Fragrance Condenses Purple

Su Shouzhuo gently patted her back, as if comforting a child who had cried themselves to sleep:

"It's all in the past. He's alive and well now, and he'll become an immortal in the future, a thousand times, ten thousand times better than us. The fact that you could sing those lyrics on stage more than twenty years ago is already an admission of your guilt. You've paid off your fears over the years."

Gu Lanyin a long time before finally nodding slightly, her voice barely audible.

"When you get better tomorrow... when you're better tomorrow, let's go to Qixia Mountain together to see where Su Yao grew up, okay? We won't go in, we'll just look at it from the foot of the mountain."

Su Shouzhuo smiled but did not respond immediately.

He knew his health was beyond repair.

But he couldn't bear to say it aloud, and only responded softly:

"Okay, let's go together."

Seeing that his wife had finally let go of her worries, he breathed a sigh of relief. But his voice grew softer and softer, as if it came from a very, very far place.

Gu Lanyin felt a weight on her shoulder as the hand that had been patting her back slowly slid down.

She was taken aback at first, then suddenly sat up and looked at the old man beside her who had closed his eyes and was no longer speaking.

"Shouzhuo? Shouzhuo!"

She reached out to check his breath, then touched his face; it was slightly cool to the touch.

"Su Shouzhuo! Wake up! Don't sleep! You promised me you'd go to Qixia Mountain together, you promised me!"

She pulled him into her arms, as if holding the heaviest and lightest thing in her life.

The old man's body was still warm, but he would never respond to her again.

Gu Lanyin's voice rose and fell, from wailing to sobbing, until finally only one sentence remained, repeated over and over in the dim room:

"Now, I'm the only one left performing this play..."

Outside, Gu Wanniang stood in the shade of the osmanthus tree.

She heard Gu Lanyin crying, and she also heard the word "Shouzhuo" (meaning " to Shouzhuo").

She could have pushed open the door and gone in, just like every time in the past two years, to feed the old man his medicine, wipe his face, tuck him in, and do everything a daughter-in-law should do.

But she didn't.

She had heard this crying in her dreams, and now she heard it again after waking up.

This time, however, she didn't need to comfort the man who called her "wife" on their wedding night.

She gently leaned her back against the old osmanthus tree, tilted her face up, and let the night breeze blow in from outside the red gauze.

Moonlight filtered through the gaps in the laurel leaves, dappling her neck like fragments of bygone days.

She raised her hand and slowly placed it on her lower abdomen.

There was nothing there.

But she always felt that something must have happened there.

After a long while, a scene from a play suddenly began to play inside the room.

The voice was extremely low at first, as if it were slowly rising from the depths of the throat, yet each word was distinct and clear.

It was the very play "Parting at Nanpu" that Gu Lanyin performed on the water alley stage in Qinghe Commandery City back then, which was the most popular.

But it sounds different today than it did back then.

Back then, it was sung for the entire audience; today, it's sung for just one person.

The singing began, and they emerged through the door.

Gu Wanniang could hear it clearly from under the osmanthus tree.

Inside the room, Gu Lanyin knelt by the couch, holding Su Shouzhuo's slightly cool hand in her palm, gently stroking it as she spoke.

Her face was still wet with tears, but as soon as she opened her mouth, her eyebrows and eyes involuntarily lifted, like a female lead on a theatrical stage, speaking of other people's lives.

Next, the lyrics changed:

Back then,

You are in a light blue robe below the stage, while I am on stage with flowing water sleeves.

One is a noble family that squanders its wealth and status; the other is a woman whose past dreams of the Pear Garden have led her astray.

You gave up your grand hall and bright mirror for me, and I will stay with you by the water lane and plank bridge.

Half a lifetime spent on simple meals, temples streaked with white.

When she sang "My temples are streaked with snow," she reached out and smoothed her graying hair. Tears welled up in her eyes again, but a smile played on her lips. It was as if she was laughing at how quickly her life had passed, or as if she was laughing at how she had spent half her life performing, only to find that the truest moment of her life wasn't on the stage.

"To this day,

The osmanthus blossoms fall in the courtyard, unswept; the lamp wick flickers and breaks under the eaves, unnoticed.

You can no longer slowly play that old gong and drum for me;

I can no longer sing those new lyrics and tunes to you so gently.

With a cry, I say, "My dear husband, please take care, for the waters are far away and the mountains are distant."

I'll stand here before this old stage and sing, again and again, the half-finished song from that year, until I'm old.

When she sang "I cry out, my husband, please go slowly," her voice suddenly swelled, like a thread about to break, tossed high in the night wind.

The sound traveled out of the old house, over the courtyard wall, and spread throughout the fragrant osmanthus blossoms.

Outside, Gu Wanniang slowly closed her eyes.

Tears, hidden beneath the red veil, finally slid down silently.

She didn't wipe it, she just listened.

Go now, and don't look back.

The Qixia Mountain bathed in countless rays of light; if you see it, please take a look for me.

Doesn't it remind you of those days when I flicked my water sleeves, and the whole stage was filled with the vibrant colors of spring?

Inside the room, when the song reached the line "With a flick of her water sleeves, spring colors fill the stage," Gu Lanyin had already stood up.

She still held Su Shouzhuo's hand with one hand, but slowly raised the other hand and flicked it gently in the air, like the flowing sleeves of a traditional opera costume.

Her figure is no longer slender, and her back is hunched, but with that flick of her wrist, it's as if she were young, her flowing sleeves fluttering on stage.

Where was there even a trace of age in that voice?

Every word was like a pearl, every sound like a chime, as if the stunning actress who captivated audiences on the water alley stage of Qinghe Commandery City more than ninety years ago had returned tonight.

After the song ended, there was no more sound in the room.

Gu Lanyin sat back down on the couch, placed Su Shouzhuo's hand back on his chest, and tucked a few stray gray hairs behind his ear.

After a long while, she leaned down and whispered something in Su Shouzhuo's ear:

"You abandoned your social standing for me back then, and now, it's my turn to finish this drama alone..."

After saying that, she tucked the blanket around him, just like she had done on every ordinary night for the past few decades.

Then, she slowly sat up straight, looked at the person on the bed, her tears had all dried up, and all that remained in her eyes was a bottomless emptiness.

Outside, Gu Wanniang stood in the shadow of the osmanthus tree, motionless for a long time.

The sounds of opera and weeping inside the house subsided, leaving only the night wind blowing through the hall, scattering laurel leaves all over the ground.

She never looked back.

Some things, you can't let go of them just by experiencing them more often; instead, they become even more unforgettable.

She turned around and walked out of the courtyard. The red veil fluttered in the night breeze, like a new wedding dress or a theatrical costume.

Moments later, the entire Su residence was filled with the deafening sound of weeping.

A poem says:

The sunset glows on the Great Qing River, and osmanthus blossoms Yong River Bridge. A young man casts aside his fine clothes, all for a pair of flowing sleeves.

Half a lifetime spent on stage, old tunes played; new sorrows by my pillow at midnight. How many can live to a thousand years without regrets? All is given to the south wind, filling my sleeves.

Who says immortals have no tears? They are often caught in the machinations of the mortal world. The flesh and blood within are the hardest to contain; only after they are cast aside do they know the bitterness of the journey.

When you dreamt of me, I was still asleep; when I searched for you, you were gone. Where in this world can we begin again? I can only gently inhale the fragrance of osmanthus blossoms.

Like fleeting clouds and grey dogs, life is but a dream.

Thirteen years passed silently amidst the devastation of the Nanzhao land.

The people of Nanzhao lived in constant fear, their lives hanging by a thread.

Only the northern border of Langqiong Zhao, bordering Cibi Lake and protected by the Qixia Courtyard on Golden Ao Mountain across the water, has managed to barely survive in this area of several hundred miles.

On this day, the surface of Cibi Lake was as smooth as a mirror.

Two streaks of light, one golden and one white, were chasing and playing on the lake when they suddenly stopped at the same time, revealing two figures: Zichuan and Ren Han.

A breeze has picked up on the lake.

The sky above Golden Ao Mountain, which was originally clear and sunny, has quietly changed without anyone noticing.

First, a spark ignited from the mountaintop, like a flame being dropped into an incense burner.

Immediately afterwards, a bluish-red color rose like smoke from the source of the fire, rising slowly and steadily, like the purple smoke in the mountains when sunlight shines through the peaks, about to condense but not yet fully solidified.

The two energies, blue and red, swirled and intertwined, rising higher and higher, becoming increasingly intertwined, until they were inseparable and merged into one.

Just then, a wisp of purple purple qi quietly seeped out from where blue and red met, like condensed dew, and slowly rose toward the sky.

The purple qi neither dissipated nor surged, like the smoke from an incense burner, reflecting the sunlight and quietly spreading across the sky.

At first it was just a line, then it became like a stream, a river, and a waterfall.

In the end, the most spectacular sight was "the sun shining on the Golden Ao, creating purple smoke." The entire sky was dyed with purple qi, serene and vast, as if something extremely pure, righteous, and almost celestial was being "condensed" bit by bit by this purple mist.

At the same time, a fragrant scent of sandalwood wafted over.

Zichuan tilted her head back, her eyes unblinking, then suddenly raised her hand to her chest and whispered:

"Senior Brother Ren, the Immortal Foundation within me... is moving. It's like... cheering."

Ren Han didn't reply immediately. He continued gazing at the purple qi the sky, and after a moment, he slowly spoke:

"Purple Qi is born from the combination of blue and red, rooted in the Three Yangs, and moving with the fires. You cultivate the path of the Great Yang, Shining Down Below ' of your Immortal Foundation, you sense purple qi like a moth drawn to a flame, naturally feeling a sense of closeness."

He paused, his gaze falling on the thickest part of the purple smoke, and his voice lowered even further:

"The Three Yangs borrow from Purple to attain the Dao, and Purple condenses because of the Three Yangs. This boundless Purple is not ordinary mist or haze; it is the result of a cultivator of Purple Qi breaking through to the Purple Mansion. This Divine Ability is called..."

"Fragrance Condenses Purple."

Zichuan blurted out, then paused for a moment before turning to look at Ren Han.

Ren Han didn't look at him, but gazed at the Golden Ao Mountain and nodded slightly.

A poem says:

The incense burner, its surface now a mix of green and red, is still sleeping; where the sun shines, smoke rises from the steps.

A single starlight, seemingly about to shatter in a breath, condenses into fragrant mist, scattering like fairy sleeves, gradually engulfing the heavenly light.

The old osmanthus tree before the pavilion sheds empty tears; the mortal world beyond dreams brings only shame.

Has the purple smoke returned yet?

As the wind rises over the Golden Ao, the waves of Zi Lake ripple, a single thread connecting north and south.

Human relationships are often burdened by excessive affection; what's the point of having dreams if we never meet?

The smoke rises without intention, the clouds glow with charm, the cassia tree remains silent, and people are intoxicated by its own beauty.

Three parts smoke, seven parts shattered osmanthus blossoms—who lies behind this Zi Lake?