Die Liebe eines Sterblichen in der nördlichen Song-Dynastie

Kapitel 2

He was initially dismissive of the situation, but ultimately couldn't bear it. Just as he was about to say something, Mei arrived.

She saw the beautiful, fairy-like girl beside him, froze, and stopped crying.

“I’ll give the bracelet back to you!” she said.

“No need. Besides, you’ve already worn it; it’s yours forever,” he said.

"What's the use of that?" she said, and ran away without a second thought.

The street was crowded, and some people stared at her with surprise. "I must look terrible," she thought, but she didn't care about anything else. She ran for her life, running and running, until finally she reached a deserted place. She raised her hand to wipe her tears and touched the tortoiseshell bracelet. "There's still something that will always belong to me!" she thought, and smiled through her sobs.

Turning around to leave, she realized there was someone behind her... Fish and Shrimp replied [5]: Friends are right, he thought, she really couldn't compare to Mei in any way. Women are all the same to him, he didn't understand before, but after meeting her he understood, he chose the best one among the women around him and lived a happy life in peace.

That was how it started, but he soon discovered something terrifying.

He couldn't help but think of her.

Her voice, her movements, her tone, even her tears—he couldn't help but think of her when he was with Mei.

"I'm bewitched!" he thought fiercely. She had been gone from his world for a long time, but he knew deep down that he still wanted to see her. He was horrified by his own thoughts.

One night, he went to bed early. In the middle of the night, someone knocked on the door. He went to open it, and there was her.

“You…” he said.

She said modestly, "I'm sorry to have disturbed your rest. I've come to tell you something important."

The more polite she was, the more uncomfortable he felt, and he hurriedly let her in.

She handed him the tortoiseshell bracelet. "Please, you must accept it!" she said resolutely. "I can no longer wear it. It's actually a pitiful spirit, so please, I'm begging you, keep it safe for me, okay?" He felt he couldn't refuse. She continued, "This time, I've lost again. I was wrong. I'm leaving. Our fate ends here. Don't feel guilty, don't be afraid. I always want what's best for you." After saying these strange words, she drifted away.

She couldn't help but cry. The fortune teller comforted her, saying, "Actually, if you don't love him anymore, the bet is over, and everything can start over." She shook her head and said, "No, I can't do that. I've loved him, can it all be null and void? I was born for love!" The bearded fortune teller sighed and said, "I should have explained it to you when I told your fortune." "Some things can't be assumed," she said, her tears already dried.

"I have a request, may I?" The deity said, "Very well, you are my most pitiful child."

He woke up early in the morning with a terrible headache. It was time to go out and buy breakfast, but he walked over in a daze.

The streets were the same as always, but he suddenly had a strange feeling that everything was different. Where was he? Someone was selling morning newspapers, and he bought one on a whim.

In one corner, a sign read, "A murder occurred yesterday at such-and-such location: 'A robber attempted to rob and stabbed a young woman to death.'" It also included a photo, appealing for information from anyone with relevant details. He looked at it, stunned, as if all the blood in his body had stopped flowing.

That was her, the one from last night, she's already dead.

He felt an indescribable sadness, a sense of impending doom, as if the world was ending. Was it all over? he asked himself.

But how could this happen? How could this be?

He said nothing, did nothing, and walked on and on in a daze... It was a very large temple, and a white-bearded monk smiled at him.

"Master, what are you laughing at?" "She's gone, you've gotten what you wanted, I'm happy for you!" He said, "No, Master, I'm very sad, but I don't know why, can you tell me?" The monk's face lit up and he said, "Do you really want to know?" He nodded, and the monk didn't speak. He walked to the temple gate, broke off a peach blossom, and gave it to him: "Put it in water and place it by your bedside." He did as he was told.

On the first night, he dreamed that he was a tree.

The next night, he had a dream about the Green Sword.

On the third night, he dreamed about a jade pot.

Mei came to find him, and he was suddenly overcome with guilt and sorrow: "Let's break up!" he said.

He went to the temple again, and the old monk seemed to be waiting for him.

“Do you understand? You won that three-lifetime curse.” He shook his head. “No, she won. She’s gone, and I’m no longer whole.” “If I die and am reincarnated, can I meet her again?” The monk said, “No, it’s useless. You’ve already lost her. Besides, she’s now a tree.” “Why?” He received a sigh. “You’re already a person, while she’s still just a tree.” He was lost, no longer knowing where to go.

Fish and shrimp

Reply [6]: Ending:

She is a tree in a primeval forest.

Few people are able to reach this place; her life is peaceful and tranquil.

One day, a tree next to her stretched its branches toward her and touched her.

She was startled and asked, "What are you doing?" The tree replied, "I'm lonely, and... I like you!" She was speechless for a long time, but accepted the branch.

He was an exploration team member, and no one understood why he switched to this line of work and why he specifically went to the primeval forest.

Year after year, he grew old, his eyesight deteriorated, and his back became hunched, yet he remained alone, continuing his relentless journey through the primeval forest.

Time and perseverance can change everything!

He often said this to himself.

"One day, when I turn the corner of a hill, I may be able to see that tree."

I want to tell her that we are all born for love.

Although I never understood it before...

Fish and shrimp

Reply [7]: Classic Story No. 2: I am a Thousand-Year-Old Fairy Author: Midnight Looking back, a pale face was reflected in the mirror. The delicate chin, the long and thick eyelashes, the eyes like a piece of autumn water, the straight nose, the fine porcelain white skin with faint blood vessels, and the small lips, which were also pale and bloodless.

I smiled at the person in the mirror, and my bloodless lips curled up slightly from both sides.

I let go, and the mirror fell to the ground with a "crash," shattering into many pieces, but that face remained deeply etched in my mind. For a thousand years, over a thousand years, that face has never changed. This is my face.

I can't remember when it started, maybe it was during the Tang Dynasty, but I've maintained this face and form ever since. I've never aged, nor have I ever died.

Every so often—and this time seems unpredictable—I experience excruciating pain, like my bones are being torn apart. The pain lasts for a very long time, until I completely forget time. Afterward, I continue my life, with the same face, remembering everything that happened before. Only, the background of my new life has changed, and time has passed in my pain. So I have to readjust to everything. And I can readjust very quickly. I've gotten used to it.

The phoenix, the legendary immortal bird, self-immolates every five hundred years and is reborn from the ashes. I don't know if its genes are similar to mine, since I have never died. But I have never self-immolated either; I only experience pain, and this cycle is not as long as five hundred years.

Actually, I look no different from anyone else, except that my lips are completely colorless. But that doesn't matter; a long time ago I used rouge to color my lips, which people now call lipstick.

Before the last time I was in so much pain that I forgot about time, many students were holding a vigorous march, demonstration, and protest; I later learned that it was called the May Fourth Movement. When I regained consciousness, many students were still engaged in a vigorous movement. At first, I thought time had stopped during this time I forgot about time, but later I realized that wasn't the case. It was 1989, and people called this movement the "student movement." I wandered aimlessly through the streets, feeling a little scared. I thought, I'd rather just go to sleep.

As I was thinking this, the pain started again, and I quickly lost consciousness. All I had time to think was: Why is this cycle so fast?

When I regained consciousness, I was in a forest filled with fallen leaves. The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was a ray of sunlight. The sunlight was a bit dazzling, so I closed my eyes again and heard a voice say, "She's awake."

When I opened my eyes again, I saw the face of a young man, beaming with a happy smile, who winked at me affectionately.

His name is Zifan. He and his companions came to camp in this forest and found me unconscious. They thought it was called a coma.

Many people gathered around me, asking all sorts of questions, but I remained silent. I didn't know what time it was, and although these people didn't seem to have any ill intentions, I could only remain silent.

Some people said, "Perhaps he is mute."

I didn't say anything, but chuckled softly to myself. Zifan seemed to hear me. He turned around, stared at me, winked kindly, and said, "Perhaps this young lady just doesn't want to talk to you."

Despite everyone's objections, he insisted on bringing me, a strange woman of unknown origin, home.

Zifan lived in an apartment building facing the street. It was a one-bedroom apartment with a living room. The living room had nothing but a long sofa, two short sofas, and a coffee table. The bedroom had a 1.2-meter-wide bed, a bookcase, a desk, and a computer. I only learned what a computer was later. At first, I was curious about what this machine was. Zifan treated it like a treasure. He once said to me with a smile, "You can lend your wife, but you can't lend your computer or your car."

When I entered Zifan's house, he first tossed me a towel and said with a smile, "Go take a shower."

I watched him warily, without moving.

His smile deepened, and he pulled me to a mirror, saying, "Take a look for yourself."

A person covered in mud appeared in the mirror, long, unkempt hair hanging down his back, his face smeared with mud, patches of blue and yellow. I smiled silently again. Such a mud-covered figure was almost indistinguishable in gender; who would have any impure thoughts? Zifan bringing such a mud-covered person home perhaps only proved that he was a good person.

I took a two-hour shower, and when I saw my unchanging face in the mirror again, with its delicate features on that pale face, I knew that I was about to begin a new life once again.

I stepped out of the bathroom wearing Zifan's oversized clothes, which still carried a faint scent of soap. Zifan wasn't in the living room, and the living room was empty, with nothing on the coffee table and sofa. I quietly entered his room; he was asleep on the bed. I rummaged through the bookshelves and desk. Zifan woke up, rubbed his eyes, and asked, "What are you doing? What are you looking for?"

I uttered two words crisply: "Calendar".

Zifan jumped up abruptly, "You can talk! You really can talk!"

I turned and smiled slightly at him. At that moment, I saw Zifan's pupils stop moving, and I heard his heart pounding fiercely. I saw my profile in the mirror opposite me: long, wet hair hanging down to my waist, half-covering my face, a pair of dark eyes shimmering, and a face so white it was almost transparent—a clay figure had transformed after just one visit to his bathroom; no wonder he was surprised. Perhaps he was considering renting the bathroom to a beauty salon.

Zifan handed me a small, dark object with trembling hands. I took it and looked at it from left to right, not understanding its meaning. I looked at Zifan with suspicion. He was taken aback and said, "This is a pager. There's a date on it. You...you don't know?"

I stopped talking, because I truly didn't know. The best way for someone to not want others to know they don't know is to remain silent.

It is now the year 2000, the last year of the 20th century and the first year of the 21st century.

Fish and shrimp

Reply [8]: I realize there are many things I don't know and many things I don't understand. But that's okay, I will soon know and understand everything, just like all my previous rebirths.

I settled into Zifan's room; I truly had nowhere else to go. Zifan inquired about my family background and my past, but I remained silent. He assumed I didn't want to talk about it—and indeed, I didn't. He sighed, "Alright, I won't force you if you don't want to. You must have some unspeakable secret. Tell me when you're ready. You can stay here for now." He noticed my colorless lips and was quite surprised. After pondering for a while, he stroked my hair and said, "Poor girl, you're severely anemic." The next day, he bought a lot of iron supplements.

I learned a lot of things on my own in Zifan's room, all the so-called knowledge points and trends of the E-era.

Zifan goes to and from get off work happily every day, as if delighted to have a beautiful woman like me in his home. This seems like a scene from a myth: a scholar finds a fairy in the countryside, who then cooks and cleans for him, living a blissful life. But I am not a fairy; I possess no magical powers whatsoever. I am merely immortal, otherwise almost identical to ordinary people. I need to eat and sleep, and I experience pain and fatigue. I cannot summon wind and rain, nor can I turn stones into gold. I am just a frail woman. I cannot conjure steaming, fragrant food in the pot before Zifan comes home from get off work, nor can I fill his drawer with gold and silver overnight. I cannot transform into a wisp of smoke and hide inside a large snail, nor can I become a fish and hide in a water tank. I sit on a stool during the day and sleep on the only bed at night. And Zifan, since I arrived, has used the sofa as his bed, rushing home from get off work every day to buy groceries and cook for me, supporting me with his meager salary. In this new myth, the story has been turned upside down.

Actually, I'm not lazy; I'm just very busy, busy learning new things to integrate into the current world as quickly as possible. Besides, I feel my body is getting weaker. With each rebirth, the color on my lips fades. A thousand years ago, my lips were crimson, but now they're as white as paper. My energy is also noticeably less than before. Now I feel a bit like that woman named Lin Daiyu, and I used to dislike her sickly appearance.

Zifan took meticulous care of me. I know this isn't something he owed me in a past life; in my past life, I never bestowed such boundless kindness upon anyone. Zifan's kindness towards me stems from his affection for me. I know it; the moment I first smiled at him, he fell for me. His eyes and his heart betrayed him. And me? Do I love Zifan? The answer is an undeniable no. Have you ever seen a thousand-year-old demon fall in love with anyone? I, I cannot! Human life is so short, fleeting like a shooting star, and youth is finite; soon I will grow old and ugly. To love a mortal with my eternal youth and beauty? Is it even possible?!

Don't accuse me of selfishness. Selfishness is something we learned from humans a thousand years ago, and their genes have preserved it well to this day. Selfishness isn't unique to fairies.

I relied on Zifan's life to get through my initial rebirth, and then when I felt that I could be independent, I decided to leave Zifan.

Fish and shrimp

Reply [9]: The day I left was overcast, neither sunny nor rainy. The wind blew heavily, and my long hair brushed against my face. Zifan reached out and smoothed my disheveled hair, saying softly, "I know I can't keep you, but, could you please not forget me?" I smiled gently and nodded. A glimmer of light appeared in Zifan's eyes, but he couldn't muster a smile. The moment I turned to leave, a crystal-clear droplet fell heavily onto the back of my hand. There was no rain in the sky, so I thought it was probably Zifan's tear. However, what was the point of leaving a tear on my hand?

I also rented a one-bedroom apartment, but it's much more luxurious and comfortable than Zifan's. I love luxury. The demon has no great ambitions, unwilling to compete for fame and fortune in the mortal world, though people call this ambition; the demon doesn't want to be infamous for eternity, nor does it aspire to be remembered for generations—what's the point? The demon has lived for a thousand years, watching the world's heroes come and go, new talents emerge in every era, yet after a hundred years, it's still just a handful of dust and bones. What does it matter how many people remember? Will lifeless bones and ashes have any feeling? How utterly pointless! Some say they want to leave a legacy for the world, but do they know the earth will keep turning even without them? History chose you, not the other way around. With that kind of free time, it's better to "pick chrysanthemums by the eastern fence, leisurely gazing at the southern mountains," or to retreat into an ancient tomb! So, besides eating, drinking, playing, and indulging in the tasteless pleasures of mortal life, what else can the demon do?

I found a job at a foreign company, relying on a fake diploma. I've realized that everything in this world is fake: shoddy houses, paper shoes, watered-down liquor, cancer drugs that can kill, even the faces and figures of beautiful women are surgically altered. What does a fake diploma matter? Besides, my demonic abilities far exceed what this diploma can encompass.

I hold a Tsinghua University bachelor's degree, and many people in the company followed me around with smiles, praising me as a talented woman. Naturally, they were all men. With a haughty smile, I talked to them about my five years of university life, recounting the hardships of military training that year. Indeed, when it comes to Tsinghua University, no one knows its history better than me; I witnessed its founding ninety years ago. My female colleagues, however, didn't particularly like me, often giving me the cold shoulder and talking badly about me behind my back. But I didn't care. My work ability was undeniable; what could possibly stump a little devil like me?

I bought all sorts of lipsticks and lip glosses—pink, light red, bright red, and vivid red—to make my lips look rosy and beautiful. No one knew that my lips were originally completely colorless, except for Zifan—oh, I've almost forgotten about him.

A fairy's heart can't hold anyone.

I lived a carefree life. I bought a computer and went online every day. After learning how to use the internet in Zifan's house, I became addicted to it. It was a colorful world, and fairies always have an irresistible interest in new things.

One night, I was browsing the internet—the fairies of today always go online late at night, just like fairies of the past went out on the streets late at night. Among millions of IDs, I came across one called phoenix. I liked the name instantly, as if I had met a kindred spirit. I said: Hello, Phoenix.

phoenix: I am not the immortal bird, I am the phoenix.

Jin Jie: The king of phoenixes, whose wings flutter like flames, a thousand years of weeping blood, a free and immortal bird.

phoenix: Haha, does the girl like poetry?

Jin Jie: Sitting idly by the window reading the Book of Changes, I wonder how long spring has passed. phoenix: Jin Jie, Jin Jie, how long is the night? It's past midnight, the golden waves are faint, the Jade Rope (a constellation in Chinese mythology) turns low, I'm alone on the Internet, wondering who I hate.

A wave of melancholy washed over me. The line from Liu Yong of the Song Dynasty, "Since spring came, the green and red are bleak and sorrowful, my heart is filled with such things..." stirred a deep sadness within me. Back then, wherever there was well water, Liu's lyrics were sung, but I resented that they touched my heart so deeply and refused to compose a poem in response. And now, many years later, Phoenix not only discusses poetry with me but also directly tests my heart. Alas! What a tragic fate!

From then on, he and phoenix spent their days and nights composing new poems online. When he couldn't find that ID for a while, he felt "heartache was a real thing".

Even the cleverest fairy has its limitations. My computer, after days of tinkering with it, has been crashing frequently for some unknown reason, and much of the poetry and prose I painstakingly wrote has been lost. I suspect this inanimate object has been infected with a virus. I tried using antivirus software like Kingsoft Antivirus, but the situation didn't improve. Now, even subtitles aren't displaying. These days, a day without Phoenix feels like three autumns. What should I do?