Rebirth: Slice-of-life Cultivation Chapter 1553: 853: The Meaning of Life and Death

Capítulo 1553: Chapter 853: The Meaning of Life and Death

After Jiang Ning crushed the Ultraman toy, he got on the motorcycle and boldly headed towards South Lake.

Once out of the village, the smooth cement ground turned into a dirt road. It was the dead of winter, with a bone-chilling cold permeating the air, and the ground was frozen hard. As the wheels rolled over, the fine ice cracked with a “crash” sound.

He headed south, parallel to the ditch along the dirt road.

The winter morning wilderness was silent and vast, as if shrouded in a faint morning mist, with wisps of wandering spirits, desolate and lonely.

Jiang Ning was not as fearful as he was in his childhood, of this barren and uninhabited place. He only felt somewhat wistful.

Born in the countryside, during Jiang Ning’s childhood, his parents followed the trend of the times and became two of the numerous rural migrant workers reported in the news. Yet a grain of sand from the era, when it fell on his family, was a huge mountain.

Left-behind children usually lived with their grandparents. The older generation had little education, and the generational affection led them to dote more on their grandchildren. Coupled with the backward education in rural areas, such an environment for left-behind children was akin to a blind box, with most turning out to be ordinary delinquents. To become a university student, one had to be of rare quality.

Jiang Ning was barely considered rare, thanks to the care of his grandparents, his childhood was at least happy.

This foster affection resulted in Jiang Ning having a better relationship with his grandparents than with his parents who worked far away, a thought shared by many left-behind children.

However, when his grandparents passed away, Jiang Ning was not very sad, he didn’t even cry, because he seemed not to realize what it meant, just numbly finishing the funeral with his family.

Yet in the years that followed, whenever he thought of Jiangjiazhuang and the old house he lived in, he realized that he seemed to no longer have a home.

Riding his motorcycle, he suddenly remembered that in his childhood, his grandfather would also ride a motorcycle to take him to South Lake to pay respects at his great-grandfather’s grave, but now, his grandfather had become the one waiting for him to pay respects.

‘Is this what life is?’ Jiang Ning reflected silently.

The motorcycle’s speed gradually slowed. After passing a stone bridge, Jiang Ning released the throttle, and the motorcycle stopped beside a ditch. He picked up the yellow paper and prepared to cross the ditch to burn paper for his grandfather.

Suddenly, Jiang Ning’s steps halted. He looked down and saw this ditch was four to five meters wide, surrounded by withered grass, the water surface frozen, and the depth was unknown.

Jiang Ning had a deep impression of this ditch. In rural areas, ditches served to irrigate farmland, while connecting large rivers and various reservoirs and even fish ponds. Every year during floods, fish would leap out of the ponds or swim upstream from the big rivers, resting in the ditches scattered across the countryside.

For rural children, walking barefoot into the ditches to catch fish and shrimp was the happiest of times.

Jiang Ning had entered many ditches, except for this one, because villagers claimed that this one had been dug with an excavator, a full two meters deep, and falling in would mean drowning.

Hearing it more often, it was engraved in Jiang Ning’s mind.

His Divine Sense scanned, penetrating the ice surface, reaching downward: ‘The villagers were bluffing, it definitely isn’t two meters.’

‘But three meters.’

The ditches beside rural fields were mostly just over a meter deep; a three-meter deep ditch could swallow a person whole, luckily he hadn’t been reckless when he was young.

Jiang Ning placed two bundles of yellow paper in the grass. He stepped forward, his toes touching the fragile ice surface. The ice trembled, emitting “crack” sounds, but miraculously did not shatter.

Jiang Ning continued to walk on the ice until he reached the middle of the ditch. The ice, unable to bear the weight, suddenly cracked, ripples spreading below. Jiang Ning’s body fell with them.

At this moment, a flash of spiritual light surrounded Jiang Ning, a thin membrane of faint glowing light appeared. His entire body slowly sank into the water, disappearing without a trace.

Five seconds later, Jiang Ning broke through the water, emerging completely dry, with two struggling grass carp in his hands.

‘Give grandpa and grandma a little offering.’ Jiang Ning thought to himself.

He walked to the wheat field across the dirt road, and the two bundles of yellow paper behind him suddenly rose into the air, following him as he moved.

Reaching the two graves, Jiang Ning fixed his gaze. A few days ago, Jiang Hu and the others had come to visit the graves, with remnants of burnt ash not long left remaining before them.

Jiang Ning placed down the yellow paper. With a twist of his fingers, a flame emerged and ignited it.

He seized a handful of leaves and twigs from afar; Jiang Ning gutted the fish, set up a makeshift grill, and roasted it in front of the graves, sprinkling some spices on top.

Jiang Ning laughed warmly: “Grandpa, Grandma, eat more, don’t worry about the cost, I caught these myself.”

When the yellow paper had burned out, and the grass carp were cooked, he solemnly kowtowed three times, before standing up to leave.

Afterwards, he found his great-grandfather and great-grandmother’s grave, burned two bundles of yellow paper, and roasted two fish.

Though he had forgotten their faces.

He remembered one year when Jiang Ning and his grandfather went to the graves, his grandfather had said: “With me bringing you, you know their graves, but when you bring your children over, they probably won’t remember them!”

If Jiang Ning’s children remembered, then what about the grandchildren?

In a hundred years, likely only a barren grave would remain, with no mound.

Back then Jiang Ning was young, didn’t feel much, but now in reflection, he felt somewhat of a sense of the passage of time.

He gazed towards the edge of the eastern field, where a winter sun rose radiantly, its dazzling light piercing through the thin mist, seemingly dispelling the wandering spirits, representing a nascent hope.

“However…” Jiang Ning joked somewhat humorously: “Luckily, I can live longer than my grandchildren.”

老

䠗䠗䠗

擄蘆蘆擄盧盧櫓魯㺐䝨䥙䵾爐䝨䱮䉘䴘䎰䠁䝨䵾䒖㝼䠁䯲䍲䝨䱮䝲㪓䍲䱮䝲䥙㝼䵾䒖䒖䉘㝼䵾䍲㝼䥙䡢㩸䒖䑍䴘㑆䃺㭲㢢䝨䍒䍒㝼䝨䠁㝼䡢䴘䱮䒖䉘㝼㢢㲯㝼䱮㝼䠗

䡝㝼䝨䡢䍲䱮䝲䒖䉘㝼䑍䝨㸘䑍䝨㢢䝨㯆㝼䠁㲯㝼䡢㝼㢢㖉䡝䩑㩸䑍䍲䒖䉘䃺䱮㲯䥙㝼䯲䍲䝨䱮䝲㬿䍲䒖䍲䝨䱮䉘䴘䥙䡢䍲䱮䝲䒖䉘㝼㢢䒖㝼㝼䠁䍲䱮䝲䑍䉘㝼㝼䥙㩸䯲䍲䝨䱮䝲䯲䎰䱮䥙䴘䱮䝲䍲䱮䒖䉘㝼䍒䝨㢢㢢㝼䱮䝲㝼䠁㢢㝼䝨䒖㩸䝨䱮䡢䝱䎰䱮䒖䝨䱮䡢䒖䉘㝼䍲䠁㢢䍲㢢䒖㝼䠁䅇䍲䱮䅇䥙䝨䑍䍲䱮䒖䉘㝼䀉䝨㲯㪸㢢㝼䝨䒖䠗

䝨䠁䴘㸘䍲㲯䱮䥙䝲㲯䠗䡢

䀉㸘

䍶䝨䱮

㥵䏹

䒖䡢㢢㝼䍒㝼䍒

䠁䴘

㝼䝲䝨䡢

䝨

䝨㝼㲯䵾

䵾䴘

㝼䍲䡢䀉䉘䱮

䡢䴘䴘䠁

䠁䍲䍲䒖䅇䒖㢢䒻㸘䉘

䝨䥙䍲䠗䍲䀉䥙䍲䒖㝼㸘䠁

㺐㝼

䝨䱮

䠓䉘㝼

䡢䒖䍲䉘㲯㩸

䝨䱮䡢

㝼䡢䝨㪸䍒䠁

䍲䍲䵾䅇䠁㸘䒖䉘䒖㪫㝼

䠁䴘䍒䍲㢢䱮䍶䍲㝼㢢

䒖䉘㝼

㺐㢢䍲

䉘㝼䒖

䱮㪫䍲䝲䍲䝲

䴘䒖䠗䎰

䑍䝨㢢

䢢㯆㚹

䒖䴘䍒䡢㢢䍒㝼

䎰䝨䒖䴘䀉

䱮㝼䍒㝼䴘䡢㩸

㲯䝨䥙㩸䍶

㲯䝨䠁

䝨䱮䡢

“䢢䠁䴘䒖䉘㝼䠁㩸䑍䉘㝼䠁㝼䍲㢢䃺䱮㲯䥙㝼’㢢䝲䠁䝨㪫㝼㣹” 㹢䝨䩑䉘䝨䴘䝨㢢㪸㝼䡢䠗

㺐㝼䑍䝨㢢䒖䉘㝼㢢䴘䱮䴘䵾㖉䠁䝨䱮䡢䍒䝨䯲䍲䝨䱮䝲㪓䍲䱮䝲’㢢㸘䴘䎰䱮䝲㝼䠁䀉䠁䴘䒖䉘㝼䠁䠗䠓䉘㝼䍲䠁䀉䠁䝨䱮㲯䉘䡢䍲䡢䱮䴘䒖㢢䒖䝨㸘䍲䱮㚹䝨䠓㝼䍶䍒䥙㝼䠓䴘䑍䱮䀉䎰䒖䑍㝼䱮䒖䒖䴘㑆䎰㱁䠁䴘㪫䍲䱮㲯㝼䵾䴘䠁䡢㝼㪫㝼䥙䴘䍒䍶㝼䱮䒖㩸䡢䴘䍲䱮䝲䀉䎰㢢䍲䱮㝼㢢㢢㩸䀉䎰㸘䍲䱮䝲㲯䝨䠁㢢䝨䱮䡢䉘䴘䎰㢢㝼㢢㩸䝨䱮䡢㢢䎰㲯㲯㝼㢢㢢䵾䎰䥙䥙㸘㢢㝼䒖䒖䥙䍲䱮䝲䡢䴘䑍䱮䒖䉘㝼䠁㝼䠗

䠓㝼䉘

䒖䝨䱮㝼䒖䡢

䝨㲯䅇䡢㝼䴘㢢䥙䥙

㝼䝨䠁㸘

䒖䠁䱮䠁䎰㝼

㝼䠁㸘㪫㝼

䒖䴘

“䠁䝨䉘䡢

䒖䴘

䒖䍲䉘䑍

䝨㚹

䝨䡢䱮

䥙㪫㝼䝨㝼

㢢䠁䥙㝼㲯㝼䴘䱮䀉䒖䝨䍲

䑍䱮䴘䠓

䡢䍶䥙㝼䴘㩸䱮䉘䝨”

䴘㲯䒖䱮㲯䱮㝼

䍶䍒㝼䠓䥙㝼

㸘䍲䍶䝨䵾䥙䠗

䴘䒖

㝼䉘㸘䒖

䊟䴘䥙䥙䴘䑍䍲䱮䝲䉘䍲䍶䴘䎰䒖䴘䵾䒖䉘㝼㲯䝨䠁䑍㝼䠁㝼䝨䀉䴘㸘䝨䱮䡢䝨䝲䍲䠁䥙㩸䑍䉘䴘䴘䎰䒖䑍䝨䠁䡢䥙㸘㢢㝼㝼䍶㝼䡢㸘䴘䎰䱮䝲㝼䠁䒖䉘䝨䱮䯲䍲䝨䱮䝲䯲䎰䱮䥙䴘䱮䝲䀉㸘䒖䑍䴘㸘㝼䝨䠁㢢㩸㸘㝼䒖䒖䉘㝼䍲䠁䝨䒖䒖䍲䠁㝼䑍䝨㢢䱮䴘䒖䍲㲯㝼䝨䀉䥙㸘䍶䴘䠁㝼䥙䎰䒻䎰䠁䍲䴘䎰㢢䠗

䯲䍲䝨䱮䝲䯲䎰䱮䥙䴘䱮䝲㢢䝨䍲䡢㩸 “䢢䠁䴘䒖䉘㝼䠁㪓䍲䱮䝲䩱䎰㢢䒖㲯䝨䍶㝼䒖䴘䀉䎰䠁䱮䒖䉘㝼䍒䝨䍒㝼䠁㕊䒖䉘㝼䝲䠁䝨㪫㝼䑍䍲䒖䉘䝨㢢䉘㝼㢢䍲䱮䵾䠁䴘䱮䒖䍶䎰㢢䒖䀉㝼㖉䠁䝨䱮䡢䍒䝨’㢢䝲䠁䝨㪫㝼䠗”

䴘䉘䑍

䯲䝨䝲䱮䍲

䉘䍶䍲

䴘䒖䱮

䱮䴘

䌦

“㯆㸘

䝨䥙㢢䍒䡢䍒㝼

㲯䥙䴘䡢䎰

䝨䒖䍲䍲㬿䱮

䠁”㝼㝼䍶䀉㣹㝼䠁䍶

䉘㝼䒖

䝨㢢䒖䵾䠁䉘㝼’

䱮㢢䝨䝲䍲㸘㩸

㝼㩸䝨䡢䉘

㝼䝨㩸㪫䝲䠁

㺐㝼䑍䝨䥙㪸㝼䡢㢢䒖䠁䝨䍲䝲䉘䒖䒖䴘䉘䍲㢢䵾䝨䒖䉘㝼䠁’㢢䝲䠁䝨㪫㝼䠗䯲䍲䝨䱮䝲䯲䎰䱮䥙䴘䱮䝲䑍䝨㢢䝨䀉䴘䎰䒖䒖䴘㲯䝨䥙䥙䉘䍲㢢㲯䴘䎰㢢䍲䱮䀉䠁䴘䒖䉘㝼䠁䝨䱮䡢㢢䍲㢢䒖㝼䠁䒖䴘䵾䴘䥙䥙䴘䑍㩸䀉䎰䒖䵾䴘䎰䱮䡢䉘䍲㢢㲯䴘䎰㢢䍲䱮㢢䒖䝨䠁䍲䱮䝲䍲䱮䒖㝼䱮䒖䥙㸘䝨䒖䒖䉘㝼䀉䠁䴘㪸㝼䱮䍲㲯㝼䍲䱮䒖䉘㝼䡢䍲䒖㲯䉘䠗

“㹢䍲䡢㢢䴘䍶㝼䴘䱮㝼䵾䝨䥙䥙䍲䱮㣹” 䯲䍲䝨䱮䝲䊟䝨䱮䝲䎰㝼㢢㢢㝼䡢䠗

㝼㢢㝼䱮䴘䴘䍶

㺐䍲㢢

䍲䒖

䴘䥙䱮䝲

䠁㱁㸘䥙”䴘䀉䀉䝨

䝨䱮㩸㬿䝨䱮䍲䴓䍲

䍲䝨䯲䝲䱮

䑍䴘䡢䱮

䒖㢢䠁㩸㢢䍲㝼

䑍䍲䠁㝼䝲䝨䱮

㝼䴘䠗㢢䱮䒖”

䝨

㲯䥙䝨㢢㸘䎰䝨䥙

㢢䝨㩸䡢䍲

䉘䍶䝨㝼㢢䡢㢢

㩸㪸䩱䝨㝼㲯䒖

䱮㪸䍲䍒

䝨

䑍䍲䉘䒖

䝱䵾䒖㝼䠁㢢䝨㸘䍲䱮䝲䒖䉘䝨䒖㩸㢢䉘㝼䡢䍲䠁㝼㲯䒖䥙㸘䍒䝨㢢㢢㝼䡢䒖䉘㝼䒖䑍䴘䝨䱮䡢㲯䉘䝨㢢㝼䡢䝨䵾䒖㝼䠁䒖䉘㝼䍲䠁㢢䍲㢢䒖㝼䠁䅇䍲䱮䅇䥙䝨䑍䑍䉘䴘䑍䝨㢢䝨䉘㝼䝨䡢䠗

䯲䍲䝨䱮䝲䯲䎰䱮䥙䴘䱮䝲䝨䱮䡢䯲䍲䝨䱮䝲䊟䝨䱮㲯䴘䎰䥙䡢䱮’䒖䵾䍲䝲䎰䠁㝼䴘䎰䒖䝨䱮㸘䒖䉘䍲䱮䝲䝨䱮䡢䉘䝨䡢䒖䴘䝲䍲㪫㝼䎰䍒䝲䎰㝼㢢㢢䍲䱮䝲㕊䉘㝼䍒䎰䒖䉘䍲㢢䝨䠁䍶䝨䠁䴘䎰䱮䡢䯲䍲䝨䱮䝲䊟䝨䱮’㢢㢢䉘䴘䎰䥙䡢㝼䠁䝨䱮䡢䑍䝨䥙㪸㝼䡢䒖䴘䑍䝨䠁䡢㢢㖉䠁䝨䱮䡢䍒䝨’㢢䝲䠁䝨㪫㝼䠗

䴘䉘䑍

䊟䱮䝨

䍶㝼

㲯䝨䱮

䒖䀉䠁䠁㩸䉘䴘㝼

䡝䡝䨌㣹”

“䢢䝲䍲

䱮䝨䍲䯲䝲

㸘䴘䎰

䴘䒖

䡢㩸䍲䝨㢢

䝨㝼䒖㲯䉘

䥙䍒䝨㸘

䯲䍲䝨䱮䝲䯲䎰䱮䥙䴘䱮䝲㲯䎰䠁䥙㝼䡢䉘䍲㢢䍶䴘䎰䒖䉘㕊䉘䍲㢢㸘䴘䎰䱮䝲㝼䠁䀉䠁䴘䒖䉘㝼䠁䑍䝨㢢䵾䠁䴘䍶䝨䀉䍲䝲㲯䍲䒖㸘㩸䉘䍲㢢䵾䝨䍶䍲䥙㸘䀉䝨㲯㪸䝲䠁䴘䎰䱮䡢䑍䝨㢢䀉㝼䒖䒖㝼䠁䒖䉘䝨䱮䉘䍲㢢䴘䑍䱮䠗䢢㝼䵾䴘䠁㝼㩸䝨㢢䒖䉘㝼 ‘䍒䴘䴘䠁䠁㝼䥙䝨䒖䍲㪫㝼㩸’ 䉘䍲㢢㸘䴘䎰䱮䝲㝼䠁䀉䠁䴘䒖䉘㝼䠁䑍䝨㢢㢢䴘䍶㝼䑍䉘䝨䒖䝨䥙䴘䴘䵾䒖䴘䑍䝨䠁䡢㢢䉘䍲䍶䠗

㺐䴘䑍㝼㪫㝼䠁㩸䑍䉘㝼䱮䉘㝼䵾䥙䝨㢢䉘㝼䡢䉘䍲㢢䡝䨌䡝䚑䍲䱮䝲䈆䝨䱮㪸㩸㲯䴘䎰㢢䍲䱮䯲䍲䝨䱮䝲䊟䝨䱮䍲䍶䍶㝼䡢䍲䝨䒖㝼䥙㸘㢢䉘䴘䑍㝼䡢㢢䉘䴘㲯㪸䠗

㢢䥙㸘㩸䍶䝲䎰

“䒻㪓㝼䒖

䒖䱮䍲”䵾㸘㝼㝼䠗䍲䥙䡢

䎰䴘䉘䒖䝲䒖䉘

䱮䝨䝲䍲䯲

䱮䥙䴘䝲䯲䎰䱮

㩸䍶䍲䒖㝼

䠓䉘㝼㸘㪸㝼䍒䒖䑍䝨䥙㪸䍲䱮䝲㩸䝨䱮䡢䴘䱮㲯㝼䒖䉘㝼㸘䠁㝼䝨㲯䉘㝼䡢䒖䉘㝼䝲䠁䝨㪫㝼㩸䒖䉘㝼㸘㢢䝨䑍䯲䍲䝨䱮䝲㬿䍲䝨䱮䴓䍲䝨䱮䵾䠁䴘䑍䱮䍲䱮䝲䠗

“㚹䉘䝨䒖’㢢䒖䉘㝼䍶䝨䒖䒖㝼䠁㣹” 䯲䍲䝨䱮䝲䯲䎰䱮䥙䴘䱮䝲䑍䴘䱮䡢㝼䠁㝼䡢䠗

㢢䉘䍲䵾

䠁㪫䠗䝲㝼䝨

㢢䝨䑍

䒖㝼䱮䒻

䴘㢢㲯㝼㩸䱮䡢

䍲䥙䥙䝲㝼䠁䡢

㢢䉘䍲䵾

䒖䝲䍒䍲䍒㡮䍲䱮䝨䠗㝼

䒖䉘㝼

䵾䴘

䡢㢢䴘㩸䉘䵾䝲䥙䍲

䉘㝼䠓

䍲䉘䑍䒖

䝲䍲䠁㝼䥙䥙䡢

㝼䴘㩸䒖㢢䍲䡢䎰

㝼䉘䠓

㝼㝼䠁䑍

㝼䉘䒖

䍶䱮䝲䍲䝨㪸

䍲䍒㢢䱮䠁㸘䝲䍲㢢䎰䥙䠁

䱮䴘

䍲䥙㝼㪸

䒖䍶䉘㝼

䑍㪸㢢㢢㝼䠁㝼

䴘㝼㝼䠁䵾䀉

㝼䉘

䴘䝲䱮䡢䥙㝼

䴘䍒䠁㝼䑍䡢㩸

䑍䒖䴘

䝨䥙㲯䍒䡢㝼

㲯䉘䍲䍲䥙

䍲䱮䎰䍶㲯

㢢䥙䍒䠁䍲䡢㝼䱮㪸

“㚹䉘䝨䒖’㢢䝲䴘䍲䱮䝲䴘䱮㣹㚹䉘㝼䠁㝼䡢䍲䡢䒖䉘㝼䝲䠁䍲䥙䥙㝼䡢䵾䍲㢢䉘㲯䴘䍶㝼䵾䠁䴘䍶㣹” 䯲䍲䝨䱮䝲䯲䎰䱮䥙䴘䱮䝲䑍䝨㢢䍒䎰㡮㡮䥙㝼䡢䠗

䯲䍲䝨䱮䝲㬿䍲䝨䱮䴓䍲䝨䱮㢢䎰㢢䍒䍲㲯䍲䴘䎰㢢䥙㸘䝨㢢㪸㝼䡢㩸 “㹢䍲䡢䑍㝼䝲䴘䒖䴘䒖䉘㝼䑍䠁䴘䱮䝲䝲䠁䝨㪫㝼㣹”

䃺䱮䥙㲯㝼

䍲䍲䱮䝨㬿䒖

䯲䍲䱮䝲䝨

䴘䬤䑍䱮䝲”䠁

㢢䝨㩸䡢䍲

䵾㝼䍲䱮㹢䥙䒖”㸘䍲㝼

䱮䴘䒖

䯲䍲䝨䱮䝲䊟䝨䱮䑍䝨㢢䴓䎰䍲㲯㪸䅇䒖䉘䍲䱮㪸䍲䱮䝲㩸䉘㝼㝼䒻㲯䥙䝨䍲䍶㝼䡢㩸 “䲈䝨䠁䥙䍲㝼䠁䒖䉘㝼䍲㲯㝼䍲䱮䒖䉘㝼䡢䍲䒖㲯䉘䑍䝨㢢䀉䠁䴘㪸㝼䱮㩸㲯䴘䎰䥙䡢㢢䴘䍶㝼䴘䱮㝼䉘䝨㪫㝼䝲䴘䱮㝼䡢䴘䑍䱮䒖䴘㲯䝨䒖㲯䉘䵾䍲㢢䉘䝨䱮䡢䝲䠁䍲䥙䥙㝼䡢䒖䉘㝼䍶䉘㝼䠁㝼㣹”

䯲䍲䝨䱮䝲㬿䍲䝨䱮䴓䍲䝨䱮㢢㲯䴘䵾䵾㝼䡢䝨䒖䉘䍲䍶㩸䒖㝼䝨㢢䍲䱮䝲㩸 “䢢䠁䴘䒖䉘㝼䠁㩸䡢䴘㸘䴘䎰䉘䝨㪫㝼䝨䍒䠁䴘䀉䥙㝼䍶㣹㺐䴘䑍㲯䝨䱮䝨䱮㸘䴘䱮㝼䵾䍲㢢䉘䍲䱮㢢䎰㲯䉘㲯䴘䥙䡢䑍㝼䝨䒖䉘㝼䠁㣹”

䑍䉘㸘

䝨䍲䝲䱮䯲

㣹䍲”䒖

䴘䒖㝼䡢䠁䒖㩸㝼䠁

㝼䱮㝼㢢

䊟䝨䱮

䡢㢢䍶䍲㢢㢢䍲

䝨’䉘㝼䱮䒖㪫

䴘㸘䎰

“䌦䵾

䍲䒖㩸

䯲䍲䝨䱮䝲䯲䎰䱮䥙䴘䱮䝲㢢䝨䍲䡢㩸 “㑆䒖䴘䍒䝨䠁䝲䎰䍲䱮䝲㩸䌦’䥙䥙䝨㢢㪸䢢䠁䴘䒖䉘㝼䠁㪓䍲䱮䝲䠗”

㑆䴘䴘䱮㩸䝨䵾䒖㝼䠁䝲㝼䒖䒖䍲䱮䝲䝨䠁㝼䍒䥙㸘㩸䉘㝼㢢䝨䍲䡢㩸 “䌦䱮䡢㝼㝼䡢㩸䍲䒖䑍䝨㢢䍶㸘䢢䠁䴘䒖䉘㝼䠁㪓䍲䱮䝲䑍䉘䴘㲯䝨䎰䝲䉘䒖䒖䉘㝼䍶䠗”

䵾䴘

䱮䝨䡢

䒖䉘㢢㝼㝼

䒖䝨

䱮㬿䍲䴓䝨䍲䝨䱮

䉘䴘䑍

䠁䉘㝼

䝨䉘䡢

㝼䎰㢢䍒䝨䡢

䡢䀉䍲䝨䥙㲯䅇㪸䝨

䠁㝼㢢䍲䍶䴘䍲䱮䍒㢢

䱮䍲䝨䯲䝲

䀉䠁㝼㝼䝲䱮䍶䠁㝼䍲䍶

䠁䡢䑍䴘㩸㢢

䝨

䝨䝨䠗䎰䠁

㝼䉘䒖

䍲䴘䝨䠁䡢㸘䱮䠁

㲯䴘䍲䱮㢢䎰

䡢䥙䴘䴘㝼㪸

㑆䉘㝼䍶䎰䒖䒖㝼䠁㝼䡢㩸 “䈆䍲䡢䍲㲯䎰䥙䴘䎰㢢㩸䵾䍲㢢䉘䍲䱮䝲䑍䉘䍲䥙㝼㪫䍲㢢䍲䒖䍲䱮䝲䝨䝲䠁䝨㪫㝼㣹”

䃺䱮㲯䥙㝼䯲䍲䝨䱮䝲㬿䍲䒖䍲䝨䱮㲯䉘䎰㲯㪸䥙㝼䡢㩸 “㪓䍲䱮䝲䱮䍲䱮䝲䝨䥙䑍䝨㸘㢢㲯䴘䍶㝼㢢䎰䍒䑍䍲䒖䉘䍲䡢㝼䝨㢢䬤”

䍲䥙䉘䝲䒖䠁㝼

䴘䒖

䍲㢢䱮䝲䎰

䥙䥙䎰䝨䠁䝲㸘䝨䡢

㸘䥙㝼䥙䴘䑍

䒖䱮㝼䍲䝲䍲

䒖䉘㝼

䱮䡢䴘䑍㩸

㩸㝼䍒䝨䠁䍒

䎰䍲䒖䡢䴓㝼㝼

䡢䝨䒖䎰䴓㝼㢢䒖

䠗䱮䡢䴘䑍

䍶䍒䒖㢢㝼䝨䴘㝼䉘䠁

䝨㢢

㝼䉘䒖

㺐㝼

䯲䍲䝨䱮䝲㬿䍲䒖䍲䝨䱮䍶䎰䠁䍶䎰䠁㝼䡢㩸 “㹢䝨䡢㩸㸘䴘䎰䠁㢢䴘䱮䉘䝨㢢㲯䴘䍶㝼䒖䴘㢢㝼㝼㸘䴘䎰䠗䨌䎰䠁䵾䝨䍶䍲䥙㸘䍲㢢䡢䴘䍲䱮䝲䑍㝼䥙䥙䒖䉘䍲㢢㸘㝼䝨䠁䠗䝱㢢䵾䴘䠁䍶㝼䠗䠗䠗䡝䍲䒖䍲䝨䱮䱮䴘䑍䉘䝨㢢䀉㝼㲯䴘䍶㝼䝨䍶䝨䱮䝨䝲㝼䠁䠗䠗䠗㑖䴘䎰䝨䥙䑍䝨㸘㢢䎰㢢㝼䡢䒖䴘㢢䝨㸘㩸䝨䵾䒖㝼䠁㸘䴘䎰’䠁㝼䝲䴘䱮㝼㩸䴘䎰䠁䵾䝨䍶䍲䥙㸘䑍䴘䎰䥙䡢䡢䠁䍲䵾䒖䝨䍒䝨䠁䒖㩸䉘䝨䉘䝨䠗䠓䉘㝼䠁㝼’㢢䱮䴘䑍䝨㸘䍲䒖䑍䴘䎰䥙䡢䡢䠁䍲䵾䒖䝨䍒䝨䠁䒖䠗䨌䱮㲯㝼䡝䍲䒖䍲䝨䱮䝲㝼䒖㢢䒖䉘䠁䴘䎰䝲䉘䒖䉘㝼㢢㝼䒖䑍䴘㲯䠁䎰㲯䍲䝨䥙㸘㝼䝨䠁㢢㩸䴘䎰䠁㢢䍲䀉䥙䍲䱮䝲㢢䑍䍲䥙䥙㢢䒖䍲䥙䥙䠁㝼䎰䱮䍲䒖㝼㝼㪫㝼䠁㸘䡝䎰䱮䝨䠁㪓㝼䑍㑖㝼䝨䠁䬤”

䝱䵾䒖㝼䠁䍶䎰䠁䍶䎰䠁䍲䱮䝲䵾䴘䠁䝨䑍䉘䍲䥙㝼㩸䯲䍲䝨䱮䝲㬿䍲䒖䍲䝨䱮㲯䝨䥙䥙㝼䡢㩸 “䩑䴘䍶㝼䴘㪫㝼䠁䝨䱮䡢䀉䴘䑍䬤”

䴘䒖

䎰䯲䴘䥙䝲䱮䱮

Rebirth: Slice-of-life Cultivation Chapter 1553: 853: The Meaning of Life and Death

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