Chapter Thirty-Four: Return

It was Ge Hong.

He had become charcoal, unbelievably so.

What a dramatic turn of events.

Drip, drip...

Bao Xincun appeared on the muddy stone floor of the courtyard.

Blood stained his lips; he was wounded. His body resembled a sieve, riddled with countless holes—even his face was like a honeycomb.

He couldn’t be far from death, Chen Jin thought.

Chen Jin had not witnessed the battle between Ge Hong and Bao Xincun, nor could he; both operated on a level far beyond his own. Bao Xincun, by merging his three corpses, had reached parity with Ge Hong, while Ge Hong, having slain the one-eyed lord, had expended much of his strength, leaving him in this battered state. Still, he lived—Chen Jin could sense his presence. Bao Xincun, on the other hand, was clinging to a single breath, perhaps due to the uniqueness of the Three Corpses Technique, or perhaps because his obsession was so deep.

“I refuse to repent, even unto death! Immortality! Immortality!” Bao Xincun cried out, his shattered mouth issuing a hoarse roar.

“Heavenly Master’s talisman! Heavenly Master’s talisman!” Bao Xincun, wild-eyed and full of holes, staggered toward the charred Ge Hong lying on the ground.

Chen Jin rose slowly, stepping between Ge Hong and Bao Xincun.

“Bao Xincun, why cling to this obsession? Reincarnate, face tribulations anew, and pursue immortality once more!” Chen Jin urged.

“You don’t understand! If I don’t achieve immortality now, it’ll be too late, too late!” Bao Xincun screamed.

He marched straight toward Chen Jin, attempting to shove him aside and seize the Heavenly Master’s talisman from Ge Hong.

He truly had lost his mind. His weakened body collided with Chen Jin and was immediately sent flying, landing hard on the ground.

Chen Jin felt as if Bao Xincun weighed nothing at all.

Suddenly, Ge Hong stirred behind him.

Chunks of charcoal fell from his body like dead skin, dropping to the ground piece by piece.

When all the charcoal had crumbled away, Ge Hong’s true face was revealed to Chen Jin.

He remained as before—white-haired yet childlike, with an immortal’s air. Nothing seemed amiss, except he was unclothed.

Ge Hong slowly stood, casually summoning a white cloth to wrap around himself.

“Xincun, why have you not awakened? When has human life ever been solely for the pursuit of immortality? If that’s your only goal, why bother cultivating? You might as well surrender yourself to the cycle of celestial reincarnation. Why must there also be the mortal cycle? Release your obsession, and let me send you to the underworld,” Ge Hong counseled.

Chen Jin listened, dumbfounded: Brother, is this persuasion? You know he’s obsessed, yet you provoke him with such words—aren’t you just inciting him to self-destruct? To fight you to the death?

Now that Ge Hong had revived, Chen Jin could step aside. He moved away, watching the drama unfold between the two—it was an affectionate yet destructive duel between master and disciple.

“You know as well as I do, the Age of Dharma’s End is near. Only by becoming immortal can its restrictions be broken and one roam freely. I refuse to be demoted to a mere mortal, to wallow in the mundane world, sorting out ethics and currying favor. Aren’t you the same, aren’t you unwilling as well?” Bao Xincun strained to rise from the ground, but failed. Instead, he lay on his back, howling into the night sky to assert his existence and his final, bitter protest.

“Who told you that? Even when the Age of Dharma’s End comes, not even celestial immortals can escape. Who told you that becoming immortal would break its chains? How could you be so foolish!” Ge Hong said, heartbroken.

“Is that so? There’s no escape?” Bao Xincun’s eyes, already dull, faded further. Still, he believed Ge Hong.

His blood had run dry. The courtyard’s stone slabs were filled with the last of Bao Xincun’s blood, every gap saturated with it.

Bao Xincun died, finally and completely. He was already at death’s door, and now he was gone for good—not even reincarnation awaited him.

Ge Hong watched Bao Xincun’s lifeless form, then slowly sat down and formed a hand seal—the Soul-Calling Seal, seeking to summon Bao Xincun’s lingering spirit.

But it was futile.

In the end, Ge Hong spat blood; his skin, once smooth as an eggshell, shriveled and wrinkled, as if he aged thirty years in an instant.

“In the end, nothing remains...”

Ge Hong sighed.

With that sigh, Chen Jin felt his surroundings blur and swirl together, as if all the colors on a painter’s palette had been mixed into a dizzying mess.

In an instant, the scene before Chen Jin changed completely. The courtyard was gone, the bodies vanished, the dazzling starry night dissolved, the old-fashioned house faded away—he was back in his own room.

Staring at its familiar furnishings, he sat in a daze, then stirred and slowly rose.

This journey had shaken him deeply. The power of a cultivator could truly rival the legends—able to disturb, even alter, the heavens, split mountains and shatter stones without effort. Chen Jin also understood the desperate pursuit of the Dao among cultivators. Look at Bao Xincun—a textbook example.

But perhaps Bao Xincun had long forgotten his original purpose for cultivation. Maybe, as a second-generation cultivator, he never had one; maybe their only aim was to become immortal.

Frankly, seeing Bao Xincun’s tragic end, Chen Jin felt no sympathy. Bao Xincun had vanished from this world completely—not even a trace of his true spirit remained, no hope for reincarnation, not even the chance to come back as a pig. He was pitiful, but not deserving of pity.

Ultimately, Chen Jin marveled at the wisdom of cultivators. Their cunning, their plots, were masterful. Chen Jin felt he would be easily outmaneuvered. This wasn’t the kind of intrigue dictated by the amount of information one possessed; it was true wisdom—the ability to infer great matters from small clues. They didn’t need much information, just enough self-awareness, then they could tug at a loose thread and unravel everything.

Yet, in the end, it all came down to strength.

The schemes of Bao Xincun and the one-eyed lord had clearly ensnared Ge Hong, but Ge Hong, by sheer force, destroyed them both, rendering their plans useless.

Chen Jin could only marvel at this, then sigh at his own role as a mere bystander.

He got out of bed, walked to his desk, and retrieved his camera.

He stopped the recording and played back the footage.

“It only recorded ten seconds?!” Chen Jin stared in surprise at the camera’s tiny screen.

He played the video: sitting on the bed, then in one second, opening his eyes and rising, daydreaming for seven seconds—those were his reflections—then in the last two seconds, walking over to turn off the camera.

“So this is the ‘second man’? The true ‘second man’?”

...