A simple fire, a simple offering of remembrance.
Cultivators cultivated between heaven and earth; when they died, their bodies perished and their Dao vanished.
They did not even leave a Clothes Tomb. When someone remembered them, all they could do was light a fire in their memory.
They were worse off than ordinary folk, who could at least have a grave erected and be visited at a fixed time to receive offerings.
The person one longed to see lay sleeping beneath the earth. Even if they could not speak, at least one could say a few things that could not be said in the past, things one did not know whom else to tell.
So what was so good about being a cultivator? How many ever attained the Dao?
In the end, not even a handful of yellow earth remained. Apart from troubling and saddening those who came after, there was nothing good about it.
Ouyang took a wooden table out of his Storage Space and set a jar of wine on it, drinking one cup himself and pouring another onto the ground.
That counted as sharing a few drinks with the old man.
Kneeling there, Chen Changsheng kept his head lowered, his figure desolate and his shoulders trembling slightly.
Great grief had no sound; silent tears had no words.
Pain at its utmost was usually silent.
Only after a long time did Chen Changsheng stand and walk over to the table Ouyang had set up.
Looking at the wine vessel on the table before him, Chen Changsheng grabbed it and drained it in one go.
With tears brimming in his eyes, he looked at Ouyang and asked, "Eldest Senior Brother, I've done so much, but I can't change anything. I..."
"Third Brother, you've drunk all my fucking wine. What