Dream Ghost

The darkness didn't disappear; it was "torn apart." Like a piece of jet-black velvet being ripped open from the middle, the edges of the crack weren't straight, but jagged, each tooth gleaming—a silvery-white light, like the fibers of the World Tree's bark. Light poured in from the crack, not illuminating the darkness, but "replacing" it. Darkness became light, and light became space.

Lin Ye stood in a place he had never seen before.

The ground was transparent, like a thick layer of ice, beneath which something was slowly flowing. Not water, but "light." Silvery-white, golden, and deep blue light flowed side by side like three rivers of different colors, undisturbed and never merging. He crouched down, stretched out his hand, and pressed it to the ground. The transparent ground was cool, not icy, but the coolness of a late autumn morning, carrying a faint, almost imperceptible warmth. His senses extended through the ground, following those rivers of light. The light flowed, but not aimlessly; it circled. Circle after circle, like the rings of a tree. Three circles. Three circles of light, three thousand years.

The first ring is silvery-white, closest to the ground. The second ring is golden, a bit deeper. The third ring is deep blue, the deepest, almost bottomless. Beyond these three rings, there is another ring. It's not light, it's "emptiness." No color, no temperature, no regular structure. That's the fourth ring, the growth rings yet to form. The door opens there.

Lin Ye stood up and looked around. The space was vast, with no visible boundaries. The ground was transparent, and so was the ceiling—no, the ceiling wasn't the ground, it was the "sky." The sky wasn't blue, but silvery-white, like an infinitely extending mirror reflecting the light from the ground. Between heaven and earth, there was no air, no wind, no sound. Absolute silence. Not quiet, but "silence." Quiet has sound but isn't heard; silence is the complete absence of sound. Lin Ye could hear his own heartbeat, but the heartbeat wasn't sound, it was "vibration." The vibration traveled from his chest cavity to his bones, and from his bones to the air. But the air didn't transmit the vibration, because there was no air. The heartbeat he heard was the sound transmitted through his own bones.

He took a step. No footsteps were heard, but he felt the vibration of his feet hitting the ground. The vibration traveled from his feet to his knees, from his knees to his spine, and from his spine to his skull. He heard his own footsteps within his own bones. Thump, thump, thump. Like someone beating a drum in the distance.

Su Wanning's silver thread trembled slightly on his wrist. It wasn't a vibration, but a "signal." She had asked him from outside: "Are you alright?" Lin Ye tapped the thread three times with his finger, meaning: "I'm fine." This was the secret code they had agreed upon before he left—one tap meant "danger," two taps meant "wait for me," and three taps meant "safe." Three taps meant he was safe. At least safe for now.

He continued walking. Beneath his transparent feet, a river of light slowly circled. The first silvery-white circle flowed beneath his feet, and he felt its warmth—warm, like a sun-baked stone slab. The second golden circle was deeper, warmer, like freshly baked bread. The third deep blue circle was the darkest, warmest, like asphalt at midday on a summer day. The further he went, the hotter it became. The hotter it was, the closer he got to the core.

Where is the core? In the fourth ring. The fourth ring has no light, no temperature, nothing at all. But it will grow within today. When the door opens, the fourth ring will appear. The moment it appears, the core will be exposed. Dreamweaver is waiting for that moment. Lin Ye is also waiting.

He walked for about ten minutes, and the color of the ground changed. Transparent became translucent, then opaque. The ground beneath his feet was no longer ice, but "stone." Black stone, smooth, like pebbles washed countless times by water. Engraved on the stone were words—not regular symbols, but characters. The words written by the first generation of Night's Watch, not with a pen, but with "rules." Each word was embedded in the stone, not carved in, but "grown" in. Like the rings of a tree, the strokes of the characters were also circular, circle after circle, without beginning or end. Lin Ye crouched down and read the words.

"I'll be waiting for you here."

It was exactly the same inscription that Qiuye had carved into the crack in the World Tree's bark. It wasn't Qiuye who copied the First Watch; it was the First Watch who copied Qiuye. When Qiuye carved those words, the tree hadn't yet been peeled away. The First Watch saw those words, remembered them, and later carved them here. Here, where the fourth growth ring would appear. He was waiting. Waiting for Qiuye, waiting for the door to open, waiting for someone who could read those words.

Lin Ye stood up and continued walking. The words beneath his feet multiplied, becoming denser and denser, transforming from a few sparse lines into a dense mass. Each word read, "I'm waiting for you here," in different fonts, sizes, and depths. The first Night Watchman had carved it countless times, again and again, as if practicing, as if praying. He was afraid he would forget, afraid no one would come when the door opened, afraid Qiu Ye would wake up and not find him. So he carved it countless times, etching each word into the stone, into the rings of the tree, into time itself.

Lin Ye stopped. He stood in the center of the densely packed "I'm waiting for you here," his feet resting on countless repeated promises. Three thousand years, one man, carving words here. No tools, no assistants, no audience. Only himself, and his regret. Lin Ye crouched down, reached out, and pressed his hand against the words. The stone was cool, his palm warm. Coolness met warmth, the words didn't change, but he felt it—not the temperature, but the "carving marks." Every stroke was forceful, every word was written with all his might. When the first Night Watchman carved these words, his hand trembled, not from fear, but from "thinking." Thinking of Qiu Ye, thinking of his daughter, thinking of all the time he could never return to. He carved "thinking" into the stone, into the rings of time, into every "I'm waiting for you here."

Lin Ye stood up and continued walking forward.

He walked for a long time, so long that his legs began to ache, so long that Su Wanning's silver thread trembled again—she was asking him, "Are you alright?" He knocked three times. "I'm fine." The words beneath his feet finally thinned out, from densely packed to sparse, from sparse to an occasional line, from an occasional line to blank. The stone was still black and smooth, but there were no more words. He had arrived.

He stood where the fourth ring of the tree was about to appear. Not round, not elliptical, it was "shapeless." The fourth ring hadn't yet grown, so it had no shape. But it would grow within this day, growing shape, growing light, growing warmth. The moment it grew, the door would open completely. The place he stood now was the place he would stand after the door opened. It wasn't his choice; it was chosen by the first generation of the Night's Watch three thousand years ago. When the first generation of the Night's Watch carved those words, they weren't practicing, they weren't praying, they were "locating." They carved the words here not so that people could read them, but so that people could find them. The words were signposts, and the signposts pointed here. This was where the door would open.

Lin Ye stood there, motionless. His senses stretched to their limits, scanning every inch of the surrounding space. There were no members of the Dream Weavers, no Qiu Ye, no first-generation Night Watchmen. Only him, and the fourth ring of his life about to grow. He waited.

He waited a long time. So long that his heart rate dropped from 72 beats per minute to 60, then to 50, then to 40. His body was entering a dormant state, because waiting didn't require energy. But his consciousness wasn't dormant; it was operating at high speed, like a computer on standby, the screen black, but the background programs running.

Su Wanning's silver thread trembled again. She didn't ask, "Are you alright?" She asked, "What are you waiting for?" Lin Ye tapped seven characters on the thread with his finger—"Waiting for the fourth growth ring to appear." The thread trembled twice, meaning "Understood." She didn't ask any more questions. She waited outside, waiting with him.

The black stone beneath his feet began to change. Not crack, but "grow." Tiny, silvery-white fibers sprouted from the stone's surface, like plant roots, emerging one by one from the stone. The fibers were incredibly fine, finer than a human hair, yet incredibly bright, like burning filaments. They spread, intertwined, and wove across the stone, like weaving a net. The net grew larger and denser, expanding from a small patch beneath his feet to a vast expanse around him. Silvery-white light seeped from the fibers, illuminating the black stone, illuminating Lin Ye's face, illuminating the entire space.

The fourth growth ring is on.

Lin Ye crouched down, gazing at the fibers. What they wove on the stone wasn't a net, but "rules." Rules written three thousand years ago by the first Night's Watch—"Three thousand years later, the door will open." The rules were written three thousand years ago, but they needed time to take effect. The time came, and the rules activated. The fibers were the embodiment of the rules; each fiber was a sub-rule, and countless sub-rules woven together formed a door. The door wasn't an object, but a "process." The door opening wasn't a door being pushed open, but a process being completed. This process required time. Three thousand years was the time of this process. Now, the time had come.

Lin Ye stood up and took a step back. Fibers wove before him into the shape of a door—not a rectangle, but a circle, like tree rings. The doorframe was silvery-white, the door panel transparent. Through the panel, he saw what lay beyond. Not darkness, not emptiness, but "another space." In that space stood a tree, not tall, only reaching his waist. The tree was silvery-white, its trunk thin, its branches few, and its leaves only a handful. But it was no ordinary tree; it was the "seed" of the World Tree. Not the seed in his blood, but the true seed. The World Tree had grown from this seed, taking three thousand years to become a towering giant. But the seed remained, at the heart of the tree, deep within the tree rings, in the space behind the door. The seed hadn't sprouted; it had been waiting. Waiting for the door to open, waiting for someone to come, waiting for the last drop of water.

Lin Ye reached out and placed his hand on the door. The door was cool, not icy, but the kind of cool that comes from a stone that has been submerged in a river for a long time, its surface water wiped dry, but still cool inside. His palm pressed against the door, feeling the temperature behind it—the temperature of the seed, cool, even cooler than the door. But inside the seed was a heart, beating. Slowly, steadily, like a bronze bell being struck. The sound of the bell traveled through the door, through his palm, through his arm, and to his heart. Two hearts, beating at the same frequency.

The door opened. Not by pushing it open, but because "the time had come." The door panel split open from the center, not shattered, but melted. The transparent panel melted like ice, turning into silvery-white light that merged into the surrounding fibers. The woven fiber frame remained, but the panel vanished. The door was fully open.

Lin Ye took a step and entered the space behind the door.

The space was small, barely enough for one person. But "small" wasn't physically small, it was small in terms of "rules." The seed's rule was "small," so it was small. If he rewrote the rules—making "small" "large"—the space would expand infinitely. He didn't rewrite them. He stood in that tiny space, before the small, silvery-white tree. The tree was short, only reaching his waist. The trunk was thin, like a finger. It had only three branches, each bearing a few silvery-white, transparent leaves, like ice sculptures. At the tree's root, there was a drop of water. Not dew, not rain, but a "tear." Transparent, cool, like a pearl sunk to the bottom of the sea. The tear of the first Night's Watchman. When he peeled away the autumn leaves, his tear fell onto the seed. The seed absorbed the tear, hiding it at its root, where it remained for three thousand years.

Lin Ye crouched down, reached out, and pressed his hand against the base of the seed. His palm touched the teardrop; the tear was cool, his palm warm. Cool met warm, and the tear began to melt, not into water, but into "light." Silvery-white light surged up from the base, along the trunk, along the branches, along the leaves, all the way upward. The light stopped at the tip of the leaf. The leaf lit up, the whole tree lit up, the entire space lit up. The seed had sprouted.

It's not about growing into a giant tree, it's about "completion." For three thousand years, the seed waited for this tear. The tear was the last drop of water; when the water arrived, the seed sprouted. It's not about growing a new tree, it's about "completing what it was meant to do." The World Tree has grown up; the seed no longer needs to sprout. It wasn't waiting for sprouting, it was waiting for "the end." The end of three thousand years of waiting, the end of three thousand years of loneliness, the end of three thousand years of "I'm here waiting for you."

The seed's light slowly dimmed. From bright white to silvery white, from silvery white to grayish white, from grayish white to transparent. The tree was disappearing, not withering, but "finishing." The trunk faded, the branches faded, the leaves faded. Finally, only a single tear remained. The tear floated in the void, silvery white, like a tiny star.

Lin Ye stretched out his hand, and the tear fell into his palm, alongside the transparent veins of the autumn leaf, the deep purple mark, and Su Wanning's silver thread. Four things, in his right hand. Four pieces of history, in his palm.

The space began to tremble. Not an earthquake, but a "closing." The door was closing. The door had been open for three thousand years; now it was time to close. Lin Ye turned and stepped out. The doorframe closed behind him, and the woven fiber panel reappeared, its transparency turning to translucency, then to opacity. The door was closed.

He stood on the fourth ring of the tree. The silvery-white fibers beneath his feet had woven into a sheet of light, so bright it was like a mirror. His face was reflected in the mirror—not his present face, but the face of his "future." He was old, with more wrinkles, and his hair was white. But his eyes hadn't aged; they were still bright, still the same. The person in the mirror smiled at him, then vanished. The fourth ring of the tree had grown.

Lin Ye looked down at his right palm. Four things: a deep purple crescent moon eye mark, the transparent teardrop pattern of autumn leaves, Su Wanning's silver threads, and the tears of the first generation of Night Watchmen. Four things, four colors, four pieces of history. They shone quietly in his palm, none vying for the light of the others.

Su Wanning's silver thread trembled slightly. This time, she didn't ask "Are you alright?" She asked, "What did you get?" Lin Ye tapped four words on the thread with his finger: "The thing behind the door." The thread trembled twice, meaning "I understand." She didn't ask any more questions. She waited for him to return outside.

Lin Ye turned and walked back the way he came. The fourth ring of the tree beneath his feet was glowing, its bright silvery light illuminating the entire space as if it were daytime. His shadow, cast on the light, was short, like a tiny black dot. He walked slowly, not because he was tired, but because he wanted to remember this place. The fourth ring, a ring that only grows once every three thousand years. He might be the only one standing on it. Perhaps the last.

He walked for a long time until he saw the crack. Silvery-white fibers curled at the crack's edge, like paper burned by fire. Outside the crack was the bark of the World Tree, a silvery-white snowfield. He stepped out of the crack and stood on the snowfield. The crack behind him slowly closed, the fibers re-woven together, like a wound healing. The door was completely shut. Not locked, but "completed." The door had fulfilled its purpose and no longer needed to exist.

Lin Ye stood on the bark of the World Tree, the blue light of the teleportation array shining in front of him like a lamp lit on a snowfield. He walked over and stepped into the blue light.

The feeling of falling. Darkness. The sound of wind. And then—landing.

He opened his eyes and stood in the center of the teleportation array on the third basement floor of the association headquarters. Su Wanning stood at the edge of the rune array, the silver thread on her wrist still there. She looked at him, her eyes shining. Not with tears, but with the light of "you're back."

Lin Ye stepped out of the teleportation array, reached out, and grasped Su Wanning's hand. Her hand was cool, his was warm. In the blue light of the teleportation array, the two temperatures clashed and remained inseparable.

"You're back," Su Wanning said.

"I'm back."

What's behind the door?

"A seed. A tear. An end that has been awaited for three thousand years."

Su Wanning looked at him, without asking, "Is it worth it?" She didn't need to ask. His presence alone was the answer.