Chapter 449

He walked to the center of his heart. There were no trees there—the trees all grew around the perimeter, leaving the center empty, like a ring of trees forming a circle that yielded the middle to an open space.

In the center was a mass of light, chaos-colored, hazy. The light throbbed—not a mechanical pulse, but a "living throb". Like a heart—thump, thump, thump. Like a lamp—the wick is the Chaos Dao Foundation, the oil is the primordial spiritual power he accumulated after his reforging.

Like a child calling for his mother—the child stood in the clearing, head tilted back, mouth open, making no sound, but his lips formed the word "mother".

He reached out, his fingertip touching the light. The light exploded at his fingertip—not an explosion, but a "fusion". It fused into his skin—his skin didn't break; the light itself seeped in from his fingertip. It traveled along the meridians—not him directing it, but the light moving on its own.

It flowed to the dantian—the spiritual sea in his dantian stopped spinning the moment the light surged in, the whole surface calmed, and the light spread across it. It flowed to the primordial spirit—the chaos primordial spirit remained seated cross-legged at the center of the spiritual sea, and the light poured in from its crown.

It flowed to the Chaos Immortal Stele—the stele's spirit stood deep within, watching this mass of light surge from afar. The light rushed to the spirit's feet, paused, then slowly rose, enveloping the spirit's entire body.

The stele spirit closed its eyes, letting the light permeate him completely. A twitch at the corner of his mouth—not speech, but "recognition". He recognized that Wang Ping's Dao had finally been perfected in this realm. Then his eyes opened, and he looked at Wang Ping.

"Return to the True."

Wang Ping closed his eyes.

In the quiet chamber, his body was glowing. It wasn't light from outside—the sunlight leaking through the crack was golden, the moonlight silver-white, and starlight too faint to enter this quiet chamber with only a single window crack.

This light came from within—from the depths of his dantian, from his chaos primordial spirit, from his Chaos Immortal Stele, from all the obsessions and memories he had contained within the depths of his Dao Foundation. The light originated in his dantian, passed through the abdominal wall, through the sternum, through the muscle layer, through the subcutaneous tissue.

It seeped out from beneath the skin—first the thinnest eyelids, which became semi-transparent orange‑red in the light, then the ears, whose cartilage refracted the light into an extremely faint pink halo.

Then the neck—the carotid artery pulsed beneath the skin, each beat making the light grow a bit brighter. Then the shoulders—the light along the edge of the scapulae made the fibers of his cloth garment glow strand by strand. The light passed through skin, through the robe, through the patches and stitches on the robe.

It illuminated the entire quiet chamber—the chisel marks on the stone walls were stretched in the light, from points to lines, from lines to surfaces. The walls became translucent in the light—not glass‑like transparency, but a "hazing"; the stone's texture was diluted by the light into an extremely thin, light gray mist.

The window became transparent in the light—the wood grain of the frame was clearly visible, each annual ring glowing like a golden line. The roof became transparent in the light—fine light threads seeped from the gaps between the tiles, extending upward toward the night sky. He sat there like a lamp—the cushion was the lampshade base, the skin the lampshade, the chaos primordial spirit the wick.

Like a full moon—moonlight is not self‑produced, but reflected sunlight. His light is also reflected—it reflects the obsessions that have grown into trees in his heart, and the gaze of the stele spirit shining from the depths of the Chaos Immortal Stele.

Like a sun just rising—the sun doesn't leap out instantly; it first accumulates light and heat below the horizon, builds until the edge of the sky whitens, then emits the first arc of light. His light also accumulates—from the dantian to the chest, from the chest to the throat, from the throat to the brow.

Light leaked out from the door crack. The door of the quiet chamber was an old wooden door; the door panel had shrunk, leaving a crack half a finger wide. Light squeezed out of the door crack, not a direct beam but a 'flow'—like water seeping out of a stone crack, it clung to the door panel and trickled down, trickling onto the threshold, then onto the stone slab outside.

Youying leaned against the wall. This quiet chamber was too remote; she feared she would wander too far and he wouldn't be able to find her when he came out. So she came every evening, leaning against the stone wall outside the quiet chamber's door, eyes closed, using void perception to listen to his heartbeat inside.

His heartbeat was her only clock; she listened to his heartbeat to count the time. Light leaked out from the door crack and fell on her face. It wasn't a whole beam—it was sliced by the door crack into an extremely thin line that just crossed her eyes. The light landed on her eyelids, and her eyelids twitched slightly.

It wasn't fear; the light had weight—his light contained residual fluctuations of the chaotic law, and when it touched her void law it produced an extremely faint law resonance. Her eyelids sensed this resonance, like a butterfly's wing being lightly brushed by an extremely faint breeze—the edge of the wing trembled ever so slightly and then settled.

She felt the light, not with her eyes—her eyes were closed, so the light was blocked by her thin blood vessels and skin. It was with her heart—her heart had been locked onto his heartbeat, and when the light leaked from the door crack, his heartbeat changed simultaneously, becoming slower, deeper, and steadier.

The light was telling her—he had entered. Not entered the quiet chamber; he had already gone in several days prior. It was entering the Dao—crossing that door, entering his own heart, entering the sixth realm. She opened her eyes and looked at that light. The light was not blinding—his light had no aggressiveness, it was the manifestation of the chaotic Dao:

Inclusive, yielding, non-rejecting. Very warm—warm enough that her back pressed against the stone wall no longer felt the stone cold. Very soft—soft enough that the light spreading across her face felt like an extremely thin layer of silk. Like a mother's hand—she didn't know what a mother's hand felt like, having entered the ancient mirror as soon as she was born.

But she had heard the image of 'a mother's hand' in the piece that Yu Liuli played for her; Yu Liuli said a mother's hand is not an actual hand, but the feeling of 'being caught.' She is now caught by this light. She leans against the wall, waiting.

Light leaked out from the window. The window crack was still the same crack; after squeezing out of the window crack, the light was not cut into a strip by the window frame, but scattered outward from between the window frame and the stone edge.

Cangxuan stood under a distant tree—not the Building Tree, but an old pine on the rear mountain. He leaned against the trunk, his sword hanging horizontally at his waist. Light fell on his sword—the sword sheath was an old iron sheath, its lacquer worn away halfway, revealing the dark-gray iron tire beneath.

Light fell on the iron tire; the iron absorbed the light, spreading it across the surface as an extremely thin, extremely faint gray halo. The sword in its sheath made a sound—not a hum, not a scream, but a 'ding'. Very brief—brief to the point of only an instant. Very bright—bright enough that Cangxuan could see a flash of reflection from the blade through the gap in the sheath opening. The sword was saying—he had changed.

Not that he had become stronger—the sword spirit had sensed his cultivation, mid-stage Nascent Soul peak, the same as before his retreat. It was that he had become 'deeper'. Like a well—its opening only a forearm wide, but the shaft extremely deep, deep enough that light shining in from the opening could never reach the bottom.

Cangxuan's hand moved from the sword hilt to press against his chest—wasn't he a sword cultivator, shouldn't his hand always be on the hilt? But he moved his hand off the hilt because he wanted to feel his own heartbeat. His heartbeat was quick—not from nervousness, but because he was happy for Wang Ping. He wouldn't say it, but his heart would jump.

Light leaked out from the roof. The roof was tiled, with overlapping seams between the tiles; light threads drilled out from the tile gaps and extended toward the night sky.

Yu Liuli sat beneath the Building Tree—the canopy of the Building Tree was deep ink-black at night, its leaves faintly glowing under starlight. She placed the guqin on her lap, not playing, just tuning—the finest feather string, its tuning peg a little loose. Light fell on her guqin string—not on her fingers, but on the string.

The guqin string vibrated—not plucked by her, but plucked by the light. The fluctuation of the chaotic law within the light touched the immortal silkworm silk, producing an extremely weak resonance; the string resonated and emitted an extremely faint, delicate sound, like a dewdrop sliding off a leaf and dripping into a pond.

That sound reverberated in the air, traveling from beneath the Building Tree to the gravel path side, winding around the dry well, passing through the patch of dead moss wall. It reached the door of the quiet chamber, drilled through the door crack, and landed beside Wang Ping's ear. He heard it in the light, the corner of his mouth twitching—not a smile, but 'received'.

Light seeped in from the trunk of the Building Tree. The trunk of the Building Tree is a conduit; his light shares the same source as the Building Tree—both are the chaotic Dao. When the light touched the bark, there was no reflection or scattering, only direct seepage. The light seeped into the bark, into the phloem, into the wood, into the heartwood.

Following the heartwood downward, passing the root neck, the main root, the lateral roots, all the way to the deep earth meridian where a chaotic-colored sea of energy lay—Jiu'er was curled there. Light fell on Jiu'er's face. Her face appeared and disappeared within the sea—not a real sea, but an energetic-state earth meridian spiritual fluid. Very small—she had stopped growing in her slumber, still the little girl from three years ago. Very white—white to near transparency, allowing the extremely fine azure blood vessels beneath her skin to be seen.

Like a flower buried in the soil—its bud not yet opened, its petals still tightly closed, only the tip of the outermost petal showing. Light fell on her face, and the corner of her mouth twitched—not a laugh, for a sleeping person does not laugh, but a 'sense'—her body sensed the light, sensed the warmth within the light, sensed the person within the light. He was breaking through, he was growing stronger, he was waiting for her. In her dream she saw a person standing under a tree; that person turned around and smiled at her. The smile at the corner of her mouth deepened a little—from an extremely faint arc to a clear curve.

The light withdrew. It was not extinguished—extinction is an outside force cutting it off; it was 'quenched'. It was 'returned'—light goes back to where it came from. It returned to his body—withdrawn from the walls, from the window, from the roof, from the door crack, from the trunk of the Building Tree.

It returned to his meridians—the light transformed into chaotic spiritual power, flowing back along the meridians from the limbs to the dantian. It returned to his nascent soul—the chaotic nascent soul absorbed all the light fluid back into the body; the nascent soul's body was a little brighter than before, not an increase in brightness but an increase in 'purity'. The quiet chamber darkened, the walls returned to gray—not the previous dark gray, but a silvery gray under moonlight. The window returned to wood, the grain of the window frame turning dark brown in the moonlight. The roof returned to stone slabs, the tiles still those few old ones missing corners. Only he sat there, eyes closed. His posture hadn't changed—still cross-legged, spine straight, hands resting on his knees. But it was different—before he sat on the futon, the futon supporting him. Now he sat on the futon, but the futon no longer needed to bear his weight—not because he had become lighter, but because his 'being' no longer needed to be supported.

Wang Ping opened his eyes—not slowly opening, but 'already opened'. There was no light in his eyes—the chaotic-colored light that had just been seeping out from deep within his pupils had been withdrawn into the dantian, into the nascent soul, into the depths of the immortal stele. Now his eyes were black and white, quite ordinary.

The whites of his eyes still had a few bloodshot threads—he had been sitting without sleep these days, though he felt no drowsiness, the capillaries on the surface of his eyeballs were still slightly dilated. He lowered his gaze to his hands—still the same pair of hands, fingers long, knuckles distinct, nails trimmed neatly.

The calluses on his knuckles remained, the scar on his palm remained, the faint mark on the base of his ring finger left by a shard of order remained.

But he knew, things were different. It wasn't the appearance of his hands that had changed, but what they could do.

These hands could now do what they couldn't before—not an increase in strength. His strength hadn't changed; he was still mid-stage Nascent Soul peak, and his spiritual power capacity hadn't increased.

It was a change in 'quality'. Previously his chaotic power was water—water can flow, seep, carry boats, nourish things. Water is soft, softness can overcome hardness, but water is also dispersed. Now it is ice—ice is harder than water, colder than water, and more powerful than water. Ice is another state of water; it is still water, but the molecular arrangement is different.

Before, his chaotic power was dispersed in the meridians, each meridian an independent river. Now these rivers had frozen—not frozen solid so they couldn't flow, but become 'unified'. All the ice joined into a single sheet, moving the whole body with a single thread.

Before, his punch was just a punch; now his punch is the entire person's will shining through the fist's surface. But he knows ice is not the endpoint. Ice will melt into water, water will vaporize into steam. The sixth realm is not the final realm.

He stood up—not by pushing off the ground with his hands, but straight up. His legs weren't numb—he had sat motionless for several days; if it had been before, his legs would have been numb to the point of being unable to stand. Numbness is nerves being compressed, blood circulation impeded, the body protesting. But this time his legs weren't numb. Because his body was no longer the former body—the chaotic power had washed each meridian through: not washed with water, but washed with 'ice'. Ice moved slowly through the meridians, scraping off the last speck of impurity clinging to the meridian walls. Every muscle was tempered: muscle fibers, soaked in chaotic power, reordered from parallel fibers to networked fibers; networked fibers are denser than parallel fibers and better able to withstand instantaneous explosive force. Every bone was refined: the marrow in the bone cavities, stimulated by chaotic power, resumed hematopoiesis; the fresh red blood cells now carry oxygen more effectively than before. His body is a sword repeatedly forged—the sword embryo is common iron; he first red-hot forged it on Lesser Cold Mountain during foundation establishment; the sword blade is refined steel; he first tempered it during his Nascent Soul tribulation; the sword edge is chaotic; he first opened it with that strike in the Order Holy Hall. If the sword broke, his reforging is just re-forging. Melt the broken sword into molten metal, recast the embryo, re-red-hot, re-temper. Impurities are hammered out—each breath is a hammer strike, each heartbeat a hammer strike. What remains are the purest parts—iron turned to steel, steel turned to meteoric iron. The sword is not sharp—not for sharpness, but for 'being'. It resides in its sheath, at the master's waist, wherever it should appear. It need not be drawn.

He pushed open the door. The door hinge lacked oil, emitting an extremely rough, extremely prolonged dull sound. The light outside was bright—not sunlight, but moonlight.

The sun had already set behind the mountain several hours ago; the moon was rising from behind the canopy of the Building Tree, moonlight bathing the rear mountain in a sheet of silver-white. He narrowed his eyes—his pupils shifted from pure black indoors to outdoor moonlight, and the iris sphincter contracted slightly.

Then he adapted. Youying leaned against the wall—she had changed her posture from leaning against the wall to sitting with her knees drawn up beside the threshold. Her hands rested on her knees; on the back of her hand was a faint white mark, left from when the light had fallen on the back of her hand earlier—not a burn, but a faint trace left by the brief resonance of the chaotic law in the light with her void law.

Hearing the door sound, she opened her eyes. He stood at the doorway, moonlight casting his face half bright, half dark. The desiccation lines on his face were still there—those cracks had largely healed during his reforging, the deepest ones filled in, leaving only the faintest traces. But his gaze was different—deeper.

Like two bottomless wells—the openings aren't large, but the shafts are extremely deep. There is water in the wells, the surface calm, without a ripple. Very clear—clear enough to see every grain of sand at the bottom.

Very cold—cold enough that sticking a hand in at midsummer noon would draw a shiver. Very still—still enough that the moon reflected on the surface, from full to waning over hundreds of years, would not cause a single ripple.

"Late Nascent Soul?" her voice was soft, soft as a breeze—not a gale, but the summer night breeze drifting in through the window, cool on the face but more soothing.

Like a dream—not a nightmare, but a pleasant dream; upon waking she still remembered the dream's content, but couldn't speak of it, only feeling her heart full.

Like it didn't exist—the sound was too faint, so faint she could barely hear it herself; she feared she was dreaming. Feared she was still leaning against the wall outside the quiet chamber waiting for him, that he had merely pushed the door open to step out for a breath, his breakthrough not yet complete.

Afraid that if she spoke, the dream would vanish—she remained leaning against the wall, he still sat on the futon, the light not yet withdrawn. She did not wake.

Because he was nodding—not a forceful nod, but his chin sinking down slightly. The amplitude was exactly the same as each time she had asked him, 'Are you ready?' and he nodded.

She stood up—not by pushing off the ground with her hands, though her legs were numb as well, but she didn't care. She reached out and took his hand—his hand was warmer than before, not because his body temperature had risen, but because the chaotic power flowed more smoothly through his meridians, from dantian to fingertip in an instant.

She placed his hand on her face, feeling his warmth. His chaotic power seeped out from his palm——not the previous kind of seep, fine as a hair, but a "mist".

Extremely fine, dense, and soft chaotic-colored light mist overflowed from his palm, sticking to her cheek. It was soft, fine, like silk sliding over her face——silk is cool, but his chaotic power is warm.

Silk sliding over leaves a cool feeling; his chaotic power sliding over leaves a warm feeling. She closed her eyes, a smile at the corner of her mouth——he is here, he has grown stronger, he can protect her now.

She doesn't need his protection——after returning from shadow to body, she has been re-cultivating the Void Laws, and now she has recovered to early Nascent Soul. But she likes him protecting her——not because she likes the feeling of being protected, but because she likes that he cares for her.

Cang Xuan walked over. His steps were steady, each step planted firmly——not by stomping, but the sole rolling fully from heel to toe over the stone slab. The sword in its sheath made no sound——because the sword knew, now is not the time for battle.

He stood before Wang Ping, the two facing each other, moonlight coming from the side, stretching their shadows to equal length. No words——he didn't need to speak, his sword would speak for him. He took the sword with sheath from his waist, holding it horizontally——not handing it to Wang Ping, but laying it flat in his palm, hilt to the left, sheath to the right.

The sword in its sheath made a sound——short and bright. Exactly the same as when light previously fell on the sword. The sword was saying——draw the sword. Not the polite "please draw the sword", but an invitation "come try".

Wang Ping reached out his hand. Not to grip the hilt——the hilt was on Cang Xuan's side. He placed two fingers——index and middle together——on the middle of the sword sheath, three fingers away from the sword guard. The sword remained in the sheath, not drawn.

But the sword spirit's vibration traveled from the sword body into the sheath wall, from the sheath wall into his finger bones, from the finger bones into his Dao foundation. Very slight——so slight only a sword cultivator and a Chaos True Lord could feel it. Soon——so quick it wasn't vibration, but a "hummingbird's wings".

A hummingbird's wings beat dozens of times per second; the naked eye cannot see the wing outline, only a blur of gray mist. The sword spirit's vibration is likewise——frequency so high his fingers cannot feel "vibration", only "heat"—the extremely minute heat produced by vibrational friction.

He felt the sword's joy——not the joy of killing, for the sword never has joy in killing; killing is the opponent's sorrow, the sword is merely a tool. It is the joy of "encounter"—encountering a stronger person, the sword becomes excited.

Weapons are such that they grow strong when meeting the strong——the weak grip a sword and the sword sleeps; the strong grip a sword and the sword awakens. Cang Xuan's sword has awakened.

Wang Ping moved his fingers off the sheath. The sword's vibration did not stop——it vibrated several more times inside the sheath, then gradually grew quiet.

Cang Xuan took back his sword, rehanging it at his waist. He stared at Wang Ping for a long time, then spoke——"Late Nascent Soul is not the end." Not a question, a statement. Wang Ping nodded——"I know." Cang Xuan also nodded slightly, then turned and left.

He walked to the distant old pine, stopped, and placed his hand on the hilt. His sword sounded in the sheath——not the earlier short "ding", but a long, clear hum. Like a person singing——sword cultivators don't sing, but the sword of a sword cultivator sings for them. He is singing——he is strong. The sword is singing——I know.

Yu Liuli walked over, cradling her ancient zither. She had just been sitting under the Jianmu tree, seeing the light fade, hearing the door sound, she rose from under the tree, holding the zither and walked this way.

She stood before Wang Ping, moonlight causing the lacquer patterns on her zither to faintly gleam. Her finger lightly plucked a string——not the feather string, but the palace string.

The palace string is the thickest and heaviest; its sound is not bright, but carries the farthest. The string emitted an extremely soft, fine sound——not dew, not a bamboo grove, but a "bell tone". The bell tone reverberates in the morning temple; the bell hammer has just struck the bell wall, the bell wall still trembling, wave after wave surging from the bell mouth out past the mountain gate.

She was playing a short piece——only a few notes. Palace string up, horn string carrying, feather string turning, palace string joining. Four notes, one phrase. But within those notes lay her congratulations——congratulating him on his breakthrough, not congratulating him on becoming stronger, but congratulating him on still being here.

You Ying waited for him three years; she also waited under the Jianmu tree for three years. During those three years she came every afternoon, placed the zither at the tree roots, played a piece for Jiu Er to hear, and also for herself. Now that he has returned, she no longer needs to play for him.

After finishing, her fingers rested on the strings, gazing at him. A smile at the corner of her mouth——so faint, almost invisible in the moonlight. Then she held the zither, turned, and left.

Wang Ping stood beneath the Jianmu tree. Moonlight turned the tree's crown into a silvery-gray silhouette, leaves swaying gently in the night wind, shush-shush-shush. He reached out his hand, pressing it against the trunk. The bark remained as rough, as thick, and the fissures as deep and shallow as ever.

His fingers slid over the fissures, starting from the deepest crack at waist height on the trunk, moving upward to a high point below the branches. Then he stopped. He felt Jiu Er's heartbeat——thump, thump, thump. Very slow——so slow that his heart beat five times before she beat once. Very faint——so faint that if his cultivation were not already at late Nascent Soul, and if his perception had not been retempered in the Return to Truth realm, he would not feel it at all. But very steady——each interval exactly the same, neither early nor late, neither fast nor slow. Like a person taking deep breaths in the dead of night——inhale slow, exhale slow, no pause in between. She was dreaming——in her dream, he was there. He stood there, beneath the Jianmu tree, in the moonlight, in her dream.

The Chaos Immortal Stele jumped once inside his body. Not a heartbeat——but an extremely heavy, profound throb from deep within the stele, like a drum being struck. The stele spirit's voice came from the depths——not words, but "intent". He wrote a sentence directly into Wang Ping's chaotic primordial spirit, very light, very distant, like the bell tone echoing in the morning temple.

"The fourth layer is open."

Wang Ping's mind and spirit sank into the stele. Not by sitting cross-legged in meditation——he merely stood beneath the Jianmu tree, closed his eyes for a moment, and his mind and spirit were already at the center of the dantian spirit sea. The Chaos Immortal Stele hovered before him, the seal inscriptions on layers one through four glowing——first layer Chaos, second layer Turbidity, third layer Immortal, fourth layer Stele.

The stele spirit stood at the entrance of the fourth layer——a door. The door was black——not the reflective black of obsidian, but a "light-absorbing" black. Light shining on it does not reflect; it is only absorbed into the door's depths.

Like night——not city night, but the night on a barren plain with no moon, no stars. Like ink——not the ink of ink liquid, but the darkest pool of ink after grinding an ink stick countless times on an inkstone.

Like an abyss——not a bottomed abyss, but "bottomless", falling forever without ever reaching an end. The door had no patterns, no decorations, no rivets, no ring.

Nothing at all——just the door. The stele spirit stood beside the door, his gray robe drifting lightly in the windless space, silver hair hanging from his back down to his waist.

He looked at Wang Ping; there was a glint in his eyes——not the gray that would brighten later, but light that was already shining. Very faint——so faint only visible in darkness. Yet very bright——bright enough that Wang Ping could read in that light the words the stele spirit had not spoken for thirty thousand years.

"The seventh realm, the Chaos Realm. The stage of Void Refinement, the ultimate of the Chaotic Dao. You are not far from that step." Not encouragement——the stele spirit does not need to encourage Wang Ping, nor does Wang Ping need encouragement. It is a "statement". Like saying today the weather is fine, the sunlight warm.

Wang Ping stood before the door. The black on the door absorbed his gaze; he wanted to step forward, but he did not. Not because he dared not, but because he knew——his present self could not push it open. Not due to lack of strength——he is already late Nascent Soul, his chaotic power having turned from water to ice. It is a lack of "being"—not strength, but "time".

He still needs to walk a stretch——the path of re-cultivation he has finished, the path of Return to Truth he has finished, but there remains the road of "Perfection". From late stage to Great Perfection, it is not a breakthrough, but "accumulation". Accumulating until every crack in his Dao foundation is filled, until every tree in his heart grows another inch, until Jiu Er awakens. Gaining a little more understanding of the Dao——not learning new Dao, but "reviewing the old".

To walk again all the Dao from Foundation Establishment to late Nascent Soul, using the eyes after Return to Truth to look anew. To wait a bit longer——not waiting for opportunity, but "waiting for oneself". Waiting for oneself to change from ice to water, from water to vapor. The door will open when it should——not because opportunity has arrived, but because "he" has arrived.

He walked to the door, reached out his hand, and pressed his palm against it. The door was cold——so cold his palm lines almost froze to its surface. He did not push, merely pressed. Then he withdrew his hand, withdrew his mind and spirit, and opened his eyes.

The leaves of the Jianmu tree still swayed in the wind. Moonlight was brighter than before——the moon had risen to directly above the Jianmu tree's crown, moonlight pouring down from straight above, shrinking his entire shadow to a tiny black speck beneath his feet.

Shush-shush-shush, like someone speaking. He listened, listening to what the Jianmu tree was saying. The Jianmu tree said——don't rush.

You still have time. Not the anxiety of "time is short", but the steadiness of "time is enough".

He nodded——his chin sank slightly downward, exactly the same amplitude as when You Ying outside the quiet chamber's door asked him "Have you reached late Nascent Soul?" and he nodded. Moonlight fell on his face, cool, but he did not feel cool.

Because his body, just stepped out of the Return to Truth realm, was still slightly warm. He closed his eyes, sensing the moonlight's temperature——not with skin, but with "being". He is. The moon is. The Jianmu tree is. Jiu Er is. You Ying is. Cang Xuan is. Yu Liuli is.

Late Nascent Soul, achieved. One step remains to Great Perfection, a stretch remains to Void Refinement. He is not hurried, for he knows the path lies beneath his feet. He will walk step by step——not chasing, but walking. Walk to that black door, reach out his hand, and push it open.