The cave he'd carved out for himself — crooked walls, uneven floor, barely a shelter — stood a short distance behind him. He didn't look back at it. Not even once.
Yanwei walked toward the small lake beside it, each step steady, deliberate. The morning air clung to his skin, thin and cool, carrying the faint smell of damp stone and old leaves. When he reached the water's edge, he pushed a hand through his hair, flicking the strands away from his face.
He leaned forward.
The lake was still. Clear enough that his reflection rose up smoothly, like it had been waiting.
His face stared back at him — tired, quiet, blank.
And something in him just… stopped.
Not in shock.
Not in awe.
Just stillness.
The breath eased out of him, long and uneven, and as it left, something inside finally loosened — a knot he hadn't known he'd carried across lifetimes.
Why?
Why had he fought for rebirth?
Why had he pulled every thread of destiny with shaking hands?
Why had he carved open the world just to start again?
The answers he used to give rose in his mind like ghosts.
Glory.
Immortality.
Vengeance.
Pleasure.
Dominance.
The thrill of breaking another man's dream.
He almost laughed.
A quiet, breathless sound that never quite left his throat.
How absurd.
How small.
Those excuses were little more than masks — paper-thin covers he had wrapped around a truth he could not face. Convenient lies that sounded appropriate for a man who lived in the shadows of Rank 9, a man who had watched civilizations crumble like sand.
Even he had believed them, once.
His reflection trembled on the lake's surface — dark, abyss-like eyes staring back at him, carrying the weight of centuries and the ache of something unfulfilled.
And in that silence, the truth rose.
Soft.
Slow.
Undeniable.
"What I seek… is perfection of the mind."
Not the peace of buddha.
Not the silence of sages.
Not the gentle calm of a man who has made peace with the world.
Not a mind that cannot stumble, that cannot err, that bends only to perfection.
And certainly not the lifeless stillness of someone without emotion.
"I do not want to erase my emotions,"
the thought whispered,
"I want a mind that emotions cannot rule."
A mind that could feel without collapsing.
A mind that could burn without losing its shape.
A mind that could rage without drowning.
A mind that could mourn without breaking.
A mind that could desire without being led by desire.
He wanted sovereignty.
Not suppression.
He wanted clarity sharp enough to see through deception — others' and his own.
He wanted stability deep enough that no manipulation, no illusion, no memory or fantasy could tilt his axis.
He wanted an inner throne no force could dethrone.
A mind unmoved not because it feels nothing…
but because it remains itself, even while feeling everything.
That was the truth.
That was the dream.
And suddenly every so-called goal he'd once clung to felt laughable — toys for children, distractions for the powerless. Glory? Empty. Immortality? Boring. Revenge? A cycle without end. Pleasure in destroying others' dreams? A coping mechanism dressed up as cruelty.
Shallow.
All of it.
The lake rippled as another breath escaped him.
"This,"
the realization settled within him like a vow carved into stone,
"is why I returned."
Not to conquer the world.
But to conquer himself —
to build a mind that nothing, not even time, could touch.
But such a mind… such a dream… was easier spoken than held.
A fool might hear the words and nod, thinking it simple — a mantra to repeat, a goal to chase, a title to claim.
They would never know.
Never feel the pressure of eternity pressing against your bones, the way every thought, every desire, every fleeting temptation claws at the edges of reason.
They would never understand what it means to watch yourself, unflinching, while the world offers a thousand ways to be swayed — to be led, to be deceived, to be undone.
Only those who have walked the precipice, who have stared into the abyss of their own mind and seen it tremble, could know the cost.
This was not a path for the lazy, the impatient, or the shallow.
It was a crucible.
A storm.
A mirror that refuses lies.
And yet…
He would walk it.
Because the mind he sought could not be borrowed, could not be gifted, could not be stolen.
It could only be earned.
Yanwei sank onto the stone at the lake's edge, the morning chill pressing against his skin, the water still before him, and closed his eyes.
Not in fear. Not in surrender.
Just stillness.
A calm that was sharper than rest, colder than sleep — a mind unmoved by anything. A mind that could endure chaos and still measure, calculate, prepare.
His thoughts drifted to plans. To the steps he needed to take for the calamity brewing beyond sight. To the preparations only he could make. Each thought precise, deliberate, relentless.
Yet the air around him still carried it — the residue of what had come before. The storm of focus, the impossible intensity of his thoughts on mind perfection. A presence invisible, almost terrifying, lingering like smoke in the world.
Most creatures would have run. Most men would have knelt. Most beings would have shivered under such an aura, sensing danger they could not comprehend.
Not Wuyan.
She leapt lightly onto his shoulder, climbed along his head, and curled into a black coil against him. She did not purr. Did not mewl. She simply rested. Calm. Unmoved.
The echo of his previous thoughts — the silent, impossible storm — did nothing to her.
It was a testament, silent and sharp: she had sensed the magnitude of his mind, even in its aftermath, and remained. Unafraid. Certain.
Yanwei exhaled slowly.
The world could be on fire. The calamity could arrive in shadows, blood, and chaos.
Here, at this lake, on this stone, with a black shape curled against him, he was unmoved.
And so was she.