Immortal Paladin

The bridge stretched nearly forever, suspended over a river no one could name. Mist clung to its planks, thick and slow, like breath held too long. People crossed in uneven trickles from soldiers with missing limbs, children with empty eyes, nobles who forgot their crowns, and beggars who still clutched their last coin. Each one paused in the middle, drawn not by chains or command, but by a quiet, irresistible presence.

She sat on a low, crooked stool, hunched like the weight of ages had folded her bones. Her silver hair flowed like cobwebs down her back, and her ragged robes, once divine vestments, now barely passed for beggar’s rags. Yet her eyes shimmered like starlight trapped in puddles of ink. This was Meng Po, ancient goddess of forgetfulness, tea server to the dead, and self-proclaimed most beautiful woman in the universe. The last part, she believed so firmly that the universe itself had stopped arguing.

“Come now, darling,” she cooed to a weeping old man, pressing a wooden bowl into his shaking hands. “One sip and all the regrets, all the shame, and all the mess... poof.” She made a vague flicking gesture, like banishing a fly. “Gone.”

The old man drank. She nodded in satisfaction and waved a gnarled hand. Without ceremony, the old man vanished and was sent to the Wheel of Reincarnation. A short life as a mayfly, perhaps. A fitting pace to balance the sluggishness of his previous one.

Life for Meng Po was beautifully simple. She brewed her soup, stirred her pot, existed in a dozen timelines simultaneously, and offered bowls of forgetfulness to the souls who came. Some called it tea, some soup, and some divine elixir. She honestly couldn’t remember what it was anymore. But it was warm, and it worked. And most importantly, it kept her out of the affairs of the “Supreme Idiots” who governed the Greater Universe like squabbling siblings hoarding toy kingdoms.

Her day was progressing smoothly, the queue as slow and steady as a funeral march, until she saw him.

A boy approached, no older than eighteen in appearance, though the way he walked was heavy, tired, and stubborn. It belonged to someone who had aged far too many times. Dark hair tousled by wind, eyes dimmed like he had been staring at loss too long, and a long red scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. He stopped before her.

Meng Po beamed. “Oh, cutie, want some tea?” She offered the wooden bowl with both hands.

The boy didn’t even look at it. Instead, he handed it to the next person in line, who accepted it wordlessly, drank, and vanished a second later.

She frowned. “I told Oxy and Horsey that there’s no cutting the line! Are you so eager to be reincarnated, you’re skipping ahead now?”

The boy sighed. “It’s me. Hei Mao.”

She blinked. A small twitch ran through her fingers, the kind of reflex that came before a memory tried to resurface. She snapped her fingers. “Ah! Hei Mao! So, are you ready to be reincarnated?”

“No.”

“So stubborn,” she muttered, reaching for her pot again.

Most who refused her soup were cursed to wander the bridge for eternity, unable to cross, and unable to leave. But Hei Mao was different. He hadn’t even come through the bridge. His arrival had been... complicated.

She remembered… or rather, vaguely pieced together… a memory from her routine maintenance of the Wheel of Reincarnation. Souls went in, spun through the cycle, and were reborn. But Hei Mao had been running against the current. Not metaphorically. The idiot was physically trying to sprint backward into the past. That wasn’t just irregular… it was impossible.

Naturally, she plucked him out.

“You’re lucky I found you before the system erased you,” she said, voice sharp as she ladled another bowl. “Do you even know where you were? The Void! The nothing-between-things! It’s the layer of inexistence where even thought forgets itself!”

Hei Mao rolled his eyes, clearly having heard the speech before. “You already said that... at least twelve times.”

“Little guy, I’m the goddess of forgetfulness. Of course, I forgot I already said it. Same goes for whatever promises I apparently made.”

“You promised,” Hei Mao said, gaze steady now, “that you’d help me return to the Hollowed World.”

She froze. Her hand hovered above the steaming pot. For a moment, even the bridge’s wind seemed to hold its breath.

“I can send you anywhere,” she said at last, voice low, “but not there. The Supreme Idiots will be furious. You know how many cycles I got scolded after they found out I slipped a piece of my soul into that world?”

“Then send me the same way you did back then,” he pressed, stubborn as granite.

Meng Po shook her head slowly. “I barely retrieved that piece before it disintegrated. They’ve layered it with wards, filters, and cosmic nonsense. Even I can’t sneak past it anymore.”

She took a long sip from the bowl meant for someone else and winced. “Too salty.” Then, as if nothing had happened, she turned to the person next in line… a radiant young man with features carved from marble and a smile rehearsed for seduction.

“Oh, cutie, want some soup? Hhmmm… That’s a nice scarf you got there…”

“Oh, come on!”

The young man with a red scarf stalked off in a huff, muttering curses about goddesses and bridges and soup with identity issues.

Meng Po sniffed. “What’s his problem? He should’ve had some of my soup... er... tea. Might’ve helped with his temper.”

The line never truly ended. It stretched into the mist like a thread of karma, always tugging more souls forward. Meng Po stood at her place in the middle of the bridge, hunched over a pot that had simmered since before memory itself. Steam curled around her weathered face as she stirred the broth with a bone ladle, its clinks marking the passage of forgetting. Her work had a certain rhythm: stir, ladle, offer, and release.

“Next,” she murmured, the word barely louder than the mist rolling over the river. ”To the next life you go...”

One by one, the dead approached. Each took the bowl in silence, drank, and vanished, burdens lost at the lip of her soup. No fuss. No fanfare. This was her domain, and this was peace. Then came hurried footsteps, too loud and alive. She glanced up.

A man was sprinting toward her, his emerald silk robes billowing behind him. He had the posture of a young master, the face of someone used to privilege, and the panting breath of someone very much not in control. He skidded to a halt, bent over, hands on knees.

“Huff… huff… Ah, lady, do you know where this is? I think I’m a bit lost…”

Meng Po blinked. Her cheeks warmed. It was a ridiculous response, but she let it be. Who wouldn’t blush at being called a lady at her age?

“Oh, sweetheart, you flatter me,” she said with a flutter in her voice. “Looks like you’ve had quite the run. How about some soup?”

The man straightened with a sheepish grin. “Thanks. I’m really thirsty… mind if I take a bowl?”

Without waiting, she dipped the ladle and filled a wooden bowl. The scent wafted between them with lotus root, stardust, and just a trace of sorrow. He took it, drank in one long gulp, and sighed with satisfaction.

“Ahh… that hits the spot. Can I have another?”

Meng Po stared.

“…What?”

That wasn’t supposed to happen. No one ever asked for seconds.

She tilted her head, studying him like a weird bug in the fabric of reincarnation. Her fingers hovered uncertainly over the ladle, unsure whether to pour again or swat him with it.

The soup erased memory. That was the point. Once consumed, the soul forgot everything… names, attachments, even thirst.

“…Darling,” she said, voice low and suspicious, “are you feeling alright?”

“Better than ever!” he chirped, stretching as if shaking off centuries of exhaustion. “Soup... er... the tea really cleared my head. Got any more?”

She narrowed her eyes. Either the batch was faulty again, or this wasn’t an ordinary soul.

“You drank all of it?” she asked, voice sharpening.

“Yeah.” He grinned. “It was delicious.”

“And… your memories? Gone? Your name?”

He blinked, confused. “Of course not. I’m Da Wei, Defeater of Hell’s Gate, Slayer of the Abyss. Also crowned Most Handsome Man in the Universe… Eh, was that too much? That sounded better in my head. Now I feel embarrassed.”

Meng Po’s ladle clattered into the pot.

“You’re not supposed to remember any of that!” she barked, pointing at him. “That’s what the soup does! Oblivion in a bowl! Amnesia tea, sweetheart! And what were those absurd titles? Defeater of what? You barely look stronger than a mosquito.”

Da Wei tilted his head. “Huh. That’s weird. Do I know you?”

She hissed, snatching back the bowl. She sniffed it, licked the rim, muttered a diagnostic incantation, and groaned.

“Oh no. Not again.”

“Again?”

“Not your concern,” she muttered. “Stupid Wheel must be misaligned. Or maybe I grabbed the wrong root. I knew I shouldn’t have let Hei Mao near the seasoning jars…”

She sprinkled a pinch of dust into the pot, stirred with a scowl, and taste-tested the brew.

“Wait,” Da Wei said, straightening. “You know Hei Mao?”

Meng Po paused. “What? Who is Hei Mao?”

He stared at her.

“…Never mind.”

“Want some soup?” she asked without looking up.

“Oh, sure!” came the cheerful reply.

She glanced up briefly… ah yes, the handsome one with the smug smile and wind-swept hair. Not bad to look at, even if he reminded her vaguely of an annoying nephew she might’ve had across one of her many lifetimes. She passed him a wooden bowl, watched him down it in one gulp, then shrugged and drank from her ladle.

He smacked his lips. “That’s good stuff.”

Meng Po nodded absently, took the bowl back, filled it again, and handed it right back to him. “Here.”

Da Wei blinked, then looked from the bowl to her and back again. “Uh… didn’t I just—?”

“What are you waiting for? Drink!”

“…Right.” And so he drank.

Meng Po furrowed her brow. Something about this was off, but the thought slipped away before she could pin it down. She drank from her ladle again. She blinked. A man stood in front of her, holding an empty bowl. She squinted at him, then brightened. “Oh! Want some soup?”

He smiled. “Sure!”

And so it continued.

She filled the bowl, and he drank. She sipped from her ladle, forgot. Offered another bowl. He accepted with growing delight, as if rediscovering a flavor with every gulp. Neither paused to question it. The rhythm lulled them both… pour, sip, forget, and repeat.

To a passing soul, the scene looked almost serene. Two odd individuals sharing warm tea in the mist, laughing softly and exchanging pleasantries between sips. An old crone and a strange young man were sitting in companionable silence as the line moved around them.

In truth, it was a disaster.

Meng Po had slipped into a loop. Every time she drank from her ladle, the sacred tea wiped a little more of her short-term memory. She kept forgetting the man in front of her was the same one she’d just served. As for Da Wei, well… he’d developed a taste for the stuff. The warmth, the spice, the strangely comforting bitterness… it all spoke to him. It was nostalgic in a way he couldn’t name, like remembering a song without knowing the words.

Between gulps, he chatted. “So, is this really tea? Or soup? Because I swear, this has the mouthfeel of soup, but the aftertaste of roasted barley.”

Meng Po drank again, straight from the ladle. She looked up and saw a man standing there.

“Want some soup?” she offered with a smile.

“Oh, thanks!” Da Wei beamed.

She filled the bowl. He drank. She sipped again.

And on and on they went.

At one point, she gave him the ladle instead of the bowl.

He hesitated. “Uh… do I drink directly from this?”

“Of course,” she said, dead serious. “It’s ceremonial.”

“Nice.” He slurped.

Moments passed. She blinked, saw him again, and exclaimed, “Oh, what a handsome young soul! Want some soup?”

“Don’t mind if I do!”

By the time a minor god from the Celestial Circle wandered by to check on the Reincarnation Flow, they found the bridge slightly backed up, the queue disoriented, and the goddess of forgetting in the middle of a very suspicious tea party. Bowls were stacked like tribute offerings beside her. Da Wei was halfway through explaining how soup like this could probably end most mortal wars if packaged correctly.

The god narrowed his eyes.

Meng Po looked up at the stranger. “Oh, cutie, want some soup?”

The god sighed. “Great. I am out of here.”

And in the background, Da Wei happily raised another bowl. “This one’s got extra lotus, I think. Solid improvement.”

The mist around the Bridge of Forgetting drifted lazily, unbothered by the passage of souls or the quiet absurdity taking root in its center. There, beside a gently bubbling cauldron that had simmered since before history remembered to begin, sat two people who had completely derailed the sacred order of reincarnation.

One was Meng Po, an old goddess with silver hair like cobwebs, draped in rags too ancient to be called clothes and too divine to ever wear out. The other was Da Wei, self-proclaimed most handsome man in the universe, slayer of various intimidating things, and currently a soup enthusiast.

“Want another soup?” Meng Po asked, ladle in hand.

“Thank you!” Da Wei replied, beaming.

He sipped slowly this time, savoring it as if it were a rare vintage. “So who was that guy earlier?”

Meng Po snorted. “Just some fool from the Celestial Circle. A petty spy sent by the Supreme Idiots to keep tabs on me. Don’t mind him… he’s scared shitless of me.”

With practiced grace, she reached into a pouch and tossed in a pinch of something that sparkled, hissed, and made the broth bubble with renewed vigor. The ladle dipped again, and a careful stream of soup was poured into Da Wei’s bowl.

He drank, pausing between sips to glance around. “So… what exactly is this place?”

Meng Po took another long drink straight from the ladle.

“Huh? Who are you?”

Da Wei blinked. “This place, Granny. What is this place?”

She blinked slowly. “It’s me.”

“…Huh?”

“It’s hard to explain.” She tapped her chest. “This place… It’s me. Or at least, what’s left of me. It used to be different. Bigger. Then smaller. Then sideways. But now, it’s just... this.”

She took another sip.

“Want some soup?”

Da Wei laughed. “Sure.”

So they sat, huddled near the pot as if around a campfire, passing bowls and ladle back and forth in an endless loop of polite offerings and cheerful acceptance.

Da Wei tilted his head after another sip. “This one tastes different. A bit smoky. Last one was… flowery? And before that… I think it reminded me of my childhood, which is weird, because I sometimes forget I even had one.”

Meng Po shrugged, sipping. “Want some soup?”

“Thank you!”

She drank again. “Want soup?”

“Cheers!” He raised his wooden bowl and tapped it against her ladle.

Meng Po’s eyes twinkled. “Want?”

“Of course, I do!”

At this point, it had become an eternal tea party without a cause, reason, or end.

That is, until a large, looming figure approached through the mist.

He had the massive frame of a mountain, broad shoulders wrapped in ceremonial armor, and the unmistakable head of an ox. His horns were polished, his expression pained. The great spirit of the underworld, Ox-Head, shuffled forward like a man who regretted waking up this morning.

“M-my lady,” he began awkwardly, bowing slightly. “I don’t wish to interrupt you, but… You really shouldn’t be drinking while on duty.”

Meng Po looked genuinely scandalized. “What? I didn’t drink!”

Ox-Head rubbed his temples with two enormous fingers. “I swear, I’m going to kill that minor god for dragging me here…”

Da Wei, helpful as ever, extended the ladle toward him. “Want soup?”

The great ox recoiled like he’d been offered a bowl of poison. “I don’t want it! Ugh… Heaven help me.”

Meng Po huffed. “So dramatic. You know, back in the Celestial Spring Festival of Year One Hundred and Thirty-Two Thousand, you begged me for a second bowl.”

“That was medicinal! I was cursed!”

“So ungrateful…”

Da Wei refilled his bowl. “Anyway,” he said conversationally, “you sure you don’t want to try it? It tastes like... liberation.”

Ox-Head gave them both a long, tired stare. Then he turned around, muttering, “I’m filing a formal complaint…”

As he vanished into the mist, Meng Po leaned toward Da Wei.

“Want some soup?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

And thus, the cycle continued: the goddess who forgot, and the man who never got tired of her tea.