The stone steps spiraled upward in silence.
They were neither steep nor shallow, cut into the mountain as though the peak itself had decided this was how one should approach it. Lin Yuan walked alone. No wind followed him. No spiritual pressure gathered. Even the clouds that drifted endlessly around the Heaven of Resting Peaks avoided this mountain, leaving the air clear and bare.
This peak felt… neutral.
Not sacred.
Not welcoming.
Not rejecting.
It simply existed.
At the summit stood a hall.
It was vast, yet unadorned—constructed of the same pale, ageless stone as the Immortal Courtyard, but without railings, banners, or symbols. The doors were already open. Inside, there was no scent of incense, no glow of formations, no whisper of hidden mechanisms.
Lin Yuan stepped inside.
The hall was empty.
At least, at first glance.
The floor stretched far beyond what the exterior suggested, smooth stone uninterrupted by pillars or furniture. The walls were high, curving gently upward, their surfaces marked by countless faint lines—so fine they almost disappeared when not directly observed.
Qingshi stood near the entrance, hands folded within his sleeves.
"This is the Record Peak," he said.
Lin Yuan walked forward slowly. With each step, the lines along the walls became clearer—not inscriptions, not writing, but impressions. Traces left behind by something that had once passed through.
"These are not techniques," Qingshi continued. "Nor instructions."
Lin Yuan stopped before one of the walls and raised his hand.
The moment his fingers brushed the stone, understanding surfaced.
Not as vision.
Not as memory.
Not as knowledge forced into him.
It was closer to recognition.
A cultivator sat cross-legged beneath a dying spirit tree, breath uneven, Qi slipping from his meridians faster than he could draw it in. Every cycle cost him effort. Every gain threatened to unravel the moment his focus wavered.
Lin Yuan withdrew his hand.
"So this is how they cultivated," he said quietly.
"Yes," Qingshi replied. "This is how most did."
Lin Yuan moved along the wall, touching another trace.
A different scene. Another cultivator—stronger, steadier—circulating Qi with practiced ease. Yet even then, the energy resisted him, needing refinement, compression, discipline. Progress came slowly. Painfully.
"Qi Cultivation," Lin Yuan said, more statement than question.
"The first realm," Qingshi confirmed.
Lin Yuan continued.
The Records did not announce themselves. They did not label stages or proclaim achievements. They simply showed attempts—thousands upon thousands of them.
Qi gathered.
Qi leaked.
Qi stagnated.
Some cultivators advanced swiftly from the first steps, bodies adapting well. Others struggled endlessly at the same point, no matter how many years passed.
He touched another trace.
A man at the third level of Qi Cultivation, unable to progress. Thirty years passed in moments. His Qi grew denser, purer—yet something refused to change. The man aged. His hair grayed. His breath shortened.
"He reached a bottleneck," Lin Yuan said.
"Yes," Qingshi replied.
"And it wasn't a wall."
"No," Qingshi said calmly. "It was incompatibility."
Lin Yuan frowned slightly and moved on.
Another trace.
A cultivator breaking through from Qi Level Four to Five. The effort was immense, but the change was subtle. His Qi grew more stable, his circulation smoother. Yet soon after, he slowed again—caught between progress and stagnation.
"Early," Lin Yuan murmured.
"Mid."
"Late."
The structure became clear without explanation.
Qi Cultivation was not a straight ascent.
Levels One to Three—early.
Four to Six—mid.
Seven to Nine—late.
And then—
He paused.
The next trace was different.
The cultivator had reached the peak of Qi Cultivation. His Qi no longer resisted him. It no longer leaked. It filled his body completely, circulating without loss, without turbulence.
Yet he did not advance.
Years passed. Decades.
The man remained exactly where he was.
"Peak," Lin Yuan said softly.
"Yes," Qingshi replied. "Qi Level Ten."
"So ten exists," Lin Yuan said.
"It exists," Qingshi agreed. "Few reached it."
"And it isn't higher," Lin Yuan said, understanding settling into place. "It's fuller."
Qingshi inclined his head.
Lin Yuan moved deeper into the hall.
The Records thinned.
Scenes became rarer, fragmented, incomplete.
Then came the failures.
A cultivator attempting to anchor his Qi—compressing it inward, trying to stabilize something deeper. His body convulsed. His meridians fractured. He died without sound.
Another succeeded partially—Qi condensed, structure formed—then collapsed days later.
"This is Foundation Establishment," Lin Yuan said.
"Yes," Qingshi replied.
"Why could they fly?"
"Because they were no longer bound only to the ground," Qingshi said. "Their existence stabilized."
Lin Yuan remembered the sect master's words. The legends. The disbelief.
"So that's why only legends could," he said.
The Records here were ancient.
Old enough that time itself had worn away details.
Few had succeeded.
Fewer still had advanced beyond.
Lin Yuan stepped back, breath steady.
The hall changed again as he moved farther in.
The Records became erratic. Incomplete. Dates shortened. Attempts grew desperate.
Spiritual energy thinned.
Breakthroughs failed more often.
Qi Level Six became rare.
Qi Level Eight became terrifying.
Qi Level Nine faded into myth.
"The decline," Lin Yuan said.
"Yes," Qingshi replied.
"The world didn't fail them," Lin Yuan continued. "It starved them."
Qingshi did not correct him.
Lin Yuan reached the end of the hall.
There, the Records shifted once more.
Two cultivators practiced the same method. One advanced smoothly. The other struggled endlessly, Qi leaking with every cycle.
"Spirit roots," Lin Yuan said.
"A filtration structure," Qingshi replied. "Efficiency, not destiny."
Lin Yuan nodded slowly.
He stood still for a long time.
Every Record assumed struggle.
Resistance.
Loss.
Adjustment.
None of it matched his own experience.
"No leakage," Lin Yuan said. "No resistance."
"Correct," Qingshi said. "You do not filter Qi. It aligns."
"No roots," Lin Yuan added.
"No requirement," Qingshi confirmed.
"And no techniques," Lin Yuan said.
"None are necessary," Qingshi replied.
Lin Yuan exhaled quietly.
"But I'm still limited," he said.
"Yes," Qingshi said. "By authority."
Lin Yuan considered that, then asked, "Where am I now?"
There was no panel at first.
No dramatic declaration.
Just understanding settling naturally.
Then, calmly:
Qi Cultivation — Level Five.
Lin Yuan blinked once.
"So I was capped at four," he said.
"Yes."
"And integration lifted it."
"Yes."
He laughed softly, shaking his head. "I didn't even notice the breakthrough."
Qingshi tilted his head slightly, as though processing the sound.
Lin Yuan looked around the hall once more.
"So why keep all this?" he asked. "Every failure. Every dead end."
Qingshi's answer came without hesitation.
"Because Heaven does not repeat mistakes."
Lin Yuan stood there, alone amid countless lives remembered only by stone.
Then he turned back toward the entrance.
"Then I'll remember them," he said.
Qingshi bowed.
"Heaven records."
And the Record Peak remained—silent, patient, complete.
End of Chapter 24