The Overseer's final words lingered softly in Tian Hao's mind. He found himself reflecting on her teachings, and an old saying came to mind: "To conquer oneself is a greater victory than to conquer thousands in battle." The words reverberated through him. He sighed, then let his usual irreverence bubble up. "Yeah, yeah, conquer myself—because conquering actual enemies is too mainstream, apparently."
As the last traces of the Overseer's radiant presence vanished from the chamber, he found himself standing alone in the midst of opulence that now felt somewhat oppressive.
Tian Hao moved towards the door and pushed it open, the heavy wood groaning softly. He wondered briefly what awaited him on the other side. When he finally stepped through, a long corridor stretched out before him, bathed in the soft glow of morning light filtering through the high windows. The aroma of incense still clung to the air, but it was fading, as Tian Hao's nose twitched, catching the slight hint before it dissipated. The freshness of the courtyard air brought a slight sense of clarity, the crisp scent sharpening his senses.
The walls of the hallway were decorated with tapestries, their intricate designs telling stories of grand cultivation feats and celestial battles. One tapestry depicted a celestial warrior, clad in armor that shimmered like molten silver, striking down a monstrous beast whose eyes blazed like twin suns. The warrior's spear pierced the creature's heart, a burst of golden light erupting from the wound, while lotuses bloomed in the aftermath, their petals scattering amidst the chaos. Another tapestry showed a lotus flower blooming amidst swirling clouds of chaos, its petals radiant with a soft, ethereal glow, a symbol of serenity amidst turmoil.
Tian Hao couldn't help but contrast these glorious depictions with the mundane, uneventful life he once knew—where the only battles were over late-night shifts and unpaid bills. Here, every thread spoke of greatness, while his past had been woven with monotony. The splendor seemed dreamlike, a reminder of how far he was from the life he once understood.
Tian Hao ran his fingers gently along the tapestries, tracing the intricate embroidery beneath his touch—a tactile reminder of the wealth and power that defined this place. He thought of the stories of Emperor Xuanzong of Tang, whose opulent lifestyle had eventually led to decadence and rebellion. Would the luxury surrounding him now lead to a similar fate? There was a sense of unease—perhaps this opulence was not a blessing, but a trap. He wondered if his reluctance to fully accept this new world was a subconscious attempt to avoid the same downfall, a defense mechanism against losing himself in the splendor. Or perhaps it was simply because this life was so different from anything he had ever known, and he found himself instinctively trying to create distance—finding reasons to separate himself from a world that felt unreal.
The fabric seemed to pulse with the legacy of the sect, each thread woven with stories of grandeur and ambition, much like the emperors of old. Yet, for all its splendor, it felt distant, like an artifact from a world he was still struggling to belong to.
Servants passed by silently, bowing quickly as they acknowledged him, their faces carefully neutral. One servant's eyes flicked up briefly, only to quickly look away, her movements stiff, the bow hinting at fear or perhaps disdain. Another's lips twitched as if suppressing a comment, the tension in their posture betraying their true feelings before they hurried along.
Tian Hao returned their greetings with a slight nod, trying to project the arrogance expected of someone in his position. Inside, though, his mind raced, trying to pull together the fragmented memories of the original Tian Hao. There were scattered recollections of etiquette—the formal bows, the precise way to address superiors, the strict rules of hierarchy—but it was clear how little attention the original Tian Hao had paid to these details. The memories were fuzzy, incomplete, with entire lessons seemingly glossed over or disregarded. He could almost feel the impatience of his former self, brushing off lessons on decorum as unnecessary burdens.
This was the life he had inherited, a legacy of waste and excess. "I should probably throw a tantrum about the lack of fresh lotus petals in my bath. That’s what a proper young master would do, right?" he thought.
Tian Hao paused at a large window overlooking a courtyard, placing his hand on the windowsill. The sun hung low in the sky, its rays casting long shadows across the serene landscape. To the west, a large mountain range loomed, its jagged peaks partially shrouded in mist, giving an imposing yet majestic presence. The sect appeared to be situated on a rough plateau encircled by undulating forested hills, which stretched out endlessly in all directions. A shimmering lake glistened in the distance, its surface reflecting the sunlight like a fractured mirror.
The view struck Tian Hao like a tidal wave, its immensity and natural beauty washing over him, so different from the confined and hectic world he had once known. He took a deep breath, feeling the crisp air fill his lungs—so unlike the smog-choked air of the city. It was almost overwhelming, the sheer scale of everything. He had never seen so much open space, never experienced anything beyond the cramped apartments and towering buildings of his past life. There, life was a constant barrage of noise, of crowds, of harsh lights that never seemed to go out. Here, it was different—open, quiet, and serene.
'How do people live like this?' he wondered, the thought a mix of bewilderment and a hint of envy. There was a simplicity here that almost scared him, as if he was standing on the edge of something vast and unknown. He found himself grappling with how different this traditional, almost timeless way of life felt compared to the modern, bustling chaos of his old normal. Not the kind bound by the limits of concrete walls and crowded subways, but something raw and ancient. It was both daunting and strangely comforting.
His gaze drifted from the distant mountains and forests, slowly pulled downward by the movement below. His eyes narrowed, observing the disciplined movements of the disciples below.
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His eyes narrowed, observing the disciplined movements of the disciples below. The sound of swords clashing faintly reached his ears, the rhythmic clang a stark contrast to the tranquility of the landscape in the distance.
He watched their precise forms and focused expressions, each disciple moving with an intensity and grace that seemed almost otherworldly. Some were practicing sword forms, their wooden blades slicing through the air in perfectly timed arcs, while others stood in meditative stances, channeling their internal energy, their brows furrowed in concentration. The movements were deliberate, each action precise and flowing seamlessly into the next, like a carefully choreographed dance. Tian Hao could almost see the beads of sweat forming on their foreheads, the determination in their eyes as they pushed themselves beyond their limits. It was mesmerizing—so different from anything he had ever seen before, where every ounce of effort was devoted to honing their bodies and minds. Here, in this hidden world of cultivation, power was not just a birthright—it was earned through discipline and mastery.
Eventually, he turned away from the window and continued down the hallway, his steps deliberate, his mind turning over his new reality and the possibilities that lay ahead. The vastness of the sect was still unfamiliar to him, and though he had inherited the memories of the previous Tian Hao, they felt disjointed, fragmented. As he advanced through the halls, he found himself piecing together glimpses of a life filled with decadence, indulgence, and the slow decay of potential.
He passed by several rooms, peeking in through half-open doors to find only disused guest chambers, their furniture covered in fine layers of dust. The stillness inside these rooms felt eerie, as though time itself had forgotten them. Tian Hao couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing from this place—some vital energy that should have filled the sect with life and purpose.
Finally, Tian Hao returned to his own chambers, the weight of the day’s exploration pressing heavily upon him. He closed the door behind him with a soft click, the heavy wood sealing him off from the world outside. The silence inside the room was almost suffocating, amplifying the strain coiled within him. He leaned against the door, letting out a slow breath as he tried to center himself.
What had once felt like a reward now seemed more like a burden—a constant reminder of the expectations he had yet to meet, of the new and bizarre world in which he found himself. The opulent furniture, the silks draped across the bed, the intricate carvings on the walls—they all spoke of a life of privilege, but also of a life that had been squandered.
Tian Hao’s gaze drifted to the low table near the center of the room. He hadn’t eaten since waking up in this new body, and the idea of indulging in a simple pleasure—something tangible and real—suddenly appealed to him. He peeked his head out the door, spotting a young servant girl walking down the hallway.
"You there," he called out, his voice a little too loud, a little too eager. The girl stopped and turned, bowing respectfully. Tian Hao cleared his throat, trying to sound more composed. "Bring me some food and wine."
The servant girl bowed again and hurried away, leaving Tian Hao feeling slightly foolish. He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, his hands resting on his knees as he stared at the floor. The act of giving orders felt foreign to him, each interaction a performance in a play he hadn’t rehearsed for.
He remembered a saying from Su Shi's 'Nian Nu Jiao - Red Cliff Nostalgia': Life is but a dream; one cup is offered to the river and moon (人生如梦，一次还酱江月).' The sentiment echoed within him—how fleeting and unreal everything felt, as if he was merely playing his part in an endless performance. It struck him how apt those words were—this role of a young master felt like an ill-fitting costume, one he had yet to grow accustomed to. The arrogance he tried to project felt hollow, his attempts to mimic the original Tian Hao’s demeanor clumsy at best.
When the servant returned, she placed a tray of delicate dishes and a finely crafted glass of wine on the table before bowing once more and leaving. Tian Hao eyed the food with a strange mix of anticipation and trepidation. The tray held a variety of small, artfully arranged dishes: roasted meat glazed with a shimmering sauce, delicate slices of pickled vegetables, and what looked like a type of steamed bun filled with an unknown paste. There were also small portions of brightly colored fruits, their skins glossy and inviting, and a dish of thinly sliced fish, adorned with sprigs of fresh herbs. Every item seemed to be chosen for its aesthetic as much as its taste, and Tian Hao found himself wondering what secrets each flavor might hold.
Waving his hand to dismiss the girl, he picked up a pair of finely carved chopsticks, pausing to admire the delicate craftsmanship, the intricate lotus designs carved into the wood. He felt the familiar weight in his hand, hesitating briefly before finally selecting a piece of roasted meat, the rich aroma wafting up to greet him. As he brought it to his lips, the rich aroma hit him, a blend of spices that hinted at something complex and savory. The first bite was a revelation. The flavors burst on his tongue, the tender meat practically melting in his mouth. He chewed slowly, savoring every nuance of the dish, letting the pleasure of it fill him.
As Tian Hao savored the rich, luxurious flavors, a flash of memory struck him—scenes from his old life flooded his mind. He remembered the instant ramen he had often relied on, the salty broth that barely masked the synthetic taste, and the cheap street food he could afford, sometimes made with questionable ingredients like gutter oil. He recalled the greasy aroma that clung to the air of back-alley vendors, the bitter aftertaste of compromise that lingered after each meal. Compared to those moments of desperation, this meal felt like a dream—a world away from the gritty reality he had known.
The wine was next, a deep amber liquid that shimmered in the light. He swirled it gently before taking a sip, the sweetness of the wine contrasting with the savory meat, its warmth spreading through his chest. As he ate and drank, he felt something stir within him—a subtle pulse of energy, faint but unmistakable.
Tian Hao closed his eyes, focusing on the sensation. The warmth spread slowly from his core, a soft hum of energy that grew stronger with each bite, each sip. It was as if the meal itself was fueling his cultivation, each pleasure heightening his senses, each taste bringing him closer to some elusive power. The PINA method was working, and the realization brought a smile to his lips.
He continued to eat, taking his time with each dish, letting the pleasure wash over him in waves. It wasn’t just the food—it was the act of savoring it, of being fully present in the moment. Every flavor, every texture seemed to heighten his awareness, and as the meal progressed, he felt the energy within him grow. It was slow, but steady, a faint but tangible improvement in his cultivation.
When he finished the meal, Tian Hao leaned back in his chair, a soft sigh escaping him. His body felt warm, relaxed, the tension that had plagued him earlier melting away. He closed his eyes and focused inward, seeking the energy that now pulsed faintly within him.
Tian Hao smiled to himself, the burden of his new life momentarily lifted. The road ahead was long, and filled with uncertainty, but for the first time since waking in this new world, he felt a glimmer of hope.