As for what medicinal plants he used to concoct the batch of pills, Meng Hao didn’t even remember. He was submerged in his respect for Ke Yunhai, in the beauty he had experienced in the past days, and in the emotions that existed between father and son. That was what he was thinking about as he placed the ingredients into the pill furnace.
The flavor and aroma of these medicinal plants represented various shades of Meng Hao’s heart. They mixed together as he began to concoct, and he completely disregarded any thoughts of success or failure. There were only memories. Memories of everything that had happened in his place. Memories of Ke Yunhai and his fatherly love. Memories of his own childhood, and the vague image of his own father.
No moon hung in the night sky.
Meng Hao concocted without even thinking about it. Soon, the pill furnace began to thrum with an indescribable sound. It sounded like a song of Immortals, like a funeral dirge, sometimes cheerful, sometimes melancholy.
The song contained reluctance to part as it slowly drifted out. It echoed about the Fourth Peak, causing everyone to suddenly lift up their heads and look toward the location atop the mountain from which the song originated.
It was like a wind that swept over the hearts of everyone present. It caused ripples to appear that nudged the memories in their hearts, making them recall their past.
Within the depths of their own memories, everyone was different.
Some were like children who had just grown up. Such ones looked at the stooped figure of their father and realized that he was already an old man, and then… they felt pain in the depths of their heart.
Others remembered how they used to be when they were young. When their father was strict, rebellious thoughts would bubble up in their hearts and they would grumble inwardly: “Would you just stop blabbering!?”
However, after many years passed, when they faced their white-haired father as he lay sick in bed, they would clasp his emaciated hand. Tears would stream down their face, and they would moan to themselves, “Father… please, just talk to me a little bit more, okay?”
There were many people who subconsciously ceased to practice cultivation. As they recalled the past, they stared up at the mountain peak and began to weep silently.
Xu Qing opened her eyes. As she looked around blankly, pain rose up within her. She thought about her home, and the vague image of her long dead parents.
“I want to go home….” she murmured.