The rain fell in thin, silver lines.
It struck the lake in scattered ripples, breaking the reflection of the night into trembling pieces. Heavy clouds smothered the sky, turning everything into shades of cold, quiet darkness.
Beside the water, Yanwei sat.
His long hair, soaked through, clung to his back. His green robe, darkened by rain, rested still against his form. His eyes stayed closed from the moment he settled—no flicker, no tension, nothing to betray the storm around him.
Before him, on the wet stone, lay a single book.
Its cover held only one word:
SPACE
Simple.
Quiet.
Unmoving.
Just like him.
If any cultivator of Rank 2 approached, they would have stopped immediately. Frowned. Looked again. Because the feeling he gave off—the pressure, the presence, the quiet hum—was Rank 2.
And also not Rank 2 at all.
Too faint at moments.
Too deep at others.
Like a boundary that hadn't fully decided where it belonged.
It was confusing.
Wrong in a way that didn't trigger danger, yet refused to be understood.
But Yanwei sat there, calm, steady, rain dripping off his hair and robe as though none of it mattered.
Beside him, Wuyan slept curled into a small black bundle. The storm didn't bother her. The shifting aura didn't bother her. She didn't even shiver—just breathed softly, an occasional ear twitch the only sign she wasn't dead.
Yanwei remained unmoving.
Breathing slow.
Circulation steady.
Thoughts hidden behind closed eyes.
Yanwei remained unmoving.
Breathing slow.
Circulation steady.
Thoughts hidden behind closed eyes.
I see…
So that's why it isn't working.
The thought rose without emotion, without irritation—just clarity.
A piece clicking into place after months of dull resistance.
A moment passed.
Then another.
And like a thin spark catching in the dark, a faint enlightenment brushed his mind.
Not brilliance.
Not revelation.
Just a small, sharp correction.
He finally understood.
The illusion—the merit acknowledged by the Heavenly Dao—had worked perfectly after his awakening.
Every shift. Every disguise. Every borrowed face.
Flawless.
Until, without warning, after countless uses, it simply stopped.
No decline. No exhaustion. Just failure.
He was trapped in the last face he had used—and then he felt it. The faint tightening beneath his skin. His true features beginning to surface, slow but irreversible.
So he acted immediately.
He stepped out of the watcher's periphery—calmly, naturally—not to hide a changing face, but to make space.
Space to break through. Space to prepare. Space to kill the man afterward.
Because if his true face returned,
and the illusion never responded again,
then his entire plan would collapse.
Under sect surveillance, he would never pass unnoticed. Never enter. Never obtain what he needed.
So he forced himself forward, pushing past every limit, and broke through to Rank 2.
But now, in the quiet aftermath, he finally understood.
He wasn't scammed. No one had tricked him. The fault had never lain in the world, nor in some hidden hand manipulating him. It was in him. In his own understanding—fragile and hollow, built on illusions he had once called truth. Shallow, brittle, a pale reflection of comprehension he had believed perfect.
He had never doubted himself. How could he? He had conquered, surpassed, ruled with absolute certainty.
He had measured the limits of power, laughed at mysteries, mocked anything that resisted his grasp. He had believed there was nothing beyond his reach.
And now… now the truth struck him like a blow to the chest. What he had called the limits of the world, the pinnacle of power, the edge of understanding—none of it mattered.
Beyond all he had known, there stretched a reality so vast, so intricate, so impossible to grasp, that his mind recoiled at even the thought of it.
He had not touched the edges; he had only skimmed the surface.
The arrogance with which he had carried himself, the certainty that had made him laugh at gods and men alike—it was laughable.
He had been a giant in a place too small to measure the true magnitude of existence. And now, confronted with that magnitude, he felt something he had never imagined: insignificance.
Not in strength, not in skill, but in comprehension.
He had ruled. He had dominated. He had believed himself absolute. And yet… he had understood nothing.
So it has limited use, huh.
That explains a lot. I thought it could be used endlessly. But three times in the span of two years… that's the new limit. Makes sense.
When I was Rank 1, my body—bones, blood, everything—was still soft, adaptable. Changes were easier, almost trivial. I could push the illusion without noticing strain.
Now, at Rank 2, everything is tempered. Harder, denser, more stable. The body itself resists. Any change takes more energy, more precision.
Now, at Rank 2, everything is tempered. Harder, denser, more stable. The body itself resists. Any change takes more energy, more precision. No wonder it's slower, no wonder it refuses me sometimes.
But the major reason is my own understanding. I still don't fully grasp what this thing is, how it works, how it's tied to the laws of the Dao. Limited use, long recharge… all natural consequences of ignorance.
So the failure isn't random. Not punishment. Just… reality catching up with my assumptions.
He then sighed. "This cannot be rushed."
Without hurry, he reached for the book. He opened it carefully, the faint scent of ink and time drifting from the pages.
Then, without another thought, he returned to cultivating.
Breathing slow. Circulation steady. Focus absolute.
Everything else—failures, limitations, unanswered questions—faded into the background. There was only the body, the Dao, the work of shaping himself. Step by step, carefully, without haste.
Months passed.
His cultivation remained illusory, just as before. Whether he had truly reached Rank 2—or was still lingering somewhere in between—remained unknown.
But Yanwei… he would smile. Just a little.
"Finally learned it," he murmured.
Not triumph, not relief. Just recognition. A quiet acknowledgment of understanding, earned through patience, observation, and the long, careful work of mastering both body and Dao.
"This technique is really hard to learn, even at my level."
Yanwei's eyes landed on a rabbit across the lake. He drew a dagger and threw it. At first glance, the dagger moved painfully slow—so slow that any mortal could dodge it, let alone a cultivator.
And yet, a heartbeat later, it struck. Dead on. The rabbit collapsed.
Yanwei allowed himself a small, satisfied laugh. Month of patient cultivation and careful refinement had led him here. Hardship truly brings reward.
He had finally chosen the sole technique he would pursue. Not an element, but something connected to space itself. At his current level, he could not manipulate actual space—that was far beyond him. But the book's early-level teachings offered a method: simulate spatial pressure to accelerate an object. The dagger moved with that force, cutting through distance faster than it should.
But to anyone watching, it appeared painfully slow. That was the illusion. Layered over the spacial acceleration, it distorted perception: the strike seemed sluggish, then suddenly, impossibly, it was already there.
It worked because Yanwei understood the illusion—the mysterious edge he had uncovered month ago. By integrating that knowledge, he amplified the technique beyond its base level, making the attack both subtle and deadly.
It seemed overpowered. But limits remained. He could only use it twice before exhaustion set in. The combination of spatial simulation and illusion was draining, even at this modest level.
Still… it was enough. Enough to glimpse what he could eventually achieve.