Wēn Ruòhán was dead and the war that once ravaged the cultivation world had finally come to an end, but its aftermath gave rise to a new era of challenges.
Jīn Guāngshàn, a driven and ambitious Sect Leader driven by his insatiable thirst for power a...
But a force that would change everything they thought they knew about the world of cultivation.
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As the mirror's glow dimmed, leaving only the faint traces of the breathtaking display, the hall fell into a stunned, heavy silence. It was as though the air itself had thickened, pressing down on each cultivator as they tried to grasp the enormity of what they'd just seen. For a moment, no one moved; even the sound of breathing seemed stifled by the weight of sheer disbelief. Then, slowly, the tension broke. Eyes darted from one face to another, searching for validation, for some sign that others had felt the same unearthly shock. Conversations erupted in hurried whispers, voices low but brimming with awe and unease. The hum of disbelief buzzed through the room like static, the atmosphere charged with a mixture of reverence and fear.
Some clutched the edges of their robes, fingers trembling slightly. The cultivators who had spent lifetimes honing their skills, studying ancient texts, and mastering the flow of spiritual energy, suddenly felt small in the face of such overwhelming power. Eyes were drawn back to the now quiet mirror, as if hoping to glimpse something more, something that might explain the impossible.
But no explanation came. Only the lingering weight of what they had seen: Wèi Wúxiàn's soul, pure and uncorrupted, commanding the laws of heaven and earth like they were merely an extension of his being.
Jiāng Wàngyīn's hands trembled as they clenched and unclenched at his sides, his knuckles whitening from the force of his grip. His chest felt tight, like something heavy had lodged itself in his throat, making it impossible to breathe properly. The image of Wèi Wúxiàn's soul—radiant, untouched, and pure—played in his mind like a haunting refrain, each repetition twisting his heart with a deeper ache.
"How...?" His voice came out broken, barely a whisper, but the words carried the weight of years of unresolved pain. His breath hitched, as if even the act of speaking the question was too much for him to bear. "How can his soul still be so... pure?"
The disbelief in his voice was sharp, cutting through the flood of emotions that surged inside him. His mind reeled with the impossibility of it, the stark contrast between the Wèi Wúxiàn he had imagined—the one tainted by demonic cultivation, shrouded in darkness—and the Wèi Wúxiàn he now saw before him: golden, unblemished, as if untouched by the world's cruelty. The reality of it pierced through his heart like a blade.
"After everything he's done... after everything I accused him of..."
His voice dropped to a whisper, but this time, it was laced with something far deeper than disbelief—it was guilt. A profound, soul-crushing guilt that sank into his bones and weighed him down. Memories of their fights, his harsh words, his anger—everything he'd said in the heat of frustration and betrayal—rushed back to him in a tidal wave. He had believed Wèi Wúxiàn's soul had been consumed by darkness, that he had lost his way entirely, that the man who had once been his closest friend had become something monstrous. But now, standing here, watching this, he realized how wrong he had been.
