Morning arrived without announcement.
There was no sun rising beyond the mountains, no sharp division between night and day. Light simply deepened—soft gray turning to pale gold—until the clouds thinned and the sky became clearer than it had been before.
Lin Yuan opened his eyes.
He was seated beneath the eaves of the Immortal Courtyard, where he had remained through the night. The stone beneath him was cool, unchanged by time or weather. The courtyard itself was quiet, pristine in a way that did not feel maintained, only untouched.
He stood and stepped forward.
The Courtyard was not large.
A main hall stood at its center, doors open, interior dim but welcoming. Stone paths extended outward in simple lines, bordered by low railings carved from pale material he could not identify. Beyond them, the mountain sloped gently downward, its surface covered in sparse grass and stone.
Everything else lay far away.
Other peaks floated beyond layers of cloud, their outlines faint and unreachable, as though distance itself had been folded between them and this mountain.
Lin Yuan did not attempt to reach them.
He walked instead along the path that circled the courtyard.
His footsteps made no sound.
Not because the ground absorbed them, but because the air itself felt still enough that noise seemed unnecessary.
At the edge of the courtyard, Qingshi stood.
He had not arrived.
He had not been waiting.
He simply was.
The attendant's posture was upright, hands folded within his sleeves, gaze directed toward the drifting clouds below the mountain. His expression remained calm, unreadable, neither welcoming nor distant.
"You were here all night," Lin Yuan said.
"Yes," Qingshi replied.
"Did time pass?"
"Yes."
Lin Yuan nodded, accepting that answer as complete.
He continued walking.
The path led him down the slope, not steeply, but with enough incline that the Courtyard slowly rose behind him. As he descended, the air changed subtly—not thicker, not warmer, just… fresher.
He stopped near a stone outcrop and sat.
Clouds drifted beneath the mountain's edge like a slow tide. Occasionally, gaps opened, revealing distant landforms far below, though none stayed visible for long.
Lin Yuan rested his hands on his knees.
He did nothing else.
Thoughts came, then left.
The old man's steady breath.
Xu Ran's quiet alignment.
Both had happened here.
And yet, nothing here acknowledged them now.
The Heaven of Resting Peaks did not record.
It did not react.
It simply remained.
After a time—how long, Lin Yuan did not know—Qingshi stood nearby again.
"You have not eaten," the attendant said.
"I don't feel hunger here," Lin Yuan replied.
"That is expected."
Lin Yuan glanced at him. "Is it permanent?"
"No."
That answer carried weight.
"Then food exists," Lin Yuan said.
"Yes."
"Where?"
Qingshi gestured toward the Courtyard.
Inside the main hall, a low table now stood where none had been before. Upon it rested a simple meal—steamed grain, clear broth, and tea that gave off no visible steam.
No one had prepared it.
No one served it.
Lin Yuan sat and ate.
The food was plain, without strong flavor, but it settled easily, leaving no heaviness behind. When he finished, the dishes remained until he stood, then faded quietly from presence.
"Is that how it works?" Lin Yuan asked.
"Yes."
He did not press further.
Later, he walked again.
He traced the boundaries of the active mountain, following paths that gradually thinned before ending without warning. Beyond those points, the ground remained visible but unreachable, like scenery painted onto distance.
He stepped forward once.
Nothing happened.
The mountain did not repel him.
He simply did not advance.
Lin Yuan withdrew his foot.
"I see," he said quietly.
When he returned to the Courtyard, he found Qingshi seated beneath the eaves, unmoving.
"Do you rest?" Lin Yuan asked.
"I do not require it," Qingshi replied.
"But you can remain idle."
"Yes."
Lin Yuan considered that.
"Then remain," he said.
Qingshi inclined his head.
Time continued.
Light shifted subtly across the courtyard stones, shadows stretching and retracting without urgency. Lin Yuan spent hours—perhaps—doing nothing more than observing.
He learned small things.
That wind always moved downslope.
That clouds never crossed the Courtyard itself.
That no insects or animals appeared.
That the mountain never echoed his voice.
And that the Heaven did not respond to attention alone.
When evening came—if it could be called that—the light softened again, returning to its earlier gray.
Lin Yuan stood at the edge of the Courtyard and looked outward.
"Tomorrow," he said, not to Qingshi, but to the place itself.
Nothing answered.
And yet, the Heaven of Resting Peaks remained exactly as it was.
End of Chapter 11