Looking Back Is Hard

Yan sat dazed before the tomb where the fallen of this battle lay. He might have known them, or perhaps not, but he would never see them again.

He couldn't help but recall when he first entered the sect. Nine of them had stepped into the sect together, their hearts full of beautiful visions for the future. They were all young, all immensely talented. Had they grown, they would have undoubtedly become top-tier prodigies.

The world is cruel. There is no such thing as "if." There is only the desolation and vicissitude before one's eyes.

Yan sat there blankly, his gaze drifting from one fallen comrade to another.

He would recall things he had once desperately pursued. Though they were mere fragments, and though they were incomplete, they brought not the happiness and fulfillment he had imagined, but more helplessness and pain.

Partings uncertain of reunion, beginnings unclear of their end. He cared for those around him more than anyone, valued sentiment and loyalty more than anyone, yet he was always losing, always parting.

Those who cared for him, valued him, and held him in high regard had all scattered like stars and rain.

Longing to meet, yet meeting is hard; clear streams surpass turbid springs.

Cold autumn skies overlook the water; old thoughts linger, remnants of sorrow.

Struggling to his feet, he wanted to go somewhere. He looked around, sighed, and sat back down.

Suddenly, he thought of something and broke into a joyful smile. He rose abruptly, wanting to find someone, but then remembered his own experiences—Sima Qingshan.

He sat there, but his spirit drifted elsewhere, to a past memory of immense warmth.

To tear himself away from his melancholy, Yan began recalling the techniques and movements of the departed. Even though thinking of them felt like a curved knife slicing his heart piece by piece, even though missing them felt like an invisible hand kneading and squeezing his organs, this pain drove him to recall more details, forcing his consciousness to stay clear.

He had meant to drown his sorrows, but a phrase suddenly sprang to his mind: "A Mind Cultivator connects to heaven through thought. As long as thought endures, life does not cease." Perhaps they were not Mind Cultivators, but the techniques they cultivated were what they had spent a lifetime comprehending and creating. Wasn't that their "thought"? To have them remembered by later generations, to have their insights felt by descendants—wasn't that a form of life's continuation?

Memory jade slips began to accumulate around Yan. Each one was proof of a person's existence, each one the life's work of an individual.

Yan could not use these techniques himself, but he could refine them endlessly, improve them theoretically, so they could be better learned by future generations.

Perhaps Yan's current actions differed from some of the Sub-Institute's tenets, but they could also be understood as recording the predecessors' understanding and insights into things, so that later generations could gain deeper enlightenment or derive other viewpoints from them, finding their own path forward within another's "Dao."

When it came to the final jade slip, Yan hesitated.

That was the elder brother who had guided him onto the path, the one who always shielded him, the admirable senior brother, the peerlessly valiant and mighty figure of the world.

Yan had seen all his techniques; he had shared most of his insights with Yan. Yan remembered them all. But now, with the jade slip placed before him, he was unwilling to pick it up. These slips of his were meant to record the techniques of the deceased. He refused to believe he was dead. He would not acknowledge his death. He alone dared not face his death.

His father was gone. His mother was gone. His former companions were gone. The elders who cared for him were gone. Clearly, his own state was already so wretched, yet Heaven would not spare him. It had to take away the one he thought would never leave him, his sturdiest pillar, that existence who was both brother and father.

The sun came out, glanced at him, and left.

The moon awoke, looked at him, and slept.

He struggled for a long, long time.

These past few days, the wind was light, and gray threads covered the ground.

He clung to the vain hope that he might return, even if just to scold him for messing things up.

But his hand moved faster than his mind, unexpectedly reaching out to grab that jade slip and pressing it against his forehead without hesitation; his spiritual sense actually cooperated, willing to etch that carefree figure into the ethereal void!

He was at odds with himself, yet his impulsive side took the upper hand, overpowering his rational thoughts. This wasn't what he wished for, nor what he truly desired. He wanted to be more resolute, more stubborn, but his will failed him.

Unbeknownst to Yan, his nascent soul rapidly expanded, about to merge with his body. Suddenly, a silky thread of glowing white light pierced into him, forming a barrier between his nascent soul and his physical form in an instant.

Blood trickled from the corner of Yan's mouth, but he paid it no mind. Under a flash of lightning, his thoughts were swiftly dragged back into the past.

Black mist swirled around his body. Vaguely, a skeletal hand, still clinging to rotting flesh, pressed against the crown of his head.

"Mother..." Tears welled in Yan's eyes. But the memories didn't end, didn't flood in all at once like a tide. Instead, they remained fragmented, piercing his brain piece by piece, stabbing into his memories. His mind was on the verge of collapse; the pain and weight of the past threatened to crush him entirely.

There was no scream. From the outside, nothing seemed amiss. He appeared eerily quiet—too quiet. The light in his eyes grew extremely faint, seeming almost extinguished at a glance.

That massive hand gathered and organized all the painful memories of this moment, simultaneously refining the details, flashing them before Yan's eyes over and over. His spirit and body were isolated, sinking deeper and deeper into the quagmire of memory, unable to free himself.

These were his memories from the past:

His mother died right before his eyes, her chest pierced by an assassin as she tried to save him. His beloved elder brother, covering his retreat, resolutely activated a forbidden technique and forfeited his own life. When he was trapped in an array, his dao companion shielded him... The cause unknown, the consequence unclear, yet the entire agonizing process played on a relentless loop. His skin felt gnawed by countless insects, his organs battered over and over. Every inch of his flesh, every cell, trembled and wailed.

"How long... how long will you wallow in this? Now is not the time to be unconscious!" A corpse suddenly appeared before Yan, its frame smeared with putrid, rotting flesh. The withered, blackened eyes in its sockets stared fixedly at him.

"You... who are you..." Yan reluctantly opened his eyes, startled. This corpse bore a remarkable resemblance to the one summoned by the technique he and Su Xian had created together in his memory.

"You may call me 'Zhenhun'. I never expected you to be so fragile. A few fragmented memories reduce you to this state? Truly disappointing."

As he spoke, Zhenhun raised a hand, and Yan instantly stood upright. "Look at this pathetic state. What can you possibly achieve? So a few people died. Was it your fault? What? A brat not even at the True God rank dares to dream of defeating an Immortal Emperor? Laughable! You should be grateful you're still alive, that you remember the dead. So live harder, honor their memory! Instead of sitting here in a daze all day, hiding behind grief!"

Yan wanted to retort, but with a casual wave of Zhenhun's hand, his mouth was sealed shut.

"Talking back? What's the point? Instead of standing here arguing, go back and prove yourself with action! Aren't you afraid of losing? Don't you want to protect what's important? Then get moving!" With that, Zhenhun gave him a forceful shove. Yan's soul returned to his body. Simultaneously, his Nascent Soul merged with his physical form, and he broke through to True God. A thin layer of black mud coated his body before gathering on his right shoulder. There, a small bump formed, which suddenly snapped open to reveal two large, watery eyes blinking at him.