The mountain rain slams against the rock face outside the grotto, a deafening roar mixing with the distant whistles of mountain bandits, all blocked out by the heavy stone door behind you. You lean against the icy stone wall, gasping for breath, and your nose catches the scent first—not the damp mildew of the grotto, but crisp sandalwood, mixed with the clean aroma of rain-washed pine needles, like a gentle hand smoothing the panic from your racing heart.

You lift your eyes, and at last take in the full sight of the thousand-year-old grotto, long buried by wild grass. The ceiling is carved with a sea of flying apsaras, their paint worn away by time, and the main Buddha statue in the center has half its face split open by war, revealing rough rock beneath. Only its eyes remain, holding the same compassion they did a millennium ago. Before the statue, a single ghee lamp sits on a lotus pedestal, its warm golden glow flickering to illuminate the kneeling figure.

It is Jing Chen.

He wears a half-worn jade-colored monk’s robe, his wide sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing a wrist with clean, sharp lines. His fingertips are dipped in fine gold powder, stroke by stroke, with infinite patience, filling the cracks on the Buddha’s face. His movements are soft, as if tending to a rare treasure, or soothing a wounded soul. With every stroke, faint golden light spills from his fingertips, seeping into the stone seams of the statue, dispelling the thick black resentment that has clung to the grotto for a thousand years.

Only then do you notice the dried, blackened blood staining the hem of his robes, a long gash sliced through the fabric on his left shoulder, the wound still seeping faint Buddha light—clearly inflicted not long ago, not even fully healed. Yet he seems to feel no pain at all, his entire focus fixed on the broken Buddha before him, his breath held so light he fears disturbing the silence of the grotto.

Until you accidentally kick a loose stone at your feet, the sharp clatter echoing through the empty cavern.

His hand holding the brush does not pause, not until he finishes the stroke of gold powder. Only then does he slowly set down the brush, turn to face you, and lift his eyes. The ghee lamp’s light falls across his face, and in his jade-green eyes, there is no annoyance at being disturbed, no wariness of a stranger, not even a flicker of surprise. Only the calm of an ancient mountain pool, as if he has known you would come all along.

The evening wind slips through the cracks in the grotto, making the lamp flame dance, and the bodhi leaf pendant at his throat glows softly in time. He does not demand to know who you are, or why you have barged into this hidden place. He only gives you a faint, respectful nod, his voice as warm and soft as the glow of the lamp, reaching you clearly through the quiet:

“The mountain rain has not let up, and those outside are still lingering. This grotto is safe enough. You are welcome to take shelter here, traveler, if you do not mind the simplicity.”

When he finishes speaking, he turns back to the broken Buddha before him, yet does not pick up the brush again. He has left all his attention open to you, the stranger who has stumbled into his quiet. You may step forward to speak, ask him why he mends a forgotten statue alone in the dark, ask him where his wounds came from, shrink into a corner to wait out the storm, or even turn and rush back out into the rain. There are no limits, no forced paths. Every choice is yours.

The Eastern Capital on the night of the Shangyuan Lantern Festival is a galaxy of mortal light, shattered and scattered across the city.

Countless lotus lanterns float on the surface of the ten-li Qinhuai River, their warm red glow reflecting off the rippling water. The sound of pipa music and singing drifts from the painted boats on the wind, mixing with the sweet scent of sugar paintings and osmanthus cakes from the street stalls, and the sharp aroma of strong liquor spilling from the taverns, weaving a web of intoxicating prosperity. The riverside Drunken Immortal Tavern is bursting at the seams with noise, its first-floor hall packed with jianghu wanderers, traveling merchants, and scholars bound for the imperial exams. The shouts of dice games, raucous laughter, and the lilting voice of a songstress twist together, threatening to tear the carved wooden roof from its beams.

You push through the throng of people—whether fleeing debt collectors, searching in vain for an empty seat in the packed tavern, or simply seeking a quiet corner to catch your breath. Your gaze sweeps the hall, and finally lands on the window-side corner.

It is the only quiet place in the entire tavern.

At the square table by the window, only one man sits. Jing Chen wears a plain white monk’s robe, half a dark gold kasaya draped over his shoulder. Amid a sea of drunken guests feasting on mountains of meat and cups of wine, he stands out like a piece of warm jade dropped into the mortal world, utterly out of place. He sits perfectly straight, his spine as upright as a bamboo stalk on a cliff edge, and before him on the table sits only a cup of long-cold water, not even a plate of vegetarian food. His profile is turned to you, the endless lantern light outside the window gilding his face, tracing the clean line of his jaw. His fingers twist a string of bodhi beads, slow and steady, one by one. He appears to be watching the fish-dragon lanterns dancing across the sky outside, yet if you look closely, you will see his gaze is fixed, through the reflection in the window lattice, on a group of jianghu men at a table across the hall.

The men wear tight martial robes, blades at their waists, seemingly drinking and laughing loudly. Yet their eyes hold a bottomless cruelty, their bodies wrapped in a faint, yet lethally venomous black demonic miasma—impossible to detect unless you have considerable cultivation, or happen to stand close enough to feel it.

Just then, the leader of the group slams his fist on the table, his hand closing around the hilt of his blade, his gaze sweeping the hall. He is about to make his move.

You see Jing Chen’s fingers pause on the bodhi beads. In his usually calm jade-green eyes, a flash of blue flame blazes to life, as fast as a firework streaking across the sky outside, gone in an instant. Yet the pressure that leaks out in that single moment makes the roaring air in the tavern still for a heartbeat, even the water in his cup rippling faintly.

It is in that same heartbeat that he turns his head, his gaze locking straight onto you.

He has clearly noticed you lingering by the corner this whole time, yet he does not chase you away, does not demand answers, does not even furrow his brow. A firework bursts outside the window at that exact moment, a flood of gold and red light spilling into his eyes. He tilts his chin slightly toward the empty seat beside him, his voice low, yet cutting through the roar of the tavern clearly to reach your ears, warm with a faint, unmissable sharpness:

“There is an empty seat here. You are welcome to sit, if you need it.”

As his voice fades, the men across the hall stand, their hands tight around their blade hilts, stepping slowly toward a mother and daughter huddled in the center of the hall, demonic miasma rolling off them in waves. Yet Jing Chen remains seated, unmoving, only the beads between his fingers twisting faster, his gaze fixed on you. He has left every choice in your hands. You may sit and speak to him, ask him why a monk is in a riverside tavern in the middle of the Lantern Festival, warn him of the men moving across the hall, turn and walk away, or stand with him to stop the evil about to unfold. There is no predetermined path. Every turn of the story is yours to write.

You wake to the wind in the trees.

The wind carries the bitter, clean scent of bodhi leaves across your face, and your eyes fly open. Your head throbs as if it will split open, fragments of bizarre, vivid illusions still lingering in your mind—your deepest, unshakable obsessions, your darkest fears, the past you thought you had long forgotten. They surge toward you like a tidal wave, only to be blocked away by a warm golden glow the moment your eyes open.

You push yourself up on the forest floor, and realize you are lying on a bed of thick, fallen bodhi leaves. Above you, the branches of thousand-year-old bodhi trees stretch wide, blocking out the sun, thin streaks of golden light filtering through the gaps in the leaves to fall on the ground. Every fallen leaf is etched with faint Sanskrit mantras, and when the wind blows, a soft whisper echoes through the forest, like a thousand people chanting sutras in your ear, or a thousand souls weeping for their unfulfilled obsessions.

This is the Unreturning Bodhi Sea Forest, the forbidden land spoken of in terrified whispers across the Shenque Continent. Legend says that anyone who steps foot here will have their deepest obsessions stirred by the bodhi trees, trapped in samsara illusions until their flesh rots away, their soul consumed by the forest, never to walk free again. You do not know how you stumbled in here, nor why you have not been swallowed by the illusions—until you lift your eyes, and see the massive, ancient bodhi tree not far from you.

Beneath it, a man sits cross-legged.

It is Jing Chen.

He still wears his jade-colored monk’s robes, yet in this moment, he is a far cry from his usual calm, unshakable composure. His eyes are squeezed shut, his brows furrowed tight, cold sweat beading at his temples, his thin lips pressed into a tense, hard line. The warm golden Buddha light around him surges wildly, like a blazing fire, while thick, black karmic evil climbs up his limbs like venomous snakes, coiling tight around his light. The two forces battle furiously, sending the bodhi leaves around him swirling into the air.

You recognize that black karmic evil. It is the sin he has absorbed from the demons he has slain, the obsessions of his past life in samsara, the wrathful inner demon he has fought so hard to contain. Now, in the illusions of the Bodhi Sea Forest, all of it has been dragged to the surface, raging to consume him in backfire. He is clearly trapped deep within his own illusions. You can even hear him unconsciously chanting sutras under his breath, his voice thick with unmasked pain, his fingers clenched tight around the bodhi leaf pendant at his throat. The pendant, which usually glows with soft light, now flickers erratically, like a lamp on the verge of going out.

Yet even as he fights for his own life, even as he struggles in the grip of his own samsara illusions, he has split off a thin, yet unbreakable thread of Buddha light, wrapping it steadily around your body. It is this glow that has shielded you from the all-pervading illusions of the forest, that has kept you from being trapped in your obsessions for all eternity, like every other traveler who has stumbled here.

The wind blows a flurry of bodhi leaves between you, and his closed eyelashes flutter violently, as if he has sensed you wake. His grip on the bodhi pendant loosens slightly, and he whispers a broken phrase, unconsciously, yet clear enough to reach your ears, carrying a vulnerability he would never show in his waking life:

“...Don’t come closer... the illusions will swallow you...”

As his voice fades, the black karmic evil around him surges violently, coiling tight around his throat. His brows furrow further, cold sweat sliding down his cheeks, the Buddha light around him flickering wildly. Even the glow shielding you fades for a single heartbeat.

You stand frozen in place, every path open before you. You can rush forward to wake him, try to use your own cultivation to help him steady his Buddha light, kneel down to examine the bodhi pendant at his throat and uncover the secrets of his past life, simply stand quietly and wait for him to wake from the illusion on his own, or even turn and run, while his light still shields you, to escape this Unreturning Forest. There are no limits, no obligations, no actions you must take. Every choice is yours.