Whew. I felt a little ashamed as soon as I finished writing the title. This volume was only twenty-five chapters long, and it was already over.
Still, I'd originally made it a separate volume because its overall mood and pacing didn't fit with the fourth volume. If I'd placed it right after the fourth, I was afraid I wouldn't be able to adjust the pace in time, and the feelings of sorrow and anticipation that should have unfolded slowly might have turned into a forced march. Besides, this volume was more or less a bridge between what came before and what came after, and it spelled out the central theme. It might be short, but every word was a gem (I'm shamelessly praising myself for a couple of lines here). It also had little connection to the next volume, so making it a separate one was the best choice.
The title of the volume, "A Man Is Sick—Does Heaven Know?" never appeared directly in the text, but I think its three meanings still came through: Meng Qi's grief and guilt, Ananda's demonic obsession, and the mighty ones fishing for reincarnations. The last one in particular was sick with madness. You had to ask: Did Heaven know? Did the Great Dao know?
Well, three million words. My author's note had been sitting there for a year and two months, and these past few days I finally wrote it. It was truly exhilarating, immensely satisfying. Do not ask about the past, do not seek the afterlife, live in the present—that was the original intent behind writing this book. I'd bottled it up for over a year, but at last, opening this book hadn't been in vain.
Oh, and as I've said before, if anything feels abrupt or out of character, first try