In the total manifestation of the pool of consciousness, Tao ruled supremely.

  It was a state of floating and swimming without despair in the never-ending sea of nightmare that is named life.

  In that very core of dusky black and dawning white poles of the human realm, cultivation was one’s only true way of escaping the rules and boundaries of life.

  On the path to seeking the ultimate form of nirvana, spiritual peace happened to be the greatest prize.

  And in this universe apparently composed of only two karmic shades, he had lived a decently hazy, and, unavoidably, wasted existence.

  Despite having led a lengthy lifespan consisting of over three decades, he failed to grasp the essence of life.

  Moreover, he could barely recall a fraction, if any, of what he had accomplished throughout the course of his existence.

  It would be reasonable to claim that his life on this vast round globe had been a live depiction of failure, sin, and the utmost, disgrace.

  In truth, it was a shameful but proud thing to confirm:

  He practiced hedonism, in search of short-term happiness and brief-lasting peace. He was pretty worried about what was going to come hereafter.

  Hah…

  He predicted he’d be in hell after ‘accidentally’ tripping on a nonchalant rock and plummeting headfirst onto an incredibly hard piece of concrete pavement.

  Considering the sheer degree of intelligence, he possessed, that was exactly the stupidest way he thought he would be passing on to the other side.

  Who knew it’d be worse than EVEN that?

  Anyhow, it struck him at the end of his so-called sacrilege phase that he needed a change. On a particularly dizzy winter’s day, he set out for the peaks of Tibet.

  Into the heart of the Ancient Evernest Sect.

  Their understanding of the Eightfold Paths was ancient, and their devotion to enlightenment was so profound it pierced straight into his soul.

  Thought, indirect.

  Once, they taught and guided hundreds, perhaps thousands of disciples in their golden era.

  But with modern cultivation in decline, their numbers had withered, leaving behind only vestiges of their former glory.

  It was a saddening downfall, but what mattered was that they were still there.

  Low in numbers yet high in knowledge.

  Not even an hour after stepping through their threshold he decided to “cleanse” his sins.

  Surely, a spiritual bath under a seemingly casual waterfall would have been the best method for spiritual purification?

  Thus, without any guidance or an ounce of assistance, he held his breath, letting the blood pool hot in his skull, and then lowered himself beneath the freezing torrent of the sect’s eternal fountain.

  The water struck like an avalanche of liquid death. It was swift, merciless, and, iconically, deadly.

  Due to how quick it was, he didn’t quite get to perform an autopsy. Whether or not he died from: concussion from the utter impact of the force, or the instant grip of immediate hypothermia. All he knew was that neither granted him the courtesy of panic.

  Yet, despite even that horrifying way of passage, he was unprepared for the agonizing reality that would follow suit.

  He had imagined being surrounded by scorching flames rivaling the height of mountains; fires that boiled the soul and melted the skin before leaving the victim regenerating and then repeating the infernal cycle all over again.

  In the best-case scenario, he envisioned being surrounded by a chorus of equally ecstatic, joyful, and melodious angels, slowly moving on forth with a naked ascension to the heavens.

  , However.

  To say that he was beyond terrified, shaken, and mortally nihilistic when all he witnessed was the ever vastness of an infinitely empty space of pitch-darkness, was to speak the universal truth.

  It was an absolute nothingness that filled every corner, side, and crevice of his spirit, which drifted unconsciously in it.

  It stretched on for eternity; he couldn’t dare describe the sheer emptiness he was feeling, for he had no emotion that nearly equated to it.

  His very self of consciousness seemed to have been dissolving in the same void of nothingness.

  Just as the last sliver of hope for his fragile personality appeared to deliberately fade away, a bright, dazzling and factually, blinding light polished the littered environment composed completely of the absence of everything.

  It gleamed as if it were the last circle of hope, enveloping around his body with the fierceness of an ant.

  Miniscule yet carrying confidence that rivaled that of human will.

  The light was, ----utterly brilliant.

  Within a mere moment of diffusion, his senses flung back, and the glimmer was replaced with hazy contorted darkness.

  It was a darkness that seemed benevolent in comparison to the prior endless nightmare of pure nihilism.

  “Let the gathered Qi (氣) encircle the true essence of life (精). Let the manifestation of Shen (神) guide our sinful sect to the worthy upcomer.”

  A quad of dedicated blind monks sat encircling a ring of fire.

  A singular clay pot with saltwater lay rested at the middle of the ring.

  The ritual grew more intense as the chants of similar bolds were enunciated by the group of unsighted cultivators.

  “Let the congregated Qi (氣) ring around the true essence of life (精). Let the materialization of Shen (神) serve as a guide to bestow upon our unrighteous sect, a blessed individual.”

  As mandated by the guardians of the village, all of age had gathered around the circling group of monks.

  It was a sight to see.

  Two classes of people, directly or indirectly, worshiped a ring of fire to trace the path to a righteous individual.

  That same ring of fire had a pot of water right at the center of it, capable of extinguishing the very flame that had taken form.

  Somewhere within the crowd stood the confused but at the same time, focused Zhao Tang.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  His light brown robe glistened in the hour of darkness, eyes fixed at the bizarre ritual being conducted by the monks at the dead of the night.

  “Let the gathered Qi, ”

  Sensing a deliberate motion, or perhaps a difference in the sight before their perception, the chanting halted.

  All sorts of communication, chit-chat, gossip and verbal exchange ceased.

  The village hall fell into complete silence.

  Even the forest had stopped the occasional breeze of cold winds.

  All that remained was the absolute attention of all who were present, fixated on the ring before their perception.

  Each second that ticked by, the flame grew larger; hungrier.

  It kept on soaring higher, reaching far above the heights of the gathered monks.

  The monks felt the scorching heat against their skin, yet they made no move, screech or attempt to step away.

  They remained unfazed, their blindness forgotten and their senses enhanced.

  Right then, the blaze extinguished in an instant.

  The height of it lowered significantly before fading away completely in the dimness of the night.

  It left behind nothing but the burning smell of charred dirt.

  Suddenly, the clay pot situated at the center of the ring began to vibrate intensely.

  The liquid resting inside had been replaced by a colossal ray of gray smoke.

  It was odorless and ever growing, moving up towards the gloomy sky before expanding rapidly.

  The crowd near Zhao Tang moved away as the smoke urgently paved the way to him.

  It completely dusked his favorite beige robe in dust.

  “That boy has been chosen as a pupil of the Noble Evernest Sect.”

  The monks shouted in synchrony; their heads faced towards the destination of the fume: Zhao Tang.

  Their eyelids fluttered open, allowing the stingy winds to enter the clouded, foggy texture of their eyeballs.

  It appeared no short of an instance of horror, yet the respect given to them by the villagers was well kept, disregarding any space for humor.

  -

  The journey to the Tibetan peaks, where the Evernest Sect had dwelled for generations, proved harsher than he had imagined.

  Exhausted by his relentless preparations the day before, the physical and mental strain of uprooting his life, Zhao Tang collapsed midway, overwhelmed by fatigue.

  And in that moment of weakness, a wandering spirit entered his body.

  That spirit... was the man from the future- Xiao Tang…

  “I sense motion occurring within the disciple. Administer the Ginger herbs immediately.”

  He felt foreign but urgent palms massaging his forehead, the pressure grounding his drifting consciousness.

  An intense, concentrated mixture was fed directly into his mouth.

  His desiccated tongue rolled forward as the hot liquid poured onto it in measured amounts. It was bitter, reeking with a pungency akin to durian, but far more incriminating.

  He coughed while being in a state of disorganization as his perception cleared, and his eyes fluttered open in a deliberate wake.

  Memories crashed into him like waves breaking against an unprepared cranium even while he barely started to register his surroundings.

  Green, grey and vibrant.

  It was neither a forest nor a city, like a path leading up a mountain. Calm but uneasy, heavy with unsettled qi.

  “You had us worried there,” a nearby herbal cultivator said, exhaling a relief.

  Another voice came from his right, a heavily clothed master Khetsu commanded: “Better to return home if a mere stroll up this tiny mountain caused you to faint. Exhaustion has no place in the life of a cultivator.”

  He stared at him, blinking, when suddenly his head burst into a storm of painful invasions.

  A torrent of visions and knowledge poured into him; ancient names, stressful days, spiritual sects, names- Zhao Tang as his own.

  And the most: Visions of the past.

  Thus began his second shot at life.

  He didn’t know how, nor could he fathom why, but the truth was undeniable.

  He was alive again.

  The rest of the trek to the sect’s peak stretched on, long and monotonous, demanding little of his immediate attention.

  It was a blessing in disguise, giving him the precious time he needed to steady himself, sift through Zhao Tang’s memories, and take stock of the life he had inherited.

  Or stolen. He still wasn't sure yet.

  It came to him as a rare coincidence or perhaps, a mocked gesture by the twisted humor of the universe…

  Zhao Tang’s name in the olden Tang Dynasty of Ancient China matched well with his modern identity, Xiaofang of the future.

  Although he happened to be grateful for not having the name Xiaofang associated with him again-

  It certainly wasn’t better that a person of Chinese descent and name was living ordinarily in the Tibetan region.

  Especially during the height of conflicts and the immense rivalry between the Tang Dynasty and the Tibetan Empire.

  “Tang-wi.” A nudge on his shoulder came from the left.

  “You’re absolutely fine, right?”

  The herbal cultivator’s tone carried doubt, like he still couldn’t believe Tang had recovered so quickly.

  Of course, he had no idea that the so-called recovery came from the quiet occupation of Tang’s body immediately after his withdrawal.

  His eyes flicked toward the other disciples, still caught up in their moving chatter as they trailed behind Master Khetsu on the path to the Evernest Sect.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said easily. “I should thank you for the medicine, though pungent as it was. Without it, I’d probably still be crawling back to health.”

  He accompanied the statement with a short, friendly laughter. The herbal cultivator gave a little smirk, looking pleased with himself.

  “For a second there, you almost had me convinced I was a master healer.”

  The exchange brought a faint sense of comfort and maybe a flicker of familiarity in an otherwise foreign reality.

  But the moment broke as the top finally came into view.

  “Master Khetsu. We shall now return to our monastery considering the pupil has been found. Allow us to serve any time for if you may pass by our foundation.”

  “Let the high master know of our virtue.”

  The monks bowed, their departure as sudden as their appearance. The path ahead remained.

  It had a what seemed to be a shrine type of traditional foundation on the summit. No boards or flashy texts displayed the name of the place, but he was plenty sure it was the destination they were headed for.

  “Disciples, just a little farther. Steady yourselves, the winds currents feel particularly strong today,” Master Khetsu said, his back facing forward and hand lifted gently in their direction.

  At once, he straightened, slightly quickening his pace up the last bit of stretch.

  They had been climbing for what felt like forever, and now only a few steps remained before the anticipated summit.

  Sweat once trickled across his brow, cooling fast as the mountain air rushed against his skin.

  The clouds swirled around them, cold and soft, wrapping the peak in a stillness that felt serene, calming, and unshakably peaceful.

  “Welcome to the Evernest Sect,” Master Khetsu declared.

  Behind him rose the sect’s traditional architecture, solemn, timeless, and steady on the mountain’s foundation.

  It was still fresh compared to what remained of the sect in the 21st century.

  “Though not the tallest, these peaks are the calmest of all the Tibetan ranges,” he continued, lifting his right hand as though to test the resistance of the cold wind.

  The sleeve of his robe shifted gently with the gusts, a quiet display of control and ease.

  “The Evernest Sect has disciples scattered across the globe. Many seek refuge here, drawn to our stillness as they strive for immortal ascension. Others journey outward, confronting cursed spirits to grant them release and rebirth.”

  With deliberate grace, he lowered his arm and clasped both hands behind his back.

  “Nevertheless,” his voice carried a firm calmness, “I believe that among you, one with true character and accomplishment will rise, and master the path to immortality.”

  As his words settled, their eyes followed his gesture toward the sect itself.

  The Evernest Sect stood as if it was naturally one with the mountain.

  Tiered roofs curved gracefully upward, and dark wooden beams looked weathered smoothly by decades of mist.

  They stepped on the treated cobblestone steps that led to the entrance.

  Beyond the gates lay meditation and training grounds, quiet extensions of the mountain itself. Every structure spoke of neon genesis and great harmony.

  The air was chilly yet sharp with pine and cold spring water, carrying a calm weight that pressed lightly against the chest.

  As he followed the other disciples' gazes, he noticed Master Khetsu staring all of them down, as if calculating their numbers.

  With a gesture made with his nose, similar to that of a sniffing animal, the Master immediately turned back towards the head of the sect.

  Anyhow, he laid his eyes upon a particularly interesting monument located in the premises of the summit.

  Before the gates of the sect, there was that familiar display of calmness.

  One that appeared to be harmless and made for purification, the very thing that had literally cultivated his soul in another life.

  His mind, despite being a jumbled mess, understood the implications of the future and the current present.

  The low waterfall present in this era had claimed none.

  It would be disgraceful to act upon his thirst for vengeance against an innocent inanimate body of water.

  It was his own fault in the beginning for being a fool and stupidly committing a subconscious suicide.

  Furthermore, since Zhao Tang was a survivalist counting his days, his sins were bordering on zero.

  He was blessed with a new purpose on a clean slate.

  He thought to himself: “I should put it to good use.”

  “Remember, the physical foundation of the sect has no value in front of the spiritual vastness,” the Master added. “The plane of spirituality that you will achieve is the one true foundation of the sect.”

  They entered the sect premises with deliberate motion, the gates widening open as if without input. As the disciples made their way inside the boundary, he took a small step back. A scent, sharp and unsettling, crept into his nose. It was foul yet strangely without a clear odor, like a mix of nameless substances stewing in a cauldron of gluttony.

  He pinched his nose shut with two fingers, trying to avoid being recoiled.

  Why would such a horrible smell linger in a place as peaceful as this?

  A deep feeling brewed inside him, and it wasn’t pleasant in the slightest. His gaze fell on various corners and crevices of the sect, feeling as if someone or something were watching him from the dark veils cloaked with intense shades of crimson.

  “Fresh.” As if it were whispering.

  End of 章 | One