In his previous life, he had been a kitchen monk in a certain temple, passing away peacefully without illness.

After death, his soul drifted, soaring up to perch upon an ornate archway. Beneath it, he watched pedestrians hurry past, each one trailing a faint halo of light around their heads—that, naturally, was the vital yang energy of the living.

The night was thick and oppressive; he mused that he could not linger long upon the archway, yet the surroundings were pitch black, leaving him uncertain of where to go.

Only one establishment remained brightly lit, toward which he immediately directed his immaterial self.

Upon entering the main gate, his form dissolved and reformed into that of an infant.

His mother offered him milk, which filled Li Xiangxian with dread; however, the gnawing hunger in his belly compelled him to close his eyes and force himself to swallow.

For three continuous months, he endured the milky sustenance, refusing to draw upon it any further.

His mother, having no choice, switched to feeding him a decoction of red dates and millet.

Later, when Li Xiangxian grew older, as a youth he visited the very temple of his former life. He still recognized the monks within, calling them by their names and titles, word for word, without error.

Yet, throughout his entire existence, he held an unyielding fear of milk, a terror that remained unchanged even into his old age.