rich medicine."
Qin Ming watched the scenes unfold. The people around the boy, young and old, men and women, all cared deeply about him.
None of them had ordinary status.