After Zi Han’s explanation, the way Xin Yi looked at Wang Chen changed.
There was no longer mere respect in her eyes—there was reverence. A quiet admiration bloomed there, as if she had suddenly realized that her master was not just another cultivator, but someone who stood on the edge of something unfathomable. From that moment, she began to truly look forward to seeing why her master was here.
Time flowed gently, measured by the faint scent of tea leaves steeping in the warm air. The master and disciple sat in silence, the only sound the rhythmic clink of porcelain cups being set down upon the wooden table. The atmosphere was tranquil—almost sacred.
Half an hour later, Lin Huang appeared, his steps tentative. He halted several paces away, lowering his head in silent reverence. Only when Wang Chen gestured lightly for him to sit did he dare to move closer—though even then, he chose to sit at a careful distance, as if proximity alone might offend his master’s composure.
When Wang Chen finally set down his cup, a small smile curved his lips. His gaze, calm yet sharp, turned toward Zi Han.
"Fellow Daoist," he said softly, "it couldn’t be that you’re only here to enjoy the tea?"
Zi Han’s answering smile bloomed like spring light filtering through petals—gentle, mesmerizing. Lin Huang, who happened to be watching, fell into a trance-like stupor, unable to look away.
Ignoring him completely, Zi Han spoke in that silken voice that carried faint echoes of authority and distance.
"I truly wanted to learn the technique you displayed that day," she said. "However, your condition is something I cannot accept."
Wang Chen nodded slightly, neither surprised nor disappointed. Though inwardly, he couldn’t help but feel a small flicker of regret. To have an expert like her under his command—even temporarily—would have been a satisfying experience. Still, his face revealed nothing.
"Then what does fellow Daoist suggest?"
Zi Han’s eyes glimmered faintly, reflecting the golden hue of the tea. "An equal exchange," she said. "You teach me that mysterious skill of yours, and in return, I shall impart one of mine."
Her words hung in the air, calm yet confident. "Fellow Daoist, what do you think?"
While the two masters spoke, their disciples sat in absolute silence, almost afraid to breathe. Lin Huang’s gaze flicked briefly toward Xin Yi, only for her to sense it immediately. Her brows drew together in subtle irritation. She was used to such looks—men often couldn’t restrain themselves in her presence—but if not for Wang Chen’s dignity restraining her temper, Lin Huang would have already found himself banished to the Shadow Realm.
Just as she was steadying her breath, she noticed Lin Huang’s gaze drift away.
Hmm.
Her annoyance dissipated, replaced by faint curiosity.
Meanwhile, Lin Huang’s thoughts twisted elsewhere. Though Xin Yi was stunning, his mind betrayed him with the image of another—his childhood friend. The memory stabbed like glass. His heart seethed with a brief pulse of hatred before the emotion was buried beneath layers of restraint. He exhaled slowly. That part of his life was gone; his path now lay elsewhere—under someone far greater.
Across from them, Wang Chen watched Zi Han in thoughtful silence. There was something unreadable about her—the way her every gesture seemed deliberate, the weight of centuries behind her calm demeanor. He offered a courteous smile, uncertain of what hid behind those half-lidded eyes.
Zi Han, too, found her thoughts shifting. Indeed, she mused silently, this fellow Daoist is anything but ordinary.
She had lived for an age that could erode mountains and still watched mortals rise and fall like seasons. Many had sought her favor—tea masters, alchemists, cultivators—each claiming to hold enlightenment within their cups. Some had ascended through tea alone, their spirits dissolving into immortal mist. Yet none of them had faced her tea without reaction.
Except him.
This man hadn’t flinched. Not a flicker of awe, not even a change in breathing. To withstand the backlash of a transcendent brew without a ripple—he was not mortal.
Unknowingly, Wang Chen had risen in her estimation—a cultivation legend hidden behind plain eyes.
He straightened, expression solemn. "Fellow Daoist Zi Han, let’s begin."
Zi Han inclined her head. Though serene, her mind was sharp as a blade. She had responsibilities elsewhere—she couldn’t linger.
Lin Huang and Xin Yi watched closely. Lin Huang barely dared to breathe, afraid his master might notice him. Xin Yi, on the other hand, allowed her gaze to wander. The courtyard was tranquil, the training grounds sprawling under the afternoon light. A breeze stirred the leaves of the ancient Bodhi tree nearby, its shadow stretching toward the old library in the distance.
Her heart itched to go there—to lose herself among the tomes and scrolls that whispered of forgotten eras. But propriety held her still; she clasped her hands and forced herself to remain silent.
Meanwhile, Wang Chen’s attention turned inward. The exchange of knowledge in this world was not done by words or scrolls, but by will and spirit. One could forge a wisdom rune—a crystallization of understanding woven through qi—and transfer its essence to another.
He paused. Doomclock was not a mere technique. It was something he had drawn from the Infinite Tower of Enlightenment—a skill that defied the normal Daoist structure. Could others even comprehend it? He wasn’t sure.
It didn’t matter. His task was to transfer the underlying principles. Whether Zi Han could grasp it depended on her comprehension, not his generosity.
Closing his eyes, Wang Chen’s aura deepened. The air grew still. Then, a soft current brushed past him—a whisper of intent. His hair fluttered as a golden rune, elegant and intricate, floated toward his chest. Zi Han’s wisdom rune.
Without hesitation, he accepted it into his spiritual space and sent forth his own—a dark, clock-shaped rune etched with shifting symbols of time and fate.
From the disciples’ perspective, a brief shimmer of light passed between the two masters—two specks of brilliance that met midair, intertwining before fading into silence.
The exchange was complete.
Now, comprehension would determine the true outcome.
---
Inside Zi Han’s spiritual space...
It was a world vast beyond comprehension—a crimson sea stretching beneath an eternal, starless sky. Mountains loomed across the horizon, each one built not of stone, but of skulls. Countless, weathered remains of beasts and cultivators were fused together, forming jagged peaks that seemed to pierce the heavens. A faint metallic tang of blood hung in the air, heavy and intoxicating.
Beneath, the sea churned restlessly, its surface alive with ghostly silhouettes swimming through the crimson depths—shadows of souls long devoured.
At the heart of this eerie domain stood Zi Han herself. Here, she looked nothing like the serene woman at the tea table. Her presence was divine—terrifyingly so—her aura unfurling like a storm that could drown worlds.
Before her floated the rune Wang Chen had sent. She stared at it, eyes narrowing, expression grave.
"The Dao of Fate... and Time," she murmured, her voice low with wonder. "What a technique..."
Even for someone of her level, this was astonishing. Two great Daos interwoven at a foundational level—it was no minor creation. That meant one thing: Wang Chen stood at least on her level—a Grand Ascension cultivator.
Her mind churned with realization. Including him, there were now ten known Grand Ascension beings active in the world. The heavens were stirring again; balance was shifting.
She exhaled slowly, eyes sharpening. This era will not remain calm for long.
Still, curiosity stirred within her. The technique she had given him in exchange—a movement art among her most treasured—ranked easily within the top ten of all she had ever mastered. She wondered... how long would it take him to comprehend it?
When her focus returned to reality, her spiritual projection dissolved like mist.
Zi Han opened her eyes.
And froze.
Wang Chen sat exactly as before—calm, composed, a faint trace of tea steam curling near his hand. But his eyes...
Something had changed.
They no longer held mere clarity. They carried depth—a darkness laced with golden light, as if time itself flowed behind them.
For the first time in centuries, Zi Han felt a chill crawl down her spine.