Chapter 81: Letter from Heaven

Behold the missive, addressed to my own An An:

An An, by the time these words reach your eyes, your mother will have journeyed to a place exceedingly distant.

So far, in truth, that to return within this lifetime is simply not possible.

I… I have not been a good mother.

My own mother departed this world when I was but a tender sprout. None guided me on the path of motherhood, what it should entail.

This is no plea for exoneration, but rather a lament for the depths of my regret.

I mourn the desolate childhood I endured, and yet, in cruel irony, I allowed you to walk the same solitary path.

I regret that my own mother bestowed nothing upon me, and in turn, I, as a mother, offered naught to my own daughter.

I regret that as a mother, I imparted no lessons to you either.

I failed to teach you how a maiden should safeguard herself, to discern right from wrong, to understand the currents of affection… Truth be told, I lacked the very qualifications and capacity to do so.

I believe your brother will teach you.

Hopefully, your brother can teach you.

He is a child of great promise. To reside under his care will surely surpass living with a mother as feckless as myself.

This is the sole solace I can conjure for my troubled heart.

An An, you are a good child.

Do you recall?

That time during the Spring Festival, when all the apprentices had returned to their homes. The apothecary required restocking. I carried those medicinal herbs back and forth, dozens of times, and tears streamed down my face.

When my weeping ceased and I turned back, I beheld you, a tiny figure, laboriously placing the medicinal materials back into the storehouse, one by one.

Many of the herbs were jumbled, yet a warmth bloomed within your mother's heart.

In that moment, your mother felt boundless comfort, and yet, boundless loneliness.

Loneliness is a fiend. It devours human reason, morality, even humanity itself. It consumes all.

Your mother was devoured by this demon, to the point where she forgot the wonder of all she possessed. So much so that she lost everything.

I am sorry.

Your mother should not have burdened you with these words.

The weather has grown frigid. Are you wrapped warmly?

Your mother sewed you a winter coat and dispatched it with this letter. There was originally a small hood, but it remained unfinished… let it be.

I am sorry.

I can no longer send you gifts.

I am sorry.

I have left you again…

I am a mother of shame. But I cannot help it.

That which I have pursued has vanished from this realm. I can only follow it and journey to a place exceedingly distant.

Never to return.

I wished to depart in silence, yet a voice within cried out that I could not leave without speaking to you. Be it a mother's final words, or a woman's last, self-serving justification for her irresponsibility.

I must speak something.

An An.

This is the first missive your mother has penned specifically for you, and it shall also be the last.

Truly, I know not what words are most fitting.

An An.

You must care for yourself.

You must diligently pursue your studies, and when you are grown, be like your brother, and enter the Dao Academy. You too can rise to be a high official, even a deity.

No, your mother should not ask this of you.

Your mother lacks the very right to do so.

The path of cultivation is arduous, follow your own desires.

You still must eat fewer sweets, lest your teeth suffer and your beauty diminish.

My An An, you will surely bloom into a great beauty when you are grown. What a breathtaking vision that shall be?

The thought alone brings a sense of peace, allowing me to close my eyes.

An An, you must be good.

You must heed your brother.

You must grow up happily and safely.

These rambling words are utterly without merit.

But your mother has nothing else to offer save these useless, rambling words.

I am sorry.

I know not how your lessons fare now, and whether you can fully decipher these characters.

You can read them later, or not at all.

Or if you have no desire to read it, that is also well.

…

As I write this, your mother is suddenly transported back to the days when your father taught me to write.

I am sorry.

I miss you.

…

Fourteenth year of Yongtai, the first day of the first month of winter, Song Ruyi.

…

…

When Jiang Wang received the missive from Wangjiang City, his heart was heavy with unease. And the letter was addressed to An An herself. Given that it was from Aunt Song, he dared not overstep his bounds, but instead directly passed the letter to Jiang An An.

An An bounded into the study and, brimming with anticipation, began to read the letter.

Jiang Wang, meanwhile, was immersed in his own vexations.

The white bone lotus that had bloomed upon his form was deeply unsettling. That malevolent pattern bore no semblance to the products of any orthodox Daoist sect.

Something was undeniably amiss. Yet, he had no one with whom he could confide in the depths of his heart.

He lacked a senior whom he could fully trust, one who would always stand by his side and possessed profound knowledge.

Dong A might be a figure of trust, but with his unyielding righteousness, should he learn that Jiang Wang was entangled with heterodox paths, he might well strike him down with a righteous palm. Justice, after all, would prevail over a disciple.

As for Ling He and Zhao Rucheng, these two were certainly worthy of absolute trust, but their cultivation had barely begun, rendering them unable to offer any practical guidance. Zhao Rucheng might possess a veiled background, but when it came to the Bone Dao, a path whose very name reeked of evil, Jiang Wang would not wish to involve them.

He had consulted some Daoist classics, gathered scattered anecdotes, and even perused records of past events, but there was no mention of the Bone Dao. Either it had never surfaced in Zhuang State, or its very existence had been meticulously erased.

The only truth Jiang Wang could ascertain was that, within the confines of his own memories, there were no individuals or incidents linked to the Bone Dao.

The subtle connection to the Taiyin Star stemmed solely from the Illusion Realm, and nothing more.

The "secret" that the woman in black robes so desired to uncover, was it the Illusion Realm? What was the relationship between that woman and the Bone Dao?

If she was a member of the Bone Dao, what was her ultimate aim? If not, if, as she claimed, she hailed from a certain orthodox Daoist sect, then why would she even utter the name of the Bone Dao?

He suddenly recalled the black candle within the Tongtian Palace, an item wrested from the clutches of the Man-Eater Demon. The Zhou Tian Xing Dou Array Diagram was passed down from the Illusion Realm, hence there should be no inherent flaw. If there was anything truly peculiar about his person, it was this black candle.

What was its origin? What hidden secrets did it hold?

As Jiang Wang wrestled with these thoughts, Jiang An An burst forth from the study, tears streaming down her face.

"What's wrong? What's wrong, An An?" Jiang Wang knelt down and gathered her into his arms.

"Where is the very far place?" An An clutched the letter in her tiny hand, and fat tears rolled down her cheeks, one after another. "Did my mother go to heaven like my father?"

Jiang Wang’s heart sank as he grasped the gravity of the situation. He scooped up An An and gently soothed her, "It's alright, it's alright, An An, don't cry, brother is here, brother is here. Brother is with you."

While comforting Jiang An An, he took the letter and quickly scanned its contents.

The letter was thin, yet suddenly felt impossibly heavy.

This missive had followed the usual channels of transmission. Judging by the time it took for communication between Wangjiang City and Fenglin City, the matter was undeniably irreversible.

Jiang Wang did not harbor a deep affection for Aunt Song, but firstly, she was his father's wife, and secondly, she was An An's mother.

She was irreplaceable to Jiang An An, a profoundly important part of her life.

And now, she was gone forever.

Though Jiang An An was still young, children understood far more than they were given credit for.

Jiang Wang himself had traversed that tender age; he understood the sensitivity and vulnerability of children. He understood the depth of sorrow that gripped the little one.

On ordinary days, when little An An stumbled, Jiang Wang's heart already ached.

To behold her now, her eyes already swollen from weeping, his heart felt as though it might break.

"An An is good, An An, don't cry. Brother is here, brother is here."

"Wuwuwu, my mother, she, she…"

"An An, An An, brother will surely seek an explanation for you."

Jiang Wang held her little head and spoke with a voice gentle yet firm.

No matter who was involved, no matter the underlying reason.