Chapter Thirty-Eight: Gazing Down Upon All the Mountains

The fishing that should have yielded nothing ended up bringing in fish and crabs, but not a single shrimp was caught.

“It’s fate and timing,” he mused.

Though things hadn’t quite gone as expected in many ways, Chen Yu still felt quite pleased; at least this time, he didn’t return empty-handed.

A bountiful harvest.

Rising to his feet, he gathered the many fish and crabs, packed them up, hoisted his fishing rod, and began retracing his steps.

On the way back, he glanced toward the distant mountains near Qingtai. A rugged, protruding rocky outcrop stood impressively tall, its sheer presence intimidating to even think of climbing.

“This path will do—just right for a look from above.”

The Yunhe Sect had stood for decades, managed through four generations, with disciples having traversed almost every craggy ridge, Qingtai included.

He disregarded the nearby low peaks for now, focusing instead on this particular Luoxia Rock. He recalled that the second sect leader once built a pavilion there—though he had no idea what had become of it since.

In years past, the numerous disciples were undeterred by the winding mountain paths. The terrain was not overly treacherous, and the striking, towering stones drew many visitors.

The last time his former self had come here was with an old Taoist master and several senior and junior brothers; they practiced morning rituals here for a solid three months, rain or shine.

Later, that old master met disaster upon descending the mountain; the brothers were all slain. Upon returning to the sect, the master became bedridden, his spirit broken. His former self stayed by his side, and so never returned to this place again.

But now, Chen Yu wished to see this location once more—where countless Yunhe disciples had left their footprints. There was a side path that led back, so a brief detour wouldn’t matter; he could easily return to the sect by dusk.

Moreover, this mountain’s elevation was considerable, offering a sweeping view over most of Qingtai. The scenery likely wouldn’t disappoint.

With that thought, he turned and disappeared onto the narrow path, climbing upward.

…

Time passed quietly. With his current stamina, it didn’t take long before he reached the summit.

Treading carefully along the path, avoiding thickets of brambles growing wild everywhere, Chen Yu soon spotted a corner of brick and tile partially buried among gray stones.

Stepping out from the shade, carrying his belongings, he looked up and saw the pavilion in full view.

The green bricks were riddled with cracks, tiles broken and scattered around as if battered by the wind. Nearer inspection revealed thick weeds sprouting from the gaps between bricks, with a few small flowers swaying on the steps.

The pillars’ paint had peeled away, exposing dried, cracked wood eaten away by insects—fragile, as if it would collapse at a mere touch.

Dilapidated.

He broke off a wooden twig and swept away the spiderwebs before him. His gaze wandered to other spots, where several stone meditation cushions lay haphazardly piled. The dirt and rocks nearby were covered in moss.

“Truly ancient.”

Chen Yu took in the scene, then made his way to the very front—the broadest vantage point on the mountaintop.

He had been to Qingtai’s summit before, but the dense forest and undulating hills there obscured the view.

Here, the panorama was far more open.

Mountain peaks, endless forests, rivers flowing below—

All laid out before him.

A breeze stirred, rustling his robes softly.

He set down his things and seated himself atop the largest stone.

In his memory, the openness and solitude of this place made it easier to calm the mind. Otherwise, Yunhe disciples would not have built a pavilion here for rest.

He looked up, sunlight dimmed to a mellow yellow.

At this hour, it was unremarkable, but as the moon rose over the cloud tips, the silvery moonlight would slant across the scene, revealing even more wondrous sights.

This place was regarded by many Taoists as a treasured sanctuary.

Chen Yu, however, was in no rush to wait for nightfall. This visit was spontaneous, and for now, he simply enjoyed the mountain’s exquisite beauty.

Layer upon layer of peaks, rivers gleaming through the valleys.

As he gazed, he closed his eyes and focused his mind, following the “Pure Clarity” method recorded in Yunhe martial arts to cleanse distracting thoughts.

Whether aided by the sanctity of this place or a genuine insight, a subtle awakening stirred within him. His spiritual energy did not surge violently; instead, it flowed gently from the dantian, a soft silver-gray mist enveloping his skin and casting a faint haze over his face.

After a moment, the dissipating energy faded.

Chen Yu opened his eyes, which gleamed with newfound light.

“Great Stability…”

In the practice of the Water and Earth Daoist path, there were five stages. The initial “First Light” he had previously attained marked the first stage. Today, he had unexpectedly crossed into the second—known as the Great Stability realm.

This Daoist realm differed from conventional cultivation levels. Progress in Daoism depended on fate and enlightenment; only when the mind reached a certain depth could one enter these stages.

Scriptures recount a Taoist who, through sudden joy and sorrow, attained the fourth realm overnight, only to revert to his former state by the next day, aside from a slight aura of calm.

Some Taoists entered and exited various stages multiple times throughout their lives—sometimes the third, sometimes the first or second.

Daoist realms did not improve through mere repetition or skill, but through insight. Sometimes, one might briefly enter a realm by chance, only to lose that feeling forever after.

Just as Chen Yu had experienced with First Light.

…

So far, his entries into First Light had been rare. He never imagined this time he would reach an even higher level.

Despite this, countless Taoists still coveted such realms, yearning to experience their profound mystery.

There was a saying among Taoists: only upon mastering all five stages could one truly comprehend the heart of the Dao.

At the summit, Chen Yu felt serene. Though pleased to have crossed into the second realm, he was not as exhilarated as he had imagined.

Perhaps it was the calm of his mental state that kept him composed.

Ultimately, Daoist realms impacted only one’s inner cultivation. Though symbols of success, they were more like fleeting moments of reflection or sudden enlightenment.

That spiritual haziness indeed made inspiration easier to come by.

This was what Chen Yu valued most.

At this moment, he felt no great change within himself—only a brief peace of mind, as the vast ocean of his consciousness stilled once more.

He noticed a faint film in a corner of his vision.

He glanced at it twice before dismissing it—after all, it was pointless to focus on things he could neither understand nor decipher.

Yet, this moment was not without gain.

During the brief Great Stability phase lasting about ten breaths, he sorted through many thoughts and gained deeper control over himself.

Most importantly, his understanding of qi became clearer. Previously scattered and chaotic notions were now neatly organized and defined in the stillness of his mind.

He checked the time, estimating the sun would set in about an hour.

Seizing the fleeting inspiration before it faded, Chen Yu did not intend to stop. He decided to continue exploring the qi lingering within his body.

Earlier, he had attempted to guide qi into a fleshly orifice inside himself, but the rapid tissue growth startled him, forcing him to halt.

However, upon reflection, he noticed something unusual: a layer of flesh had developed inside the orifice, possibly a response to the qi’s stimulation.

“Guiding qi into the orifice is not feasible for now,” he concluded firmly.

The orifice was still too small; rapid tissue growth inside the heart orifice would be impossible to control or disperse, with potentially dire consequences.

Beyond this, there was another approach: condensing a qi cavity.

His past life’s stories mentioned many such techniques—none achievable for him. His spiritual power was insufficient to suppress or manipulate qi effectively, let alone shape it into a cavity.

Keeping it inside the body risked sudden rupture.

Still, there were options. Aside from these two methods, Chen Yu had many ideas. This time, he would try again, hoping to carve out a true path to transcendence.