I am a yaokai, born on the snowy December day atop Mount Fulong.

  Which year it was, I no longer remember—was it seven hundred years ago? A thousand years? Perhaps even earlier.

  Before I took my human form, every winter and summer, people of various ages, with different intentions, would make their way up Fulong Mountain, some alone, some with families, climbing day and night, undeterred by the passage of time. Their faces, all different in expression, would slowly ascend to the peak, where the mountain touched the sky.

  The sweat of their devotion fell into my eyes; the screams of those who fell from the cliffs echoed in my ears.

  Standing tall at the peak, overlooking the fortunate ones who crawled at my feet, I accepted their worship with ease, allowing them to tremble and tie multicolored silk threads around my body.

  For every wish, there was a thread.

  These people regard me as a god, stubbornly believing that I can grant them all the protection they desire. For centuries, they have disregarded the fact that this is a roadless peak, ignored the countless white bones at the base of the mountain, and paid no mind to the poisonous thorns that cover the cliffs. They willingly risk their lives, dispying infinite devotion—devotion to me.

  But I am not a god, and I cannot fulfill any of their wishes.

  The seven-colored halo around me is merely to attract ignorant birds and small beasts in the night to feed me, but it has been mistakenly interpreted as the Buddhist light, a divine miracle that blesses the world.

  What an enormous misunderstanding; it truly is a fault.

  But it's not my fault; it's humanity's own naive wishes and their habit of hearing only what they want to hear.

  So, I couldn't be bothered to crify. As a yaokai, being worshipped like a god is a feeling I don't reject—in fact, I rather enjoy it. Besides, observing faces completely different from my own and listening to all sorts of strange wishes is far more interesting than spending my days in silence with motionless rocks and pnts.

  Yes, my time is boring, and my life is lonely. The peak of Fulong Mountain is my entire world. Apart from here, I cannot go anywhere. I spend hundreds of years looking at the same scenery: sunrises and sunsets, winds blowing and stopping, flowers blooming and wilting. No day is particurly special.

  Every time I watch the humans leave, satisfied, I always imagine what it would be like for me to one day walk away just like them, taking light steps.

  The world below the mountain has always been my longing.

  However, I cannot leave here, not even a single step.

  Because I am a tree yaokai.

  My life is rooted deep beneath the hard earth, intertwining with rocks and soil, expanding and growing stronger with each passing day and year. I know very well that, without the earth, a tree has only one fate.

  To live, one cannot have freedom.

  This is the fate of being a tree yaokai—somewhat absurd, somewhat cruel.

  However, I have gradually gotten used to this motionless life. Compared to those of my kind who quietly fade away in inconspicuous corners, I might be considered fortunate.

  Because I bear the halo of a "god," thanks to it, I can still possess some hypocritical happiness and some unrealistic fantasies.

  It's something to be grateful for, isn't it?

  In truth, there is a way to change this fate—it's simply a matter of cultivating a human form, which would allow me to break free from my true self and move freely.

  I've known this method for a very long time. However, for me, this “method” is nothing but a fantasy. With my shallow cultivation, I'd probably turn to dust before I could reach adulthood, fading away completely.

  Nothing in life can st forever, not even a fairy. Whether a thousand years or ten thousand, there will always be a day of demise. It's the same principle as human life—from birth to death—the only difference is one is short and the other long.

  There is no immortal being, nor is there an immortal yaokai.

  A tree yaokai, yet it longs for freedom.

  In the stillness of a stagnant life, fantasy and despair coexist.

  However, when I clung to the resigned thought of dying at Floating Peak, my life of self-deception and deception of others ended without any warning on a hot summer night...