Chapter 75 The Blessing of the Luan Bird

After returning home, Qin Huai opened the illustrated entries again and clicked on the “Dreams” section within Chen Huihui’s entry.

Dreams: 0/0 (click to view text version)

After opening it, he found an extremely long text that couldn’t be scrolled to the end at once. Qin Huai skimmed the beginning and realized it was indeed the textual version of what he had seen in the dream—no visuals, but with very considerate written explanations.

Perhaps because Chen Huiniang had completely failed her tribulation and fully dissipated, Qin Huai couldn’t even view her memories.

The Luan bird—also known as Xuan Bird or Qing Bird—has multicolored patterns. Its appearance signifies peace across the world. It is the envoy of the Spring God and symbolizes auspiciousness and good fortune.

It is also what people traditionally associate with the phoenix.

As a divine bird, in some sense, the Luan bird’s reputation is much better than that of Bifang.

Unfortunately, Chen Huiniang was unlucky. When she underwent her first tribulation, the feudal dynasty had not yet ended. A beautiful woman traveling alone inevitably attracted not kindness, but malice.

“When granaries are full, people understand etiquette; when food and clothing are sufficient, they understand honor and shame.”

The naive Luan bird bestowed her blessings upon those in suffering, but what she received in return was far from goodwill.

Her rescuer reported her supernatural nature to a wealthy local family in exchange for a reward. The wealthy family had their servants capture her, imprison her in a cage, and treat her as a precious gift to be presented to a local official.

Layer by layer, the official sent her upward, and in the end, this “auspicious gift” reached the capital and was presented to powerful elites.

The elites did not want her blessings—they wanted immortality.

The Luan bird may be powerful, but she is an envoy of the Spring God, an embodiment of kindness and peace. Her power is used to give and to help, unlike Bifang, who could spew fire to burn enemies.

The elites flayed her skin, cut her flesh, drained her blood, and turned her into exquisite dishes and precious elixirs. Amidst clouds of smoke, laughter, and dreams of immortality, they consumed the Luan bird completely.

Chen Huiniang’s inner demon was simple—her obsession stemmed from hatred.

She hated that despite offering kindness to others, she received only endless pain and torment.

From then on, the Luan bird began reincarnating repeatedly.

She remained kind, remained weak, remained beautiful—but never received the kindness she sought.

She experienced natural disasters, man-made calamities, wealth, and poverty. She had been the daughter of a high official, a poor farmer’s child, the only daughter of a merchant family, and even the rebellious daughter of a rebel.

Through five cycles of reincarnation, she eventually became Chen Huiniang in her final life.

In this life, she was no longer beautiful, yet still did not live well.

She remained kind, but carefully wrapped her kindness away.

She remained intelligent, but made sure her intelligence was not too obvious.

Perhaps after forgetting everything, she had learned how to live as a human—but her essence was still that of a Luan bird.

As the envoy of the Spring God, a favored child of heaven, she encountered what could be considered heaven’s final lifeline.

On the verge of starving to death, she met Chen Huihong—someone who was experiencing being human for the first time, clumsy and confused, but fortunately lucky.

The bewildered Chen Huihong never realized that Huiniang was also a spirit. The two fled famine together—one secretly learning, the other secretly guarding suspicion. Eventually, they became roommates and lived a peaceful life together.

The six months they spent living in Beiping City were not the most luxurious period of Huiniang’s six lives—but they were the happiest.

Perhaps times had truly changed. In the same place where the once-powerful elites had devoured Huiniang, those elites had long since turned to dust. Huiniang, having forgotten everything, worked diligently at a girls’ school.

She still faced malice, contempt, disdain, and exploitation from others—but she also received kindness, care, and help she had never experienced before.

Students at the girls’ school sometimes noticed how thin and small she was and would give her a steamed bun they didn’t want to eat.

The owner of a small eatery remembered that she had long wanted to try braised pork head meat and would notify her when it was cheap so she wouldn’t miss the chance.

A pharmacy assistant remembered that she was the maid of a “mad lady,” remembered her name, and greeted her when she came to buy grain with her basket.

Chen Huihong would ask her every day before going out what she wanted to eat. Although Huiniang would answer “plain dark bread,” Chen Huihong never brought that—but she would bring candied hawthorn, sugar figurines, and honey date cakes, foods she believed were delicious.

Her obsession gradually faded, and her divine power slowly recovered.

Huiniang herself, however, never noticed.

Her true awakening came at the brink of death—at the moment Chen Huihong held her hand.

She had extended countless hands asking for help before. She had cried “help me” many times, asked countless “whys,” but never received a response—never even the slightest kindness when she needed it most.

At the moment Chen Huihong held her hand, she felt Chen Huihong’s guilt.

A deep, overwhelming guilt almost enveloped her.

She wanted to tell Chen Huihong: Sister, don’t be sad. You are the best person in this world to me. Even if you’re not human, you are still the best.

But she was dying.

Her consciousness began to scatter, her vision grew blurred, her body no longer obeyed her mind—but at the same time, something within her began to clear.

Half lucid, half muddled, she looked at Chen Huihong and called out:

“Mom.”

In her remaining memory, she had always tried to please her mother, because mothers were supposed to love their children unconditionally.

Perhaps she had simply been unlucky and never experienced such unconditional love. But the more it was absent, the more she longed for it. At the very end of her life, when her consciousness was fading, Huiniang sincerely wished Chen Huihong was her mother.

That way, she could tell herself: no matter how unfortunate life was, a mother’s love still existed.

Huiniang’s life was about to end.

She murmured, uttering the realization that her mother did not truly love her.

Chen Huiniang died—but the Luan bird awoke.

Having successfully passed her tribulation, the Luan bird saw Chen Huihong silently looking at Huiniang’s body. She quietly closed the window, laid Huiniang flat, wiped the blood from her face, and changed her into her own cotton-padded clothing—one without filling, but made of beautiful fabric.

She watched as Chen Huihong sat quietly in a chair, not even cracking sunflower seeds, waiting for the servant to deliver medicine and ask about Huiniang’s condition—only to calmly be told that she had already passed away.

The Luan bird understood: Chen Huihong had failed her tribulation.

She had awakened—but at the cost of Chen Huihong’s failure.

The Luan bird could not accept this.

She gave up the success that was within reach and used all her divine power to make a blessing for Chen Huihong.

In the life where Chen Huihong had the greatest chance of awakening—without any reincarnation, without any retained memories—they would meet again.

She did not know if she was the lifeline that could save Chen Huihong, but she hoped she was.

At the end of the text was the Luan bird’s own confession:

“Before my tribulation, my seniors always warned me that Luan birds could harm themselves through excessive kindness, and told me not to follow in the footsteps of those who failed.

I didn’t believe them—but perhaps they weren’t wrong.

But kindness is not wrong either.

Sister is not wrong either.

I cannot trade her dissipation for my own success in tribulation.

I cannot accept that.

Rather than being her younger sister or servant, I would rather be her daughter.

Perhaps I am not her lifeline—but a single lifeline is too inconspicuous. Since Sister is so muddled, two lifelines would be more noticeable.

I am Chen Huiniang, and I am also Chen Huihui.

Perhaps my mother will never know.

But I hope she can be happy.”

Qin Huai finished reading the entire text in silence and sniffed slightly.

After glancing at the time, he called Huang Xi to ask whether the cafeteria still had fresh chicken suitable for making chicken soup.

Isn’t it just chicken soup? Then cook it.

Isn’t it just heat control? Then practice.

He refused to believe he couldn’t make an A-grade chicken noodle soup.

He had the blessing of the Luan bird.

Time to work overtime.