Light and shadow flowed through the void, shifting like flowers in a mirror and the moon reflected in water.
Fragments of memory whirled through the depths of the Divine Sea, each one reflecting scenes from the past--
The morning bells and evening drums of Hanshan Temple, the yellowed pages in the library, the figure of the woman holding an umbrella by Qifeng Lake...
But whenever Wang Xian tried to reach out and touch them, those fragments melted into nothingness in his palm like snowflakes in winter.
Everything was sinking.
Everything was falling apart.
Until the familiar aroma of mutton, wrapped in the steam of mutton offal soup, broke through the layers of fog in the illusion.
Wang Xian abruptly opened his eyes--no, not truly opened them.
His consciousness had been dragged into an eerily real dream.
The bluestone road of Phoenix City stretched beneath his feet, while the setting sun dyed the shop banners a warm gold.
Old Meng sat on the wooden stool by the entrance, holding a coarse pottery bowl as he drank tea. The wrinkles on his forehead smoothed out beneath the evening light.
He remembered three years ago.
That was the year he and his master, Old Zhang, had just left the Heavenly Road and settled in Phoenix City.
Back then, he was still a somewhat green young Daoist, carrying a simple pack and standing timidly in front of a steamed-bun stall.
Old Meng looked up, revealing a gap where a tooth was missing, and smiled. "The Daoist's little disciple? Come, sit!"
The flood of memories surged forth:
He remembered how Old Meng had clumsily learned his master's recipe for mutton buns, mixing the filling again and again, steaming them batch after batch, until that evening when the first successful basket of buns emerged, their meaty