Starting from the beginning.

How can you be certain that your worldview is correct? How can you prove that everything you have experienced is devoid of meaning?

Existentialism, skepticism, the definition of meaning.

I do not know if it was destiny or something else, but from a young age, religious beliefs were always present around me. From conversations with my family, I learned that when I was saved, my aunt went to a temple and brought back a deity to worship. I cannot recall the specifics, and it is likely gone by now.

I grew up in Beijing. I had a small group of friends I was close with, so I remember them quite clearly, though I only recall the names of two.

The memories that remain clear are few. I played with girls quite often. I vaguely remember one girl who was very gentle; she was in the same grade as me but would always yield to me. I believe I was in kindergarten then. Her family ran a supermarket, and they sold a type of bread that was delicious; we both loved it. I remember one time, she, her mother, and I went out. On the way back, she was hungry and wanted bread. I saw it and wanted some too—I was a pure foodie back then. When she wouldn't give me any, I pretended to squat on the ground and cry. She gave me the bread. Squatting to cry was something I had learned from that very girl. I ate that bread with such delight. So many years have passed; although I don't remember her face, she must have been beautiful. Later, I moved away. I cannot guarantee that I will never meet her again, so I cannot say that our connection has reached its end.

I moved to a new place when I was in first grade. My father was having a meal with some friends, and I was just standing there, lost in thought, when three boys rushed in from outside, wanting me to play with them. I was bewildered. Because my father and his friends often called me "Little Wan," they adopted the nickname as well. This set the stage for our future parting. One of them was short, named Li Zhengxuan, whose family owned a supermarket. Another was tall and dark-skinned, named Jia Lihao. There was a third one whose name I have forgotten; I only remember his family ran a barbershop and he was quite handsome—let’s just call him "Little Handsome" for now.

We went from strangers to good friends, playing together for over a year. Many things happened during that time.

We didn't have mobile phones back then; our entertainment was either running wild or playing with mud—the kind we’d dig out from piles of sand. We would shape it into things. Later, spinning tops became popular, and we begged our families to buy us one. It happened to be Children's Day, and the malls were filled with toys, with spinning tops being the best-sellers. I told my parents I wanted one, and they agreed to buy it for the holiday. After waiting a while, they bought it for me, but I watched as the children around me had them bought for them without a moment's hesitation. In that instant, I realized that there are gaps between people.

We played happily with the toys. My family opened a restaurant, and business was booming; people would line up at our door in the morning waiting for us to open. I was obedient, helping when things were busy and playing when there was downtime. During this brief period, our lives were stable.

Good times did not last. I had to go to school, and due to registration issues, my father sent me to a martial arts school. Its name was the "Beijing Fangshan Shaolin Martial Arts School"—my alma mater. The school was massive, with many people and comprehensive facilities; it even had a movie theater. It was incredible. On the first day, we were assigned to dorms and classes. As luck would have it, I was placed in the most comfortable class. Our martial arts instructor was Coach Jing, who was very gentle. Our homeroom teacher looked like a recent college graduate—he still had acne, wore glasses, and was tall and thin. He was good-looking.

My dorm was on the ground floor. The girls' dorm was on the other side, separated by the distance of a staircase. We could even hear the girls' voices when we went to the restroom because the boys' and girls' bathrooms shared the same wall. We got to know each other, curiously looking around this unfamiliar place. The first day was just for class assignments and introductions. At night, the coach led us to the training field, and we played until class was over. We returned to the dorm to wash up, drink water, and chat. At nine o'clock sharp, the lights-out bell rang. There were older boys in our dorm; I was in first grade, and they were in third. Whenever they teased me, I would pretend to be homesick and cry loudly, and then they would coax me to sleep.

At five in the morning, we were met with our first training session. Watching everyone hurriedly put on their clothes and fold their quilts, I couldn't help but feel nervous and quickened my pace. I stood in line with my team, waiting for orders. Once everyone was gathered, we began training. We started with running, then stopped after a while. I don't remember what we did after that. After training, it was breakfast time—rice, potato slices, and such. I ate the potato slices once and never touched them again. First, because I heard others say they were bad, and second, because I ate until I vomited and got a nosebleed. That was it; for two years I didn't eat potato slices. It is a case of "once bitten, twice shy."

The academic lessons were nothing special—learning characters, basic math, and so on. At five in the afternoon, we finished our academic day and were greeted by the miserable martial arts training. We received two pieces of news: the good news was that night training wasn't tiring; the bad news was that doing the splits was excruciating. My goodness, the wailing was like ghosts howling. After doing the splits, I felt as if I had become a eunuch; my legs seemed to move independently when I walked. We had to press our legs, lifting them higher than our heads. It actually worked—I could do the splits—and later, doing the splits became a form of rest for me.

The next day, the first speechless event of my life occurred. After morning training and during the break from class, I was standing on the podium, bored, when I was forcibly kissed by a fat kid. The wretch even seemed to want more. His family was quite wealthy, and he brought xiaolongbao every morning. Because I loved them, I "sold" myself for a bite—I’d let him hug me in exchange for one. Even at such a young age, he began feeding me empty promises, and I actually believed him.

Days passed, and I met many friends. On a Wednesday night, I encountered my first bit of Buddhist knowledge, though I have forgotten most of it—mostly that one must do good deeds, or hell would be unbearable. I was terrified. But this wasn't even the beginning. They talked about past and future lives, about ghosts and gods, and I just listened silently. Soon after, I met my good friend; we played, chatted, and ate together every day.

Later, I met a new friend, a girl a year older than me. It felt like a recurring cycle. I was in second grade, she was in third. We didn't dare provoke her because she had a fiery temper. I nicknamed her "Book Cover." I thought she would beat me up, but to my surprise, that’s how we started playing together and became good friends. She was optimistic and quite pretty. Whenever we played games with others, we were always first. We were a duo for quite some time.

Sometimes I think of the first girl I played with. I haven't mentioned her yet; I want to talk about her separately. There isn't much to say. She was a girl I had known since first grade. Through a chance conversation, I learned we had attended the same kindergarten. Back then, I had even shouted at someone to protect her—how strange. She had started school early, but we still crossed paths. She was the first girl I ever liked. I enjoyed the feeling of being with her. Even though I was only in first grade, I knew what "liking" someone meant. We played and chatted about this and that. Once, she told me she had a birthmark on her stomach. She said shyly that she couldn't show me, or I would be a hooligan. I could only smile and say nothing. More than anything, I just wanted to watch her. She had big eyes, medium-length hair, and a voice as pleasant as a middle schooler's. I have never been able to forget her. Even at only second grade, she knew how to comfort people.

We didn't have summer breaks; we didn't experience the joy of holidays others talked about. All I had was endless training. One afternoon, she left. She was wearing a white gauze dress, and the sunlight fell upon her, making her look like a princess so beautiful that words could not describe it. When I carried her younger sister over to her, she said thank you—she said it with a smile. I blushed and dared not say anything, only daring to steal glances at her. I watched her receding figure, feeling something in my heart I couldn't articulate. I only remember she looked like a princess about to be married, wearing a white wedding dress, walking away in the sunlight until she vanished from my sight. After she left, the sky grew dark. I was slowly left alone. I don't know why no one played with me. Looking back now, perhaps if I were the person I am today, I would still fall for her, because she was just too beautiful. I cannot forget her voice, her face, or her personality.

I remember when I was in Hebei, I encountered some things. Not long after I arrived, the second house we lived in was a courtyard. There was no internet connection, the house was very old, and every bit of construction showed the traces of time. As I lay in bed at night, I heard faint footsteps. They weren't my father's; to be precise, they didn't sound human. They were very light, like tiptoeing. I was scared and hid under my quilt. Later, I heard my father say that the room used to be a grave, and there was a basement containing human bones. I told him about the footsteps. My father told me, "When you encounter something like that, just shout 'Get out!' with all your might. Make it feel your presence, your anger." I haven't had to use that method yet.

We moved to our third home, a small two-story Western-style building. The hallway there was pitch black and a bit eerie.