The cold kiss of steel was moments from ending Yi Jue's suffering.
He had already accepted it. The pain. The failure. The end.
But just as the blade was about to pierce his flesh, something slammed into existence with a clang—a thick, ancient grimoire materializing between the sword's tip and his stomach. The moment steel touched its surface, the weapon shattered, crumbling into glimmering fragments of dust that scattered like snowflakes in the wind.
Yi Jue blinked, stunned. The sword—the only remnant of his old life, a gift from Wei Lianfeng—was gone.
The grimoire thudded onto the dirt before him.
Its black leather cover was scorched, the spine stitched together with what looked like thread soaked in ink and dried blood. Gold lettering shimmered on its surface, worn but still legible:
"The Path to Return."
He stared at it, torn between fear and hope. Something about the book pulsed—no, called to him.
Compelled, Yi Jue picked it up. The cover was warm. Alive. It thrummed faintly against his fingertips like a heartbeat.
He flipped it open.
The first page was blank.
His heart sank. A cruel joke, perhaps? A hallucination brought on by hunger and despair?
Then, slowly, ink began to bleed across the page, twisting into elegant, jagged script. As he watched, the words etched themselves into the parchment as though written by an invisible hand:
"To rise is to fall. To gather is to scatter. To exist is to fade.
Release your attachment to the Heavens.
Only nothing shall remain.
Reverse your path.
Give up what you hold dear.
Break what you once worshipped.
Cut your connection to the Heavens.
Only then shall you see."
Yi Jue's breath caught. The words weren't just written—they were spoken, resounding deep within his mind like a forgotten memory echoing across eternity.
He didn't understand.
Reverse your path? Scatter? Detach from the Heavens?
"But the Heavens betrayed me..." Yi Jue murmured aloud, bitter confusion twisting in his chest. "Why would I still be connected to them?"
He spent days pondering the riddle. Weak, starving, barely able to stand, he remained at the edge of the Ashen Ravine, clinging to the grimoire like a dying man clutches faith. Sleep came in fits, hunger gnawed endlessly, and still the book pulsed with silent expectation.
Then, a memory surfaced—something his master, Grandmaster Shen Tai, once said during a lecture:
"Qi is the breath of the world, gifted to us by the Heavens. It is through this gift that we grow strong, extend life, and step upon the path of immortality. To cultivate is to harmonize with the Heavens."
Yi Jue's eyes widened.
If Qi was the gift of the Heavens... then cultivating was a connection.
Even now—crippled, discarded, forgotten—he was unconsciously absorbing trace amounts of Qi just to survive. His body still clung to the Heavens like a dog begging its abusive master.
He would sever that leash.
Sitting cross-legged on the desolate gravel, Yi Jue stilled his breathing. He tried to push the Qi out of his shattered dantian—but it remained. Stagnant. Clinging.
He remembered how as a young disciple, he'd been taught to visualize Qi like water flowing into a vessel. Perhaps the opposite could work.
So he imagined his dantian—a vessel cracked and bleeding—leaking Qi, letting it pour out like water through shattered glass. He imagined the current reversing, flowing outward and away from his core.
And slowly… it began.
A sharp pain wracked his body. His cultivation dropped from Foundation Establishment… down to Peak Qi Gathering… then Mid Qi Gathering… and finally Early Qi Gathering.
His body convulsed. Hunger and fatigue crashed into him like waves, now that even that trickle of spiritual energy had been severed. But he didn't stop.
He kept going, forcing out the last lingering threads of Qi until only the barest flicker remained—enough to keep his heart beating, and nothing more.
And then it came—a sensation like ice sliding through his veins.
But it wasn't death.
It was clarity.
A cold, unfamiliar satisfaction welled up in him, steady and grounding. He felt lighter. Emptier. Freer.
And then… the grimoire opened again.
Pages fluttered wildly before stopping on a new section. As Yi Jue stared, dark ink began to write across the page once more:
"Congratulations.
You have stepped onto the Path of Return.
You have entered the Early Qi Rejection Stage."
Yi Jue lowered the book, the wind stirring his torn robes. He didn't know what this path was. He didn't know what awaited him next.
But for the first time in a year, he didn't feel lost.
He had nothing.
And nothing, the book promised, could become everything.