It was quiet in the village by the sea.
Far from the weight of palaces, politics, and war, the ocean whispered of forgotten dreams. The waves kissed the shore like a lullaby sung only to those who had lost something too precious to name.
Crown Prince Longxuan had escaped.
He left the imperial palace before dawn without alerting Jiang Fenglie, without notifying the guards, without telling anyone. It was not a political move. It was not rebellion. It was… longing.
He simply needed to breathe.
It had been twenty years since Lin Xuanji disappeared into the infinity cliff, and though no bones were ever recovered, Longxuan knew. He knew. The soul behind those eyes—drenched in blood, pride, and sorrow—was still somewhere in this world.
His beloved was not gone.
So he wandered.
Through cities, through borders, through silence.
Eventually, he came to this village with no name—just a small crescent shore, crooked rooftops, and the scent of fish broth and roasted rice in the breeze. No one knew he was the Crown Prince. He wore plain robes, tied his long hair loosely, and covered the sword at his waist with a linen cloth.
He sat in the old pavilion facing the sea, pouring wine into a chipped porcelain cup.
The sea glittered gold beneath the descending sun. For once, his heart wasn't clenched. Just… heavy.
"I wonder…" he whispered to the ocean, "...if you still wander this world with those restless feet. Do you still curse the stars in your dreams, Xuanji?"
The wine warmed his throat. His lashes lowered.
That's when he heard it.
The clink of a wine gourd. Laughter—rough and aimless. Sandal steps scraping along the dusty stone path.
He turned his head.
An old man approached, barefoot and sun-darkened, robes stained by travel and drink. Hair unkempt. Face wrinkled beneath a long beard. At his hip hung a familiar gourd, and his other hand held a cracked bamboo fan he waved at invisible flies.
He muttered to himself in fragmented nonsense. One moment he sang about fish. The next, he spoke about dragons that fell in love with foxes. Then about rain falling on bloodied fields.
The villagers called him "Grandpa Fool." They said he came from nowhere and lived under a rotted fishing boat, and all he did was drink and talk to shadows.
Longxuan's eyes narrowed.
He watched the old man closely, his brows slowly furrowing.
There was something… wrong. No—not wrong. Something that didn't fit.
Why couldn't he sense a single thread of Qi? No heat of blood, no divine pressure, not even the faint life aura that existed in common mortals.
The man was—nothing.
A void.
And yet—his every movement tugged at something deep in Longxuan's chest.
Familiarity.
His posture. The way his fingers tapped the edge of the gourd before sipping. The slightly narrowed eyes when staring at the sea, as if he was glaring at it for existing.
It was like staring into a dream from twenty years ago.
No—he shook his head. It couldn't be.
He told himself this old man was just a drunk. A hermit. Perhaps a lunatic who had wandered too far from Heaven's light.
But his heart would not listen.
He stood slowly, cup in hand.
The old man had stopped near a tree, gazing at the sky. He whispered something. It sounded like
"…I used to fly in skies like this…"
Longxuan took one cautious step forward.
"Old man," he called gently, "Have we met before?"
The old man turned. For a second—just a flicker—the sunset lit his face in such a way that Longxuan's breath caught.
Those eyes.
That curve of the mouth.
That faint scar beneath the left jawline…
It was him.
It can't be...
Longxuan's grip on the wine cup tightened.
The old man just blinked at him. Then gave a crooked grin.
"Me? Met you? Hah! I've met gods and ghosts and sea demons who talk backwards, young man. If we've met, I've already forgotten!" he cackled, waving his bamboo fan.
Longxuan stepped closer. "Your voice…"
"Young people are so curious these days," the old man muttered and started walking away. "Stop staring. I ain't got any answers. Only wine. You want wine?"
He tossed the gourd at Longxuan—who caught it on instinct. But when he looked up, the old man had already vanished behind a thicket of seaside trees.
Only the distant sound of his laughter lingered.
Longxuan stood frozen, gourd in hand, heart pounding.
His lips trembled.
"...Xuanji…?"
But there was no answer.
Only the waves. Only the sky.
Only the ache of love buried beneath two decades of waiting.
—————
Far beyond the trees, behind the fishing boat he slept under, Mo Tianzun leaned against the hull and exhaled sharply.
He looked up at the stars beginning to appear.
The pendant at his neck glowed faintly.
He clenched the gourd tightly.
"…Don't look at me with those eyes," he whispered, voice hoarse. "I'm not who I was. I can't be that person again."
He closed his eyes. Yet Longxuan's face—so unchanged, so sharp even now—lingered behind his lids.
The man still waited.
And Mo Tianzun's heart… still trembled.
[System Notice: Interference Detected. Emotional fluctuation exceeding baseline.]
[Warning: Host nearing identity conflict.]
"Shut up," he muttered.
He poured the rest of the wine into the sand.
And watched the tide pull it away.