O Renascimento de Xiangliu

When Xiang Liu fell in battle, he was still thinking of his beloved. He knew she hated him, and as he slowly collapsed, he held the only tear she had ever left him. Once, Xiang Liu had been clad in white, his robes fluttering, as pristine and luminous as a full moon. In this final moment, his blood had stained those robes crimson. Yet, the corners of his mouth turned upward; he knew his beloved now had the strength to protect herself, someone to rely on, and a place to call home. At last, he was free of all attachments. His body dissolved into toxic water, leaving the earth barren for ten thousand feet around. Only the ice-blade, shaped like a full moon, remained standing where he had fallen. The cold light emanating from its edge seemed to weep for him; it alone kept watch over the place where he lay. Maoqiu circled high above, wailing in sorrow, unwilling to depart. In an instant, a torrential downpour began, as if the heavens themselves were grieving his passing. From then on, whenever he looked at the mountains, it was her; at the sea, it was her; at the moon, it was her; at the snow, it was her. In the bow, it was her; in the archer, it was her; in the depths of the sea, it was her; in the vast sky, it was her. In the dance, it was her; at the roasted meat stall, it was her; at the rouge shop, it was her; in the brewing of poisons, it was her; in the drinking of wine, it was her; in the eating of meat, it was her. Everywhere he turned, there was her, yet nowhere he looked could he find her.