The trial had commenced. Mo Yan and his disciples sat with eyes closed, shrouded in an unspoken aura of glory and reverence. Around them, white feathers began to circulate in a rhythmic pilgrimage, as if assisting their souls in finding absolute tranquility.

  Suddenly, a shift occurred. While Mo Yan and his disciples were immersed in their internal energy cultivation, the five peach blossoms atop the goddess’s head closed in unison and then bloomed once more with renewed brilliance. A single white feather slid from the goddess’s brow, dancing elegantly through the air before landing upon Mo Yan’s head. It drifted down his silken hair and came to rest in his lap. At that moment, the feathered deity offered a faint, ethereal smile; the soul of Qasiong had recognized the profound depths of Mo Yan’s heart the moment he took his first step.

  A gentle breeze stirred. From behind the floral carvings etched into the ancient walls, countless petals swept in, spiraling around Mo Yan in a shimmering cocoon of light, nourishing his soul. A similar grace enveloped each of his disciples.

  Miles away, in his own quarters, Duie returned to find a white pigeon perched inside it had entered through the open window. As Duie opened the door, the bird took flight with a sudden, frantic flapping of wings, soaring right over his head. The force of its takeoff scattered white feathers throughout the room, some of them drifting down onto Duie himself.

  Duie stood paralyzed with bewilderment. First the peach petals, and now this pigeon? He muttered to himself, "What was that bird doing here? Never mind... it’s time to clean my sword."

  But as he sat at his desk, a careless movement caused his robes to catch on a nearby inkstone. In an instant, black ink spilled, drenching his clothes. He stared at the mess, his face falling at his own negligence. He stepped outside, heading toward the water to clean the stains. On his way, he encountered an elderly servant woman. She noticed his ruined attire and called out to him.

  "Young Master... I see ink has stained your robes. This requires a specific touch to remove. If you don't mind, let me clean them for you. In the meantime, you may wear the clothes I have made."

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  Duie paused, listening to her. He looked at his ruined robes and then at the heavy snow falling outside. After a moment of hesitation, he followed her to a small, humble room filled with various white garments she had crafted. she took down a beautiful set and handed it to Duie. When their eyes met, Duie noticed how bright and kind her gaze was.

  "I have been making these for a long time," she said softly, "but no one buys them. Everyone wants royal finery; no one desires my simple handiwork. But you may have these, my son. They cost nothing."

  The moment she uttered the words "my son," Duie’s composure shattered. His eyes welled with tears, and his breath became heavy with emotion. In a voice trembling with a sob, he asked, "Did you... did you call me 'son,' Grandmother?"

  The old woman turned, walked to him, and gently wiped the tears from his cheeks. With a warm, weathered smile, she said, "Yes, my son. If my grandson were alive today, he would be exactly your age. Are you hungry, child? I have some roasted peanuts."

  Duie’s heart felt as though it were weeping tears of its own. He sat beside her, but she nudged him gently, "Go, put on the clothes first."

  As Duie changed, the silken touch of the fabric felt like a familiar embrace. Every stitch seemed to tell a story of belonging. The fine embroidery and the delicate white ornaments made him feel as though these clothes had been crafted by his own mother.

  When he emerged, the grandmother looked at him with shining eyes. She approached him, straightening his robes with tender care. "You look beautiful," she whispered. "Here, take these peanuts."

  She pressed a small paper packet into his hand and took his stained clothes to wash. For Duie, this sense of belonging was like finally completing a broken family. A smile touched his face, but then he realized his sword was missing from the changing area. He rushed back, but his old sword was gone. In its place lay a magnificent white sword that matched his new attire perfectly. Beside it was a note: "A gift for you, my son."

  As his hand closed around the hilt, a shiver raced through his veins. Tears blurred his vision as he pressed the sword to his chest. His heart, feeling the warmth of maternal love for the first time, wanted to wail with joy and sorrow. When he finally stepped out, his entire being his very soul looked transformed.

  Days turned into weeks. Every day, Duie visited the grandmother, eating with her and soaking in the motherly love she poured upon him.

  Meanwhile, back in the temple, Mo Yan and Su Nian remained in deep meditation. The white feathers continued their playful assault on the disciples, trying every trick to break their concentration. Yet, through it all, Mo Yan sat like a frozen lake unmoving, eyes sealed, and breath steady ascending into the profound depths of the 111-day silence.