In the origin world, the mories surface one by one.
After his defeat, the Rose Dynasty never invaded again. Its ambition was cut short.
His parents chose not to cultivate and eventually passed away, leaving the world through the quiet path of old age.
His sister, his two wives, and his children did not falter. With the knowledge and resources he left behind, they cultivated to the very limit of the origin world. When that limit no longer offered a path forward, they left.
They went to the demon world, seeking resources to heal him.
More than five hundred years have passed, yet they have not returned. Their fate remains unknown.
The third consciousness, the one within the inner dream world, cannot return. The mirror, as a Law treasure, cannot extend its promotion into a supre world.
So he asks if there is a way to nd the missing piece of his consciousness.
The mirror answers: with one thousand rit, his consciousness can be made whole—but at a cost. The connection to the inner dream world will be severed. The consciousness clone will no longer be part of him. It will beco both his clone and an independent being.
And that ans it could rebel.
Still, with the chance for full recovery before him, he does not hesitate.
And he is not afraid of his clone rebellion.
He begins the practice, sinking into the flow of the technique as if it had always been waiting for him.
The first realm—ditation realm.
It begins with visualisation, from the simplest object to the most complex, until the spirit grows strong enough to open the sea of consciousness.
But he does not linger here. His sea of consciousness is long since open, vast and stable, so the first step passes like a shadow over still water.
The second realm—Spirit Garden realm.
Within his sea of consciousness, he plants the first seeds. A garden begins to form—flowers of radiant colour, trees with smooth bark and rough, rivers flowing in quiet curves.
When his awareness brushes against them, the details surge to life.
The leaves carry veins and texture, the flowers release fragrance sharp and sweet fragrance, the waters are cool, their wetness clinging to his senses.
His sea of consciousness is no longer an empty expanse, but a living space.
The third realm—Living Garden realm.
Fine threads of thought extend outward, weaving through the flowers, the trees, the streams, until everything begins to breathe.
The garden stirs.
The plants ripple as if touched by unseen wind, fish dart beneath the water, and a deer lifts its head among the trees.
With each spark of life, his garden grows in vibrancy—yet the sea of consciousness itself begins to shrink.
It contracts, condenses, and then vanishes entirely, leaving only the living garden to carry its weight. His consciousness does not dissolve.
It becos sharper, whole yet distinct, his divergent thoughts ringing clear as separate voices.
He can now think of many things at once without confusion, each path of thought flowing independently.
The fourth realm—Spirit realm.
Here, the threads return inward. Similar thoughts converge into single streams.
Divergent currents press together until they, too, rge. Gradually, all directions collapse into one current, one will.
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A unified consciousness spirit forms, dense, immovable, and absolute.
Now, if he chooses not to think of sothing, it vanishes from his mind. If he decides upon a path, no force can sway him.
The four realms together complete the Mortal Spirit stage, the absolute peak of mortal consciousness.
Beyond this threshold lies the extraordinary, the beginning of a higher order of existence.
To step into it, the spirit must first be nourished by drawing in physical energy from the body or absorbing the flow of spiritual energy.
This sustains the consciousness until the spirit sense awakens, opening the path toward the fifth realm.
In the fifth realm, the absorbed spiritual energy condenses, shaping the spirit into sothing tangible.
First co the cells, then skin and bone, layer by layer, the spirit constructs its own body. But here, the knowledge left within the technique ends.
The path beyond, the sixth stage, has yet to be created.
He begins to cultivate at once, drawing energy inward, guiding it through the new thod. Progress is swift, faster than even he anticipates.
Yet the pressure of ti presses down on him—he cannot afford to stop, nor linger to carve the next stage.
He raises his hand, summoning the mirror once more.
Light ripples across its surface, but this ti it does not seal his soul.
Instead, the mirror stirs, and he feels himself drawn inward.
His spirit slips past the glass, passing through layers of shadow and dream.
He awakens in a body.
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The mountain stands silent under the night sky, its peaks shrouded in mist and dotted with buildings carved into the rock.
Calm hangs heavy over its slopes, broken only by the faint rustle of night wind.
Then, suddenly, a shout tears through the stillness—“Thief!”
Another cry follows, sharper, filled with panic—“Soone stole the spirit bead!”
Torches flare to life, lamps burst into glow, and the mountain that monts ago slumbered now seethes with movent.
From the shadows, a cloaked figure bursts forth, darting down the mountain path like a streak of black lightning.
Behind, a man gives chase, voice ringing through the night—“Thief, stop!”
They move with a speed no ordinary eyes can follow, each step carrying them across stone and air as if vanishing and reappearing.
The chase plunges down toward the outskirts of a village at the mountain’s base, where the cloaked figure finally whirls to face his pursuer.
Qi power erupts, and in the night’s silence, their clash begins.
The cloaked thief surges forward, hand glowing with a fierce crimson light, heat rolling off his palm in waves that scorch the cool night air.
The pursuer ets him head-on, his fist wrapped in a steady blue glow, pure Qi without elent, sharp and condensed like forged steel.
Their first collision shatters the earth beneath their feet, a thunderous crack splitting the ground as sparks of crimson fire and blue light scatter into the darkness.
The thief twists his body low, cloak sweeping like a shadow, and drives his blazing palm toward the man’s ribs.
The pursuer pivots, arm snapping down to block, the impact blasting a shockwave through the grass as stones scatter outward.
Heat licks across his sleeve, singeing the fabric, but his counterpunch slams upward, aiming for the thief’s chin.
The crimson hand intercepts, red and blue flaring violently as the force drives both n back a step, eyes locked in silence.
The thief suddenly steps in again, his palm striking in rapid succession—each blow hotter, faster, like molten iron hamring against steel.
The man does not retreat; his fists blur into a storm of blue arcs, each strike crushing the heat, pushing back against the searing assault.
The night sky above flickers with their light, crimson and blue weaving together like fire clashing with iron, illuminating the village edge in violent bursts.
The thief snarls beneath his hood, pressing harder, the heat around his hand intensifying until the air itself begins to warp.
The pursuer grits his teeth, channels Qi deep into his arm, and slams his fist forward with unyielding force, blue glow piercing straight into the crimson blaze.
The collision erupts like thunder, the shockwave rattling the village houses, flas and blue sparks scattering across the fields.
Villagers rush from their houses, torches in hand, panic scattering through the night as the ground quakes from the battle.
But one house does not empty. From within cos the sound of struggle, a man’s voice shouting desperately, “Push! Push!” followed by the piercing cries of a woman in labour.
The thief staggers under the relentless blows, crimson light flickering as the blue Qi suppresses him, step by step, forcing him back.
Then it happens—a thin, sharp cry splits the air. The sound of a newborn’s first breath.
The thief’s hood tilts, his eyes narrowing. Sinister intent stirs.
Even as the pursuer presses forward, the thief suddenly flings his arm wide, crimson fireballs streaking through the night and slamming into the wooden house. Flas erupt instantly, licking across the walls, smoke rising high.
From inside cos the terrified cry of the mother—“Help! Soone help us!”
The pursuer’s eyes flicker toward the house, only for a mont, but it is enough. The thief seizes the opening, cloak flaring as he vanishes into the shadows, fleeing down the mountain path.
The pursuer steadies himself to give chase, muscles coiling. But then another cry pierces him to the core—a woman’s desperate scream, “Please, save my baby!”
His jaw tightens, breath heavy. A long, weighted sigh escapes him.
He turns from the fleeing shadow and sprints toward the burning house, blue Qi surrounding him as he smashes through the firelit doorway.
Flas roar inside, the air thick with smoke and the screams of fear. He pushes through the collapsing timbers, lifts the mother to her feet, gathers the swaddled newborn from her trembling arms, and forces a path through the inferno.
Monts later, he bursts out of the burning ruin, clothes scorched, carrying a baby shining with a white light, only hours old. The child’s cries rise into the night, unbroken by fla or chaos, while behind him the house collapses into ash.
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