Chapter Two: Knowing It Was All Heartbreak in a Past Life

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Chen Heng hailed from the Rong country of Dongmi Prefecture and was now a disciple of the Xuan Zhen Sect on Little Gan Mountain.

His previous life’s tale was, to say the least, strange and absurd. Born into the Chen clan of Rong, he was famed from his youth for his extraordinary beauty, dazzling the entire nation. Those who saw him likened him to a jade statue, and word of his beauty spread so widely that when he ventured out, women would clasp hands and circle around him, crowds blocking the roads.

Perhaps it was precisely because of such fortune.

Though he was born out of wedlock, the result of his parents’ clandestine union, the Chen clan never subjected him to undue hardship. He enjoyed the privileges of a noble house: the guidance of esteemed tutors, splendid horses, fine attire—none of these were ever lacking.

His father died young, and his mother—a noble lady of the Chen clan—was left with a lingering blood illness after childbirth, unable to properly raise him. The clan thus entrusted him to an uncle without children, intending to adopt him formally in a few years and pass on the family estate.

If things had ended there, all would have been well. A youth with a burgeoning reputation, harmonious kin, bereft of his father but fortunate to have his widowed mother, to whom he could fulfill filial duties.

But fate intervened. Three years ago, while venturing outside the city, he encountered Yan Zhen, who happened to be descending the mountain from Xuan Zhen Sect for a spring outing.

Everything changed in that instant.

This beautiful Daoist woman, delighted by his looks, first invited Chen Heng to become her consort. When he refused, she was enraged and resorted to coercion, abandoning all pretense. The Chen clan of Rong, though powerful among mortals, was not a family of cultivators, and the entire country was but a mundane kingdom, powerless before the edicts of the Xuan Zhen Sect. They could only bow their heads in submission.

Yet Chen Heng’s former self was resolute and cold. Seeing his fate sealed, he bid farewell to his widowed mother and the uncle who raised him, and that very night threw himself into a well. Had it not been for the quick action of several loyal servants, he would have died three years ago.

Upon learning of this, Yan Zhen flew into a rage. She stationed two hundred soldiers in the Chen clan estate, sealing it off, and assigned several Daoists from the sect to attend Chen Heng day and night, depriving him of all freedom.

After his suicide attempt, however, Yan Zhen’s attitude softened. Though she still detained him, waiting for him to yield, she no longer pressed him as fiercely as before.

Amidst all this unrest, a member of the Chen clan, unable to endure further, sought an audience with Yan Zhen and offered her a scheme.

Chen Heng’s devotion to his mother was renowned—after childbirth, she endured chronic illness, and despite his tireless search for renowned physicians, her health never improved. If she could use this as leverage, surely he would bend.

Yan Zhen, hearing this, smiled and immediately procured a pill from Xuan Zhen Sect, forcing it upon his mother.

Within three days, his mother’s health appeared restored, her cheeks blooming with color.

In such circumstances, despite his bitterness and resentment, Chen Heng could only bid farewell to his tearful mother and ascend the mountain with Yan Zhen.

Afterwards, Chen Ze, the Chen clan member who devised the plan, was rewarded by Yan Zhen—she allowed him to join the sect and study the path of longevity alongside the Daoist masters.

But Chen Heng’s former self did not know that only three months after he left home, his widowed mother died suddenly, her body emaciated, as if all her vitality had drained away.

The precious pill meant to replenish her spirit was not rare in the Xuan Zhen Sect. But what was a mortal widow to them? For Yan Zhen, using such a pill to prolong her life was folly.

The pill given to his mother had no restorative power—it only forcibly invigorated her fading life force for a brief moment, without regard for the subsequent depletion.

Word of this reached the Xuan Zhen Sect; Chen Heng’s former self was devastated, his spirit utterly broken.

From that moment onwards, he was watched day and night by spiritual surveillance; all sharp objects were removed from his presence—even his hairpin was dulled before being allowed to him.

Thus, like a caged bird, he was kept for three more years.

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During this time, Yan Zhen sought tirelessly to win his smile, knowing he had excelled in music from a young age. She commissioned grand constructions within the sect—palaces, pavilions, towers—calling the new complex the Hall of Harmonious Music.

Once completed, she recruited musicians from neighboring countries to fill the Hall, offering them to Chen Heng for poetic and musical exchanges.

Yet for all Yan Zhen’s efforts, his temperament grew only colder and more withdrawn, his gaze deep and chilling, unsettling all who met his eyes.

Such days endured.

Until recently, when Xu Su, a rogue cultivator from the Western Sea, ended Yan Zhen’s life with a single sword strike.

On that day, his former self heard a thunderous sword sound; blinding light engulfed his vision, leaving him unable to see, his skin burning and eyes stabbed with pain. When he forced his eyes open, the delicate figure he had so hated lay beheaded, her jade-like face frozen in disbelief and a mysterious emotion lingering in her eyes.

Afterwards, Yan Feichen wept bitterly, blaming the Daoists who had attended the scene and throwing them into the water prison for torment.

Though Chen Heng’s former self escaped death by Xu Su’s sword, the chilling true energy from the attack invaded his organs, leaving him with grave injuries. He was also blamed and imprisoned in the damp water cell.

Within two months, he died laughing in the night, his breath extinguished.

Meanwhile, Chen Heng—who had endured six years of illness in the modern era—by a twist of fate, came to inhabit this body bearing his name, together with the golden cicada he had found as a child...

—

Having reviewed the memories of his former self once more, Chen Heng sat in silent contemplation, eyes closed. After a long time, he opened them again, seated at his desk, took up a roll of white paper, and dipped his brush in ink.

He wrote for an indeterminate time, filling the paper with the word “quiet” until no space remained.

Only then did his gaze return to its deep, undisturbed calm.

“Now, only two urgent matters remain. First, I must expel the chilling true energy Xu Su left within me—this is paramount. With that energy inside, not only is cultivation impossible, but even survival hangs by a thread.”

In this world, to embark upon the path of immortality, one must first achieve fetal breathing, refine true energy, establish a Dao foundation, and open the Purple Mansion.

Fetal breathing is subtle and enduring, used sparingly. It is humanity’s greatest treasure—one breath of true yang. This is the innate spark, the essence; as the Buddhists say, all beings are equal, and the Daoists call it the ground of ultimate good, the source of life, and the principle of creation.

Fetal breathing is the first step in cultivation; without it, all subsequent efforts are futile.

Once fetal breathing is perfected and the root of essence revealed, one must then find a method for refining energy, to cultivate true energy.

True energy in this world is divided into nine stages and thirty-six grades—strictly ranked. Only with a foundation of seventh stage or higher can one build a superior Dao base.

To achieve such true energy, an excellent energy refining technique is essential.

“The chilling true energy within me must be among the high ranks. Even a single strand is fierce beyond measure. To drive it out or subdue it, my own cultivation must progress; fetal breathing alone won’t suffice—only by refining energy may I suppress it.”

At this thought, Chen Heng felt a headache.

His predecessor’s talent was exceptionally poor; not only had he not refined energy, he had failed even to achieve fetal breathing.

Without the subtle, enduring sensation of breath, he remained mortal.

Partly, this was due to his mother’s death and his own spiritual collapse.

But regardless, reborn, Chen Heng must awaken the sensation of fetal breathing for the sake of survival and immortality!

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“But must only high-grade true energy build a flawless Dao foundation? In such a vast Xuan Zhen Sect, perhaps even a superior energy refining technique is hard to find.”

Chen Heng frowned.

Though the Xuan Zhen Sect was dominant in its region, in the vast expanse of Dongmi Prefecture, it was but a minor school, a single grain among a thousand.

His predecessor had once overheard Yan Zhen mention that their world was called Xu Du Heaven, encompassing nine prefectures and four seas. In that scope, Xuan Zhen Sect was even less than a single grain among a thousand.

“Yan Zhen also said that Xuan Zhen Sect was likely one of several hundred Daoist branches under the great Yu Chen Sect. Whether this is true, I do not know.”

Withdrawing from such idle speculation, Chen Heng gripped his brush and erased the word “quiet” from the paper.

“Besides expelling the chilling true energy and preserving my life, the second matter is to find a pretext to descend the mountain and avoid Yan Feichen’s wrath.”

After Yan Zhen’s death, his predecessor was blamed by Yan Feichen, imprisoned for a hundred days, and eventually died in the water cell.

Bound by sect rules, Yan Feichen, though an elder, could only imprison him for incompetence—not put him to death as a companion for his daughter.

But open attacks are easier to guard against than hidden ones.

Chen Heng, still mortal, would be at a disadvantage remaining in the sect and facing Yan Feichen—it would be foolish.

His predecessor endured two months in the water cell before dying; for the remaining forty days, Chen Heng could not recall how he managed to survive.

The day his confinement ended, he staggered out into the sunlight, almost feeling reborn.

Given his body’s condition, another stint in the water cell would surely lead him to the same fate.

“Still, though my predecessor suffered under Yan Zhen, thanks to her cultivation technique, I fortunately retained my vital yang,” Chen Heng sighed in relief.

This body’s aptitude was already poor; had he lost his vital yang, the pursuit of the Dao would have been nearly impossible.

Suddenly, his expression shifted, and he turned toward the tightly shut door.

First came hurried footsteps, then knocking and shouting.

“Who is it now? Someone from the steward’s office?”

Chen Heng rose, tore up the paper covered in the word “quiet,” and threw the pieces into the small clay stove used for boiling tea.

“Brother Chen, Brother Chen—it’s me! Xu Zhi! Senior Brother Xu! I heard you received a summons for the Abyss right after leaving the water cell? Are you mad? Are you out of your mind? Don’t listen to the nonsense from the punishment hall—open up! Open the door!”

The person, having knocked for a while without response, grew more anxious:

“I know you haven’t wanted to live since coming up the mountain, but this isn’t the way to seek death! Why insist on going to the Abyss?”

“Think it over, think about the living, think about, uh, think about…”

Suddenly, his tone faltered, awkwardly dropping several degrees:

“Think about Aunt Wang from the dining hall? Didn’t you like her lotus seed pudding? If you die, you’ll never taste it again…”

Inside the cave dwelling, Chen Heng glanced at the door, the corner of his brow lifting imperceptibly.