Chapter 412

When they came out of the Immortal Herb Garden, the sky had already grown dark.

It wasn't really dark. The sky of the Spirit Realm didn't change color because they left; the sun still hung in the west, lazily drifting behind the mountains, its afterglow dyeing the roofs of the Ninth Dao Academy orange-red, patch by patch, like fish scales. In the distance a few birds flew past, tiny, so small they looked painted on, their wings beating slowly, as if swimming in water rather than flying in the sky.

Wang Ping watched those birds, watched them disappear beyond the mountain, and suddenly felt a hollowness in his heart. Not sadness, but the feeling you get after seeing someone off, turning around to find emptiness behind you. He didn't know who he was seeing off—perhaps the withered immortal herbs in the Immortal Herb Garden, perhaps the three-legged golden crow torn apart by the Power of Order, or perhaps something else.

A fuzzy glow hovered over his chest, bluish-white, like moonlight filtering through thin clouds onto the ground. It was the Azure Lotus emitting light. The light passed through the lid of the Jade Box, through his robe, and fell on his chest, warm, like a small stove, or like a kitten curled up asleep, breathing lightly and slowly, its belly rising and falling.

He placed his hand on that glow, palm against his chest, feeling the pulse of the Azure Lotus. One beat, one beat, one beat. Not fast, not slow, like an infant's heartbeat. He wondered where this lotus had come from—was it planted by an immortal, or had it grown from the soil itself? How long had it lived here? A hundred years? A thousand? Ten thousand?

Who had it seen? What had it heard? What dreams had it dreamed? It didn't know where it had been brought, what season it was outside, or who the person holding it against their chest was. But it felt no fear, for it was in a warm place, where a heartbeat pulsed, where life remained.

Wang Ping kept his hand pressed on his chest for a long time, until the glow steadied, no longer flickering, then he lowered his hand. The Azure Lotus had fallen asleep.

Youying walked behind him, her steps so light they made almost no sound. Her shadow trailed on the ground, long and thin, like a black snake winding across the stone slabs. She also held a Jade Box in her hand, small enough to fit in her palm. The seed inside the box had stopped rolling.

It had found a spot, right in the center of the Jade Box, like a carefully placed pearl, or like a child who had found home, curled up and quiet. Youying could sense it, not with her eyes but with her heart. Its presence was faint—so faint that if you didn't deliberately focus, you'd overlook it. Like a lamp about to run out of oil, its flame tiny as a soybean, trembling in the wind, ready to go out at any moment. Yet it hadn't. It still glowed.

Youying pressed the Jade Box to her chest; her heartbeat passed to the seed, the seed's temperature to her heart, one cold, one warm, like two people shaking hands. She wondered when this seed had fallen to the ground—had it been thirty thousand years ago, or even longer? How long had it lain there? How many times had rain soaked it? How deep had snow buried it? How fiercely had the sun baked it?

Had insects gnawed it? Had mice nibbled it? Had someone stepped on it? Had it dreamed of sprouting? Of growing into an immortal herb? Of someone coming to pluck it? Of being cradled in a palm, pressed to a chest, beating in time with a person's heartbeat? It had waited a long time, until it had forgotten what it was waiting for.

But its body still remembered. The body remembered to sprout, to grow, to bloom, to bear seed, to pass on life. So it still lived. Not because it wished to, but because its body was still carrying out its final command, like a dead soldier whose finger remains on the trigger.

Cangxuan walked in front, taking large strides, each step wide, as if measuring something. He was measuring the distance from the Immortal Herb Garden to the next place. He didn't know where that place was, but his sword did. The sword guided him, not with sound, but with direction.

When the sword sheath tilted slightly to the left, he walked left; when it tilted slightly to the right, he walked right. He never asked why the sword went that way, and the sword never told him what lay that way. They had coordinated for many years, coordinating like a person's left and right hands. The left hand does not need to ask the right hand why it goes to pick up that cup, and the right hand does not need to tell the left hand what it intends to do. They simply move together, stop together, act together.

Cangxuan's boots stepped on the stone slabs, emitting a dull thud, dong dong dong, like someone knocking on a very thick wall. What lay beyond the wall? He didn't know. But he knew that no matter what was beyond the wall, his sword would cleave it. The sword rested silently in its sheath, without humming, without vibration, as quiet as a person deep in thought. What was it thinking? Cangxuan didn't know. He only knew that when the sword was thinking, he should not disturb it.

Yuliuli walked in the middle, the strings of the guqin trembling slightly. It was not she who was playing; it was the wind blowing. The wind came from the direction of the immortal herb garden, carrying the scent of withered grass, the scent of dried ponds, the scent of those withered immortal herbs, and the flavor of thirty thousand years. The wind was very light, so light that not a strand of her hair moved, so light that the fine hairs on her face did not shift, yet the strings trembled. The strings' sensitivity to the wind was ten thousand times greater than that of human skin.

In the wind there were messages: the sighs of those immortal herbs at their last moment, the groans of those withered trees as they fell, the whimpers of those dried springs as their flow ceased, the mutterings of those forgotten seeds in the darkness. The wind blew them apart, scattering them everywhere, into the river of time, into the crevices of space, into the darkness of the Gui Xu, into corners where even divine sense cannot reach.

But some remained, not blown away. They clung to the strings, like dust, like pollen, like memory, like stains that no amount of washing can remove. Yuliuli's finger lightly brushed the strings, and those messages were wiped away. Not vanished, but absorbed by her qin-heart. Her qin-heart gained a few more sounds, those sounds extremely light, extremely fine, like a needle tip falling to the ground, like an ant crawling, like a snowflake landing on water. Yet she could hear them. Her qin-heart hears everything, for it is itself composed of sound. Sound does not disappear; it merely changes its dwelling.

They passed through the region eroded by the power of order. The powder on the ground remained; the stones that Wang Ping had stepped on and crushed when he arrived had turned to powder, and the wind blew the powder everywhere. Some clung to the stone pillars, some fell on the stone slabs, some drifted into the immortal spirit qi, hovering like mist, and some seeped into the stone crevices, sinking like sand at the bottom.

As Wang Ping walked, the powder rose beneath his feet like snow, like ash, like the dust of time, like the grime that accumulates in corners you can never clean completely. He did not cover his nose, for he had grown accustomed to it. This powder was the bones of the immortal palace, the bones of immortals, the bones of immortal beasts, the final traces of things that had once lived, loved, fought, wept, and laughed.

They had been shattered for thirty thousand years, trampled for thirty thousand years, blown by wind for thirty thousand years, drenched by rain for thirty thousand years, baked by sun for thirty thousand years, yet they were not completely broken. Not because they were hard, but because there was so much of them. So much that thirty thousand years of trampling could not finish them, thirty thousand years of wind could not exhaust them, thirty thousand years of rain could not rot them, thirty thousand years of sun could not melt them, thirty thousand years could not crush them thoroughly.

With each step Wang Ping took, an extremely faint crack sounded beneath his feet, as if something were being crushed, or as if something were sighing. He did not look down, for he knew it was the immortal palace speaking—'I am still here. You tread on me, I hurt, but I am still here. Thirty thousand years have passed, and I am still here. Tread on me another thirty thousand years, and I will still be here. I will not vanish, for I am an age. An age does not disappear; it merely turns into powder, into dust, into memory, into the crack beneath your feet.'

Cangxuan suddenly stopped.

His foot lifted, hanging in midair without landing. His body leaned forward slightly, like a tree bent by the wind; the wind had ceased, yet it had not straightened. His hand rested on the sword hilt, knuckles whitening, white as bone. His sword emitted a low hum from within the sheath—not a warning, but a confirmation.

The sword said—'Right here. No mistake. I have smelled its scent. Not the scent of blood, not the scent of flesh, but the scent of existence. It is here, it has always been, it is waiting for us.' Cangxuan set his foot down; his boot struck the stone slab with a heavy thud, dong, like knocking on a door. He was knocking on that door, knocking on an invisible door. What lay within? He did not know. But his sword knew. The sword hummed again within the sheath, this time louder and deeper, as if answering—'Come in.'

Wang Ping walked to Cangxuan's side, raised his head, and looked ahead.

There, there was a mountain.

It was not a real mountain. It was the remains of an immortal beast. It was so huge that your eyes could not take it all in at once. You had to look at its feet first, then its legs, then its body, then its neck, then its head. Your eyes had to move many times before you could piece together its whole form in your mind. But your mind could not assemble it, for your mind had never seen anything so large.

You have seen mountains, you have seen seas, you have seen starry skies. But you have never seen something the size of a mountain that was once alive, could breathe, could run, could fight, could love, could hate, could fear, could die. It is not a mountain; it is what mountains once feared. Mountains do not fear, but people do. When a person stands before it, they feel fear—not because it is an enemy, but because it is too vast. So vast that your sense of self is compressed, compressed to the size of a grain of sand, a speck of dust, something that could be blown away by the wind at any moment.

Wang Ping stood there, feeling himself diminished. Not that he had actually shrunk; his body was still there, 1.78 meters tall, 140 pounds, but his sense of presence had shrunk. Like a drop of water falling into the ocean—you know you are still there, yet you can no longer find yourself.

Its color was white. Not snow-white, for snow-white is too cold. Not milk-white, for milk-white is too warm. It was a white that made your eyes feel comfortable when you looked at it—like clouds, like mist, like moonlight, like a mother's hand, like the white breath you exhale in winter. Its body was covered with a layer of fine down, which floated slightly in the immortal spirit qi, like waterweed swaying in water, like wheat waves undulating in the wind, like the vellus hairs on a person's skin raising gooseflesh. Those down were long, long enough to cover an adult's shin.

Wang Ping crouched, reached out, and touched the nearest strand of down. The down was soft and smooth, like silk, like a baby's hair, like the first breath of spring wind. His finger slid over the down, and it trembled slightly, as if responding to him. Not that it had come alive, but its body still remembered the sensation of being touched. Thirty thousand years ago, someone had touched it—perhaps its master, perhaps its friend, perhaps its enemy. It no longer remembered, but its down did. Down possesses memory.

Its limbs were thick—thick enough to trample a palace. Each leg resembled a pillar, with muscle grain deeply etched, as deep as ravines. Those muscles had dried out, become as dry as wood, as hard as stone, yet you could still see what they looked like when alive. In life they were full, elastic, brimming with power. They could support this massive body in running, leaping, pouncing. Now they are withered and shrunken, but their shape remains, like a handprint left in mud that has dried—the print still there.

Wang Ping stepped to the side of a foreleg, reached out, and pressed his palm against the desiccated muscle. The muscle was hard, hard as iron, but his palm felt what lay beneath—the bone. The bone was thick, so thick that his palm could cover only one percent of it. The bone lay deep within the muscle, but he could sense its temperature. Not hot, not cold, but the temperature of stone in a cool shade—cool, but not icy to the touch. He pressed against that bone and stood for a long time, as if listening to what it might say. The bone spoke no words, yet it gave him a feeling—steadfast. As steadfast as the earth, as steadfast as a mountain, as steadfast as time.

Its claws were long—long enough to rend the sky. Each claw was as long as Wang Ping's arm, curved, like a sickle, like an eagle's beak, like a crescent moon. The claws were amber in color, semi-translucent, revealing the grain within—like tree rings, one circle after another, thick and dense. Wang Ping extended his hand and lightly touched the outermost claw. The claw was cool, not the chill of Gui Xu, but the coolness of jade.

His finger slid over the claw, feeling the undulations of those rings. One ring, another, another. Each year it grew a ring. How long had it lived? Ten thousand years? Twenty? A hundred thousand? Wang Ping did not know. He only knew that every day it had lived was etched into its claw. It died, yet the claw remained. As long as the claw remained, each day of its life remained. Wang Ping's finger stopped at the outermost ring, the final year of its life. That ring's pattern was narrow, nearly invisible, like the last character a person writes on their deathbed—stroke light, fine, feeble. It was saying—'I am tired. I do not wish to grow any longer. Let it be thus.'

Around its neck was a mane, dense and thick, like a lion's mane but whiter, brighter, and softer. The mane floated in the immortal spirit qi, like banners, like clouds, like dreams. Wang Ping stood beneath the mane, lifted his head, and could not see its tip, for it was too high.

The base of the mane was thick—thick like the trunk of a century-old tree, grayish-white in color, covered with a fine layer of scales like fish scales, one piece after another, arranged neatly. Wang Ping touched those scales; their edges were thin, thin as a blade, but not sharp, not cutting. The surface was smooth, as if polished, yet upon close inspection one could see tiny scratches—marks from when enemy weapons had gouged it in battle. The scratches were shallow, so shallow that without close look they would be unseen, but there were many, thick and dense, like a map recording every battle it had endured in its lifetime. Wang Ping's finger moved over those scratches, as if reading a book written in wounds. He could not decipher it, but he could feel—its life had been hard.

Its head was enormous—large enough to swallow a mountain peak in one bite. Its eyes were shut, the lids thick and heavy, like two stone doors. Its eyelashes were long, long enough to encircle Wang Ping's wrist twice. The eyelashes were white, but some tips had turned gray—the color of age. Wang Ping stood beneath its eyelids, lifted his head, and gazed at those lashes. The lashes trembled faintly in the immortal spirit qi, as if dreaming.

What did it dream of? Flying through the heavens? Running through the forest? Drinking by the river? Seeing its master? It no longer remembered, but its eyelashes did. The eyelashes are the most sensitive part of its body; any stir of wind or grass is felt first by them. When alive, they shielded it from how much dust, how much rain, how many hidden weapons of foes. Though dead, the eyelashes still work. When dust drifts over, they twitch slightly, trying to deflect it. Yet the dust still settles on its lids, for the lids will never open again. The eyelashes do not know, but they are still waiting—waiting for the master to open his eyes, waiting for him to say, 'All right, rise, it's time to work.' The master will not speak. The eyelashes still wait.

Its mouth slightly opened, revealing its teeth. The teeth were white—white as snow, white as porcelain, white as nothing at all. They were sharp—sharp as needles, sharp as awls, sharp as things that can pierce anything. They were long—long enough to sink into Wang Ping's arm. Wang Ping stood before its maw and smelled a scent. Not rotten; there was nothing decayed in its mouth. It was an ancient, dry aroma, like old books. Its teeth glimmered faintly in the immortal spirit qi, as if saying—'I can still bite. Do you believe me?'

Wang Ping believed. He stepped back a pace, not from fear but from respect. Though dead, it could still bite. Not because its teeth remained sharp, but because its will endured. It was a Chaos White Tiger; its will was—to bite. To crush everything. To crush enemies, to crush difficulties, to crush fate, to crush death. It had not crushed death, but it had bitten down to the very end. Its final bite was on air. The air shattered under its bite with a boom, a sound that has traveled thirty thousand years and still transmits.

On its tongue lay a deep wound, the injury it had sustained before death. The edges of the wound had dried, turning dark brown, like a patch of dried blood scab, like a withered leaf, like a sheet of scorched paper. The wound ran from the tip of the tongue to its root, deep enough to expose the tongue's interior. The interior was white—white as paper, white as nothing at all. How did this wound come? Was it sliced by an enemy's weapon? Torn by the power of order? Self-inflicted by its own bite? No one knows.

Wang Ping stood beside its tongue, reached out, and wanted to touch that wound. His finger extended halfway, then stopped. He dared not—not from fear, but because the wound still hurt. Not truly painful, but it was saying—'I have suffered pain. Great pain. Pain enough to make me want to bite off my own tongue. Yet I did not, for I still needed to lick my wound with my tongue. A Chaos White Tiger licks its wounds, like a cat. When injured, it licks with its tongue. But its tongue too was wounded; when it licked, the wound met wound, and the pain grew sharper. Still it licked. For pain is not a reason to refrain from licking; pain is a reason to lick all the more.'

Wang Ping withdrew his finger. He did not want to touch that wound, not because it was dirty, but because it was its last dignity. It did not want people to see its injury; it preferred to hide the wound beneath its tongue, inside its mouth, out of sight. Wang Ping had seen it, but he would not speak. He turned his back, facing away from that mouth, from that wound. In his heart he said—'I have not seen it.'

Youying walked from the rear of the group to the front. Her steps were hurried, so hurried that her shadow could not keep up. She approached the remains, stopped, lifted her head, and gazed at this white mountain. Her eyes widened enormously, as large as two bronze bells. Her pupils dilated, nearly filling the entire eyeball. Her lips trembled slightly, as if she wanted to speak, but no sound emerged. Her hands shook, not from fear, but from excitement.

The bloodline of the Myriad Phenomena Stargazers was awakening. Those memories that had lain dormant for so long, forgotten, sealed, rose from the depths of her blood like bubbles rising from the bottom of water, glug-glug. She perceived those memories—not with her eyes, but through her bloodline. Her ancestors had once seen this kind of immortal beast, in ancient texts, in murals, in orally transmitted tales, in those secrets that only bloodline can inherit. Its name is Chaos White Tiger.

You Ying's mouth finally made a sound. Very soft, very fine, like a needle falling to the ground. "Chaos White Tiger." Her voice echoed in the vast immortal palace, carrying far, far, so far that even the ruined walls heard it. The ruined walls responded to her, emitting a humming sound, like a swarm of bees. They said—yes, yes, that's it. We know it. It has been here a long time. When it came, it was still alive, it suffered grave injury, it walked here, couldn't move anymore, and collapsed.

We watched it collapse, watched it close its eyes, watched it stop breathing. We thought it would wake—one day, two days, three days, one year, two years, three years, one hundred years, two hundred years, three hundred years. It did not wake. We knew it was dead. But we still watched it every day, waited for it to wake every day. We waited so long that we ourselves collapsed. It remained. We collapsed, yet it remained. It lived longer than us, and its death has lasted just as long.

"To live by devouring chaos." You Ying's voice continued, as if someone were speaking inside her body—not her speaking, but her bloodline speaking: "Within its body lie fragments of the primordial chaos."

Wang Ping's heart gave a sudden jump. That jump was heavy, heavy enough to shake his chest, as if someone had punched him in the chest. His breath paused a beat, then resumed, but faster and shallower than before, like a startled rabbit. Primordial chaos, that is the source of the Dao of Chaos, the foundation cultivated by the progenitor of the Myriad Phenomena Star Gazers, the secret of the immortal realm fragments, and the thing he has been seeking all along.

He had searched for a long time, long enough that he was almost ready to give up. It lay right before him. In the remains that had slept for thirty thousand years, among those white bones and withered muscles, in those corners sealed by time and death for who knows how many years, like a seed buried in soil, waiting to be dug up, waiting to be watered, waiting to be placed in sunlight, waiting to sprout.

He stepped forward.

Cang Xuan's hand pressed on his shoulder, blocking him. That hand was heavy, heavy as a stone. Wang Ping's shoulder was held down, he couldn't move. Not because his strength was insufficient, but because his body did not want to move. His body was heeding Cang Xuan's words. Cang Xuan's voice came from behind, cold, cold as winter wind, cold as the darkness of the Return to the Void, cold as a sword just drawn from its sheath. "Wait." Two words, short but heavy. Heavy enough that Wang Ping's footsteps stopped on their own. His feet were rooted to the ground, as if grown roots. "Its pressure, you cannot withstand."

Wang Ping stopped, and he felt it.

That pressure emanated from the remains like an invisible tide, wave after wave surging over. It does not attack you, does not oppress you, does not threaten you. It merely "is." Is. This word is simple, yet it contains everything. Heaven and earth are, all things are, the Dao is. It also is. It is, and you feel yourself small. Not that you have become small, but that you realize you were always this small; only in its presence do you become aware of this. Just as when you stand by the sea, you feel small—not because the sea makes you small, but because you are inherently small, and the sea merely lets you see your smallness.

Wang Ping stood there, feeling that pressure. His knees trembled—not because he wanted them to, but his body trembled on its own. His body told him—this thing is greater than you. Anything greater than you deserves respect. Respect is not fear, it is acknowledgment. Acknowledge your smallness, acknowledge its greatness, acknowledge the gap between you. The gap is not disgrace; it is fact. Fact need not be changed, only acknowledged.

Wang Ping acknowledged.

He bowed before the remains—not a slight bend at the waist, but a deep, ninety-degree bow, forehead nearly touching his knees. His back arched like an arch bridge. His hands hung at his sides, fingers slightly spread. His head was lowered, chin against his chest. He held that posture for a long time—so long that Cang Xuan thought he would never rise again. Then he rose, slowly and steadily, as if someone were pulling his hair from above. He straightened his body, gazed at the remains, and continued forward.

This time, Cang Xuan did not block him.

When he approached the remains, Wang Ping tilted his neck back so high that his chin and chest formed a straight line, so high his throat tightened, so high he could feel his carotid artery pulsing. He saw its toes. The toes were huge, large enough for ten people to stand on. The toes bore nails, nails long and curved, like an eagle's talons but ten thousand times larger. The nails were amber-colored, translucent, revealing inner grain like tree rings, one ring after another.

Wang Ping reached out and lightly touched its nail. The nail was cool—not the chill of the Return to the Void, but the coolness of jade. His fingertip slid over the nail, feeling the undulations of those rings. One ring, another ring, another ring. His fingertip stopped at the innermost ring, the year of its birth. That ring's pattern was fine and dense, like an infant's fingerprint. It said—"I was born. Very small, very weak, unable even to stand. But I was born. I came into this world. This world is vast, cold, dangerous. Yet I am not afraid. For I will grow. I will become the greatest. I will make this world fear me."

Wang Ping's fingertip slid from the innermost ring to the outermost, tracing its lifetime. Its life flowed beneath his fingertip like a river. The river was long, wide, deep. Within it flowed blood, tears, sweat. There were battles, victories, defeats. There was love, hatred, loneliness. There was the first ray of sunlight it saw upon waking at dawn, and the last insect chirp it heard as it fell asleep at night. The river had no end, for it had not died. Its life flowed into Wang Ping's fingertip, into his body, into his heart. Wang Ping stood there, fingertip pressed against the nail, eyes closed, feeling that river.

Cang Xuan walked to Wang Ping's side, his hand loosening from the sword hilt. His fingers unfurled one by one—first the pinky, then the ring finger, then the middle finger, then the index finger, finally the thumb. His hands hung at his sides like two ropes. His sword grew still in its sheath, silent. Not because it slept, but because it knew that here it had no right to speak. Like a child before an adult, when the adult is silent the child dares not speak. Not out of fear, but out of respect.

The sword respected this Chaos White Tiger. Not because it is strong, but because it is "the Dao." The sword too is Dao. Sword Dao and Chaos Dao are different Daos. Yet between Dao and Dao, no words are needed. They merely look at each other and understand.

Yu Liuli did not approach the remains; she sat far away on a fallen stone pillar. The pillar lay horizontally, like a bridge, beneath it a dry riverbed. She placed her guqin on her lap, hands resting on the strings, not playing. She listened. She listened to the voice of the remains. Not with her ears, but with her qin-heart. The remains spoke, not with mouth, but with existence. Its existence is a single sentence—"I am here." This sentence is simple, yet profound. So profound that Yu Liuli's qin-heart cannot contain it.

Her qin-heart trembled—not the strings trembling, but the qin-heart itself. The qin-heart is her soul, her Dao, her everything. As the qin-heart trembled, her body trembled, her hair floated, her garment's edges lifted, her eyelashes quivered. She was receiving the remains' existence bit by bit, like a person cupping water in their hands, water leaking through the fingers, she could only hold a little. But a little is enough. A little is still water. A little is still existence. A little is still Dao.

You Ying walked around the remains in a circle. Her steps were slow, each step taken carefully, as if measuring something. She measured the range of the remains' pressure, the distribution of the gaps in the law, the degree of distortion in time and space. Her eyes swept over those white bones, seeing what others could not. The gaps in the law, on the surface of the bones, like a thin film, so thin it almost does not exist, yet it is there.

Spatial folds, at the joints' connections, like creases in clothing, one after another, deep. Temporal fractures, at the edges of wounds, like cliffs, like cracks, like the boundary between two different worlds of time. These things formed a protective layer on the remains' surface, like an invisible skin, separating the remains from the outside world. This skin was not grown by the remains themselves; it was bestowed upon it by heaven and earth when it died.

Heaven and earth said—"You are dead, but you are a sovereign. A sovereign should have his own tomb. This is your tomb. No one can disturb you. Heaven and earth covered it with this skin, for thirty thousand years, and no one has lifted it." You Ying's hand traced in the air, her fingers pierced that skin, feeling what lay within. The fragments of primordial chaos, deep within the remains, in the core of those bones, amid the withered muscle fibers, in those corners sealed by time and death for who knows how many years.

They are tiny, as small as grains of sand, yet there are many of them, as many as a beach. They emit light—not bright light, but the kind you can still see after closing your eyes. The light says—"We are still here. We have waited long. Wait for you to take us. Not waiting for just one person, but for anyone. Whoever comes, we will follow them. We no longer wish to stay here. This place is too dark, too cold, too long. We want to go out. We want to see the outside world. We want to see the sun, the moon, the stars, the flowers, the grass, the people. We want to see living things. We have been dead too long; we wish to live again."