My Wife Is a Scientist

The taste of immortality

The Eight Immortals were never merely eight people who achieved immortality and greatness, for they came to be close to the fullness of God. Many were ready. Others cried. They did not bow to a climbing power. They constantly knew that they were superior to anyone. They were invincible under heaven.

There were eight different answers to the same question: What does it mean to transcend while still carrying the mess of being human? That is to say that no one could ever pretend the path to eternity is clean when it must be walked by feet that once bled, loved wrongly, and laughed at the wrong moments as humans that cannot be contradicted with their own paths. The thing is, it cannot pretend it does not include the beautiful failure of trying to become more than dust while still smelling like it.

Several of them carry objects associated with jade. He Xiangu carries a lotus, often described as jade in the stories. Lan Caihe's flute is sometimes said to be jade too. In Taoist tradition, jade represents purity and longevity, so what the Immortals carry reflects what they've already become.

The Taoist paradise, Penglai, is described in the texts as built from jade and precious stones. Not as a metaphor. The stories literally say the palaces and walkways on the island are jade.

The part that stuck with me: Taoist texts say that when someone achieves immortality through cultivation, their body becomes "as smooth and glowing as jade." Jade is smooth and doesn't decay, so the comparison works on a physical level. It works on a moral level too, since Confucian tradition treats jade as a symbol of virtue and refinement. Wearing a jade pendant in this context is a reminder of durability, purity, and the idea that refinement lasts. Not decoration.

In this struggle, each step forward is both a victory and a reminder of fragility. Embracing the duality of existence allows one to grow, to weave the threads of the divine with the imperfections of humanity, creating a tapestry rich with experience and insight.

In the Jade Emperor’s celestial bureaucracy, they occupied a strange middle ground—not quite officials, not quite rebels, not quite gods. They were the living proof that even Heaven makes room for those who refuse to follow proper procedure. Their stories drifted through the halls of jade and red lacquer like incense that refused to stay in its burner.

Zhongli Quan, the fat, cheerful one with the fan, represented the victory of contentment over ambition. He had once been a general, then a drunk, then an alchemist who accidentally discovered the elixir of life while trying to make something far less noble. His fan could revive the dead and turn stone to gold, but he mostly used it to cool his wine. In the heavenly ledgers, he was listed as “Unclassifiable — High Risk of Disruptive Joy.”

Lü Dongbin, the scholar-swordsman, carried the tension Karl understood too well. Handsome, arrogant, brilliant with the sword and the pen, he had spent centuries chasing immortality through both discipline and debauchery. His sword could cut through illusion itself, yet he still struggled with the illusion that cleverness could replace honesty. He was the one who most often argued in the celestial court that Karl’s mercy was dangerous — not because it was weak, but because it worked too well.

Zhang Guolao, the old man who rode backward on a white mule made of paper, embodied the absurdity of wisdom. He claimed to have been alive since before the world began, yet he spent most of his time pretending to be a harmless eccentric. His mule could fold back into paper when not needed. He once told the Jade Emperor that the greatest immortality was the ability to look ridiculous without shame.

Li Tieguai, the crippled beggar with the iron crutch and the gourd full of medicine, was the patron of the broken. He had died once, lost his body, and returned in the only corpse he could find, a lame beggar’s. He carried the anger of the disfigured and the compassion of one who had been forced to wear someone else’s suffering. His gourd could heal or poison depending on his mood. He was the one who watched Karl with the most complicated expression: part recognition, part resentment, and part hope that mercy might finally include even the ones Heaven had forgotten.

He Xiangu, the only woman among them, carried a lotus flower and the quiet power of feminine transcendence. She had achieved immortality through pure discipline and refusal to marry, choosing the path of the sword and the spirit over the expected path of wife and mother. She understood Emma’s burden better than most: the weight of carrying power that society still wanted to define as ornamental.

Lan Caihe, the wandering singer, was chaos in embroidered robes. Sometimes portrayed as a man, sometimes as a woman, sometimes as both, Lan represented the freedom of refusing fixed identity. Their songs could make flowers bloom or armies weep. They were the one who laughed loudest at Lucian’s elegant manipulations, saying, “The boy thinks he understands desire. He has never met someone who desires nothing at all.”

Han Xiangzi, the flute-playing nephew of Han Yu, brought music and the gentle madness of poetry. He had turned his uncle’s Confucian severity into Taoist joy through sheer stubbornness and beautiful sound. His flute could tame wild beasts and calm angry gods. He was the one who whispered to the Jade Emperor that Karl’s honest endings might be the new music the heavens needed to learn.

Cao Guojiu, the imperial relative who rejected palace life for the begging bowl, represented the courage to walk away from power. He carried castanets that could open the gates of Heaven or Hell. He understood better than most why Karl refused to claim any throne because some thrones are heavier when they are offered than when they are taken.

Together, the Eight Immortals were not a unified force. They argued. They drank. They wandered. They occasionally caused minor disasters just to remind the celestial bureaucracy that immortality without joy becomes another kind of death. That is to say that no one could ever pretend eternity is simple when it must be lived by eight very different humans who refused to stop being human.

In the current unfolding story, they had begun watching Karl with particular interest.

Some saw him as a threat to heavenly order.

Others saw him as the next necessary evolution.

A few — especially Li Tieguai and Lan Caihe — saw him as a comrade.

The Jade Emperor had not yet issued a formal decree regarding the mortal who had rewritten Ragnarök and taught gods how to rest.

But the Eight Immortals had already started placing bets.

And in the small house in Carlisle, where tea still remembered how to be warm, Karl sometimes felt their distant attention through the ring—eight very different kinds of immortality watching the boy who had chosen to finish old cycles so new ones could begin honestly.

One perspective holds that technique leads to method, method leads to immortality, and immortality leads to the Dao. In other words, by studying and mastering specific cultivation techniques, one first extends one’s lifespan. With sufficient longevity, one then has the time necessary to seek and realize the truth of the Dao through sustained practice.

Another perspective reverses the sequence: method leads to the Dao, and the Dao leads to immortality. Here, the practitioner directly experiences the Dao through cultivation practice, and this understanding of the Dao in turn supports the attainment of immortality.

There are two paths spoken of by seekers. The first begins with technique. Technique becomes method. Method becomes mastery. Mastery grants longevity, which is not merely of life, but of attention, discipline, and intellectual endurance. With enough years and enough persistence, one may finally approach wisdom. In this view, truth is the summit reached after a long ascent, and they can actually go after it with the most recorded life that they can have.

But there is another path.

One glimpses truth first.

A vision of the Logos, the Dao, the Good, or the ultimate order of reality seizes the mind.

From that insight emerges a method.

From the method emerges disciplined practice.

And from practice emerges a life that endures because it is aligned with something greater than itself.

The first path says:

Master the craft, and wisdom may follow.

The second says:

See the truth, and the craft will find its proper place.

The wise seeker eventually discovers that both paths converge.

Technique without vision becomes mechanical.

Vision without technique becomes fantasy.

There are two paths spoken of by seekers.

The first begins with technique.

Technique becomes method.

Method becomes mastery.

Mastery grants longevity—not merely of life, but of attention, discipline, and intellectual endurance.

With enough years and enough persistence, one may finally approach wisdom.

In this view, truth is the summit reached after a long ascent.

But there is another path.

One glimpses truth first.

A vision of the Logos, the Dao, the Good, or the ultimate order of reality seizes the mind.

From that insight emerges a method.

From the method emerges disciplined practice.

And from practice emerges a life that endures because it is aligned with something greater than itself.

The first path says:

Master the craft, and wisdom may follow.

The second says:

See the truth, and the craft will find its proper place.

The wise seeker eventually discovers that both paths converge.

Technique without vision becomes mechanical.

Vision without technique becomes fantasy.

The highest cultivation unites understanding and practice, contemplation and discipline, wisdom and labor.

For neither the Dao nor the Logos is reached through thought alone, nor through action alone, but through their harmony.

The honest new story continued.

And somewhere in the celestial realms, eight flawed immortals raised their cups and wondered what would happen when the Axis of the Nine Worlds finally met the Eight who had learned how to be eternal without forgetting how to be ridiculous.

Alright! I have been pretty sick. Last month, I really wanted to kill myself because the girls I loved got a boyfriend. This is kinda suggestive. Anyway, I will continue writing this novel.