“Do you think this is easy? The path to immortality—‘Dao’ can mean ‘to steal,’ and to steal is to take. This single word, ‘take,’ is the hardest thing on the path to immortality. Along your journey of cultivation, you’ll encounter challenges beyond these jewels, beauties, and resources. There are countless cultivation methods, numerous spiritual pills and elixirs, and endless human relationships. Which will you take, and which will you abandon? If you take it, will it truly lead to immortality? If you abandon it, will you not regret it later?”
This was no longer a matter of ideals and practice; the old daoist had led the conversation back to the argument of the Dragon Fish.
“Cultivation must begin with understanding this principle: Humans are born into this world not to isolate themselves. I don’t know what it’s like to reach the pinnacle of cultivation, but along the way, there’s a network of interactions—some relationships are mutually supportive, some are indifferent, and some are irreconcilable. Between people and objects, there’s a similar dynamic—some are inseparable, some are dispensable, and some are outright repellent. As for the relationship between humans and the heavens, concepts like the union of man and heaven or their resonance are explicitly detailed in ancient texts.
“This intricate web of connections requires discernment in what to take and what to leave behind; only this is the proper path. If you fail to understand that ‘external things’ are also the foundation of cultivation and simply isolate yourself in the mountains under the guise of meditation, calling it a ‘final retreat,’ then it’s just a retreat—towards death.”
Yu Ci lowered his head in response. “I humbly accept your teaching.”
Soon after, he looked up again, a bitter smile forming on his lips. “But this principle of choosing and abandoning sounds so complicated, so difficult, and… so heartless.”
At that moment, he thought of the friends he had recently made.
According to the old daoist’s theory, in pursuit of the Dao, he could abandon Ye Tu, forsake Bao Guang, leave Ah Jiu behind, and even part ways with the old daoist himself if necessary!
The old daoist’s expression turned contemplative, as though lost in thought. Then he stroked his beard and chuckled. “Only those who have weathered life’s storms can speak of this ‘heartlessness.’ It’s good. But remember, the heartlessness of the Dao is a trial… yet, even in its heartlessness, it stirs the soul!”
With that, he laughed loudly and broke into song, using his cup as a drumbeat:
“The immortal path is long, and immortality is hard.
Immortality is hard, the trials are harsher.
Trials of life and death, yet death is not hard.”
In the small snowy pavilion, the white-browed old daoist sang. His voice resonated through the branches, causing the falling snow to respond. Though his voice wasn’t melodious and his words were plain, there was a self-deprecating humor to his tone. Delving deeper, one could sense the bitterness in every word, as though it weighed on the heart.
Yu Ci understood the old daoist’s intent to enlighten him, though the daoist seemed to bear the burden himself. Yu Ci wanted to laugh, but the expression on his face turned bitter.
This was his first encounter with the profound theories of cultivation. Yet if all cultivators in the world practiced , wouldn’t it be utterly dull and stifling?
This wasn’t the immortality he had imagined or pursued… definitely not!
As his emotions surged, he downed another cup of wine, feeling a slight buzz.
Yu Ci’s tolerance for alcohol wasn’t great. Once tipsy, his personality became unrestrained, and his words gained a provocative edge. Glancing at the old daoist again, while he disliked the man’s words, he admired his carefree and unrestrained demeanor. This old daoist was undeniably a man of character.
Perhaps it was this very personality that led to his defeat on the path to immortality.
Yet, when it came to voicing this thought, Yu Ci altered his phrasing under the influence of wine and called out, “What a fine daoist, a true marvel of a man!”
The abrupt praise only made the old daoist appear more at ease. He subtly adjusted his tone, repeating the verses again and again. Yu Ci kept hearing the words “immortality is hard” and, seeing the old daoist’s white hair and weathered face, couldn’t help but feel a stirring in his heart. His emotions surged, and he clapped the table, joining the old daoist in song:
“… Trials of life and death, yet death is not hard.”
One voice was powerful and forceful, the other clear and vibrant. Together, their voices complemented each other. The sounds of clapping and pounding echoed as the two sang in harmony. Somehow, the simple song was imbued with meaning. By the time the words “death is not hard” were sung again, Yu Ci’s emotions were like a surging tide, and he slammed the table with such force that the pavilion quaked, nearly collapsing. Dust and debris fell as he gritted his teeth and said bitterly:
“Death is not hard, not hard at all! The easiest thing in the world is also the most suffocating!”
The old daoist stopped singing, smiling faintly as he asked, “Only by facing the trials can one achieve immortality. Do you now understand how to walk the path of immortality?”
“I understand, I understand…”
Yu Ci truly grasped the old daoist’s meaning, but the more he understood, the more stifled he felt. This notion of choosing and abandoning, of balancing emotions and detachment, seemed overly delicate and cloying. He wasn’t afraid of death but was exasperated by these entanglements. Why couldn’t cultivation be as straightforward as wielding a sword—cutting through life and death with one stroke, clean and decisive?
When frustrated, he drank. Finding dust in his cup, he discarded it and drank straight from the wine jar, finishing it in one go. The weak wine rushed to his head, and thoughts of the heavens, earth, objects, and humanity, as mentioned by Yu Zhou, surged within him. The words caught in his throat, and he couldn’t help but shout:
“Why must we choose? Why not make all things mine, all people mine, and bend heaven and earth to my will… wouldn’t that lead to immortality too?”
The old daoist froze at the outburst.
Yu Ci’s shout cleared his mind, and he realized he had uttered nonsense. Just as he was about to explain, the old daoist burst into laughter. With a sweep of his sleeve, a cacophony erupted as cups and dishes tumbled to the ground. Even the stone box holding the Dragon Fish nearly fell.
Bao Guang arrived outside the pavilion with wine and was stunned by the chaotic scene.
The old daoist laughed heartily, then turned to Yu Ci, silent for a long moment.
For the first time in his life, Yu Ci regretted speaking carelessly while drunk. Facing the daoist’s gaze, he forced a bitter smile and said, “That was just nonsense…”
The old daoist’s expression suddenly brightened. “Excellent!”
“I know it was nonsense… but even as nonsense, I couldn’t have said it.”
The old daoist patted Yu Ci on the shoulder and left the pavilion without looking back.
In the afternoon, the daoists at the Temple gradually concluded their midday lessons. While the sounds of human activity rose throughout the compound, the solitary courtyard where Yu Ci resided remained tranquil and undisturbed, preserving its serene atmosphere.
Yu Ci paced slowly within the courtyard.
This marked the tenth day since his return to the Heart Prohibition Temple.
Since the elderly daoist had stormed off that day, Yu Ci hadn’t seen him again. Even the Dragon Fish had yet to be handed over, and the matter of becoming an external disciple had been put on hold. It seemed as though his momentary lapse in words had genuinely angered the old daoist, plunging everything into a state of stagnation.
As the days dragged on, Yu Ci began to feel as if he had been forgotten. His only connection to the world came from occasional visits by Bao Guang, who would exchange a few idle words with him, reminding him of his place in the mundane world.
Yu Ci had felt restless and doubtful at first.
However, as time passed, his thoughts began to settle. Unconsciously, the scheming and life-or-death struggles he experienced in the Sky Rift Valley grew faint. The sense of urgency that had gripped him relentlessly also started to ease. As for the lurking conspiracies and the clashes between "giants," those distant threats were buried deep within his heart, sealed away under an additional layer of suppression.
Thus, most of his heart felt empty, and its rhythm naturally adjusted.
Yu Ci discovered a new rhythm, distinct from the one he had during his trials in the Sky Rift Valley, his twelve years of wandering, or even his early days with the Twin Immortal Sect. It was leisurely and serene, yet deeply perceptive. He hadn't forgotten the past but had begun to view it from a different perspective, extracting information from it solely to enrich his thoughts.
In simple terms, he was reflecting.
This reflection didn’t imply that he considered his previous actions wrong, but rather that he uncovered valuable insights inevitably overlooked amidst intense situations.
Some of these were intangible, like the subtle shifts in his state of mind during different periods. Others were practical, such as the nuanced flow of innate Qi when he wielded the mist-formed sword Qi. Hidden in these overlooked details were truths he had been pursuing but had been overshadowed by more immediate concerns.
Thus, Yu Ci began to enjoy pacing quietly in his secluded courtyard. He would recall, ponder, and explore, ultimately grasping those truths, for they brought him closer to cultivation and immortality.
His condition had improved significantly, and today was no exception.
In the stillness, he could even hear the harmonious resonance of his muscles, bones, and blood, nourished by innate Qi. It sounded like waves gently lapping against the shore in the dead of night—rhythmic, profound, and akin to celestial music.
Immersed in this symphony, Yu Ci naturally drifted into a state of semi-awareness, a realm of faint clarity and nebulous abstraction. His previously sharp thoughts and perceptions now felt like a lake overflowing its banks, flowing in all directions without purpose. Yet, deep within, a faint glimmer served as the core, illuminating the unfathomable depths of his mind. No matter how far the lake spread, it remained influenced by that light, albeit subtly.
He inexplicably—and yet inevitably—recalled Ye Tu's philosophies. However, the sequence of his thoughts and even the language that framed them faded away, leaving behind only the most intuitive imagery and purest ideas, which unfolded within his mind’s lake.
It was a series of Concentric Circle.
The faint light was the center, and the lake water formed indistinct arcs radiating outward.
The lake water actively connected with the external world, encroaching upon new territories. At the same time, the external world communicated back—perhaps through a falling leaf or a gentle breeze. These subtle interactions carried vague messages from faraway places.
The lake water absorbed and processed these messages, producing responses. The faint light at the lake’s center acted as an observer, recording the entire process of input, interaction, and feedback. Then, it stripped away the process itself, retaining only the infinitesimal truths revealed by that process, drawing them into its glow. The light seemed to expand ever so slightly.
Under the light’s illumination, the lake water became even clearer, and the feedback it provided grew more distinct, creating a cycle that repeated endlessly.
Until a sudden, sharp stimulus broke through!