Chapter 143: Butterfly Dreaming of Zhuang Zhou
That was the most fundantal principle.
Space and ti, anwhile, were the two rarest elents of all. Spatial Spirits were exceedingly scarce, and Temporal Spirits were almost nonexistent in nature. That was why Spatial Magic and Temporal Magic were the hardest to master, and the rarest of all.
It was said that the formation of ruins was tied to space.
In the ancient age, countless great wars had been fought. In those wars, vast quantities of Magic collided and exploded against one another, tearing apart and draining dry all the magical elents within an area. That region was left without any spirits at all, without any Mana at all, becoming a vacuum zone.
Then that stretch of space was severed from the world itself.
Like a piece of cloth torn free, drifting in the void.
Inside it, there was nothing. No elents, no spirits, no Mana.
But slowly, it would begin to nurture new things. The residual energy left behind after the severing, together with the remains of the dead spirits, would gradually gather again over the long years, giving birth to new forms of life unlike anything in the outside world.
Then, after no one knew how many years had passed, that pocket of space would reconnect to the world. A rift would appear. An entrance would open.
And thus, a ruin would erge.
That was why no two ruins were ever the sa.
So ruins were filled with fire. So were sealed beneath endless ice. So grew plants that did not exist in the outside world. So were ho to creatures unknown beyond them.
It all depended on what had been nurtured within that pocket of space.
Ryan opened his eyes and stared at the tent roof.
The ruins of the Demon Race buried the secrets of the Demon Race.
Then what did the ruins of the Elves bury?
The Empire had spent more than ten thousand gold coins, chosen more than sixty young people from across the land, and even knowing the danger within, even knowing so of them might never return, it was still sending them in.
Was it worth it?
Unless what lay inside was worth far more than ten thousand gold coins.
Ryan reached up and touched the Erald Wind Oath resting against his chest. It lay there quietly, cool to the touch.
Syl was still asleep. Or perhaps Ryan simply had no way of knowing when Syl was awake.
It would have been nice if he were awake. At the very least, Ryan could have asked what exactly lay inside an Elven ruin.
Outside the tent ca the sounds of footsteps and low conversation, those who had just collected their supplies walking back. So were speaking softly, so were laughing, so were complaining that the tents were too cramped. In the distance, the campfire crackled, and the rich scent of at stew still hung in the air.
Lying on the felt mat, staring at the tent roof, Ryan suddenly felt a little dazed.
He had been in this world for several months now.
He raised a hand and, by the moonlight filtering in, looked at his palm. The fingers were long and distinct at the joints, and there were thin calluses at the web of his thumb, left there by sword practice.
These were Ryan Velt’s hands.
But they were also his.
Sotis, he could no longer tell the difference.
At the very beginning, he had only been acting.
Acting the part of the gloomy, withdrawn, sharp-tongued, overbearing villainous young master. His voice had to be cold, his gaze had to be cold, he had to walk with his chin slightly raised, and he had to look at people with disdain.
It had been exhausting. Every movent had to be thought through. Every sentence had to be calculated.
Later, though, he no longer needed to think about it.
Indifference beca habit. Silence beca instinct.
When he t people he did not want to deal with, he truly could not be bothered to speak, so he simply did not.
When sothing needed to be handled, he frowned and dealt with it, and the frown on his face beca real.
He was no longer acting as Ryan Velt.
He had beco Ryan Velt.
Or perhaps it was more accurate to say that the original Ryan Velt and his own self had slowly fused together.
The original Ryan had been cold, stubborn, fond of mocking others, fond of stirring up trouble.
The original him had been quiet, taciturn, poor at socializing, and uncomfortable in crowds.
Those two shadows had overlapped and beco the person he was now—
Still indifferent. Still reticent. Still soone who rarely spoke to others.
But now he would talk to a fool like Rex. He would accept the formalwear Ilis had brought him. He would let Cosette help him press his clothes. When Lillian awkwardly complinted him, he would answer with a thank-you.
The number of people around him kept growing. So did the number of entanglents in his life. So of them were things he had chosen. So had been forced on him. So had happened for reasons he still did not quite understand.
He was still himself.
And yet, perhaps he was no longer the sa person he had once been.
Ryan turned over and lay on his side, facing the tent wall.
Tomorrow, he would enter that ruin.
The Starfall Ruins.
That na had never appeared in the original ga.
There was no plot, no strategy guide, no foreknowledge.
He had no idea what awaited him once he stepped inside. Those chanisms and traps, those ancient creatures, those beings nurtured within the broken fragnts of space—he knew nothing of them.
The advantage of being a transmigrator was gone.
Ryan reached up and touched his own face.
The skin beneath his fingers was warm, elastic, the face of a living man.
A strange feeling ca over him.
Those mories of his previous life, that self who had sat before a computer playing gas, that self who had occasionally fantasized about being transported to another world—they all seed veiled behind a thick layer of fog.
If he tried hard, he could still rember them. But those things he rembered felt like soone else’s story, like a dream he had once had.
A dream that, once he woke, he could no longer recall clearly.
By contrast, Ryan Velt’s past had beco more and more vivid.
That gloomy childhood. That father who had never loved him. That mother who had died too early. That empty old manor. Those days of being mocked and looked down upon.
They all felt as though he himself had lived through them.
Who was he?
Was he the modern man who had transmigrated into a ga?
Or had he always been Ryan Velt, rely dreaming a long dream in which he had been soone else?
Ryan stared blankly at the tent roof.
Outside, another burst of footsteps passed by, accompanied by soft laughter. Those sounds felt distant, as though separated from him by so invisible veil.
Zhuang Zhou dreaming of the butterfly, or the butterfly dreaming of Zhuang Zhou.
The phrase surfaced suddenly in his mind.
He was Ryan Velt.
Ryan Velt was him.
Those mories of his previous life were like a dream. Now that he had awakened, what belonged to that dream still remained, but the person within it was no longer him.
Or perhaps it never had been.
Ryan closed his eyes.
In the darkness, a face appeared.
Chestnut hair. Slightly tousled bangs. Eyes curved when she smiled. The faint glimpse of a little tiger tooth. Standing in the doorway, eyes red-rimd, voice soft and small—
The corner of Ryan’s mouth lifted slightly.
That face brightened once in the darkness, then slowly faded away.
His breathing gradually evened out.
Outside the tent, the campfire still crackled. From deep in the mountain forest ca the cry of an owl, again and again, carrying far through the night. Moonlight slipped in through the slit in the tent flap and fell across his face like a thin white line.
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