Chapter 414: Mid-stage Spirit Transformation

On the seventh day after returning from Return to the Void, Wang Ping once again entered that abandoned training ground on Back Mountain.

The stone slab where the moss had been trampled still had no new moss, and the patch of earth where the weeds had been flattened still had no new grass.

The pile of powder from the shattered stone man remained in place, the sword hilt on the powder remained, and the broken half of the sword on the hilt remained.

Nothing had changed. The sun was still the sun, rising in the east and setting in the west. The wind was still the wind, blowing from the south and passing to the north.

But Wang Ping had changed.

He carried a Chaotic Azure Lotus in his bosom, his dantian held fragments of the Chaotic White Tiger's origin, and his palm contained Chaotic Immortal Thunder.

In his heart lay the things he had brought back from Return to the Void—the voices of lingering souls, the sighs of immortal herbs, the silence of withered trees, the waiting of dried-up springs.

They weighed on his heart like stones pressing on the riverbed. The surface looked calm, but the depths were already piled with things.

He sat cross-legged in the center of the training ground.

The stone slab was cold, the chill creeping up from his buttocks to his waist, then his back, then his neck.

He didn't move, not because he wasn't afraid of the cold, but because he was thinking. He was thinking about how to break through to mid-stage Spirit Transformation.

Between early-stage and mid-stage Spirit Transformation lies a wall. The wall is not solid; it is illusory, a barrier of the Dao, a chasm of realms.

It is that your understanding of the Dao is lacking just a little. How much is that little? No one knows. Everyone is different.

Some fall short by a hundred and eighty thousand li, never crossing it in a lifetime; others lack only a thin sheet of window paper, which breaks with a single poke.

Wang Ping did not know how much he lacked; he only knew he possessed the Chaotic Azure Lotus and the Chaotic White Tiger's origin fragments.

These things could help him pierce that paper. But where is the paper? He could not see it.

He took out a jade box from his bosom and opened its lid.

The Chaotic Azure Lotus lay in the box, its roots curled into a knot, its stem straight, its three leaves green, its bud white.

It glowed with a cyan‑white light, like moonlight, like candlelight, like a dream. The light pulsed in time with its beat—once, once, once.

Wang Ping placed the jade box on the stone slab before him, and the lotus's light shone on his face.

His face softened in the light; the angles were smoothed, the fatigue washed away, the unease soothed.

He reached out, his fingertip touching the lotus's stem. The stem was thin and soft, like a baby's finger.

He felt its pulse, different from his heartbeat—slower, weaker, yet steady.

It said—"I am here, I am before you; you may take me whenever you wish."

Wang Ping did not take it; his finger lingered on the stem for a long time. He listened, listening to what the lotus was saying.

The lotus said nothing else; it merely breathed, grew, and glowed. It needed no words—its very existence was the best language.

Wang Ping withdrew his hand and took out another jade box from his bosom. This box was somewhat larger than the lotus's, and it contained the Chaotic White Tiger's origin fragments.

There were many fragments, as many as a box of sand, yet each grain shone brightly, like stars. They rolled and collided inside the jade box, making a tinkling sound.

Like wind chimes, like raindrops, like a heartbeat.

Wang Ping opened the lid, and the light surged out like a swarm of fireflies long confined, desperately flying outward.

They flew into the air, hovered for a while, then returned. It was not that they did not want to leave; they had nowhere to go.

They had already resonated with Wang Ping's Chaotic Power; they recognized him, knowing he was of their kind.

They danced around him like countless butterflies, like countless snowflakes, like countless dreams.

Wang Ping extended his hand; a fragment fell into his palm, rolled once, and came to rest.

It sensed his body heat; his warmth transferred into the fragment, which responded. It said—"I am here; take me."

Wang Ping placed the two items before him, the Chaotic Azure Lotus on the left and the Chaotic White Tiger's origin fragments on the right. Before closing his eyes, he glanced at them.

In his heart he said—"Sorry, I am going to turn you into medicine. You were alive, with life, pulse, and dreams. For my own sake, I will refine you."

I won't say this is for the spirit realm, for my master, or for those waiting for my return. Those are excuses. I am doing this for myself.

I want to become stronger, I want to break through, I want to live longer, I want to protect those I wish to protect. I need you. Sorry. Thank you.

He closed his eyes and began the refinement.

On the first day, he refined the Chaotic Azure Lotus.

It was not taking the lotus out of the jade box, not roasting it over fire, not crushing it with Chaotic Power. It was "refinement."

Refinement is not destruction; it is transformation. Transform the lotus's vital force into his cultivation, merge the lotus's Dao into his Dao, turn the lotus's dream into his dream.

Wang Ping's finger pressed on the lotus's stem, and Chaotic Power surged from his fingertip, enveloping the entire lotus.

The lotus trembled in his palm—not from fear, but in response. It said—"I am ready."

Wang Ping's Chaotic Power seeped into the lotus's roots, stem, leaves, and bud.

He perceived the lotus's interior, not with his eyes, but with Chaotic Power.

The lotus's interior was empty—not a vacuum, but an emptiness of the Dao. It had no cells, no fibers, no sap.

Only light remained—a cyan‑white light, like mist, like clouds, like the scene when Chaos first opened.

Those lights flowed—from root to stem, from stem to leaf, from leaf to bud, from bud back to root.

One cycle, then another, then another. For thirty thousand years it has been cycling.

No one interrupted it, no one changed it, no one told it it could stop. It just kept cycling, cycling until the moment Wang Ping's finger pressed upon it.

Wang Ping's Chaotic Power joined that cycle—not interrupting, but merging.

His Chaotic Power turned into light, which blended with the lotus's light, making it impossible to tell which was his and which was the lotus's.

Together they flowed—from root to stem, stem to leaf, leaf to bud, bud to root. They flowed in a circle, again and again.

Wang Ping felt his Chaotic Power changing, becoming finer, softer, denser.

Like a thick rope being split into fine threads, the threads split into fibers, the fibers split into strands, until only the finest existence remained.

His Chaotic Power was no longer Chaotic Power; it became the lotus's vital force. The lotus's vital force was no longer its own; it became Chaotic Power.

They could no longer be distinguished; they merged into a new thing.

It was neither Chaotic Power nor the lotus's vital force. It was the Dao—the Dao of the Chaotic Azure Lotus, the Dao of Wang Ping, the Dao of their union.

The blue lotus's flower bud opened.

It didn't open slowly; it opened in an instant. Like a person opening their eyes, like a lamp being lit, like a sentence being spoken.

The petals unfolded one by one, white, translucent, thin as a cicada's wing.

Each petal bore a pattern, fine and dense, like a fingerprint. Wang Ping saw those patterns, not with his eyes, but with chaotic power.

Those patterns were the blue lotus's memory.

It remembered how it had sprouted: the seed lay in the soil for a long time, waiting for rain; the rain seeped into the seed coat, the coat softened, the embryonic root pushed out and dug into the earth.

It remembered how it had grown: the roots dug down, the stem shot up, the leaves spread outward.

It remembered how it had flowered: the bud swelled for a long time—three years, five years, ten years. Finally, one day it felt the time had come, and it opened.

It remembered how it had waited: it waited thirty thousand years for a person to come. No one came, so it kept waiting.

If it couldn't wait, it kept blooming. Blooming for whom to see? For itself to see. For this wasteland to see. For the drifting immortal-spirit aura to see.

Even if they didn't look, it still had to bloom. Because blooming was proof that it was alive. As long as it lived, it bloomed. Even if no one watched, it still bloomed.

Wang Ping's tears flowed down. Not sorrow, not moving, but resonance. His Dao and the blue lotus's Dao had merged together.

He understood the blue lotus's feeling, understood what it felt like for a person to wait a very, very long time.

He had experienced this in the Return to the Ruins, in the Sea of Laws, in the Reverse Time. He knew what waiting felt like.

The blue lotus had waited longer than he had. Thirty thousand years. How long is thirty thousand years? Ten thousand nine hundred fifty days.

That is two hundred sixty-two thousand eight hundred hours. Nine hundred forty-six billion eighty million seconds. Every second, it was waiting.

If it couldn't wait, it kept waiting. If it couldn't wait, it kept blooming. It didn't know who it was waiting for, but it knew that person would come.

Because it was waiting, that person would surely come. This was its belief—not blind, but of the Dao.

The Dao says—if you wait, he will come; if you don't wait, he will not come.

So it waited. It waited a long time, until the flower bloomed, until the flower faded, until the leaves yellowed, until the roots withered. It was still waiting.

Until Wang Ping arrived. It had waited for him.

The blue lotus's petals began to fall. Not withering, but completion. Its mission was finished.

It had waited for the right person, bloomed the right flower, left behind what should be left. It no longer needed to live.

The petals drifted down one by one, landing on the ground, on the stone slabs, on Wang Ping's knees.

The petals were light, light as paper, as a feather, as a dream. As they fell, they made an extremely faint sound, like a sigh, like a farewell, like thank you.

Wang Ping reached out his hand and caught a petal. The petal lingered in his palm for a moment, then turned into light.

The light merged into his palm, into his meridians, into his dantian, into his primordial spirit.

His primordial spirit brightened a bit—not a little, but a lot. Like a lamp whose wick was replaced with a thicker one, the flame shot up instantly.

His aura was rising—not suddenly, but slowly, steadily, irreversibly.

Like water being heated, the temperature rose point by point, from room temperature to warm, from warm to hot to the touch, from hot to boiling. It hadn't boiled yet, but it was close.

The next day, he refined the primordial fragments of the Chaos White Tiger.

He didn't refine them piece by piece; he refined them all together. Those fragments danced in his chaotic power, like countless butterflies, like countless snowflakes, like countless dreams.

They wouldn't obey; they had their own will. They were the will of the Chaos White Tiger, the will of the king of immortal beasts that once ruled all heavens and worlds.

When it was alive, no one could command it. After its death, its fragments still obeyed no one.

Wang Ping's chaotic power tried to wrap them, and they scattered; tried to merge them, and they evaded; tried to refine them, and they retaliated.

It wasn't an attack, but a 'refusal.' They were saying—'You are not worthy.'

You are not the Chaos White Tiger; you are not as big, not as strong, not as long-lived. By what right do you refine us?

Wang Ping gave no answer. He didn't know how to answer. He indeed was not worthy. He was merely a cultivator at the early Nascent Soul stage, having lived less than a thousand years.

How long had the Chaos White Tiger lived? A hundred thousand years? A million? He didn't know. He only knew he was tiny, weak, short-lived.

He had no right to refine the primordial fragments of the Chaos White Tiger. But he had to refine them, because he needed them.

It wasn't that he wanted them; his Dao needed them. The Dao of Chaos needs chaotic primordial essence; without it, his Dao cannot go far.

The Lord of Order was about to awaken; he could not remain at the early Nascent Soul stage. He had to move forward, had to advance, had to grow stronger.

He didn't need qualifications; he needed results.

He closed his eyes and continued refining. When the fragments wouldn't obey, he took it slow—not with brute force, but with patience.

He coaxed them like a child, gently touching them with his chaotic power, gently enveloping them, gently pulling them toward himself.

When they struggled, he let go; when they ran away, he waited; when they returned, he tried again.

Once, twice, three times. Ten times, a hundred times, a thousand times.

He didn't know how many times he had tried; he only knew his forehead was sweating, his back was sweating, his palms were sweating.

His chaotic power was being consumed, his spiritual sense was being consumed, his patience was being consumed. Yet he did not stop.

Because he knew those fragments were watching him. They were testing him, to see if he truly wanted them or just had a passing fancy.

He couldn't stop; stopping would mean losing.

The third day, the fourth day, the fifth day.

The fragments began to obey. Not that they had submitted, but that they had acknowledged him.

They saw Wang Ping sitting here, day after day, night after night, eating nothing, drinking nothing, sleeping nothing, resting nothing.

They saw his chaotic power being consumed, his spiritual sense being consumed, his patience being consumed. Yet they saw him still there, still trying, still waiting, still refining.

They knew this person was serious. He wasn't just passing fancy; he truly needed them.

He needed them, just as they needed him. The Chaos White Tiger had died, and its fragments were homeless.

They had drifted a long time in the Return to the Ruins, lain a long time on fragments of the immortal realm, and stayed a long time in this jade box.

They needed a home, needed a person who could contain them, understand them, use them. Wang Ping was that person.

Not because he was the strongest, but because he was the most persistent.

The first fragment merged into his skin. It was not refined; it actively merged.

The fragment lingered at his fingertip for a moment, then turned into a thread of light; the light traveled along his meridians, reaching his dantian, reaching his Primordial Spirit.

The Chaos Primordial Spirit opened its eyes, gazing at that thread of light; the light, under the Primordial Spirit's gaze, scattered, scattering into countless tiny light points, and the light points merged into the Primordial Spirit's body.

The Primordial Spirit's aura grew a little stronger. It was not that his cultivation level increased; it was his "quality" that increased.

It was like a pot of soup; adding a spoonful of broth made the flavor richer. The soup was still the same soup, but it tasted better.

The second fragment, the third fragment, the fourth fragment. They no longer struggled, no longer dodged, no longer refused. They lined up, one by one, merging into his body.

The light converged in his meridians like a river, flowing from fingertips to palm, from palm to wrist, from wrist to arm, from arm to shoulder, from shoulder to chest, from chest to dantian, from dantian to Primordial Spirit.

His body emitted light, chaos-colored light, dim and gray, like the sky before dawn.

Light seeped out from every pore, like a lantern, like a full moon, like a sun rising.

His aura rose, not slowly, but quickly. Like water boiling, bubbling, steam spurting from the kettle's spout, emitting a sharp whistle.

The sixth day, the seventh day.

All the fragments merged into his body. The jade box was empty, containing nothing. It had not disappeared; it had become part of Wang Ping.

The origin fragments of the Chaos White Tiger made their home in his dantian. They floated, rotated, and collided around his Chaos Primordial Spirit, producing a tinkling sound.

Like wind chimes, like raindrops, like a heartbeat.

His Chaos Primordial Spirit sat among those fragments, dignified and solemn, eyes half-open, half-closed.

It absorbed the fragments' power, not all at once, but slowly, bit by bit, like a person eating, chewing mouthful after mouthful, swallowing mouthful after mouthful.

One must not rush; rushing would cause choking. Wang Ping did not rush. He had time, he had patience, he had the Dao.

The seventh day, dusk. The sun set in the west, its afterglow dyeing the training field orange-red.

Wang Ping opened his eyes. His eyes held light, chaos-colored, dim and gray, like the sky before dawn.

His body held light, seeping out from every pore, like a lantern, like a full moon, like a sun rising.

His Primordial Spirit held light, bright enough that his entire dantian was like daytime.

He stood up, his legs not numb. After sitting for seven days, his legs were still not numb. It was not that his legs had grown stronger; his body was no longer his former body.

Every muscle, every bone, every meridian had been tempered by the Chaos Azure Lotus and the origin of the Chaos White Tiger.

They became denser, tougher, stronger. Like a piece of iron repeatedly forged, impurities hammered out, leaving only the purest part.

His body was that piece of iron.

He raised his hand, looking at his palm. There was nothing in the center of his palm, but he knew something was there.

Chaos Immortal Lightning was twice as strong as before. It was not a quantitative change but a qualitative one. Previously, Chaos Immortal Lightning was like water; now it is like ice.

Water flows; ice does not. Ice is harder, colder, and more lethal.

With a thought, Wang Ping shot Chaos Immortal Lightning from his palm—not a "swish" but silent and soundless.

It arced through the air and struck a distant withered tree. The tree did not shatter, crack, or fall; it simply—was no longer there.

It was not destroyed; it was erased. Erased from existence. The tree was there, then it was not. There was no process, no sound, no trace.

Wang Ping gazed at the spot where the tree had vanished; there was nothing there, not even dust.

His Chaos Immortal Lightning was no longer lightning; it was "annihilation"—annihilating everything that exists. Not destruction, but erasure.

The tree did not die; it simply "was not".

Wang Ping's hand trembled slightly, not from fear but from excitement. He knew he now possessed a weapon capable of killing the Lord of Order.

It might not guarantee a kill, but it could at least wound him.

He drew a deep breath; the Chaos Domain unfolded—three thousand zhang. Not one thousand zhang, not two thousand zhang, but three thousand zhang.

Within the domain, all laws were under his control—gravity, temperature, space, time—all could be altered by his will.

With a thought, gravity within the domain surged a thousandfold; the gravel on the ground was crushed into powder, the powder into finer powder, the finer powder into nothingness.

With a thought, the temperature within the domain plummeted to absolute zero; the immortal spirit energy in the air froze, turning into ice crystals that hung suspended in the air like countless tiny stars.

With a thought, space within the domain began to fold; a stone statue far away was folded to appear before him. The statue, originally three hundred zhang distant, now lay within reach, able to be touched with an outstretched hand.

With a thought, time within the domain slowed; a bird flying by froze mid-flight. Its wings still flapped, but so slowly that you could see the vibration of each feather.

Three thousand zhang was his world; he was the god of that world.

With a thought, he performed Void Grand Translocation—not moving himself, but moving the entire training field.

The training field was huge, able to accommodate hundreds cultivating simultaneously. Yet Wang Ping's Void Grand Translocation folded the whole field like a sheet of paper—folded over, folded again, folded again.

Reduced to the size of a fist, then launched a hundred li away.

It was not an actual launch; he merely simulated it in his mind. He knew he could do it.

His Void Grand Translocation could now move an entire immortal palace—not a ruin, but a complete immortal palace as it existed when the immortal realm still stood.

Of course, the immortal palace no longer exists, but his ability remains. He can move anything anywhere, as long as his Chaos power suffices.

He withdrew his domain, withdrew the lightning, withdrew his divine sense.

He stood there, at the center of the training field, in the afterglow of the setting sun, amidst the rubble and dust he had destroyed.

His robes fluttered in the wind, his hair danced in the breeze, his eyes sparkled in the light.

He broke through to Mid Transformation God. It was not something he painfully sought; it was granted by the Dao. He walked the path he should, did what he should, waited the time he should.

The Dao said—"You are ready; take it." He took it.

He stood there, his heart calm. It was not that there were no ripples; the ripples lay deep, beneath the surface.

The surface was calm, but undercurrents surged below. He knew this was only the beginning.

After Mid Transformation God came the late stage, then Great Completion, then Void Refinement. The Lord of Order still awaited him, the Spirit Realm still awaited him, and the departed still awaited him.

He had no time to rest, no time to celebrate, no time to be proud. He could only press on.

When Cangxuan arrived, Wang Ping was standing before that pile of dust.

The dust was from the shattered stone statue; the statue had been blasted by him into fine powder. The powder was blown everywhere by the wind—some landed on stone slabs, some on withered trees, some on his shoulders.

He didn't brush them off, because he felt the powder was the stone person's ashes, and ashes should be respected.

Cangxuan stood behind him, silent. His sword trembled slightly in its sheath, not from excitement, but from confirmation.

The sword said——he had changed. Not his appearance, but his inner self. His aura grew deeper, steadier, stronger.

Like a river: the upper reaches turbulent, the lower reaches calm. But the lower water is deeper, wider, and more powerful.

Cangxuan's hand moved from the sword's hilt to press against his chest. His heart was beating, fast, fast.

It wasn't from nervousness, but because he was happy for Wang Ping. He wasn't someone who expressed himself; his beating heart was his language.

Yuliuli also came. She held an ancient zither, its strings glimmering in the sunset like seven golden threads.

She walked up to Wang Ping, stopped, and looked into his eyes. His eyes held light— a murky chaos, gray and hazy, like the sky before dawn.

She gazed for a long time, then smiled. Not a happy smile, but a relieved one. She was saying——as long as you're alright.

She didn't need to speak it aloud; Wang Ping understood. Her eyes spoke, her zither spoke, her heart spoke. Wang Ping heard them all.

Youying stood in the distance, not coming over.

In her hand she still held that fragment: white base with blue pattern, a lotus painted on top, and the character for "peace" written on the back.

She had already stuck it to her chest for many days; the fragment's temperature went from icy cool to warm, then from warm to scorching.

It was heating up—not on its own, but her heartbeat warmed it. Her heartbeat passed to the fragment, and the fragment's vibration passed to her heart.

They were communicating, not with words, but with heartbeats. The fragment said——you have come. Youying said——I have come.

The fragment said——I have waited a long time. Youying said——I know. The fragment said——I must leave. Youying said——where are you going?

The fragment gave no reply. It needed none, for it was going nowhere. It remained in her heart, slightly left of her chest, beside that seed.

It would stay there a long time, long enough for her to forget its existence. But she would not forget, because her heart would remember. What the heart remembers is never lost.

Wang Ping lifted his head and gazed at the sky. The sky was very blue, blue like a cloth washed in water, without a trace of cloud.

The sunlight was bright, bright enough to make him squint. He heard the wind, the bird calls, and the training sounds of disciples from the distant Daoist academy.

All the sounds were crystal clear, with no muffling. His hearing had returned.

He drew a deep breath; the air carried the scent of grass, of earth, of sunlight.

He swallowed it, then smiled.

Mid Transformation Spirit, achieved.