Chapter 25: A Teacher Is Like a Father

The following day, the martial world was shaken by a piece of news so astonishing it left all who heard it speechless. One of the ten great sects, the Heavenly Valor Society, had its main headquarters—the stronghold of over a thousand members—completely annihilated overnight by a mysterious figure. Not a single soul survived. Some of the slain met deaths so gruesome it was clear they had been tortured with unspeakable cruelty before being killed.

Speculation ran rampant as to who could possibly possess the ability to eradicate the Heavenly Valor Society in a single night and vanish without leaving a trace. Yet, despite endless conjecture, not a clue could be found. In time, the matter faded from memory, becoming nothing more than a strange tale whispered in the rivers and lakes of the martial world.

Within a tall building on the back mountain of the Hengyuan Sect, Gu Suiwen was at this moment awash with tears. This was a memory he had buried deep within his heart for many years. Six centuries had passed since that fateful night, and now, only a handful of elders within the major sects knew the truth. The subject had been raised moments ago by the noblewoman in palace attire, forcing him once more to relive that unbearable past. Though six hundred years had dulled many things, even with his cultivation at the mid-Nascent Soul stage, Gu Suiwen could not control the sorrow that welled up within him.

When Qiu Han was brought back to the sect by Zhou Yi and presented before him, Gu Suiwen felt, for the first time, as though the son he had lost so many years ago had returned to his side. This child, Qiu Han, bore an uncanny resemblance to his own son—not only in appearance, but also in that he was born with a wood-attribute spiritual root.

From the very first glance, Gu Suiwen took a liking to the boy. Subconsciously, he began to treat him as his own flesh and blood. Thus, instead of vying with the Grand Elder for possession of Yun Rou, who possessed an extraordinary spiritual root, he chose to take Qiu Han as his disciple.

From that moment on, he quietly observed his new disciple’s every move. It could be said that nothing Qiu Han did escaped his notice. That was why, when Qiu Han encountered a tiger, Gu Suiwen sent Zhou Yi to rescue him. In truth, had Qiu Han faced mortal danger, Gu Suiwen would not have hesitated to intervene personally.

Therefore, when he learned that Qiu Han would be venturing into the Hundred Thousand Mountains with Chi Yi and the others, he dispatched Zhou Yi to follow and protect the boy from the shadows. And when the third-ranked demon beast appeared, Gu Suiwen immediately flew to their aid.

Out of such care, he personally crafted a life-preserving ring for Qiu Han’s trial, bestowed upon him a high-grade storage pouch, ensured he had everything he might need, and taught him cultivation himself, allowing Qiu Han to establish his reputation within the sect.

He even discovered Qiu Han’s secret: the inheritance of an ancient immortal. Yet temptation did not sway him. Rather than covet it for selfish gain, he added a layer of divine sense shielding to the storage bag containing the immortal’s treasure, using special methods while Qiu Han was away.

Upon uncovering this secret, he did not hesitate to perform a celestial divination for Qiu Han, sacrificing his own lifespan to help the boy survive future calamities. Should Qiu Han ever be in danger, Gu Suiwen would stop at nothing—up to and including giving his life—to ensure his safety.

Thus, when he sent Qiu Han alone into the Hundred Thousand Mountains to temper himself, he watched over him constantly, hoping that hardship would hasten his disciple's growth and raise his cultivation swiftly, so he might one day face the coming catastrophe.

All that Gu Suiwen did for Qiu Han stemmed from the boy’s resemblance to his lost son. He regarded Qiu Han as his own child, pouring out his heart without a trace of selfishness. Even Zhou Yi and He Yitong, both of whom possessed single-attribute spiritual roots and were his disciples, never received such affection.

A master is as a father.

This truth was embodied in Gu Suiwen to the fullest measure. In the world of cultivation, selfishness and betrayal were commonplace. People would kill for personal profit without a second thought for old loyalties. The case of the two Nascent Soul cultivators, Zhan Quan and Fang Shaoxiao, whose friendship was destroyed by greed for an ancient immortal’s legacy, illustrated this perfectly.

Rivalries between fellow disciples, betrayals between master and student, friends selling one another for honor and gain—such things were too numerous to count in the cultivation world, happening every moment. Cultivation itself was a contest against heaven, and to most, the pursuit of the highest realm and the path to immortality were the only goals that mattered. Everything else was ephemeral; when true profit was at stake, what weight had friendship or kinship?

Yet not everyone was thus. Some cherished the bonds of affection above all else, willing to disregard personal cost and sacrifice everything, even their lives, for the sake of those they loved.

Gu Suiwen was such a man. He could not forget the tenderness of his wife, nor the poor but happy family with whom he had once shared his days.

“My child, have I found you at last? Or is it that you could not bear to part from your father, did not wish to leave me alone, and so have returned in another life to keep me company?”

Gu Suiwen slowly closed his eyes, but the traces of tears remained, running down the face weathered by six hundred years of sorrow.

Gu Suiwen had a son, named Gu Yang, born with a wood-attribute spiritual root, who was killed by the Heavenly Valor Society at the age of fifteen. He and Qiu Han were so very much alike...

“Qiu Han, you are just like him.”

He spoke no more, as if lost in memories. A lonely soul reveals not its solitude, for only when left utterly alone does true loneliness manifest—that is when the silent night keeps company with the heart.

Time is like the fine sand held in one’s palm, slipping quietly through the fingers no matter how tightly one tries to hold on. It leaves behind faint, almost imperceptible traces, just as the fading of flowers leaves behind a lingering fragrance. Unnoticed, we age with the passing years; suddenly, we are startled by the marks time has etched into our lives, leaving us with sorrow we scarcely understand. May the years remain gentle, whether our fences are withered or flowers are in full bloom...

In life, there are always those who arrive quietly, who keep watch in silence, steadfast and unyielding. Others blaze into our lives like strong wine, intoxicating and wild, only to vanish without a trace when the moment passes, no more than a dream with no evidence left behind. Fate is sometimes deep, sometimes shallow; encounters and partings are myriad, each leaving its own sadness—whether regretful, expectant, or helpless, in the end, wisdom lies in embracing simplicity with a quiet heart, smiling gently at the rise and fall of flowers, the gathering and parting of clouds, the coming and going of fate.

If the night ceased its gentle melodies, leaving only faint silhouettes, would my melancholy settle with the stillness? If memories no longer reached out, leaving only a trace of warmth, would my longing end as recollection faded?

Such is life: pain and hurt are unavoidable, whether we hold on or let go. Those things never truly leave us. Some events cannot be revisited, some memories cannot be sorted out, and some people can only be buried forever.

Who scatters the smoke, dissolving the tangled bonds? Who hears the string break, severing three thousand entanglements of longing?

The past, shrouded by the passage of years, flashes by like a white steed crossing a gap, forging a fleeting sorrow.

Everyone carries a box within their heart.

In this box are stored memories of someone or something—memories that may be sweet, or bitter.

Some people lose both the box and themselves, never to find them again.

Some lock the box and swallow the key, unwilling to open it themselves, and forbidding anyone else to touch it.

Some hold the box ever in their palm, reminding themselves never to forget.

Some bury the box deep in the earth, waiting for the year when spring returns and flowers blossom, to see whether it will bloom in dazzling color.

What’s inside the box is affection for a person—a cup filled with both sweetness and bitterness.

Memory is like water in the palm; whether you open your hand or clench it tight, it will eventually trickle away, drop by drop. Yet the chill of that water lingers, leaving a sensation impossible to forget.