It wasn't that his body no longer suffered; it was that his heart no longer did.
The things that had once pained him now felt, in retrospect, like someone else's story. But pain was also a kind of sensation.
When he was in pain, he frowned, gritted his teeth, and clenched his fists.
When he was in pain, he knew he was still alive—not the kind of living where his heart beat and his lungs breathed, but the kind where I can feel it.
When the pain passed and he felt comfort, that comfort was real comfort. Without pain, comfort lost its flavor, like food without salt. It was still edible, but you knew something was missing.
What exactly was missing?
Wu Heng fell into deep thought.
His current peace was a bowl of unsalted rice. Was it good? It wasn't bad.
Was it fragrant? No.
He chewed and swallowed, and his stomach was no longer hungry, but the taste in his mouth made him forget that food could be sweet, salty, spicy, or sour.
He wanted a taste of salt.
Even just one bite. But he did not know where to find it.
Just then, he sensed an inexplicable call.
He did not hear it with his ears; he felt it in his heart.
It was like long ago, when he had played outside at night and darkness fell. His family would call him home for dinner. The voice was not loud, but he could hear it, because he knew they were calling for him.
This call was the same. Not loud, but constant.
Somewhere far away.
So far that he did not know how far.
Yet it was everywhere; no matter where he went, he could feel it.
Like the air, like the sky, like the earth. You