The Immortal Who Lived Like a Rogue

Zhuo Hua was a god—at least by title—but he lived nothing like one.

In this world, there were four paths to immortality.
The first: those born as celestial beings, immortal by nature and needing no cultivation.
The second: beasts and fishes, creatures who must endure millennia of hardship to gain a shred of divine essence.
The third: mortals of flesh and bone—humans who could, through relentless cultivation, transcend their limits and ascend to the heavens.
And the fourth: lifeless things—ink and brush, jade and parchment, skin and clay—soulless objects that somehow stumbled upon enlightenment.
These rare beings were known as Object Immortals, or Wu Xian, and they walked the hardest road of all.

Zhuo Hua was one such immortal.

To be precise, he had once been a piece of wood—the last surviving fragment of the Heavenly Ancient Tree. That tree had stood since chaos first split into heaven and earth, a relic from before time itself. But as the eons passed, the realms shifted, the six paths of existence clashed, and wars between gods tore the skies apart—until even that divine tree was shattered into dust.

One day, the God of Southern Lanterns passed over the Boundless Sea and discovered a lone piece of that ancient wood adrift among the waves. On a whim, he plucked it from the water, carved and polished it into a seven-stringed qin, and named it Zhuo Hua.

That qin—its body of sacred wood, its tone resonant and sorrowful—was Zhuo Hua’s original form. And from it, his spirit awakened. Over time, he grew sentient, learned to take shape, and eventually earned the rank of a low immortal.

Yet unlike most Object Immortals, who tended to be withdrawn, stoic, or even gloomy—like Lady Jade Comb, who had been a hairpiece and now barely spoke—Zhuo Hua was far too lively for his own good.

Perhaps it was the sap of chaos still pulsing through his veins, but he was born nosy—impossibly curious, eternally restless. He meddled in affairs that weren’t his, gossiped about things far above his station, and often descended to the mortal world just to watch the dramas of men unfold.

When his old friend Qin An descended to the human realm for his tribulation, Zhuo Hua couldn’t resist tagging along. Of course, the celestial rules were strict: no one was allowed to interfere with another immortal’s trial, nor alter the threads of fate. So each time Zhuo Hua visited Qin An, he changed his appearance—sometimes a scholar, sometimes a wandering merchant, sometimes a fortune-teller in the marketplace selling handwritten tales of heroes and ghosts.

This was one of those days.

He had eaten too much soup for lunch, and to ease his fullness decided to take a stroll among the clouds. As he drifted lazily over the borders of Yingzhong, a burst of human shouting caught his ear.

Normally, such mortal squabbles were beneath him. But Zhuo Hua’s hearing was sharp, and his curiosity sharper still. He couldn’t help but overhear:

“Are you here to rob us? Oh, that’s wonderful! …”

He froze mid-air.
A robbery? And someone’s happy about it?

He leaned closer, spiritual sight piercing the clouds. Below, a band of rough mountain brigands surrounded a little girl—filthy, ragged, and smiling up at them like a fool.

How delightful.

“Interesting bandits,” Zhuo Hua mused. “And a far more interesting child.”

He’d roamed the mortal world hundreds of times, but never encountered such amusing characters. Without a second thought, he flicked his sleeve, sent a gust of wind swirling down the mountain, and—whoosh—snatched the girl up like a kitten, tucking her neatly under his arm.

With Hai Qing wedged under one arm, Zhuo Hua soared skyward.
The sea of clouds churned beneath them, golden light spilling across the horizon like molten glass. It was a magnificent view—though wasted entirely on Hai Qing, who had her eyes screwed shut, too terrified to look.

When they reached a tall mountain peak, Zhuo Hua halted mid-air. Below them fluttered banners and wooden palisades—clearly the bandits’ lair.

Hai Qing tugged his sleeve anxiously. “Zhuo Hua, quick! My friend’s still down there—save her!”

He pointed lazily down the winding path. “Seems someone’s already doing that for me.”

Hai Qing rubbed her eyes and squinted. Indeed, a squad of soldiers in blue armor had stormed the stronghold. At their head was a slender young man whose face she recognized instantly.

“Gu Yi Shizi!” she gasped.

Zhuo Hua arched a brow. “Ah? You know him?”

Hai Qing’s cheeks puffed with anger. “Of course I do! He’s the one who sent my father twelve concubines! He’s the reason I ran away from the palace!”

Zhuo Hua’s eyes lit with interest. “Twelve concubines? Truly? What a generous fellow! Since you know him, perhaps you could introduce me. I wouldn’t mind if he sent me two or three wives as well.”

Hai Qing stomped her foot. “You’re impossible!”

While they spoke, Gu Yi and his men had already vanished into the bandits’ cave. Half a stick of incense later, they emerged—not with prisoners, but with a single small, trembling creature clutched in Gu Yi’s hands.

“My Tangyuan!” Hai Qing cried. “So that’s it! Tangyuan’s real master is him!” Her face twisted in outrage, then confusion. “Wait—did he come here to save Tangyuan, not Sister Qiao Qiao?”

She turned frantically to Zhuo Hua and grabbed his sleeve. “What do we do, Zhuo Hua-gege?!”

Zhuo Hua’s spiritual gaze swept the scene below, seeing every detail with perfect clarity. “Well,” he said mildly, “even if he came for the mouse, he’s still doing the world a favor by wiping out a nest of thieves. A small good deed, wouldn’t you say?”

Sure enough, the blue-armored guards soon marched down the mountain, leading a long line of bound bandits. They were trussed hand to hand, foot to foot, waddling like a string of quails.

But among those quails, there was no sign of Qiao Qiao.

Hai Qing sighed. “Then… maybe she escaped.”

Zhuo Hua noted her downcast eyes and offered, “You said you hate this Gu Yi fellow, didn’t you? Want me to teach him a lesson? Just a small one.”

Her eyes brightened instantly.

He summoned his seven-stringed qin, its body gleaming faintly gold. “This tune is called Illusions of Moon and Mirror. It reveals the truest thoughts within the heart. Before its music, no secret can hide.”

Hai Qing clapped her hands over her ears.

The first two notes sliced through the air like blades. A nearby tree toppled cleanly in half. More sonic blades followed, fluttering like butterflies, spiraling down toward Gu Yi’s position.

Hai Qing peeked through her fingers—and gawked.

Gu Yi, who moments ago had been standing proud and elegant, suddenly froze, went pale, and then collapsed to his knees. He scrambled forward, stopped before a large rock, and began to weep hysterically.

Tears streamed down his face as he threw himself upon the stone, muttering words too low to hear. Then, in a fit of passion, he flipped the rock over, clutched it tenderly to his chest… and kissed it.

The soldiers around him stared, horrified and speechless.

The final note faded into silence. Zhuo Hua plucked the last string and dismissed the qin with a wave. “Seems your Gu Yi has quite the affection for your friend,” he observed dryly.

Hai Qing blinked, still staring at the absurd scene. “But… but—”

“No buts.” Zhuo Hua looked toward the horizon. “Your friend may not be there, but judging from that man’s feelings, he’ll find her sooner or later—even if he has to tear heaven and earth apart. You needn’t worry.”

Hai Qing sighed. “Alright…”

Zhuo Hua stretched and yawned. “Well, that’s one favor done. And thinking it over—raising you until you’re grown just to eat you later seems like a rather poor investment. Tell me, where’s your home? I’ll take you back. When you’re seventeen or eighteen, I’ll come for you again.”

Hai Qing pouted. “You’re lying. You won’t come back.”

Zhuo Hua blinked. She wasn’t wrong.

In the heavens, one day equaled a year below. If he happened to drink himself into a stupor for a few months, this little girl would long since be dust by the time he woke.

Hai Qing tugged at his sleeve, voice small but firm. “Then take me with you. Please?”

He hesitated. “But—”

“No buts.” She buried her face against his waist, her tone soft as silk. “I don’t eat much, I won’t cause trouble. When you’re tired, I can massage your shoulders; when you play your qin, I’ll pour your tea and fan you. Just think of me as a pet—a companion to keep you company. Please?”

Her lashes fluttered against his robe, trembling like tiny wings.

A breeze lifted around them, carrying the scent of mountain flowers. Hai Qing opened her eyes to find herself once more above the sea of clouds, safely wedged under his arm.

Overhead came his quiet laugh, low and amused.

“In that case,” he said, “I suppose bringing you along won’t hurt.”