Zhou Chen stood at the heart of the misty park, the black lotus unfurling before him like a silent witness.
Ahead, four shadows barred the broken path, their faces swallowed by darkness, their bodies coiled with a silent, bewitching tension.
The old beggar, the middle-aged swordsman, the young robed man, and the college-uniformed reflection — each one blurred face and indistinct attire.
Haven't 'we' earned our rest?
The hunched old beggar's rasp echoed again through Zhou Chen's mind, looping endlessly, gnawing at his mind.
Bent and frail, the old man coughed into a trembling hand, his voice cracked again, frayed at the edges of exhaustion. "Our family... our friends... they're all here. Isn't it enough?"
For a brief moment, Zhou Chen's hands trembled — a small, almost imperceptible betrayal of his will.
The middle-aged swordsman, as if catching his movement. stepped forward, his voice deeper, steadier — like someone trying to reason with a stubborn younger self. "You've suffered enough. You've bled enough. There's no shame in retreat"
His hand brushed the hilt of the sheathed sword, a gesture of finality rather than threat. "Retreat is not defeat, Zhou Chen. It's what you deserve... Peace."
The mist curled tighter around Zhou Chen's ankles, thick and almost suffocating.
The college-uniformed reflection adjusted his glasses, the cold glint flashing again. "Think about it logically." His voice was calm, almost clinical. "You were thrown into a foreign world — no roots, no home, no family to call your own."
He paused, letting the words sink deep. then took a slow step forward, his face blurring slightly at the edges, like a half-forgotten memory. "You barely survived — and even after all the struggle and effort, you almost lost your life."
The young robed man scoffed, arms crossing loosely over his chest. "Almost?" he sneered, a bitter edge curling his words. "I could count the days you have left before your body turns cold."
Their voices pressed against Zhou Chen, heavy and relentless, each word peeling away another layer of his defenses.
Zhou Chen lowered his gaze. His breath came slow and even, as if he were listening — weighing the temptation woven into their words.
— There's nothing left to prove. Continuing is... inefficient.
— Lay it down. Let it end here.
— You don't have to struggle anymore.
The young robed man merely laughed, sharp and cruel, his arms still folded across his chest.
Zhou Chen closed his eyes.
He could almost see it — the stillness they offered, the finality of surrender. No more battles. No more betrayals. No more waking up to an empty sky.
But…
When he opened his eyes again, the lotus ahead of him gleamed in the darkness — black petals trembling, stubborn against the mist.
His lips parted, and his voice, though soft, rang clear against the heavy silence.
"No," Zhou Chen said.
The tension in the air thickened, as if the very mist held its breath. The shadows ahead shifted, but they made no move to approach, waiting — watching — for Zhou Chen's next words.
The young robed man's lips curled into a sneer, but there was something colder in his eyes now, "No?" he echoed, voice laced with disbelief. "And why not? What is left for you there? A pitiful vengeance you're unsure you can even finish?"
Zhou Chen didn't reply, Instead, he started to move with slow steps towards the lotus.
A ripple passed through the shadows, the air charged with an unsettling stillness, as though they, too, were caught in the moment of choice.
The old beggar's voice cracked once more, fragile as the breeze, yet heavy with an undeniable weight. "You're weakened, look at yourself," he rasped, eyes narrowing with a quiet urgency. "Even if you regain your strength, what purpose will you have left to live for?"
Zhou Chen didn't look at him. He didn't even need to. His gaze remained fixed, unwavering, on the lotus that bloomed before him.
The middle-aged swordsman's voice was firm, edged with an unspoken finality. "If that's your choice, then know this — your fate will be far crueler, and the path ahead will be harder than any suffering you've known."
Zhou Chen's eyes flickered, but he did not falter in his steps, yet the lotus, dark and mysterious, called to him with an undeniable pull.
"I know," Zhou Chen replied, his voice soft but steady. "But does it matter?"
The shadows seemed to shudder at his words, The mist thickened around his ankles, the tension growing, as if the world itself waited for his decision. the lotus bloomed further, its dark petals quivering in the golden lights.
And yet, Zhou Chen's resolve remained unbroken.
"I've lived enough to know," Zhou Chen murmured.
Zhou Chen's fingers brushed the black petals of the lotus, and for a brief moment, everything seemed to freeze.
"Not all who rise are saved — some just refuse to fall."
The world around him, the mist, the shadows, the voices — all of it suspended in time.
Hum~
The lotus glimmered, its dark petals now pulsating with a soft, golden light, as though it recognized his choice.
Its dim golden veins, wound its way from the lotus to his hand, and the air seemed to hum with a quiet resonance, like the first note of a forgotten song.
He closed his hand around the flower, and in that instant, the world shattered.
The mist evaporated, the dark shadows dissolved, leaving only the lotus in his palm. The ground beneath him crumbled away, and he was swallowed by an abyss of nothingness.
For a heartbeat, there was only silence. Then, a burst of blinding golden light exploded from the lotus, enveloping him completely.
The light was unlike any Zhou Chen had ever experienced — it was warm, almost gentle, but its power was overwhelming, all-consuming. It filled every part of him, like a cleansing flame, erasing the weight of his burdens, the weariness in his soul.
Zhou Chen felt it then — a profound relief. Like a vast weight had been lifted off his chest, leaving him lighter than he had ever been.
In that moment, he understood something he had never grasped before — Nirvana wasn't as simple as the severing of all ties, the erasure of desire, or the shedding of the self.
It was the quiet acceptance of those truths, the willingness to carry them without being consumed. Not escape, but clarity. Not transcendence, but understanding.
Through that understanding, the soul is not cast off — it is reborn. The mind not emptied, but made whole.
And for the second time in his two lives, Zhou Chen…was consumed by the golden light.
...
Eastern Barrens, Groovy Woods.
A sheer rock wall stood silent and unmoved. Its surface, aged by wind and time, bore no markings—no sign of life or passage—only weather-worn stone, veined with lichen and streaked with age.
But if one stood still long enough… they might sense the presence veiled behind tons of earth and stone.
There, hidden beyond a scar sealed by blood and will, a hollow nestled deep within the rock pulsed with quiet stillness. Within that silence, a miraculous reshaping of body and spirit was underway.
Where Xian — Zhou Chen — once lay, only a faint impression remained.
An illusory shadow clung to the space his body had occupied, flickering faintly, like a memory that refused to fade. Darkness gathered there, shaped like a man curled in pain, its edges blurred and wavering.
Through that formless silhouette ran thin veins of muted gold — pulsing gently, like cracks of dying starlight threading through void. The remnants of a soul, scattered and in exile.
The chamber was silent — but not empty.
The shadow floated in place, suspended in the still air, its form shifting between large and small, young and old, as if uncertain what shape it ought to be.
The golden veins within it dimmed, then glowed again — never loudly, never bright — but humming with a silent rhythm, as if echoing the heartbeat of something not yet reborn.
And so it lingered… serene, suspended, untouched by time.
For days, the shadow drifted without change — until, at last, something stirred.
The stillness broke.
A low vibration thrummed through the chamber. The shadow trembled, its vague form shuddering as the muted gold veins flared brighter, bolder.
The darkness began to shift — pigment bleeding into its core.
Color returned. Shape solidified.
The formless began to take form once more.
...
[COMING NEXT] - CHAPTER 9 - New Reflection I
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GLOSSARY -:-
[1] Nirvana (涅槃) — A state of liberation in Buddhism, signifying freedom from the cycle of rebirth and suffering. It represents the cessation of desire, attachment, and ignorance, leading to ultimate peace and enlightenment.