The origin of the Huangyue Continent lies in its moon—a moon entirely unlike that of any other land. Here, the moon looms enormous and desolate, its surface area five or six times larger than that seen elsewhere, appearing all the more vivid and luminous.
On clear, cloudless nights, the moon reveals its secrets: jagged mountain peaks etched in stark relief, undulating ridges and deep, variegated crevices, and winding paths that seem to be indelibly carved into the hearts of every mortal—much like the timeworn imprints left on the blue stone slabs along a familiar brook in one's hometown.
The "Year-End Festival" is a cherished celebration in the hearts of every mortal living on this continent—a time of reunion, warmth, and grandeur. Set on the day when the moon is fullest in the middle of the twelfth month, people burst into song and dance beneath the radiant moonlight, presenting their best-caught beasts as offerings and lifting the finest wines stored throughout the year. Some communities celebrate as a whole, while families gather in joyful unity. Under the gleaming light of the moon, revelers drink until they are utterly intoxicated, defiantly proclaiming their heartfelt ambitions as they gesture to the heavens and shrug off the confines of the earth.
Talented scholars recite poems and toast with fervor, while graceful maidens exchange knowing glances in the moonlight as drums beat softly and flowers are passed along. . . .
As dusk deepened, a colossal full moon rose in the sky. Li Yan sat alone on a terrace, his eyes fixed on distant, bluish-hazed mountains as if he wished to bridge a span of thousands of miles to return to the familiar foothills of his native green mountains. Today, his venture outside was not solely for the sake of practicing immortal arts. A few nights ago, when that magnificent moon had appeared over his courtyard, it had stirred in him an overwhelming sense of homesickness. Now, as the year draws to a close and a new one is about to dawn, his thoughts turn bittersweet.
He had been away from his mountain village for over a year now. Last year's Year-End was spent in desperate flight—when, despite the longing for home, there had been no time to indulge in sentimentality. But now, gazing at that familiar round moon as he always had, countless memories and emotions welled up within him.
Early this morning, Li Yan had little inclination for meditation. Instead, he had come to the terrace well ahead of time to practice his immortal techniques while waiting for the luminous moon to rise. In his idle reverie, he imagined the scene in his village: surely by now the sound of firecrackers must fill the air, and offerings of delicacies—gleaming with golden oil and exuding tempting aromas—would be arrayed beneath the old willow tree at the village entrance. Children would be darting about, enthralled by the treats, only to be corralling themselves to the outskirts amid the admonitions of elders, before returning amidst peals of laughter. They would cast frequent furtive glances at the moon, longing for it to climb above the top of that ancient willow so that the ancestral rites could begin, paving the way for a feast of abundance.
The village chief would raise a bowl of wine to share with every man, giving each child a hearty pat on the head to wish them rapid growth. At midnight, families would sleep beneath the old willow with the gigantic moon watching over them until the break of dawn. Fathers, seldom smiling, would draw deep puffs from their pipes and share spirited drinks with their old friends, occasionally pointing to their children with a tobacco pouch in hand. The third brother would hobble over to their father, smiling softly as he sat beside him and murmuring gentle reassurances for him to drink less. Meanwhile, the mothers and the fourth sister—like all the village women—would continuously carry in steaming platters of fragrant meat and freshly baked buns. When they met with the younger villagers, laughter would bubble up as they teased and complimented their own daughters, whispering kind words in their ears. The young maidens would blush and shyly continue their tasks, while the boisterous lads, faces flushed with excitement, secretly stole glances at the fourth sister.
...
Li Yan found himself lost in these vivid recollections until tears streamed down his face. After a long while, he pulled his gaze away and lifted his eyes toward the enormous, luminous moon that seemed almost within reach. In its silvery glow, he imagined familiar faces forming like delicate apparitions. Brushing his tears away with a trembling hand, he stood, straightened his clothes, and knelt in respectful supplication. Muttering softly, "Father, Mother, Happy New… Good… New Year," he kowtowed several times in sincere homage.
Just as he was about to rise, a voice—cool yet tinged with hesitation—rang out from behind him: "Do you… do mortals truly celebrate a 'Year-End'?"
Startled, Li Yan whirled around. "Who's there?" he demanded, his heart pounding as his secret feelings were suddenly laid bare. As he glanced back, he saw a tall, graceful woman clad in flowing white standing by the edge of the terrace—a hesitant, luminous figure.
"Is it you?" Li Yan managed, his tone laced with reproach as he stared at her.
Moonlight poured over the terrace, and in its soft brilliance, Li Yan recognized her immediately. It was Zhao Min—the non–Li Peak senior sister whom he had seen once a few months ago. Standing at the boundary of the bamboo grove from which she had emerged, Zhao Min's white garments danced in the breeze. Her ethereally sculpted face, bathed in moonlight's gentle radiance, was unyielding in its composure, while her dark, clearly outlined eyes regarded Li Yan with a subtle chill.
"Why, then—am I not permitted here?" she said as her brows knitted in mild displeasure at his earlier tone.
Li Yan frowned, inwardly thinking, "Indeed, this place isn't my own bamboo courtyard. So why should she bar me?" Nonetheless, softening his voice, he explained, "This is Xiao Zhu Peak. I understand that disciples from the other four peaks normally only come partway up the mountain; they don't usually venture here."
In the past few months, he had indeed encountered only a few disciples from the other peaks on the mid-mountain paths. Outside those narrowly designated trails, no one from the other peaks ever lingered—as though strictly forbidden. When collecting spirit stones in the main hall, Second Senior Brother had even mentioned that those side trails were reserved for mission assignments by our peak.
"Then you know a bit about it—but does that mean I must not come up the back mountain?" Zhao Min's tone now carried a tint of reproach, a silent rebuke for his earlier carelessness.
Li Yan hesitated; he had never directly inquired whether disciples from other peaks were barred from the back mountain. He'd only noted their absence and, in the heat of the moment when his secret was exposed, had blurted out his thoughts. Now he felt a touch of guilt as he scratched his head sheepishly.
Seeing his self-conscious gesture, Zhao Min's sternness softened. She explained matter-of-factly, "This back mountain is seldom visited by disciples from the other peaks." Although her tone was calm, it retained a cool edge. Today, she had come here purely on a whim, and her curiosity was evident—she had heard in passing of a "Year-End" celebration among mortals, a custom said to be both grand and joyous, though she had never witnessed it herself.
"I used to come here often," Zhao Min continued as she stepped lightly onto the terrace and moved slowly toward its edge, turning her gaze toward the enormous full moon. "But later, I stopped coming to Xiao Zhu Peak. Fewer and fewer now visit these parts. You are right—disciples from other peaks rarely come to the back mountain."
Li Yan was momentarily struck by her words. It seemed, he thought, that Zhao Min might once have been a disciple of Xiao Zhu Peak herself. If that were so, it would explain her ease in coming here—and her frequent visits, too.
Before him, the beautiful woman stood on the precipice, gazing dreamily at the grand moon. After a while, she shifted her eyes toward the distant, undulating mountains. In the silver glow of the moon, her face—chiseled as though carved from white jade—shimmered with a delicate radiance. The breeze caught her garments, which clung to her elegant form and accentuated the graceful curves of her chest, while her long, slender legs exuded an otherworldly allure, like that of a celestial nymph descended from the lunar palace. Li Yan was utterly mesmerized.
After speaking, Zhao Min soon fell silent in her own thoughts. When she finally withdrew her dreamy gaze and found no further movement behind her, her brows knitted into a frown as she turned slightly backward. She saw Li Yan—whose expression, in contrast, now seemed almost foolishly blank—and couldn't help but let out a small, disdainful snort.
That sound startled Li Yan fully awake from his reverie. His face flushed red as he coughed dryly and quickly attempted to defuse the situation.
"Zhao… Zhao Senior Sister," he began haltingly, "in our mortal world there is indeed a custom called the Year-End Festival. I haven't traveled far enough to experience it fully, but I've heard stories in the village—tales of exuberant celebrations. Yet here in the sect, it seems there is no such festival; today, I saw no decorations or festive atmosphere in the sect at all."
"Sect? Year-End Festival? Hmph. In the sect, aside from cultivation, there is only cultivation. What sentiment could there be?" Zhao Min replied coolly, her pristine features contorting slightly with disdain as she paused before asking, "Then, can you tell me what the mortal Year-End Festival is truly like?"
Li Yan was taken aback. He thought, How dare this sister speak so dismissively of the sect? Such bravado—she cannot possibly care that the elders or the disciplinary officials might hear her words. Yet he had little choice but to answer.
"In the mortal world, there is both joy and sorrow. My hometown lies at the foot of the great Qing Mountains, millions of li away—a small village of only a few dozen households, surrounded by terraced fields. At the village entrance stands an ancient willow tree. When the Year-End Festival approaches, early in the day every household prepares the most sumptuous feast of the year. The children frolic in the village while mothers and sisters bring out preserved beast meat and flour from their homes to cook or fry an array of delicacies. Smoke rises in graceful tendrils, and the fragrance fills every corner of the village. Fathers and the third brother join the other villagers in tidying up the ancestral hall, arranging offerings and cleaning their dwellings…"
Li Yan's voice grew gentle as he spoke, recalling scenes of familial reunion and simple yet profound happiness. Under a bright, full moon, all that could be heard was the soft whisper of the breeze. Two young souls sat on the terrace's edge, looking up at the moon as they exchanged words of longing and memory. The immense moon seemed to envelop them in a halo of silvery light, and in those quiet moments, their conversation was filled with the humble, unpretentious details of mortal life.
Before long, tears welled up in Li Yan's eyes as he listened to his own recollections. Lost in the currents of memory, he did not notice time pass until the tears had stained his cheeks. Slowly, he lifted his gaze again and looked up at the vast, almost tangible orb of the moon above. In that glowing circle, he seemed to see familiar faces from his past. He raised his hand to wipe away his tears, then, with tenderness and reverence, rose and knelt before the moon. He murmured softly, "Father, Mother, Happy New… New Year," and kowtowed respectfully several times.
Just as he was about to stand once more, a cool but tentative voice rang out from behind him: "Do you… do mortals really observe a Year-End Festival?"
Startled, Li Yan whirled around. "Who's there?" he called, his heart pounding as his inner secrets lay suddenly exposed. Looking back, he saw a slender, graceful figure clad in white, standing near the terrace's edge—her gaze gentle yet tinged with hesitation.
"Is that you?" Li Yan demanded, a flash of indignation crossing his features.
At that moment, the moonlight bathed the terrace in silvery radiance, and Li Yan immediately recognized the speaker. It was Zhao Min—the senior sister he had seen a few months ago from the Non–Li Peak. Now she stood at the edge of the bamboo grove where she had entered, her white robes dancing in the night breeze. Her serene, almost otherworldly face was accentuated by the cool light of the moon, and her eyes—clear and dark—held a trace of chill as they fixed on him.
"Tell me," she said, "have you ever seen a Year-End Festival in the mortal world?"
Her tone, though measured, carried subtle criticism. Li Yan frowned, thinking, Indeed, this place is not my home courtyard. So why should you bar me? Still, he replied in a gentler voice, "In our mortal world, there is a festival. I haven't experienced it myself far beyond my village, but I've heard it described: when the festival comes, villages are adorned with the clamor of firecrackers and the shine of offerings. Children run about excitedly, and families gather amid laughter and shared meals."
Zhao Min's cool features betrayed a flicker of disdain as she remarked, "But the sect is not like that. Here, there is only cultivation—no such frivolous human sentiment." Her words, though calm, cut sharply, and she moved slowly to the edge of the terrace, facing directly toward the towering full moon.
Li Yan was momentarily silent. In his mind, he mused that Zhao Min's familiarity with mortal customs—though she herself had never set foot in a mortal town—hinted at an early life spent among the humble. "Perhaps you entered the sect when you were very young?" he offered hesitantly.
After a pause, Zhao Min looked out at the moonlit vista and spoke in a soft, almost wistful tone, "I have never truly lived among mortals, but I have heard stories from our senior brothers and sisters. They say that in a mortal town, life is simple yet brimming with warmth—each sunrise and sunset measured by work and rest, with families and friends gathering often. Children play around their parents, holding lanterns as they chase one another. Feasts are prepared with great care, and the village pulses with both pride and a quiet sorrow that comes from the passage of time."
Her voice trailed into silence as she looked out over the glowing moon. Li Yan stood quietly behind her, troubled yet moved by her soft words, and memories of his own distant village—the laughter of siblings, the camaraderie of childhood play—rose unbidden within him.
Without fully realizing it, Li Yan stepped a few paces toward the terrace's far edge and sat down at another spot, a short distance from the white-clad figure. Sighing deeply, he regarded her profile—a silhouette that seemed tinged with loneliness—and in that moment his heart grew calm. He softly continued, "In the mortal world, there is both joy and profound sorrow. My own hometown lies at the foot of the Great Qing Mountains, far away by hundreds of thousands of li. It is a small village of only a few dozen households, cradled by terraced fields. At the village entrance stands an ancient willow, and when the Year-End Festival arrives—when the rapeseed fields bloom and wildflowers scatter over the countryside—every house begins the day preparing its most bountiful feast. Children play freely in the village while mothers and sisters gather ingredients from their homes to cook delectable dishes. The aroma of freshly cooked food fills every corner; meanwhile, fathers and elder brothers toil to tidy the ancestral hall and arrange the offerings…"
As his voice merged with the quiet night, the two young souls on the terrace sat in shared silence. Under the brilliant full moon, their figures were enshrined in a halo of light. Occasionally, the maiden would softly ask a question, and Li Yan would slowly recount the modest yet poignant pleasures of mortal life.
For a long time, under that bright, resplendent moon, Li Yan listened and then, overwhelmed by the memories of his distant home, silently wept. When at last he recovered his composure, he lifted his face once more to the vast orb overhead, almost as if it could bridge the span between the here and the home of his youth. In that luminous circle, the faces of his loved ones shimmered like apparitions. He brushed away his tears, rose, and, standing before the moon, he adjusted his garments and knelt in reverence, softly intoning, "Father, Mother, Happy New Year…" before kowtowing respectfully several times.
Then, as he was about to rise, a clear yet hesitant voice came from behind him: "Tell me… do mortals truly celebrate a Year-End Festival?"
Startled, Li Yan spun around and demanded, "Who's there?"
Peering behind him, he saw, at the very edge of the terrace, a slender young woman in white. Her expression was tentative as she regarded him.
"Is it really you?" Li Yan asked, a trace of reproach in his tone as he realized his innermost feelings were laid bare.
Moonlight cascaded upon the terrace, and in its silvery radiance Li Yan recognized her at once. It was Zhao Min, the one he'd met briefly months ago from the Non–Li Peak. Now, she stood on the fringe of the bamboo grove, her long white dress flowing gently in the night breeze. Her face—soft, as if sculpted of porcelain, yet marked with an air of quiet detachment—lent her an almost otherworldly grace.
"How is it that I am not allowed here?" she inquired, her voice cool yet laced with restrained discontent.
Li Yan felt a twinge of conflict. In his heart he thought, "Of course this isn't my own bamboo courtyard—but then why should you have sole claim?" With a softer tone now, he replied, "This is Xiao Zhu Peak. It appears that disciples from the other four peaks usually only come halfway up the mountain; they do not frequent this place."
For months he had only encountered a few such disciples on the mid-mountain roads. Apart from those marked trails, no one from the other peaks had ever set foot here—as though prohibited. In fact, when collecting spirit stones in the main hall, I even asked Second Senior Brother about this, and he explained that these small paths are designated mission routes specific to Xiao Zhu Peak.
"Then you know a thing or two," Zhao Min retorted, "but does that mean I cannot come up the back mountain?" Her tone betrayed her displeasure at Li Yan's earlier cavalier attitude.
"I… I don't mean it as if I'm barred…" Li Yan admitted, scratching his head sheepishly as he realized his slip.
Noticing his contrite gesture, Zhao Min's expression relaxed ever so slightly. Today, she had come here on a whim. Having heard of the mortal Year-End Festival—a custom renowned for its grandeur and heartfelt celebration but never witnessed firsthand—she found herself curious. "I used to come here often," she explained quietly as she walked gracefully onto the terrace, then slowly to its edge, her eyes fixed on the gigantic full moon. "Eventually, I stopped coming to Xiao Zhu Peak. Fewer disciples from other peaks venture to the back mountain these days."
Li Yan mused silently: if Zhao Min had once been a disciple of Xiao Zhu Peak herself, then it made sense that she would be so at home here—and that she might visit frequently.
There, at the precipice, the beautiful woman stood bathed in moonlight. Her eyes, distant yet thoughtful, gazed upon the vast moon. After a moment, she turned her gaze toward the softly undulating distant mountains. The silver radiance that washed over her chiseled features made her appear as though she were sculpted from white jade. Her garments clung elegantly to her form as the cool night breeze played over them, emphasizing the gentle curves of her chest and the graceful lines of her long legs—as though a spirit from the lunar palace had descended to grace the mortal realm. Li Yan found himself utterly transfixed.
After a pause, Zhao Min sank into silence, lost amid her own reverie. Moments later, having gathered her thoughts, she noticed no further movement behind her. A subtle frown played upon her face as she glanced backward and saw Li Yan staring—a look that, to her, struck as embarrassingly foolish. A delicate lip curled into a slight spat of disdain.
The sound of that spat shattered Li Yan's reverie. Flushing hot and embarrassed, he cleared his throat twice in a hurried attempt to deflect the tension.
"Zhao… Zhao Senior Sister," he began, "in our mortal world the Year-End Festival is indeed celebrated—even if I have never experienced it fully beyond my own village. I've only heard tales from those who have traveled far. But it seems that here in the sect there is no such celebration; I saw no festive decorations or atmosphere when I came out today."
"Sect? Year-End Festival? Hmph. In the sect, all there is is cultivation—nothing more." Zhao Min's voice, though even, carried a trace of scorn as she replied. Then, as if suddenly curious amid her own icy reserve, she asked, "Tell me, can you describe to me what the mortal Year-End Festival is really like?"
Li Yan felt both puzzled and uneasy. How can she speak so boldly of the world outside the sect? he thought, aware that such words might be deemed irreverent if overheard by the elders or the guardians of the law within the sect. Yet, compelled by honesty, he continued, "In the mortal realm there is a wealth of simple pleasures—and great joys and sorrows alike. My hometown lies at the foothills of the Great Qing Mountains, far away from here: a small village of only a few dozen families, cradled by terraced fields. At the entrance to the village stands an old willow tree, and when the festival time comes, every household prepares its most sumptuous fare at daybreak. Children run and play in the village while mothers and sisters labor in the kitchens to whip up delicacies from preserved beast meat and freshly ground flour. The scent of cooking fills the air; meanwhile, the village elders tidy the ancestral hall, arrange the offerings, and cleanse their abodes…"
His voice trailed into a gentle lull as vivid images of his distant home swirled before him—families united under the warm glow of shared meals, children laughing and chasing each other, and the simple beauty of a quiet village where life moved in harmony with the seasons.
In the glow of the brilliant full moon, the terrace was hushed save for the delicate murmur of the breeze. A young couple sat together by the edge, their eyes lifted to the moon as they exchanged soft words. The moon, seeming to cocoon them in its silvery halo, made the night feel timeless, a delicate interlude where mortal joys and sorrows were laid bare.
Before he knew it, Li Yan found himself with tears streaming down his face. For a long time he gazed out into the distance, lost in bittersweet recollections. At last, he withdrew his gaze and raised his eyes to the massive full moon, which seemed so near it might be plucked from the sky. In its pearly luminescence, familiar faces appeared—echoes of loved ones from long ago. Wiping away his tears, he rose, straightened his robes, and knelt in respectful prayer. Softly, he murmured, "Father, Mother, Happy New… New Year," and kowtowed several times in heartfelt homage.
Just as he was about to stand, a gentle but somewhat hesitant voice spoke from behind him, "Tell me… do you mortals truly have a custom called the 'Year-End Festival'?"
Startled, Li Yan sprang to his feet and whirled around. "Who's there?" he demanded.
Turning, he beheld a slender young woman in flowing white standing at the edge of the terrace. Her look was hesitant and uncertain. "Is it you?" Li Yan asked, his tone tinged with reproach at his own exposed emotions.
Moonlight cascaded over the terrace, and in its radiant glow Li Yan instantly recognized the woman. It was Zhao Min—the same senior sister he had seen months ago, now appearing quiet yet enigmatic. She stood on the fringe of the bamboo grove from which she had entered the terrace, the soft white of her garment billowing about her. Under the silver radiance, her alabaster face shone with an almost sacred light, and her eyes—firm and clear—held a cool intensity as they regarded him.
"Tell me," she asked coolly, "have you truly experienced the mortal Year-End Festival in its fullness?"
Li Yan hesitated for a moment, troubled by her blunt inquiry. "In our world, the festival is indeed celebrated," he replied slowly. "But I haven't been far enough to witness its full splendor. I've heard from villagers that it is a grand occasion: the clamor of firecrackers, the gleam of offerings arranged beneath the old willow, children running about in joyous uproar, and families gathering first for ancestral rites and then for a feast. In our village, the chief raises his bowl with every man, and every child receives a hearty pat to wish them well. At night, families huddle beneath the old willow beneath the watchful eye of the moon, until daybreak."
Zhao Min's silvery features revealed a trace of disdain as she said, "But in the sect, aside from cultivation, there is no room for such human sentiment. Tell me, then—can you explain to me the nature of these mortal festivities?"
Li Yan's heart pounded; he knew that such words might be deemed irreverent if uttered in the halls of the sect. Still, he gathered courage and continued: "In the mortal world there is as much joy as there is sorrow. My hometown lies at the very foot of the Great Qing Mountains, far away from here—a small village with only a few dozen families, embraced by ancient terraces. At the village entrance, a venerable old willow stands dignified. When the festival arrives, every household begins preparing its grandest feast at first light. Children delight in playing in the narrow lanes of their home, while the women gather all manner of ingredients—beast meat preserved with care and fragrant flour—to craft sumptuous dishes. The aroma of culinary labors fills every breeze; at the same time, the village elders diligently cleanse the ancestral hall and arrange the offerings for the gods. These simple moments, woven into the fabric of everyday life, create a tapestry of both happiness and quiet sorrow—a celebration of life's enduring spirit."
The soft night hummed with the sound of a gentle breeze as the two young souls sat in quiet companionship on the terrace, each lost in their own memories. The enormous moon seemed to encompass them in its luminous embrace, lending an almost unearthly quality to the moment. Occasionally, as the maiden would ask softly, Li Yan would laboriously recount to her the simple charms of mortal life—the routines and rituals passed down through generations.
At long last, as the night deepened, Li Yan's words slowed, and the memories of his distant home filled him with both longing and a renewed sense of purpose. In that luminous glow, the faces of his family and friends emerged against the backdrop of a timeless moon, their presence a salve on his wandering heart.