Chapter 14: Transcending the Cosmos

Only about thirty percent of spiritual energy remained in his body.

The steel spear excelled in offense, the twin forks moved with nimble unpredictability, and the halberd was fierce and perilous.

The sound of howling filled the arena, making all who watched unconsciously hold their breath. Qin Chuan dodged again and again, the surging spiritual energy within him repeatedly washing through his meridians and flesh.

“Not enough, it’s still not enough!”

Qin Chuan had yet to reach the realm where he could breathe and move with perfect ease. Perhaps in a calmer setting he could manage it, but now, with the tiniest lapse spelling disaster, he was far from matching Zhao Yu’s level.

Wenyuan lamented Zhao Yu’s genius, but was Qin Chuan any less gifted? From the moment one is born, breathing begins; how easy could it be to change the way one breathes?

With the Mystical Breath Dust Technique, Qin Chuan kept his energy expenditure within a manageable range. These four were nothing more than his whetstones.

If he truly wished to kill them, he could have seized upon their undeveloped awareness and swiftly destroyed them; there was no need for all this trouble.

The short fork sliced through Qin Chuan’s inner robe once more, but failed to touch his skin. This had happened countless times; his clothes were now little more than tattered strips.

His spiritual energy dwindled further: thirty percent...twenty...ten.

“Ah, it’s just not possible!” he sighed. He simply could not reach Zhao Yu’s heights.

But then, a flash of clarity surged through his heart, a realization unbidden.

By the banks of the Xiao Xiang River, a swan departs without a trace. Beneath the pavilion at sunset, a physician’s pouch hangs from the eaves; an old man, drunk in the spring breeze, dreams of falling pear blossoms from his youth.

In the old man’s breathing, there was not the slightest hint of obstruction—it was that very method of breath!

Inhale...inhale...exhale...inhale...

His mind’s eye illuminated in but a moment, and it was as if he’d gained a century’s mastery of breath, smooth and unbroken like the tides of the Xiao Xiang.

“Haha!” Qin Chuan threw his head back and laughed, his dark hair tumbling, radiating a peerless aura. Looking down at the four, he made up his mind.

With a thought, he focused his intent, and a single punch landed in empty air, sending out ripples. Before the four could strike him with their halberds, they were all blasted to dust, scattered to the winds.

The ripples spread, drifting to Gourd Mountain behind the crowd, where a deep, ancient bell seemed to ring, resonating through the world.

Ever since Qin Chuan glimpsed his true self, the nature of this world had become clear—just a fantasy of the heart. No illusion, no matter how dazzling, could compare to the reality of that punch.

He inhaled deeply, and a vortex formed around him. In no time, his spiritual energy was restored to fullness, clear as a polished mirror.

“Eh?”

He steadied his mind, only to be truly astonished by what he saw.

The tadpole-like script on Gourd Mountain twisted and transformed into human shapes, but this time, their target was not Qin Chuan, but the summit of Gourd Mountain!

A mere three to five gourd vines hung thick with people—children as young as twelve or thirteen, youths, grown men, even elders past fifty.

But how many could truly climb to the top?

Within moments, hundreds fell. The mountain was steep and perilous; when one above fell, they could drag down a dozen or even a hundred more.

Qin Chuan paid them no heed; all this was but illusion, perhaps a fixation from his days in exile. However tall the mountain, to him, reaching the top was just a matter of will.

With that thought, he raised his left foot, about to step up.

“What?” This time, it was Qin Chuan’s turn to be surprised.

Everything before him seemed not a product of his mind, but real!

Looking back, the battlefield was gone, replaced by a hellish purgatory.

Qin Chuan was alarmed! This world was truly strange—reality and illusion interwoven, unsettling to the core. Who knew what would happen if he lingered?

A pale blue glow flickered atop the mountain, radiating a breath of the real world. It could not be faked; behind him, the infernal flames crept closer. The choice was obvious.

A detached calm rose in his heart, his gaze icy as he stared at the towering Gourd Mountain.

He picked up two rusty swords and tucked them at his waist, striding forward in a tiger’s gait. Finding an opening, he squeezed through the crowd and began to climb the gourd vine. Perhaps he was too rough, for many turned to stare, muttering curses in tongues he could not understand.

The situation was too bizarre; unable to fathom its secrets, all he could do was reach the summit. But how easy could that be?

The green vine was bristling with barbs, stained with the blood of countless climbers. The higher he went, the fainter the stains, and from their dried state, it had clearly been years.

His spiritual energy surged into every limb, sending a shiver through his body. Qin Chuan paused, then smiled—his energy was now far denser than when he first entered the Qi Refining stage. He had overexerted, and it was hindering him.

He dialed back his energy, then, hands and feet working together, ascended like a nimble monkey, climbing through the clouds. Whether stepping on shoulders or grabbing at sashes, he soared skyward amid the crowd’s howls.

“It’s... an immortal!”

Those who saw this were thunderstruck, falling to their knees and kowtowing frantically.

Like a plague, this reverence spread from the first person outward; the rest dared not hesitate.

Qin Chuan could not understand their language, nor did he care to. On the vine, some looked at him with fanaticism; some even let go and leapt from the heights!

Frightened, Qin Chuan clung tightly to the vine, not daring to relax. The air was filled with the sound of bodies hurtling through space and crashing below.

Watching people leap like dumplings into a boiling pot, Qin Chuan’s eyes nearly burst. Was it this world that had gone mad, or himself? He could scarcely breathe.

Countless times he tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat, until at last, tears streamed silently down his cheeks. He did not know why he wept; perhaps it was fate.

Looking down, he saw the people kneeling below, some crushed to death by falling bodies, the luckless splitting open their foreheads on the ground, white fluid oozing out unawares.

“Hahaha!” Without realizing it, his Mystical Breath Dust Technique collapsed. At last, he understood their cries—they called him “Immortal,” nothing more.

“I am not an immortal, not an immortal!”

He recognized no one here, yet they so easily tugged at his heartstrings, beguiled him with words he could not grasp.

After the madness came a long silence. The crowd behind him lay in pools of blood, their reflections deep in his eyes.

There was no more hesitation. Giving his all, he climbed for seven or eight hours, pausing only twice to regulate his breath, and finally reached the summit.

There were no rare flowers or treasures atop the mountain, only a bare stone platform with a single scroll—The Apocalypse. Qin Chuan flipped through it: a cultivation manual, but only the introduction was legible; the text beyond was lost in mist.

Transforming the Dao into sword and blade, to create heaven and earth? Qin Chuan snorted in disdain and tossed it aside. Had it been before, he might have treasured it, but now it was no more than grass beneath his feet.

Clouds hung heavy all around, and in the gloom Qin Chuan saw three figures: one seated cross-legged, another bent over a higher gourd leaf, the breath of reality forming a portal, and a third hugging his knees on the ground.

It was the Pill Room of the Spirit Summoning Palace!

Li Yue sat idly in front of the pill room, reciting herbal recipes to herself. Perhaps sensing Qin Chuan’s gaze, she looked over, but saw nothing.

One world, two distant souls.

By now, he saw through the mystery. Ignoring all else, he pushed open the portal, his spirit re-entering his body—he’d had enough of this world of slaughter and blood.

A soft melody lingered in his ears, the clash of drums and swords gradually fading, his heartbeat resuming as though a lifetime had passed.

Looking up, he saw the incense stick still burning, more than a third remaining.

Scenes from the Eternal Battlefield flashed through Qin Chuan’s mind, his face growing grave. He knew well—he was not one who delighted in killing. On the contrary, memories of childhood games with his family brought tears to his eyes.

Perhaps fate demanded this journey; a rootless wanderer, that was all.

Focusing on the second pill furnace, he saw divine birds nesting, immortal beasts thriving, wondrous flowers and herbs, ancient trees clinging to sheer cliffs, waterfalls roaring, a land of spirit and beauty, a universe in miniature, miraculous and complete.

At this sight, Qin Chuan’s heart cried out in alarm!

As expected, it was just as he feared. He tried to turn away, but was struck as if by lightning, his heart trembling uncontrollably.

“Young friend, wake up!” An old man, his left hand wrinkled, pinched the philtrum beneath Qin Chuan’s nose. When Qin Chuan’s brow twitched, he released him, gently laying him on the crude bed, closing the door, humming a tune as he walked out with his gourd.

As far as the eye could see, the scene was identical to what Qin Chuan had just glimpsed on the pill furnace, but now with even more detail—from the tiniest insects moving seeds among the grass, to the solitary hut amid the mountains.

No more storms of blood, only the vastness of heaven and earth. The sun and moon waxed and waned, constellations shifted. Cold gave way to heat, autumn harvest was stored for winter. Clouds brought rain, dew turned to frost. Fruit was prized, vegetables cherished. The sea was salty, rivers fresh; fish swam deep, birds soared high.

There was no immortal grandeur of the Spirit Summoning Palace, nor the rural peace of village lanes, yet here in the mountains was a unique, profound serenity.

The old man walked a few steps through a bamboo grove before his hut, beside which flowed a narrow stream.

He plucked a bamboo leaf, pressed it to his lips, and played a soft, far-reaching tune. Strangely, before long, a school of golden carp came from downstream, their tails splashing white spray in rhythm with the melody.

“Old man, enough! Must you play that tune every day?”

Had Qin Chuan seen this, his jaw would have dropped—the fish were speaking!

“Did you bring the golden whiskers?”

At first glance, it seemed the carp had whiskers growing from their gills, but closer inspection showed they held them in their mouths.

“Naturally, as always!” The fish did not open its mouth to speak; the whiskers stayed clenched, yet the voice sounded—its method a mystery.