In the grand river of time, there existed those who saved countless lives and those who slaughtered entire cities, yet both could stand at the summit. Whether one walked the path of a saint or the road of a devil, the heavens did not care. The Dao itself did not weigh morality. It only asked a single question.
Could you endure?
Could you continue walking when the world itself turned against you?
Cultivation was not merely a tale of glory. It was a daily war against the self and the world. It was a path of jagged stones, loneliness, and misery. Temptation lurked in every corner, regret clung like a ghost, and danger followed like a relentless tide. If a cultivator's mentality was not firm, if their spirit was like autumn grass swaying in the wind, they would inevitably fall from the peak and perish, wasting centuries of effort in a single moment of weakness.
