Weiming was drawing water from the village well, a cigarette tucked between his lips. Suddenly, a familiar voice called his name—one he hadn't heard in a long, long time. He turned, and his face went slightly pale. The cigarette fell from his mouth, his jaw hanging agape for a moment. His old eyes moved up and down, scanning the figure before him with a mixture of disbelief and wonder.
"Xiao Zhen." Weiming's voice was hoarse, either from too much smoking or from the sheer shock of what he was seeing. "Is… is that really you?"
"It's me, Uncle."
"But…" Weiming let go of the rope. The bucket fell into the water with a loud splash. "But you… the river… we looked for…"
"I didn't drown, Uncle."
They stood staring at each other. The distance between them felt farther than the space they occupied. Weiming looked as if he was seeing a ghost in broad daylight, a mix of joy and an unexplainable fear shaking him to the core.
"Oh, thank the heavens!" he finally cried, taking a cautious step forward, as if Zhenwu might vanish if he moved too quickly. "You're truly alive. Where have you been all this time? How did you…?"
His trembling, old hand touched Zhenwu's arm, feeling it, checking to make sure he was real.
"Look at you," he said, his voice caught between a sob and a laugh. "You've grown up. And so…" He gestured to Zhenwu's face and demeanor. "It's a blessing."
"How have you been, Uncle?"
Weiming's smile faded. "Oh, you know. Surviving. Always surviving." He lifted the bucket with a shaking hand, his muscles straining harder than they used to. "Your parents… they won't… They won't believe it when they see you. After all these years, believing…"
There was something in his tone that made Zhenwu step closer. "Uncle… they… are they healthy?"
Weiming set the bucket down with a heavy thud, water splashing over the sides.
"Healthy," he repeated the word as if it felt strange on his tongue. "Healthy… as far as things go."
"What do you mean, 'as far as things go'?"
Before Weiming could answer, a sharp voice cut through the air.
"Well, well. Look who's home. Or are you just a spirit from the other side?"
Aunt Liu approached with a stride full of anger, a woman who had been waiting a long time to vent her feelings. Her hair was gray now, pulled back so tightly her face seemed stretched. Her eyes were as sharp as ever, but there was a flicker of suspicion she couldn't hide.
"Aunt Liu," Zhenwu said, bowing respectfully.
"How dare you still call me 'Aunt Liu,' boy!" She planted her hands on her hips, her voice full of suppressed fury. "For four years, your parents grieved, believing their son had drowned. For four years, they burned incense at an empty altar. And where were you?"
The crowd that had formed was now larger, their whispers growing louder:
"So it's really him, the one who drowned?" said a plump-bodied aunt.
"If he didn't die, why didn't he come back?" added an old man beside her.
"Or maybe he did die, but…" a skinny young man with monkey-like cheeks chimed in.
"Hush! Don't talk nonsense!" an unseen person in the crowd added.
"Liu—" Uncle Weiming tried to stop her.
"No, let me talk!" Aunt Liu's voice wasn't as sharp as usual. There was a pause of deep hesitation and fear. "Do you know what your mother went through? Every time it rained hard, she would run to the river. Screaming your name until her throat was raw. Until your father had to tie her up inside the house!"
She came closer, her finger jabbing at Zhenwu's chest.
"And your father! The poor man went into debt just for a spirit ceremony with nobody. Burning paper money for his missing son!"
The crowd's whispers grew louder:
"If he were alive, why didn't he send word?" the plump aunt said again.
"How did he survive the river's currents that day?" the old man added, lighting a cigarette.
"Something's not right…" the skinny man with the monkey-like cheeks said.
Aunt Liu stepped back slightly, her eyes narrowing.
"Are you… Are you really our Xiao Zhen?"
The question silenced the entire crowd.
Zhenwu looked at the faces surrounding him. Faces he had once known now stared back at him with a mixture of longing, fear, and undisguised suspicion.
"I am Zhenwu," he said softly. "The son of Liang Jianguo and Wu Meifeng. The one who used to climb Aunt Liu's persimmon tree and get his backside spanked with a stick."
Aunt Liu gasped. That detail was only known to the close family. "The one who almost burned down the storeroom playing with firecrackers," Zhenwu continued. "The one Uncle Weiming taught to carve until his hands bled."
Weiming's eyes glistened. "It… it is you."
"But how?" Aunt Liu insisted, her voice hoarse. "We searched for you for days. The police, volunteers, and the whole village. The river was so swollen that day…" She shook her head fiercely. "There's no way anyone could have survived."
Zhenwu fell silent. How could he explain that he had been pulled from the brink of death by a force they couldn't possibly understand? That for years he had been training in a place beyond human comprehension?
"I… was swept far away. Very far. I had amnesia for three years, and only this past year did my memories return, and I decided to come home."
It was an answer that satisfied no one, but no one dared to press him further. There was something in his eyes—a strange depth for someone his age—that made them feel it was improper to ask.
Weiming finally stepped forward, breaking the tense silence.
"What matters is that you're home," he said, his voice trembling. "What matters is that you're alive."
But Aunt Liu wasn't finished. She hardened her gaze.
"There's a debt to be paid that isn't about where you've been all this time, Xiao Zhen. There's a debt for not being here when you were needed. When your parents were grieving. When they fell sick from losing you."
Before the crowd could fully disperse, a middle-aged woman stepped out of the shadows. Aunt Chen—a neighbor whose house was next to the Zhenwu family's. Her face was wrinkled from age and hard work, but her eyes were still sharp as she stared at Zhenwu.
"Wait," she said in a voice that cut through the noise.
The crowd stopped, turning to her. "Are you all just going to go home? After seeing a miracle, or a ghost—I don't know what this is."
Aunt Chen strode toward Zhenwu, looking him up and down with a judging stare. "I've known this boy since he could crawl; I was the one who changed his diapers when his parents went to the fields," she said loudly, her voice meant for everyone. "I'm the one who often brought him chicken soup when he was sick. I'm the one who spanked him to represent his parents when he misbehaved."
Her eyes welled up with tears, but her voice was firm and sharp.
"And I am also the one who heard his mother crying every night for years. I am the one who saw his father sitting and staring at the river until dawn, hoping for his son to come home."
She moved in closer, her old hands grabbing the front of Zhenwu's robes.
"And now you're here, with an innocent face, fine clothes, and a healthy body. While your parents…" Her voice was a mix of anger and grief. "While your parents were destroyed by your absence!"
"Aunt Chen…" Zhenwu began to speak.
"I am not worthy of being called 'Aunt' by a person like you!" she snapped. "Do you know what happened after you went missing? Your mother was mentally ill for months. She wouldn't eat, and she wouldn't bathe. I was the one who forced rice down her throat so she wouldn't starve!"
Aunt Chen began to cry, remembering that dark time.
"Your father sold your grandfather's ancestral land. ANCESTRAL LAND, Xiao Zhen! Passed down for dozens of years. He sold it to pay for the search and the prayer rituals for you."
She wiped her nose roughly, tears still flowing.
"Do you know what else they did? Your father brought a photo of you—the last photo of you at fifteen—to every village in this county. He walked for hours, from village to village, asking everyone, "Have you seen my son?"
Her voice trembled with anger and sorrow.
"Your mother went with him. Even with her swollen feet, even in the heavy rain. They put your photo up at every village entrance, every stall, and every lamppost. Even to the county town, begging the police to put out a public announcement."
She pointed in the direction of the town center.
"Your photo is still there, Xiao Zhen. At the village office, at Uncle Liu's stall, at every post. A photo of a seventeen-year-old boy with a wide smile and the words 'MISSING. PLEASE HELP IF YOU HAVE SEEN HIM."
The crowd fell silent. Not even the sound of a rooster crowing could be heard.
Her voice softened, and her grip on Zhenwu's robe loosened. "So now what will you say? 'I'm sorry'? "Thank you for waiting." She shook her head fiercely. "Words won't replace your mother's tears, boy. They won't replace your father's land that was sold."
Aunt Chen took a step back, her eyes still holding a deep affection and profound disappointment for Zhenwu.
"But I am still thankful," she whispered. "Thankful you're alive. Thankful to see you again. Because no matter what…" Her voice was barely audible: "You are still the child I love like my own."
She turned, walking away with a straight back even as she wept.
"Now go see your parents," she said without looking back. "And pray they don't die from the shock of seeing you."
The crowd dispersed in a tense silence, leaving behind low whispers about a miracle and disbelief. Weiming dropped his final cigarette butt; he had gone through two or three since Aunt Chen had begun her tirade.
"Walk with me," he said simply. "There's something you need to know."
They walked to the edge of the village, to the boundary of the fields he had once marked with the village elders. When they were far enough from prying ears, Weiming finally spoke.
"Your mother… She's been sick for a few years. It started after… after the incident at the river." His voice was heavy. "Shock. Depression. Then her heart started to weaken."
"What kind of sickness?"
"Her heart. It's weak. The doctor said it was triggered by prolonged stress. It requires an operation that can't be done here. The whole village pooled our money—but…" He shrugged. A line of exhaustion was clearly etched on his face.
Zhenwu clenched his fist. The urge to solve everything with power—to heal his mother with a single touch—surged within him. But he held back. This wasn't a problem for Zhenwu, the Guardian of the Universe. This was a problem for Zhenwu, the son who had caused his family so much grief. A long silence settled between them.
Finally, Weiming spoke again. Softly.
"The debt… It's not just about your mother."
Zhenwu turned. "What do you mean, Uncle?"
Weiming looked at him for a long time. His face was heavy with the secret the entire village had kept.
"Lin Xue," he said simply.
The name hit Zhenwu in the chest. Lin Xue. The girl next door who always waited for him on the bridge, hoping he would come home with her. The girl who had cried when he disappeared in the river. The girl he had promised he would always be there for.
"What about Lin Xue?"
But even before he asked, a terrible premonition hardened in his chest. He remembered the night before he was swept away by the river's current.
"She…" Weiming rubbed his old face. "She had a daughter. Three years ago."
The world went silent.
"A daughter," Zhenwu repeated.
"Yes. The child was born sick. There's a problem with her blood. Lin Xue said…" Weiming paused for a moment. Lin Xue said the child was yours. From the last night before you went missing."
Weiming's eyes were heavy, as if he had witnessed too much suffering.
"At first, no one believed it. But as the child grew… your eyes. Your stubborn chin. The gentle smile like your mother's."
The ground beneath Zhenwu's feet seemed to shift. He had to hold on to the old fence post to keep from falling.
"My daughter…" His voice was barely a whisper.
Weiming tried to help Zhenwu regain his balance. "Xiao Zhen…"
"It's alright, Uncle. Continue," Zhenwu said, still holding onto the wooden post.
"Last month," Weiming continued, "the doctor at the city hospital said it was leukemia. Without proper treatment, without expensive medicine…" He didn't need to finish the sentence.
Zhenwu stared at his reflection in a puddle—the face of a stranger with the eyes of a man whose world had just been shattered.
His daughter. His daughter. Dying. While he had been busy guarding the cosmos, mending cracks in the universe, his own child was fighting to breathe in this small world.
"Your parents," Weiming continued softly, "didn't believe it at first. But then they saw the child, and… whether it was a miracle or a curse, they knew instantly. She had their blood, too."
Weiming fell silent for a long time, his eyes looking up at the darkening sky.
"There's one more thing you need to know," he said slowly. "About Lin Xue's father."
Zhenwu waited, feeling the weight on his chest grow heavier.
"Old Lin… He had suffered enough before all this happened. His wife passed away five years ago from cancer. You know that, too. She used up all their savings for her treatment, but nothing could be saved." Weiming pulled out his last cigarette—lighting it and taking a deep drag. "Xue was the only one he had left. The apple of his eye. His only hope."
Weiming's voice became even heavier.
"Then, suddenly, his daughter was pregnant. Before she was married. And you… You were already gone. Dead, he thought." Weiming shook his head. "Old Lin went almost mad. His only child, her future ruined by a boy who couldn't even be held accountable."
Zhenwu felt something clench in his gut. "He was angry at me?"
"Angry?" Weiming gave a bitter laugh. "He went into a rage, Zhenwu. At the stalls, at the market, anywhere there were people. He'd yell that you were a coward who ran from responsibility. That you intentionally drowned rather than marry his daughter."
"When Lin Xue gave birth, Old Lin refused to see his granddaughter. Said she was an illegitimate child who would bring shame to the family." Weiming kept smoking his cigarette. "Xue cried for days. It was only after your mother and father came and pleaded with him that he finally accepted the granddaughter's existence."
"And now?"
"Now?" Weiming looked at him sharply. "Now he's even angrier. Because the granddaughter he finally came to love is dying. And the person he blames for everything has shown up again as if nothing ever happened."
The evening wind blew, carrying the scent of wet earth and despair.
"Old Lin said that if he sees you again, he will…" He stomped out his last cigarette and continued. "He'll kill you with his own hands."
Weiming's hand patted his shoulder—warm, rough, and heavy. "And through that child," he whispered, "your parents felt a part of you was still alive. That's what kept them going."
Zhenwu's hands were cold. Not from the chill, but from holding back a power that wanted to force the world to be fair.
"Where…" His voice was slightly hoarse. "Where are they now?"
Weiming stared at his face for a long time, reading the burden of a hundred thousand years in those lines. "Lin Xue and her daughter are at her mother's house, near the old bridge. Your parents…" He paused. "Your parents are at home. Still in the same house. Waiting for a miracle, they no longer dared to hope for."
A tremor now ran through Zhenwu's entire body. For the first time in a hundred thousand years, Liang Zhenwu—who had once averted wars and mended the heavens—did not know what to do. But he knew there was one place he had to go first.