Chapter 48: Journey to Anhui, a Similar Dream

In the blink of an eye, the time for the gathering arrived.

The gathering's location was not in Guangdong but in Anhui.

Wealthy families are always like this; whether they have something to do or not, they love to squander money, inviting a large crowd of friends and classmates to travel, beautifully calling it a gathering, while the true purpose is something else. As the saying of Emperor Gaozu of Han goes, 'If wealth and honor are not returned to one's hometown, it is like walking at night in fine clothes.' Put into today's society, this means that having money but not holding a gathering is like biting into yesterday's chicken leg.

Anyone who was poor in a past life but rich in this one, or who was born into a wealthy family, always loves to hold such a luxurious gathering. The former may do it to lift their brows and vent frustration, or because they enjoy being surrounded by admirers, seeking self‑comfort, telling everyone, 'Damn it, my old man is rich now—I'm no longer that poor wretch; who dares look down on me?' In fact, such people lack a sense of security the most; their wallets are always stuffed with a lot of money, and if the wallet is empty they feel insecure. Doing this is also a way to hide inferiority and vent pressure.

The latter mostly do it to show off, or because they think they are superior, ordering others around arrogantly. In fact, they never consider that everyone is born of a mother, with one nose and two eyes. You are merely a bit lucky to have been born into a wealthy family. A father's heroism does not guarantee his son will be a hero; your father's wealth does not mean you can safeguard the family fortune—thirty years east, thirty years west; who dares say the feng shui won't turn, who dares bully a poor youth?

I don't have a good feeling toward Yao Yirong; perhaps I dislike her even more. The reason is simple: she is the latter type described above, believing herself born superior, the kind of person who thinks the world cannot turn without me, lavishly spending my hard‑earned money to satisfy her own vanity.

This time, I don't even know which number gathering this is for her; anyway, Pangzi and I were on the invitation list.

In short, the letter stated the situation: all food, lodging, and entertainment provided, round‑trip travel expenses covered, fully displaying the style of a tycoon.

The day before departure, Pangzi and I bought train tickets to Anhui, packed some simple daily necessities, boarded an overnight train, and arrived at Chaohu in Anhui.

However, the gathering's location was actually in Lujiang. It is said that Yao Yirong's father used to do business in Anhui, later moving to Guangdong. He rarely returns to Anhui now, and some of his estates in Lujiang lie idle, among them a mansion from the Republican era.

So Pangzi and I had to go from Chaohu by water, taking a ferry to Lujiang.

After arriving at the appointed place, I discovered there were indeed many people—over ten in all. Among them was Pangzi's sister, Mengxue.

"Hai Sheng bro, big bro, you two came too?" Mengxue spotted us and came over like a little rabbit.

Come, let me introduce you—this is my good friend, Qingqing. Mengxue pulled a girl beside her and said to us.

"Hello," the girl lifted her head and gently greeted us.

The moment she lifted her head, I froze.

"Meng... are you Xiao Meng?" I grabbed her hand, unable to suppress my excitement, my voice trembling.

"What are you doing? You hurt my hand." Qingqing shouted, "You're crazy!"

"Hai Sheng, what are you doing? Let go of her." Pangzi yanked my hand away forcefully, pulling me out of my daze.

Mengxue also stared at me in shock, and the girl named Qingqing hid behind him.

After coming to my senses, I inevitably sighed and awkwardly apologized to her.

Meng is gone; she is not the dream, the Meng in my heart has long left this world.

Perhaps out of respect for Mengxue's face, Qingqing didn't lose her temper at me, but her gaze toward me was always strange, as if looking at a lunatic.

She pulled Mengxue away and went to the other side, while I could only stand aside, silently sinking into memories.

Pangzi gently pushed me and asked with concern, "Are you okay?"

I shook my head, asked Pangzi for a cigarette, lit it lightly, and didn't answer him because my heart ached terribly; that long‑absent figure surged back into my mind.

Everyone's heart holds someone they once deeply loved and cannot let go of; even a Daoist plagued by the five flaws and three deficiencies is no exception—I will never forget her name in my lifetime. Meng, the dream of a secluded curtain.

I remember the first time I met her—at the orphanage gate. For a child's balloon, she climbed up that three‑meter‑high Chinese parasol tree.

When she fell from the tree, though frail she did not cry; instead, she immediately remembered the crying child.

She lowered her head and said, "Don't cry, the balloon sister has already retrieved it for you."

From then on, her figure was etched completely into my mind.

Perhaps it was fate's arrangement; later she became my high‑school desk mate. She was very frail, not pretty at all, her only feature being two deep dimples when she smiled.

Yet I fell in love with her just like that, a love I could not escape. In youthful ignorance, one always feels a first, purest emotion. Loving someone is not because of her appearance, but a feeling—a heartache that drains your strength, making you wish to devote your life to protecting and cherishing her.

On life's journey, whether from a moment's splendor or from long‑term affection, one develops a feeling toward the opposite sex called liking, but it is not necessarily love. Many people like and are liked, yet only one can make you feel heartache. That person is your lover, but she may not accompany you through this whole life. So‑called love is often shattered by cruel reality.

Meng is the one who makes me feel heartache; she is strong, she is kind, every move of hers tugs at my heart. But I know I am a person burdened with the five flaws and three deficiencies, having inherited the solitary character; when I love someone, I only bring death to them.

So at first I buried this sincere feeling forever.

When I was young I once wrote a very childish poem, its title being Cang Meng.

Under the eaves of a blue‑tile pavilion, the hazy longing for your silhouette,

Unfortunately, I can only hide it in my heart.

Meng conceals, flowers fall, burying flowers, the dream remains.

Longing words like a dream, remembering you, hiding the dream.

The days I spent with her felt like I was dwelling in a dream, sensing that excited yet uneasy feeling in my heart. No one knows that I harbor a dream in my heart, a dream that belongs solely to her.

No one knows how happy I was back then. Every day I would go early to class, waiting for the moment she arrived, then I would pretend to be aloof and greet her: "You've come."

In summer, I would always go from the classroom to the school gate, buy two drinks, then head back. I would nonchalantly toss one to my desk mate her, saying, "I went downstairs to buy drinks, and I brought you one as well." In fact, I don't like sweet things at all, nor do I like drinks.

She took it with a giggle, sipping it daintily. Watching her careful demeanor, I felt a deep satisfaction from the heart, thinking that the greatest happiness in the world is to enjoy her tranquil smile.

Later, I still couldn't restrain the agitation in my heart and wrote her a love letter—loving someone, I wished she understood my feelings; I wished to protect her forever with my life, telling everyone she was mine. If she was hurt, I would comfort her thereafter; if she cried, I could only lend her my shoulder. I couldn't bear to bully her; no one may touch a single hair of hers.

I thought that upon seeing my letter she would despise me, and I would thus lose heart.

But what I never expected was that we would actually end up together; she had no aversion to my ghostly eyes that keep strangers away. For her, I grew long bangs to cover my blind eye, hoping that when we walked out on the street we would not suffer any inadvertent pointing or gossip.

I once thought we would stay like this until the seas run dry and rocks crumble, but a sudden disaster took her forever from this world and shattered my dream.

I will never forget that day, when I personally witnessed my beloved die violently before my eyes; even though I am an unmatched ghost‑controlling disciple of the Yin Shan Sect, I could not find her soul.

I know her death is because of me—because she fell in love with a Daoist burdened by the five flaws and three deficiencies. This Daoist's fate bears the solitary character; he can only be alone his whole life, while ordinary people can enjoy love, which remains forever out of reach for him.

After her death, I was tormented for two months by an indescribable feeling. Not pain, not exactly—it is a spasm a hundred times more agonizing than pain. Perhaps it strikes while you eat, or while you sleep, welling up inexplicably, making you want to cry, making you involuntarily think of her,

Whenever it is deep night and all is quiet, you feel a needle‑like pain that spreads point by point over your heart, following your breath it slowly, rhythmically spasms. When the spasms grow stronger, you feel your whole person, your soul, your heart, are empty.

I spent those two months in guilt, then later I found the driver who hit him.

I took the soil from under his feet, took his eight characters, and placed upon him a spell of fierce ghost and yin wind.

Not long after, the driver could not endure the mental torment and killed himself. I used his life to make an offering to my beloved.

And I, too, was harshly punished by QingSongShu, confined to bed for three months.

However, bodily pain can never conceal my spiritual deficiency.

From then on I sealed my heart shut, daring not to love anyone else, for my love is forever a burial good accompanying the solitary character.

I thought my heart had thus become indifferent. Yet fate let me meet her again; even though I know this girl is called Qingqing and she is not Meng, at this moment guilt surged upon me like a tide, the dust‑sealed memories were awakened, and I finally recalled that in my life I have passed a girl named Meng, to whom I owe so much, so very much.