HCAW 145

Chapter 145: May I Be the Star

Decades later.

Deep into the night, Xian Mountain lay silent, wind and rain whispering in the dark.

In the Immortal Palace of Penglai, a white-glazed oil lamp flickered like a bean-sized flame, casting light upon a jade-inlaid bed. There, wrapped in a snow-blue swaddling cloth, lay a newborn child.

Beside the bed stood a figure clad in a wide-sleeved fox-fur robe, eyebrows heavy, hair silver-white—an old man well past seventy, yet with eyes that still blazed like torches. He stared at the child for a long time before slowly leaning down and pressing a withered but powerful hand against the infant’s chest and abdomen, applying pressure bit by bit. The child’s face turned purple and puffy, letting out a distressed cry.

Just then, a bolt of white lightning slashed across the sky, lighting up the entire hall. The elder suddenly halted—for in the shadows, a silhouette had appeared.

The man wore a silver mask and a pitch-black cloak, like a heavenly bat roosting in the night.

“Emperor Changyi.”

The man spoke abruptly, his steps echoing through the empty hall as he advanced.

“Your original title was Emperor Bai, and your name was Ji Zhi. But have you ever heard—the tale of another Emperor Bai who bore the same name as you?”

The elder said nothing, slowly straightening to face the silver-masked man. He let go of the infant. The child’s cries weakened, though a purplish bruise remained on its chest—a sign the elder had meant to kill it.

The silver-masked man continued, his voice soft and clear, like rippling water: “Before you, there was a ruler of Xian Mountain, also called Emperor Bai. He marched forth to stop the storms plaguing Penglai, but saw the mountain encased by an ice wall. In the end, his expedition failed. Ashamed to face his people, he passed through the Taoyuan stone gate and traveled seventy-six years into the past.”

The old man said nothing. The silver-masked man stepped closer. Lightning burst outside the hall, carving the world into shards of light and shadow.

“Once he arrived in the past, that Emperor Bai used his name to end the war. He dredged Taoyuan stone from the Ming Sea and forged it into a gate. Though he vowed to guard Xian Mountain, he needed the gate—so that during famine or crisis, he could plunder other eras. But he feared someone else might come through it, stand beside him, and take his life.

He had seen the ice wall beyond Xian Mountain and knew the people would panic if they learned the truth, undermining his rule. So he sealed the Heavenly Pass of Penglai, stationing heavy guards at the Taoyuan stone gate. Anyone who tried to pass was either imprisoned and branded ‘walking meat,’ or executed.”

A thunderclap exploded above the hall. Lightning coiled like silk threads across the sky. The silver-masked man now stood just a few steps from the elder.

“To forge that gate, Emperor Bai emptied the imperial coffers. Taxes soared, and the people of Xian Mountain filled the streets with cries of misery. They called him a tyrant. Rebels rose in the mountains. Just as the realm was about to fall into chaos, Emperor Bai was patrolling near the Ming Sea when someone came through the Taoyuan stone gate and assassinated him. The people of Penglai welcomed the assassin as a savior—because he had slain the cruel emperor.”

The silver-masked man stared into the old man’s eyes. His gaze, hidden beneath the hood, was like a piercing arrow.

“And that man—was you, Emperor Changyi. You came from another era, passed through the Taoyuan stone gate, and killed the other Emperor Bai!”

“You rewrote the language. You revised the history of Xian Mountain. You let the tales of Emperor Bai linger—partly to memorialize, and partly to convince the people that there is no escape beyond Penglai. That even a chosen son of heaven like Emperor Bai would fail if he tried. That crossing the gate is a fool’s dream.”

“You seized the nine Xian Mountain Guards he had elevated. Took the nest he built. And now, you intend to kill the Emperor Bai of this era—the infant before you.”

In the flashing light, the baby wailed without stop. The old man trembled, but it wasn’t fear—he was laughing in a low rasp. He said:

“Everything you said is true. But in the end, wasn’t the last Emperor Bai also someone who seized a nest not his own? He went seventy-six years into the past and killed his own grandfather. But before the royal expedition, a woman in the palace had already conceived. After he took the throne, that line of blood drifted among commoners, and this child was just born a few hours ago—I brought him back. Though still in swaddling, he is the one who, in this era, ought to become Emperor Bai.”

The aged Emperor Changyi finished his words and studied the silver-masked man, then asked:

“Who are you?”

The masked man stood silent for a long while, as if the question had caught him off guard. Then he smiled and said, “Does Your Majesty not recognize this servant?”

“At the very least, I do not recall meeting you.”

“Then has Your Majesty ever heard the name Tianfu Guard? Where is your Tianfu Guard?”

The elder sighed. “My Tianfu Guard passed long ago, killed by Bingzhu before I crossed the Taoyuan stone gate.”

The masked man fell quiet, then smiled with closed eyes. “Is that so? It seems the worlds beyond the Taoyuan stone gate truly differ vastly. This version of Emperor Bai never appointed a second Tianfu Guard—so you do not know who I am.”

Changyi laughed aloud. “Judging by your tone, you must be the second Tianfu Guard!”

He examined the silver-masked man, noting his youthful build and the bit of skin visible beneath the hood—no more than twenty years old. He sighed. “I’ve only now seen you in person, though I heard of you long ago. That Emperor Bai whose place I took thought of you often. He composed ballads in your honor after you died in the Ming Sea—songs still sung in the streets. And somehow, the Xian Mountain Guards who consumed Immortal Elixir also claimed they had met you. They told me of a comrade, younger than most, mysterious and rarely seen, yet famed for his brilliance. I thought it strange—but now I know they meant you.”

Rain poured down in torrents. The chimes under the eaves rang wildly. All sounds in heaven and earth wove together, as though the world boiled in water. The masked man nodded.

“I was indeed their comrade—but in another world. The Immortal Elixir is made from the flesh and blood of the Great Immortal Yonghe, whose many eyes see through time and space. It must be the Elixir that caused them to hallucinate, glimpsing memories from other eras. So they thought a Tianfu Guard had once stood beside them in this world, too.”

“That’s how this world is,” Changyi said. “History books may not be true. Legends may not be false. The campaign of Emperor Bai never happened in this world—but it’s remembered as if it did. And though you’ve never served with my Xian Mountain Guards, they’re utterly convinced you did.”

He studied the silver-masked man. Black veins from the Elixir crept up his neck and spread across his face. Clearly, this youth had long been ravaged by it. Changyi stroked his beard and chuckled, “So, you know of the Great Immortal Yonghe too. Judging by your appearance, you’ve been suffering under the Elixir for quite some time.”

The masked man was silent. Light and shadow clashed throughout the hall. Their shadows writhed beneath them. At last, he gave a bitter smile and said:

“Yes. I am the Tianfu Guard who walks the Taoyuan stone gates. I’ve traveled through thousands of worlds. And I know now that this broken body cannot last much longer. This must be one of the last worlds I’ll ever see.”

“How long have you wandered the Taoyuan stone gates?”

The masked man laughed sorrowfully. “I’ve lost count. Perhaps longer than Your Majesty has lingered here. I’ve seen Emperor Bai crushed before the ice wall, hopeless. I’ve seen him disfigured by the Elixir, no longer human. I’ve seen him full of ambition, return to the past, and rename himself Changyi… I’ve seen hundreds—thousands of Emperors Bai.”

Changyi asked, “Have you seen many like me? And what became of them?”

The masked man nodded with a smile. “If they had all truly saved Penglai from snow and storm, I would not be standing here.”

He placed a hand on the hilt at his waist.

“And now, there’s something urgent I must do.”

A sword, pitch-black and dull, slid from its sheath into his hand. For the first time in his life, the Tianfu Guard drew his blade against Emperor Bai.

He said coldly:

“I must save the Emperor Bai of this world—from Your Majesty’s hand!”

In an instant, lightning writhed like white serpents, casting the hall in a flickering maze of ghostly shadows. As the silver-masked man charged at Emperor Changyi, a sharp pang of sorrow surged through his heart. He remembered those days when he had traveled shoulder to shoulder with Emperor Bai: two young men who drank and hunted together, rode horses through the blossoming hills of Penglai, stood side by side through storm and fire, and would have drawn blades for one another without hesitation.

But he had seen Emperor Bai walk to his doom time and again. He knew now—he could no longer let him fall into the abyss.

Yet at the very instant he stepped before Changyi, the elder’s wide fox-fur robe billowed in the wind, revealing a mass of writhing black tentacles beneath. One had already crept silently into the swaddling cloth, piercing the infant’s tiny body. The child no longer cried—strange black patterns spread across its skin.

The silver-masked man shuddered. So Emperor Changyi had already been devoured by the Immortal Elixir, no longer human. He saw the elder’s grotesque smile—every muscle on his face contorted like runaway horses tearing in every direction.

“What a pity, young Tianfu Guard,” the old man sneered.

“You were still a step too late.”

“The same Xian Mountain has no need for two Emperors Bai. This child—is beyond saving!”

______

Rain poured down like a waterfall, drenching every corner of the city’s stone-paved streets.

Iron hooves struck the ground, splashing water in all directions. The imperial cavalry rode like hawks through the darkened alleys. Storm-lamps shivered in the downpour, each one like a silent, watchful eye peering into the night. Someone shouted softly:

“The assassin fled west—after him!”

Every guard was on full alert tonight—for an assassin had somehow slipped past all defenses and infiltrated the Immortal Palace of Penglai, attempting to take Emperor Changyi’s life! Though the emperor had emerged unharmed, the assassin had fled with a child in his arms—its whereabouts unknown.

Tonight, the palace gates were under the charge of the Mohe Guard. He now knelt anxiously within the grand hall, sweat pouring like insects crawling over his skin, itching and burning. Above his head, flames flickered on a sea of lanterns.

Emperor Changyi stood before him, his pressure like a mountain. Coldly, he commanded, “Send out my order: mobilize the entire Xian Mountain Guards. That intruder must be captured. Tighten defenses at the Heavenly Pass—especially near Zhenhai Pass.”

The Mohe Guard kowtowed as if pounding herbs. “Your Majesty, this minister deserves death for letting danger reach your divine self!” Seeing the emperor’s expression soften slightly, he dared ask, “Your Majesty… the child that man took…”

Seated on a golden nanmu throne, Emperor Changyi mused, “The child is the infant left by Emperor Bai. But it matters little—whether it lives or dies. What matters is capturing the assassin.”

Candlelight painted his face in a bloody hue. Emperor Changyi smiled pleasantly.

“After all, that child… won’t live much longer.”

Outside the Immortal Palace, rain thundered down. In the sky, it seemed a thousand war drums were being struck behind veils of cloud.

The silver-masked man hid in a dark alley, gasping for breath.

Rain soaked him to the bone. Blood still seeped from several wounds. Moments ago, he had fought Emperor Changyi in the palace—and never had he imagined his old acquaintance would have become a monstrous creature, like a nine-tentacled beast. He had barely escaped with his life.

He looked down at the bundle in his arms. The baby’s pale face twitched as it gave weak cries. Under the eaves, he gently pulled back the cloth: black veining still lingered on the infant’s body, but it was fading. The child’s small body was limp and burning hot, as if its bones had been melted.

Can I save him? he wondered, unsure.

He quietly moved toward a path leading to Zhenhai Pass—only to see a swarm of cavalry in the distance. Storm-lamps lined the streets in a dangerous wash of pale light.

There would be no escaping Penglai tonight. His intrusion into the palace had fully alarmed Changyi. But the child needed help immediately. The silver-masked man looked at the infant and frowned deeply.

Wind lashed the rain, night stretched long. He turned into a narrow alleyway. The Immortal Elixir burned within his veins like hellfire. He coughed—a spray of black blood stained the swaddling cloth.

A deep sense of confusion struck him. The Taoyuan stone gate had entangled everything. If he and Emperor Bai had simply frozen to death beside the ice wall, perhaps all this agony and endless searching would never have happened. There would have been no Da Yuan Dao, no Emperor Changyi, and Xian Mountain would have remained sealed—quiet, and forgotten.

Now, the fates of different worlds had intertwined. And he—like a candle in the wind—was nearing his end. These were the last moves he had left to play.

“Your Majesty… I’ve abandoned you too many times. But this time—I won’t.” He looked down at the child, and a sigh escaped his throat.

In the pouring rain, he walked swiftly through the alleys, his heart burning.

He had lingered in this era for a time already, and knew that the Langgan Guard had been gravely injured during the war. Emperor Bai, grateful for his loyalty, had spared no expense to craft an ice coffin from frozen slabs near the ice wall, sealing him within it and treating him with Immortal Elixir. Thus, the Langgan Guard had only recently awakened—and was younger than his peers.

The silver-masked man counted the days.

If he was right—today was his own birthday.

A wave of sorrow surged through him. If we had grown up together, I could have protected him in this life.

At last, he stopped before a grand residence. Black beams, glazed tiles, and a plaque inscribed with two bold characters: Fang Manor. Gold lacquer shimmered through the rain.

Inside, chaos reigned. Servants rushed across the corridors. The lady of the house had given birth today, but complications had arisen. Faces were grim. The Langgan Guard was no exception. He paced across the corridor, the study, and the chambers—his heart pounding.

Back in his study, he tried to stay calm. The child had been born hours ago, but was frail. His wife’s fate remained uncertain. Midwives and doctors were doing all they could. He forced himself to read a military manual—but the characters crawled like ants across the page, burrowing into his chest.

Suddenly, someone knocked.

“What is it?” the Langgan Guard flung the door open, expecting a servant—but froze.

Outside stood a shadowed figure in a storm-slick cloak, silver mask covering his face. He lifted his eyes, and their gazes met.

For a moment, the Langgan Guard’s heart seemed to stop. He did not yet know that this visitor would change his life.

In the man’s arms, a baby whimpered faintly. He stepped forward and held the child out with both hands—earnest, grave, like presenting a royal decree.

“I am the Tianfu Guard. I greet the Langgan Guard.”

The silver-masked man bowed his head. His hands trembled. He had passed through the Taoyuan stone gate a thousand times, and now he knew: the end had already come. His time was nearly gone. Like a moth to flame, he had flown again and again toward the ruin of Xian Mountain.

Yet he still clung to hope.

Penglai might be buried in eternal night—but someday, dawn would come.

And this child… this child was a spark of fire. A sun not yet risen.

In the driving rain, the Tianfu Guard knelt before the Langgan Guard and said, voice shaking:

“I beg you, sir—protect this child… the son of Emperor Bai.”

_____

After that night, the Tianfu Guard remained in this world.

He tried to escape through the Taoyuan stone gate once more—but beyond it lay only the same despair. He realized his end was near. He could no longer drift aimlessly. He had to go deep, anchor himself, devote everything to helping one Emperor Bai.

By some twist of fate, he returned to this place—and from the shadows, watched over the young Emperor he had saved.

The infant was taken into Fang Manor and named Fang Jingyu.

The Tianfu Guard, like a silent crow, would often perch atop the glazed roof, watching the scenes within the household. He saw that the child was born frail, seemingly boneless, and by the time he was only a few years old, the servants were already beating and berating him. The Tianfu Guard knew why—on the night he rescued the baby, Emperor Changyi had already driven his tentacles into the child, melting his bones with the Immortal Elixir. That the child had even survived that night was nothing short of a miracle.

The Tianfu Guard never disturbed him—this fragile sapling would need to weather the storm to grow.

He often looked back on the past, feeling he had achieved nothing. Memories and stories from different eras of Xian Mountain wove together into an indecipherable tangle. Sometimes they flashed vividly before him, spinning in his mind like a lantern carousel.

The Tianfu Guard thought—perhaps his time was drawing near.

Later, the Tianfu Guard came to the foot of Difei Mountain and saved himself—fourteen years younger, battered and broken. He gave that boy a new name: Chu Kuang, and took him under his wing. By now, half his own face had been consumed by the Elixir’s black veins, ghastly like a wraith, and he had to wear a silver mask.

Chu Kuang’s body was covered in scars, and so was he.

They retreated to Mount Guyue. By day, they practiced archery; by night, they gathered branches to build fires. Sitting beside the flames, the Tianfu Guard looked at Chu Kuang—clearly a younger version of himself, yet with eyes colder than frost.

He reached out and gently touched Chu Kuang’s forehead, where an arrow scar remained. Tenderly, he asked:

“Does it hurt?”

Chu Kuang raised his eyes, the fire reflecting in them like crystal. “Sometimes it does. But it doesn’t matter anymore.”

The Tianfu Guard said apologetically, “I was late treating it. If I’d come sooner, maybe you wouldn’t suffer from this lingering wind sickness.”

Chu Kuang shook his head and forced a stiff smile. “It’s already a miracle that Master saved me.”

After a pause, he added, “Others would’ve just watched me die. Only you… only Master would come for me.”

The firelight danced like wings in flight. The Tianfu Guard’s face darkened. He thought: If Chu Kuang knew everything—that it was only ever himself who came to save him—how would he feel?

There was no hope in the path ahead, and this era would be the last he could leave a mark in. Having passed through the Taoyuan stone gate so many times, he knew that Fang Jingyu and Chu Kuang were the weakest versions of Emperor Bai and himself he had ever seen: one frail and spineless, the other already mad and broken. Yet he also thought—Emperor Bai had always mocked him for being too restrained. Perhaps this battle-worn Chu Kuang might go farther than he ever did. After all, Chu Kuang was unbound by rules—his future was still unwritten.

So, by the fireside on that cold night, he said to Chu Kuang:

“One day, you will understand everything. I am merely a passerby, but whether I came to save you, to teach you archery, or to take you to Yingzhou—it was all fated. You are meant to return to Penglai and lead someone through the gates. That, too, is destiny.”

The fire flared ever higher. Everything felt like a dream. Chu Kuang chewed on these words, confused. He shook his head. “I don’t understand, Master. Are you saying my life or death, glory or shame—it’s all predetermined? You want me to just accept it?”

“No.”

The Tianfu Guard smiled, gently stroking Chu Kuang’s head.

Beneath the black sky, firelight leapt in Chu Kuang’s eyes—it was the spark of a blaze to come.

“I want you to know everything—and still refuse to submit to fate.”

Years passed like a stream. Without even realizing it, the Tianfu Guard had spent several years by Chu Kuang’s side. Watching this very different, younger version of himself grow up—it was a strange feeling indeed.

He took Chu Kuang to Yingzhou, entrusted him to the Ruyi Guard to learn archery. He introduced him to the resistance forces in Yingzhou. Everything he did now seemed to be laying a path for Chu Kuang.

Finally, he fought the Yu Ji Guard and suffered grievous wounds, barely managing to get Chu Kuang aboard a Penglai ship. As he watched dark blood pool beneath him, he knew the time for farewell had come.

The Tianfu Guard lost consciousness. When he awoke in a blur, he saw Chu Kuang kneeling at his side in the dim light, clutching his hand and crying like a child—all his usual armor stripped away.

“Master, let’s go back to Penglai together… please?”

The Tianfu Guard gave him a bitter smile. “Penglai… is no longer the place I once called home. What use is returning now?” It was true. No matter how many times he crossed the Taoyuan stone gate, he could never return to the Penglai of his youth—where he met Emperor Bai, where they rode through the blooming streets, where springtime never ended.

He had lost too much blood. His whole body was cold. Darkness filled his vision.

Chu Kuang whispered, “Master, the rain has stopped. You can see far from the window—you can see all the way to Penglai.”

He added, “If you can’t see it, I’ll draw it with my words.”

“I see many fishing boats near Zhenhai Pass. Smoke rises from the shops on their decks—people are cooking meals.”

The Tianfu Guard’s mind drifted. He remembered Emperor Bai once taking him on a private outing—they paid silver to a boatman for a black raft. The two of them lay on the deck, staring at the stars, falling asleep to the tide. Softly, he asked:

“And farther out—what does it look like?”

“Farther out is Mount Guyue, the Tianwu River, waves of wind blowing through golden fields, eagles soaring through vast skies.”

He recalled Emperor Bai unrolling a map for him with great excitement, describing the lands beyond with vivid detail, promising to one day show him the world. Two young boys held hands tightly—warm as spring.

He asked again, “And even farther?”

“Even farther is the city of Penglai—lanterns, music, fish leaping in the ponds, the moon shattered and whole again.”

They had been there too. Disguised as commoners, they visited quietly. That night, the streets were lit with dragon-lanterns, fireworks, dazzling lights. He’d stolen a glance at Emperor Bai—only to meet his gaze directly. The two burst out laughing, joining hands and dancing with the people in the temple courtyard.

A soft glow of longing appeared on his pale face. He asked, “And beyond that?”

“Beyond that is the Immortal Palace of Penglai—splendid and grand. The gates of Yonghe Temple stand wide, flames flickering, incense curling across the floor.”

Yes. That was where he and Emperor Bai had first met. That night, insects chirped softly, autumn cool as water. He had appeared before the young Emperor Bai on the corridor—and from that moment, he vowed to become his shadow, to walk with him forever.

At last, Chu Kuang, sobbing uncontrollably, said, “Master, come back to Penglai with me.”

The Tianfu Guard smiled but said nothing. Chu Kuang would never understand—he had long since lost all belonging. Penglai was no longer the Penglai of old, and those dear to him were no longer the same.

He opened his eyes. In the blackness, he thought he saw a flicker of light. His body floated—his soul ready to rise. He said to Chu Kuang:

“Take my bones and tendons. Forge a bow. Carry me with you.”

In the blurred world, Chu Kuang shook his head in horror. The Tianfu Guard whispered:

“That way, I’ll always be by your side. And when you finally reach the snowless, windless Penglai—I’ll see it too.”

Chu Kuang wept bitterly. “Is that… your final wish, Master?”

The Tianfu Guard smiled and nodded. He had lived loyal and true, faithful to his emperor.

He recited the ancient creed in his heart and found peace.

He, Fang Minsheng, lived and died for Emperor Bai.

He had chased something he never found—but in the end, he asked for nothing else.

In that final moment, it was as if he remembered everything—ten thousand memories flashing like golden shards across his mind.

He saw himself again and again, passing through the Taoyuan stone gate, rushing toward Emperor Bai like an arrow flying to its mark.

He had tasted every form of farewell. Now, at last, it was time for the final one.

No one would ever know he had run for Xian Mountain ten million times.

That he had suffered, wept, despaired through ten million nights.

He was no more than a footnote in history, a speck of dust swept away.

Outside the boat, the sun dipped. The sky burned red like blood.

The Tianfu Guard closed his eyes, smiling, as if drifting into sleep.

“Yes… this is my one and only wish.”