“Time, as a construct, holds no meaning in the void; for what is void but the pure expression of nothingness?”
— Creator of Calastic Universe
How na?ve I once was—to dream of transcending mortality and achieving the immortal. Was this not a punishment for my hubris, for daring to defy death and the very heavens themselves? Had I truly ascended, or was I condemned still to the tribulation? I had believed that I had passed through that trial and emerged transformed. Yet now I wonder: is this cosmic retribution, a cruel illusion that convinces me of ascension even as I remain ensnared within my own mind?
“NO, NO, NO!” I cried out into the abyss, my voice lost amid the silence.
Perhaps this is but a trial of the heart—a tribulation that tests the very essence of my being. How, then, shall I overcome it? I once thought my dao heart unyielding, impervious to the vicissitudes of fate. And yet, here I stand, imprisoned by my own inner tumult.
I must recall the wisdom of my master. What were his parting words?
“Young Winn, your dao heart is formidable, yet it must be tempered in the crucible of the mortal realm. Embrace the full spectrum of mortal emotions; only by conquering them may you forge a foundation solid enough to support your cultivation.”
His voice, a constant echo in the corridors of my mind, now resounds with greater urgency. Did I ever truly heed his counsel—to feel the entirety of the seven emotions? Alas, I confess, I did not. In my arrogance, I dismissed his advice, a mistake now made bitterly apparent. He also spoke of aligning with one’s true inner self to surmount the heart’s tribulation. But what, pray tell, is this true inner self? Was immortality ever the sole aim of my cultivation? Or is this bitter loneliness the terminus of my journey? My master proclaimed that the heavens, though cruel, were just. I once believed I understood this paradox, yet now all that greets me is a revelation of their merciless nature.
“This wannabe god has the semblance of humanity, clad in the vestments of a cultivator. Clearly, he is one of those ardent disciples of the ancient arts. It appears I am in need of a human vessel.”
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
The cultivators, with their reverence for youth and simultaneous deference to the aged, offer me a curious canvas: the visage of the reclusive immortal master. There is something exquisite in the archetype of the venerable sage, the embodiment of a wisdom honed by the trials of countless years.
I cannot help but be amused by the expressions that cross the faces of those who attempt to measure my cultivation, only to find themselves confounded by the void within. Their fleeting emotions are a tableau of transient wonder—a sight both ironic and sublime. But I digress; the matter at hand is the creation of the body.
I shall begin with the customary white hair, a symbol of ageless wisdom, accompanied by a long, flowing beard that bespeaks quiet authority. Glassy eyes, deep and enigmatic, shall hint at a soul that harbors secrets beyond mortal ken. And, lest I forget, the elements prized by these cultivators in their jade beauties: the porcelain radiance of flawless skin. To adorn this form, I choose the regalia of a grand mage—a robe renowned in the system worlds. What hue shall imbue it? Red, for it is the color of passion and power, interlaced with silver strands reminiscent of lightning’s ephemeral dance.
Indeed, I must confess, this creation is among the finest I have wrought. With a final act of transference, I shall imbue this vessel with my consciousness, and—voilà—a new avatar emerges, ready to walk among the living.
After thirty millennia of cultivation in this ebony abyss, I have come to a stark realization: in this realm of endless darkness, my progress has stalled. Around me lies naught but void—an expanse of solitude where only I exist. The nothingness itself forces one to confront the futility of endless existence.
What is the purpose of my journey if there is no progress? There is no one with whom to share joy, no companion to lend an ear. This grand emptiness—a realm I now call home—exactly mirrors the desolation within my spirit. Must I persist, even when hope seems but a distant memory?
I yearn to return to a place of warmth—a home where I might once more gaze upon my master’s wise countenance. I long to love and be loved in return, to experience the bittersweet symphony of laughter and tears among family, friends, acquaintances, and even enemies.
As the tears fill my eyes, I weep—not solely for myself, but for the beloved souls I have left behind. I weep for the honey bun my mother baked during the Festival of Color—a tender memory of a simpler, more compassionate time. In my sorrow, this solitary act of weeping is all that remains, a testament to the fragile light within my soul.
