I'm Not An Immortal (The Adventure of Jian Chou) - Chapter 18
Chapter 18
Jianchou’s gaze drifted downward, settling on the nine-jointed bamboo, where she noticed a tiny mayfly but paid it little mind.
“All living beings under heaven… whose life is not a life?”
This unbidden reflection caught even Jianchou off guard for a moment.
The massive island held only Jianchou, leaving her solitary and alone.
The stars in the sky gradually thinned, and the moon hid behind layers of clouds, leaving only a faint silhouette.
The sound of waves crashing against the shore remained, as did the distant cries of seabirds.
Yet Jianchou’s heart suddenly felt empty.
So much had happened in these ten-odd days.
Calculating it all, it seemed more had occurred in this short span than in the twenty-plus years of her previous life.
Her husband’s betrayal, the loss of the child in her womb, becoming the disciple of Elder Fudao Shanren, leaving the mountain village, journeying here—even beginning to cultivate, gaining abilities and power beyond ordinary people, however meager.
She had even made enemies, met some intriguing individuals, and befriended some…
Friends.
From the perspective of her ten days ago, all of this would have been unimaginable.
Yet now, it was all undeniably real.
The world was so vast, far beyond what she could have ever conceived in her past life.
Just as she sat now by the stone pond, on this lonely island, beside the boundless sea, gazing out into the endless expanse of the universe.
Were the sea and land all there was?
Not necessarily.
Jianchou lifted her eyes to the slowly shifting stars, her thoughts settling, growing purer.
She recalled Zhang Sui’s quiet reliability, Zhou Kuang’s blunt honesty and audacity, Fudao Shanren’s eccentricity and profound wisdom, Xu Lan’er—who had attacked Nie Xiaowan out of momentary malice—and even…
Xie Buchen, who had killed her in his pursuit of immortality.
Seeking immortality and the Dao?
That was not the immortality she sought, nor the Dao she questioned.
If immortality meant extinguishing human desires, becoming heartless and selfless, then Jianchou sought no such immortality, nor such a Dao.
She remembered the Buddhist scriptures and Daoist texts she had copied long ago for Xie’s mother.
She had thought time had washed those memories away, yet now, with a flicker, they surged back in full.
“There was something formless yet complete, born before heaven and earth, silent—void, standing alone, unchanging, pervading all without fail. It may be the mother of all under heaven. I do not know its name, but call it the Dao. Forced to name it, I call it Great. Great means passing, passing means receding, receding means returning. The Dao is great, heaven is great, earth is great, the king is great. Within the realm, there are four greatnesses, and the king is one of them. Man follows earth, earth follows heaven, heaven follows the Dao, the Dao follows nature…”
What, then, was the Dao?
If the texts said, “The Dao that can be spoken is not the eternal Dao,” then what was it?
Jianchou pondered, murmuring softly to herself.
The mayfly perched on the nine-jointed bamboo fluttered its wings, flew up, then settled back.
Jianchou then recalled the origin of Xie Buchen’s name: “The Dao is eternally nameless. Though the Uncarved Block is small, none in the world dare claim it as their subject.”
Thus, Xie Buchen—surname Xie, given name Buchen (Not-Subject), courtesy name Wu Ming (Nameless).
For a moment, Jianchou couldn’t discern the meaning behind his name.
Was it that the Dao made the world dare not refuse submission?
Or that he himself would refuse to submit to the Dao?
At this thought, she let out a quiet laugh.
Strangely, her heart was unexpectedly calm.
Hidden in her sleeve was the silver locket she had kept for so long.
When she took it out, the red thread remained as glaringly vivid as ever.
Her warm fingertips traced the patterns of the thread.
The single character “Xie” engraved on the locket still sent a pang of agony through her heart.
Hatred.
Only in these silent, solitary moments could she hear the wild, overgrown voice in her heart—piercing through the soil, shooting skyward, entwining the heavens and earth.
The wind brushed her face.
Holding the locket, Jianchou’s mind conjured the image of red silk ribbons fluttering from the ancient tree at the village center.
Only ten days had passed, yet recalling those past events felt like a lifetime ago.
Jianchou inhaled deeply, taking in the salty air of the island, then exhaled slowly.
At last, she was completely at peace.
The patterns she had drawn on Severing Karma Island during the day resurfaced in her memory.
She remembered now—there was still one thing left to do.
She flipped open the small booklet she carried.
The last few pages detailed the use of spirit stones.
Following the instructions, Jianchou sat cross-legged, holding one of Zhang Sui’s spirit stones, and closed her eyes.
Visible strands of white light shimmered from the stone, flowing through the meridians in her palm, up her arm, then circulating through her body’s acupoints.
Simultaneously, the rotating battle disc beneath her flickered in and out of visibility.
Perhaps due to the exhaustion from the day’s battle, the two Kun lines on the battle disc that had previously been lit now appeared dim.
But as new spiritual energy infused them, they gradually brightened again.
Wherever the energy flowed in Jianchou’s body, a corresponding spot on the battle disc would glow intensely.
The battle disc was intrinsically linked to a cultivator’s meridians and acupoints—each “Dao Seed” corresponded to an acupoint, each “Kun Line” to a meridian.
Slowly, the low-grade spirit stone faded to a dull gray.
With the last wisp of energy drained, it emitted a faint crack, crumbling into dust that slipped through Jianchou’s loosely held fingers.
She opened her eyes.
Now, she could clearly see the rotating battle disc—every bright or dim Kun line, every unlit position where a Dao Seed should reside.
Leaning forward, Jianchou extended her right hand and traced a few strokes on the thin layer of sand covering the ground.
Had a mighty cultivator been present, they would have been stunned.
For what Jianchou drew was none other than the enormous seal that had appeared in the sky the day of the Qingfeng Temple incident.
She experimentally adjusted the battle disc’s rotation by a slight degree, then stopped abruptly.
At that moment, it was as if she heard the sound of a key fitting perfectly into a lock—a precise, mechanical click.
Unmistakably, the lines of the seal she had drawn aligned perfectly with certain Kun lines on the battle disc!
And the turning points of the seal coincided precisely with the positions of unlit Dao Seed!
This mysterious, spontaneously formed seal was, in fact, a Dao Seal!
A Dao Seal was a method of cultivation!
Jianchou still remembered Fudao Shanren’s words:
A cultivator’s acupoints and meridians corresponded to the battle disc. Now that the Dao Seal on the battle disc was revealed, as long as Jianchou could identify which parts of her body the Kun lines and Dao Seeds represented, she could master the technique embodied by this seal!
In that instant, her eyes brightened.
She knew she had obtained something others could only dream of.
A Dao Seal…
And not just one.
Engraved in her mind were the five-colored Dao Seals projected by the colossal sphere outside Qingfeng Temple’s secret realm.
Six in total!
“…Is the heavens compensating me?”
The thought struck her as almost laughable.
Casually brushing the spirit stone dust from her palms, she relaxed her meditative posture, and the battle disc beneath her gradually faded.
Yet the surroundings did not darken.
Tiny specks of pale white light suddenly entered her vision.
Startled, she turned and beheld a scene of serene beauty.
Unnoticed, a swarm of fireflies had gathered by the pond, their tiny wings fluttering as they drifted through the grass, each carrying a small lantern that illuminated only their immediate darkness.
Unaware of the human cultivator observing them, they moved in the deep, enveloping night—stunningly beautiful.
Jianchou found herself entranced.
Only when the fireflies’ glow began to dim did she notice a stronger light emerging from the horizon.
Dawn was breaking.
The night had passed just like that.
Morning dew slid from the blades of grass surrounding the stone pond.
Jianchou blinked, chuckling softly.
“The light of fireflies truly cannot rival the sun and moon…”
“Do you really think so?”
A voice unlike any other sounded behind her.
Young, yet carrying the weight of ages; clear, yet tinged with hoarseness; light, yet imbued with inexplicable gravity…
Jianchou turned sharply, then froze.
She sat at one end of the massive stone slab, while at the other stood a delicate-featured youth.
The morning mist seemed to veil his face, lending an indistinct blurriness.
He wore a pale sage-green robe embroidered with archaic patterns long out of fashion.
Though youthful in appearance, he gave Jianchou the impression of an aged elder.
She hadn’t sensed his approach at all.
Casually picking up the nine-jointed bamboo beside her, she noted the mayfly that had rested upon it was now gone.
Her fingers tightened around the bamboo, but she smiled.
“Who are you?”
“Me?”
The youth seemed puzzled.
After a moment’s thought, he shook his head.
“I don’t know who I am.”
“You have no name?” Jianchou asked, surprised.
Again, he shook his head, his eyes devoid of emotion.
Instead, he repeated his question:
“Do you truly believe the light of fireflies cannot rival the sun and moon?”
“Fireflies are fleeting, while the sun and moon are eternal… How can a speck of rice compare?”
Jianchou was merely stating fact.
Though she admired the fireflies in the dark, she couldn’t deny the vast disparity.
Yet this mysteriously appearing youth seemed fixated on the question.
The boy stood at the far end of the stone, moss seemingly creeping onto his person.
“Fireflies are fleeting, the sun and moon eternal. Do you know what this is called?”
“…No.”
Jianchou didn’t understand his point.
The youth smiled—a refreshing, breeze-like smile.
“This is the Dao.”
The Dao?
Jianchou was taken aback.
She suddenly sensed something extraordinary about this youth.
“You know what the Dao is?”
“I do.”
His voice was calm.
“They say everyone seeks to understand the Dao, to beg heaven for proof that their path aligns with it—this is called ‘proving the Dao.’ Do you wish to prove the Dao?”
Jianchou was certain even Fudao Shanren wouldn’t dare claim to know the Dao.
In all the ages, how many could make such a claim?
To Jianchou, those who truly knew the Dao must have already achieved immortality.
Thus, she regarded the youth’s words with skepticism.
Blinking, she replied, “I don’t seek to prove the Dao. I’m merely curious—what does it look like?”
“The Dao?”
The youth remained motionless, his gaze fixed on the distant sea.
A red glow, cast by the rising sun, reflected in his eyes like a bloody hue.
“It is a very, very ugly thing. You wouldn’t want to see it…”
Jian Chou wondered if the boy was a little problem in the head.
Yet speaking with him brought an odd sense of tranquility.
She changed the subject.
“The Dao is beyond me. I’m more curious—why are you here?”
“I was always here. You disturbed me, so I appeared.”
The youth slowly curled up, sitting opposite Jianchou but keeping his distance.
“Have you heard this saying?
‘Born at dawn, dead by dusk—neither eating nor drinking;
A drop in the ocean, a mayfly in heaven and earth.'”
“Not in full, but yes.”
Jianchou nodded.
“Mayflies are born at dawn and die by dusk.”
The youth smiled strangely.
“I am a mayfly, born this very morning.”
“…”
Jianchou was speechless.
Mayflies were tiny insects, often found near water, with lifespans of a single day.
She had seen many, but never one who called itself a mayfly while appearing human.
The youth laughed, as if amused by her reaction.
“I watched you for a while earlier. You’re human, right? Are all humans as interesting as you?”
“I’m… not particularly interesting. Truly interesting people are like my master…”
Jianchou began describing Fudao Shanren, but the words she had spoken earlier resurfaced in her mind:
Mayflies are born at dawn and die by dusk.
She fell silent.
The youth asked, “Why stop?”
“Nothing worth saying.”
“A mayfly is speaking to you. Aren’t you surprised?”
“…I was. But it no longer matters.”
“I was born this morning. When the sun sets and dusk falls, I will die.”
The youth’s voice had changed—noticeably deeper, more weathered.
Born at dawn, dead by dusk.
This youth before her would, by evening—
Die?
Yet he showed no distress, his tone flat as a straight line.
“Mayflies live but a single day. This, too, is the Dao. But like you cultivators, why must I, newly born, die so soon? I refuse.”
He continued, “Tell me—can a mayfly live beyond a day?”
Jianchou had no answer.
The youth’s gaze lingered on her face.
“You seek the Dao for immortality. So do I. I refuse to believe I cannot survive this day.”
“And if you can’t?”
A strange heaviness settled in her heart—perhaps because his words had touched upon something profound?
Jianchou wasn’t sure, but she asked anyway.
The youth rose slowly, facing the rising sun.
His voice, once soft, now carried a thunderous intensity.
“If the Dao demands I perish by dusk—
Then I shall halt the sun’s descent, forbid its rise;
Erase dawn and dusk from the world, leaving neither day nor night;
Freeze time itself, so all eternity becomes but a single day!”
