Hooked on Fate, Captivated by Heart

When I woke up, the horizon was still veiled in a faint haze. My head throbbed with pain, and my vision was blurred; I could only make out a few dark, lingering clouds outlining ominous shapes.

The bluish stone pavement was bitterly cold, as if intent on sucking the warmth from my entire body.

"Father?" My voice was so hoarse that even I found it unfamiliar.

There was no reply.

I struggled to sit up, pressing my palm against the stone, only to feel a damp, sticky surface. Glancing down, I saw that the tips of my fingers were stained with dark, still-wet red—blood.

Memories surged back into my mind like a tidal wave.

Last night, Father and I practiced swordsmanship by this stream. Under a full, round moon, our swordplay carved arcs as graceful as rainbows. He remarked that my technique had improved, yet it still lacked that elusive "spiritual charm." Just as I was determined to try again, a strange fragrance drifted through the forest—subtle, neither wholly floral nor entirely aromatic, yet utterly captivating.

Then…

Then, a dark figure darted out so swiftly that its features blurred into obscurity. Father shoved me aside and bellowed, "It's you!" His voice was laced with a complex, unspeakable emotion—part anger, part relief, as if he had expected it all along.

A cold laugh. A flash of chilling light.

After that, everything went black.

"Father!"

I suddenly sprang to my feet, barely steady, staggering toward the winding trail of blood on the stone. The trail stretched toward a nearby patch of grass, where—

There, lying motionless amid the verdant grass, was my father. He wore a plain Daoist robe, with the familiar blue sword sheath from my childhood at his waist—though the sword itself was nowhere to be seen. His face was serene; if not for the ghastly gash on his chest, he might have seemed to be merely taking a nap.

"Father!" I rushed forward, my hand trembling as I reached out to feel for his breath.

There was no breath. No pulse.

In that instant, my heart turned to ash.

I stared at his calm face; my fingertips brushed against his wrist but found no warmth. For sixteen years, he had guided my cultivation, taught me the art of the sword, yet never showed me how to face his departure.

At that moment, not a single tear could fall; only a cold void remained in my chest. A myriad of emotions surged within me—sorrow, anger, reluctance, fear—like a river bursting its banks, yet held back by an invisible dam. Father often said, "Emotion is the root of the Way; sorrow and joy alike are part of cultivation," but now I felt utterly powerless.

"You're awake?" A hoarse voice came from behind me.

I whirled around and saw a mysterious figure in a black robe standing not far away, his face obscured in the shadow of his hat. Instinctively, I reached for the sword at my waist, only to find nothing there.

"Don't be nervous, child," the man in black chuckled softly, his voice low and raspy with an eerie familiarity, "I'm not here to kill you."

"Are you the one who killed my father?" I glared at him, my voice icy and unrecognizable even to myself.

"It wasn't me," he replied, shaking his head, a hint of a mocking smile flickering beneath his hat. "Your father knew too much. He uncovered the truth, and that is why he had to die. And you, Wei Lingwei, you witnessed things you should not have."

I cautiously stepped back and asked, "How do you know my name?"

"I know far more than you can imagine," the man in black said, his tone softening as if he had become someone else. "For instance, I know where your mother is."

Those words struck me like a heavy hammer. How could it be? In all sixteen years, I had never seen my mother—Father had said she died shortly after my birth. Yet the man's words sparked a sliver of absurd hope within me.

"My mother is still alive?" I asked, my voice trembling as I held my breath.

"Not only is she alive, but she's also doing exceptionally well," the man in black said with a hint of enigmatic emotion, "far better than you could ever imagine."

How laughable it all seemed. I wanted to retort, but found myself utterly speechless.

For sixteen years, Father had never detailed anything about my mother; whenever I asked, he would either fall silent or change the subject. Could it be that she didn't die, but... left? Why would she abandon me... and my father?

My mind was in chaos, with countless questions surging forth all at once, leaving me unsure which to ask first.

"Who exactly are you?" I fixed my gaze on the man in black, my voice trembling with anger, "What is it that you want?"

"Who I am is irrelevant," he said, slightly turning as he pointed toward the mountains shrouded in morning mist. "What matters is where you must go. Wei Lingwei, your father's death was no accident—it was merely the beginning. If you seek the truth, go to the Tianyan Sect."

Tianyan Sect. It was a place Father never wished to mention, only mumbled about drunkenly with a conflicted expression—sometimes with nostalgia, sometimes with disdain. When sober, he would always dodge the topic.

After my persistent prodding, he eventually let slip fragments of a story, revealing that it was the place where he had once trained in the Dao. Back then, his eyes held an indescribable emotion, as if that place was not just where he practiced but also a repository for too many unspeakable memories.

After he finished speaking, the man in black turned to leave, then paused as if recalling something, "Oh, and your father's sword—I've kept it safe for you. He left behind not only his sword techniques, but something far more significant. In time, you will understand."

"And furthermore," his voice suddenly dropped to an almost ominous low, "The thread of Taigong is about to descend once more, and the world will be transformed."

Taigong? Thread? These words stirred a strange echo within me. It seemed Father had once murmured similar phrases while intoxicated, but I had dismissed them as drunken ramblings, unaware of their true meaning.

Before I could ask any further, the man in black vanished like smoke in the morning mist, leaving behind only an ethereal message: "The world is fickle, and human hearts are even more so. Lingwei, may you see the truth more clearly than your father did."

I stood rooted to the spot, unable to move, as a flood of information overwhelmed my mind: the man in black? The cause of my father's death? Is my mother still alive? Taigong? Thread? Tianyan Sect…?

And why did he reveal all this to me? Could he be more deeply connected to my father's death?

Each question was like a stone thrown into a still lake, sending ripples that seemed to have no end.

The sky gradually brightened as the morning sun emerged, staining half the horizon in red.

That red reminded me so much of the bloodstains on the stone slabs—like the slowly kindling flame of vengeance in my heart.

I gazed upon my father's corpse, a dull pain stirring within me. He was gone—truly gone. No one would correct my stance as I practiced my swordsmanship, no one would offer a warm bowl of soup when I was weary, and no one would whisper tales of distant wonders on quiet, lonely nights.

I was utterly alone. Only I remained.

I clenched my teeth, fighting back an overwhelming tide of sorrow. My fingertips trembled ever so slightly, yet not a single tear could fall. Had hatred sealed my tear ducts, or had shock frozen my emotions?

"Father, I will uncover the truth," I whispered, my voice resolute yet tinged with a subtle tremor I scarcely noticed.

I picked up the practice sword lying beside me and examined it intently in the morning light. Reflected in its blade was my own face—pale and austere, yet with a spark of fire in my eyes that had been kindled at some unknown moment. Who would have thought that just yesterday I was a carefree girl in the village, and today I had become an orphan bereft of both parents?

I carefully slid the sword back into the blue sheath left by my father; the sheath was icy to the touch, yet a trace of warmth seeped into my palm, as if his spirit still lingered—more profoundly than ever before.

After arranging his clothes, I gritted my teeth and carefully hoisted his body onto my back. Although Father was not of a robust build, the weight now nearly left me breathless.

Carrying him, I walked step by step toward the back mountain deep within the village, where lay the bamboo grove that my father had cherished in life. He often meditated there, remarking that even the breeze carried a refreshing aura of spirit.

"Father, you once said that when we cultivators die, we return to the mountains and merge with the universe," I murmured softly, my steps faltering yet unceasing. "Today, I shall send you back to the place you loved most."

Deep within the bamboo grove lay a flat clearing where, in spring, sunlight dappled through the leaves, and on summer nights, fireflies gathered like fallen stars. Father always said that this place was most abundant in spiritual energy—that if his cultivation ever reached its peak, he would ascend to immortality here. Now, it would be his final resting place.

I retrieved the practice sword lying nearby and dug a deep pit, just large enough to hold my father's body. As I swung the sword, my hand trembled repeatedly, and the blade carved irregular marks in the earth.

Once the pit was ready, I carefully laid my father into it.

I began to fill the pit with soil, each shovelful like a heavy layer of dust settling upon my heart. When the final mound of earth covered his face, I experienced a fleeting moment of shock—realizing that from now on, I would never see him again.

After the burial was complete, I planted a single bamboo stalk by his grave. I did not erect a tombstone or carve any epitaph; in this bamboo grove, everything knew who he was without the need for words.

"Father, rest in peace," I said, kneeling before the new grave and kowtowing three times, "I have failed as a daughter by not being by your side, and now you have departed before me. But I swear, I will uncover the truth and bring your murderer to justice—let heaven bear witness and earth be my testament."

As I rose, my knees were caked with mud and my palms bore blisters from gripping the sword. I wondered if my father's spirit in heaven might think I was too cold-hearted for not shedding even a single tear for him—or if he would understand that this was the result of his teachings on mastering one's emotions and desires.

My heart was awash with myriad emotions, yet felt utterly empty.

The pale light of dawn had already emerged, with shimmering scales of light appearing along the horizon. A new day had begun, and so had my journey.

I gazed toward the distant mountains, where a towering peak, barely visible through the haze, likely marked the location of the Tianyan Sect. Though the village at my feet was familiar, it now felt so alien.

It was time to leave.

"Tianyan Sect..." I murmured softly, clenching the sword's sheath. "I am coming."