Dao Wei felt something alien bloom in his chest. Genuine, strange, heavy sorrow for the shattered remnants of deities who had become parts of him. But also, a profound awe. They were not his enemies, not truly. Just as Nyx was a part of him, a reflection and a companion forged in the crucible of his past, so too were these fragmented divine essences.
And now, they were gone, their sacrifice complete. Their protection had brought him back.
Dao Wei drifted, or perhaps willed himself, towards the surface of his consciousness, guided by the steady, rising light of the ember core in his Sea. It was time to return fully to his body.
Then, a sound registered in Dao Wei's mind. It was a sound older than all sound, deeper than the first breath of creation.
But it was unlike any Voice the cultivators of Aratta had ever described in their ancient texts or whispered legends. Most said the Voice was singular, a roaring elemental, primal sound of the world being forged in fire. But what Dao Wei percieved was complex, layered, and laced with every color of his Sea.
It was a flame that shimmered like a phoenix's wings unfurling across a storm-wracked, multi-hued sky. Heat pulsed like the very breath of creation and destruction rolled into one.
His physical body couldn't handle the influx. It was too much, too soon, and too potent.
"F*ck!" Dao Wei screamed.
The sound ripped from his throat, raw and inhuman, carrying the weight of his internal agony. Outside, his skin cracked like sun-baked earth. Tiny fissures spread across his face, down his neck, along his arms. Blood sprayed outwards in a fine, crimson mist, coating the air around him. Muscles tore from bone with sickening snaps, only to immediately reknit themselves, fibres weaving together at impossible speed. His bones turned transparent, like glass heated to its melting point, before forging themselves anew, denser, stronger, humming with the latent power now flowing through them. The process was like a thousand deaths and a thousand rebirths happening simultaneously in a single, agonizing instant.
Outside, back in the waking world, in the quiet courtyard just beyond the pond, Qing Yao and Qing Chen watched in transfixed horror. They had heard the sudden, terrifying scream, felt the immense pressure radiating from the backyard, and rushed out only to see a spectacle that defied understanding.
Dao Wei sat under the tree, clothes shredded, his body covered in a slick, horrifying sheen of blood that wasn't his own, or rather, was his own, but from wounds that seemed to vanish as quickly as they appeared. His eyes were clenched shut, his face contorted in a silent war fought on an internal battlefield against forces Qing Yao and Qing Chen could not comprehend. He looked like a man dying a thousand agonizing deaths, each one tearing him apart before knitting him back together.
Qing Chen, usually quick to act or speak, couldn't move. His feet felt rooted to the spot, a cold dread seizing his chest. "Sister… what's happening to him?" His voice was barely a whisper, laced with fear.
Qing Yao didn't answer immediately. Her hand gripped her flowing dress so tightly that her knuckles turned white, and the ground groaned in protest. Her eyey were fixed on the kneeling figure, not with fear, or at least, not just fear, but with something far deeper, far more unsettling to see on her face.
Pure worry, raw and undisguised grief for his pain. A fierce, possessive attachment she never showed for anyone bloomed within her heart.
Dao Wei looked utterly broken, ravaged by unseen forces.
Nyx's clear and calm voice despite the recent chaos, filtered through the nascent connection between her and Dao Wei within the Sea of Qi.
"They're watching you, Master."
The reminder, simple and direct, cut through the remaining chaotic feedback loop of his transformation. Dao Wei took a deep, shuddering breath, and for the first time since the breakthrough began, he consciously exerted control over the tempest within. He centered his Sea of Qi, the seven colors and the settling into a harmonious, vibrant flow.
And yet, when tradition dictated that upon reaching this level of power, a Martial Soul should manifest, radiating outward from his core… nothing appeared.
Dao Wei opened his eyes. They were unlike anything Qing Yao or Qing Chen had ever seen. They held the depth and complexity of a twilight ancient, still, and seemingly unknowable lake, yet shimmering on the surface with the fierce, vibrant fire of a thousand embers.
He stood up slowly and deliberately. His body had already healed. Not a single scar remained from the catastrophic damage it had just endured. The skin was smooth and perfect, humming with contained power. But his robes, what was left of them, were soaked through with drying blood, creating a stark, horrifying contrast to his unblemished form. The sight was, in some ways, more terrifying than the pain itself had been.
Qing Yao stepped forward, an unthinking, visceral reaction.
She wasn't the type to rush to anyone's aid. She had always kept her feelings carefully guarded, a fortress built high against vulnerability. Even Qing Chen had only seen her cry once, a long-ago moment of shared grief when their mother died.
But now… her eyes visibly brimmed with something worse, something that tightened Qing Chen's chest and drew Dao Wei's focus. Fear, a raw, primal terror for the being she had just watched suffer. Grief, for the apparent agony he had endured. And a simmering anger, perhaps at the world, perhaps at him, for putting himself through such a thing, for forcing her to witness and feel it.
Dao Wei saw it all in that single, unguarded look.
He stepped toward her, his movements fluid and gentle, starkly contrasting the bloodstain on his ruined clothes.
With bloodstained fingers, he reached out and gently brushed a stray strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. His touch was light and steady. He offered her a faint, almost imperceptible smile.
"I'm fine," Dao Wei said, his voice low and calm, as if he'd merely returned from a leisurely walk in the garden, perhaps having tripped and scraped a knee.
Qing Yao's lips quivered, the carefully constructed stoicism threatening to crumble entirely. She said nothing, her gaze fixed on his blood-soaked hand against her cheek.
Qing Chen watched the scene unfold like someone witnessing a long-dormant temple statue suddenly come to vivid, bewildering life. His sister, his cold, unreachable sister, the embodiment of controlled composure, looked utterly undone. She looked, bizarrely, like a wife about to scold her husband for nearly dying in a spectacularly messy fashion.
"Hey," Qing Chen muttered, inching closer, uncertain how to break the spell. "Sister… you good?"
Qing Yao's head snapped towards him. She glared with a fierce, protective look in her eyes that promised she would scorch the earth if he dared question her composure further.
Dao Wei's faint smile widened slightly into a soft, knowing chuckle. "She's fine. Just worried."
"I am not," Qing Yao snapped, her voice sharp, the denial automatic and ingrained.
But she was. It was plain for anyone to see.
Dao Wei leaned against the cool stone wall of the meditation pod, the bloodstain on his back transferring to the rock. He surveyed the courtyard, the torn-up ground where he had sat, and the lingering sense of immense power in the air.
"We'll go to the mines when I return," he said, his eyes shifting to Qing Chen, the topic change abrupt but calm, navigating the emotional tension with effortless ease.
Qing Chen blinked, caught off guard. "The mines?"
Dao Wei nodded, pushing off the wall. "I want to know more about this place, its resources and secrets." He didn't explain why he suddenly wanted to know.
Qing Chen's heart lifted in his chest for reasons he didn't fully understand. It felt like a shared purpose after a period of strange uncertainty.
Dao Wei looked at Qing Yao once more before turning towards the house. The faint smile was gone.