The Ephemeral Bloom’s Descent

The city of Chaoge buzzed with extraordinary life tonight.

With the new emperor’s ascension, the capital was set to host a seven-day celebration, as was the tradition of the Wu Yin Dynasty.

The clamor of human voices, the rumble of carriages, and the cries of hawkers mingled with the scent of dust and sweat, rising in an unending miasma.

It was, as the saying went, a scene of ‘fire cooking oil, blossoms in profusion’ (TL Note: A Chinese idiom describing a vibrant, prosperous, yet potentially unsustainable spectacle), a picture of explosive revelry and fleeting splendor.

Within the heart of this turbulent, boiling tide, a faint, ethereal glow, a mere flicker like a firefly, quietly ignited.

It was a woman of delicate stature, clad in a plain white silken Daoist robe.

Her wide sleeves were meticulously fastened, while her chestnut-colored hair was neatly styled into a traditional crown.

In her hand, she carried an everlasting lamp, its flame a peculiar, almost solidified milky white.

It neither swayed nor flickered, appearing as if carved from a piece of warm, yet cold, jade.

She moved at a measured pace, her steps so light they seemed to tread upon clouds.

Yet, the instant her foot touched the ground, an unbelievable phenomenon unfolded.

The surging crowd ahead parted as if gently yet firmly pushed aside by an unseen colossal hand.

Burly men hauling goods, children laughing and chasing, hawkers shouting for customers—all bustling life, even the tiny insects scurrying through the cracks in the flagstones, and the firelight-illuminated dust motes suspended in the air, were abruptly halted and pushed away several zhang (TL Note: A traditional Chinese unit of length, approximately 3.33 meters) from her, by an invisible barrier.

No, not pushed away; it was more akin to… ‘non-existence’?!

An utterly pristine and desolate path materialized beneath her feet, stretching straight ahead.

So vast was this path that it seemed to extend for ten li (TL Note: A traditional Chinese unit of length, approximately 500 meters) as far as the eye could see, utterly empty and spotless, creating a shocking dichotomy with the shoulder-to-shoulder crowds and roaring voices of the adjacent streets.

The absurdity of it was that the street itself remained unaltered.

Shops on either side still displayed their signs, and hawkers’ stalls pressed against the invisible boundary.

One could even discern the frozen smiles, open mouths, and raised eyebrows on the faces of people just beyond the barrier—their expressions, their gestures, even the distorted folds of their clothing, all retained the vividness of the moment before they were ‘frozen,’ as if time itself had been precisely snipped away in this small segment.

Space itself was not distorted, and the width remained narrow and cramped; it was simply that the area she traversed seemed to have been entirely and seamlessly ‘displaced’.

It was as if two sheets of painting paper, thin as cicada wings—one depicting a bustling market, the other absolute void—had perfectly overlapped.

And she, holding that cold everlasting lamp, walked upon the sheet that no one could see or touch.

****

The very instant the woman appeared on the street with her lamp, a powerful aura, far surpassing the Foundation Establishment stage, remotely descended into the Imperial Prison, hundreds of meters underground, freezing everything within the cells.

Neither Lin Xiaoxiao nor Ye Jinghuang was the first to sense this aura; instead, it was Mo Tingbei, who had already lost all his cultivation.

In a sense, Mo Tingbei might well be considered the person most intimately connected to this particular aura in the world.

After all, this divine ability, later named ‘Ephemeral Bloom,’ originated from a portion of his fundamental essence that he had inadvertently transferred to another in his early years.

Strangely enough, perhaps because he hailed from beyond the heavens, while ancient texts typically stated that one cultivator’s fundamental essence was akin to the deadliest poison for another, those who received his essence never even suffered a fever.

Even Ye Jinghuang, who forcibly seized his cultivation and unknowingly absorbed a portion of his essence in the process, only exhibited pain comparable to that of receiving a power infusion, vastly different from the torment of a Great Dao injury described in the scriptures for those whose cultivation was plundered.

After all, just as no two leaves in the world are exactly alike, the principle of ‘one man’s poison is another’s honey’ manifested itself far more starkly in a cultivator’s ‘Dao’ than in academic schools of thought.

This was evident from the common cultivation world slang, ‘Those who obstruct the Dao shall die,’ a phrase echoed across countless realms.

Prior to him, all those capable of perfectly accommodating another’s cultivation or even fundamental essence were either bodies intended for possession or reincarnated forms.

Never before had a cultivator’s cultivation or essence offered such profound benefits to its recipient as his did.

Sometimes, Mo Tingbei wondered if it was his unique constitution—one so special to cultivators that it rivaled the beloved White-Faced Saint Monk (TL Note: A reference to Tang Sanzang from Journey to the West, who was said to be so pure that demons desired to consume him to gain immortality) from his memories, desired by even demons—that attracted disciples with such difficult personalities as Lin Xiaoxiao and Ye Jinghuang.

Fortunately, the one arriving this time was different.

The moment he felt this aura descend, the heart Mo Tingbei had held in suspense for so long finally settled.

This junior sister, whom he had once instructed on behalf of their master, possessed such extraordinary talent and advanced with such meteoric speed that, in just a few short years, she had far outstripped him, her nominal ‘senior brother.’

Given the sect’s stringent rules that prioritized the capable, the junior sister naturally became the senior sister.

What was remarkable was how naturally this shift in status seemed to occur for her, so effortlessly that it almost caught him off guard.

It was as if she were born to be the one who looked after others.

In Mo Tingbei’s memory, there never seemed to be a moment when he needed to worry about her.

Whether it was the arduous and profound cultivation of techniques or the mundane intricacies of daily life, she always managed everything with impeccable order.

Indeed, more often than not, she would quietly arrange everything for him.

A bowl of warm tea offered at just the right moment, a timely remark to diffuse an awkward situation, or even when he was once battling for the sect’s survival, covered in wounds—her small hands would invariably find the ointment faster, applying it with unbelievable tenderness.

And once she officially reached that crucial boundary, receiving her celestial investiture, she rightfully became his elder.

This burden of ‘elder’ she bore with an air of absolute entitlement, even intensifying her efforts.

Though cultivators feared neither cold nor heat, she would always bring him heavy cloaks when the weather turned chilly.

Though cultivators did not covet the pleasures of the palate, she would unfailingly send him seasonal delicacies she had personally prepared during every festival, watching him consume them…

Each time she ‘managed’ him with such meticulous care, a peculiar sensation would blossom within him—the illusion of being enveloped by a warm current of excessive doting, even one imbued with maternal radiance.

This illusion left him both flustered and somewhat abashed, yet he secretly reveled in it.

Despite her face, still touched with youthful innocence like a delicate porcelain doll, and her slender, petite figure, her unwavering composure and undeniable concern forcibly blurred the lines of her outward appearance in his eyes, transforming her into a strange, comforting silhouette.

‘I apologize for troubling you again this time, Senior Sister Jiang.’

This thought, however, lasted but a mere instant.

A single, milky-white lamp flame ignited within the prison cell, instantly piercing through the dim, yellow candlelight.

A woman’s voice, undeniably gentle in timbre yet imbued with considerable authority, echoed through the cells: “Stop.”

A female Daoist in white, carrying a peculiar lantern, appeared before the two women who had yet to fully recover their senses.

Though to the naked eye, this woman inspired an urge to rush forward and ruffle her hair, in their spiritual perception, her presence was as vast as mountains and seas.

Simply standing there, she seemed capable of tearing apart the prison, which was over ten chi (TL Note: A traditional Chinese unit of length, approximately 0.33 meters) high and a hundred zhang (TL Note: A traditional Chinese unit of length, approximately 3.33 meters) wide.

She lightly tapped the lantern before her, and the two confronting women instantly ceased all their actions, like puppets manipulated by an invisible hand.

When they finally regained their wits and discerned the woman’s face, Lin Xiaoxiao’s reaction was subdued; she simply murmured, “Martial Aunt.”

The female Daoist, however, seemed not to notice her, passing directly by Lin Xiaoxiao and walking straight towards Mo Tingbei, whose eyes were tightly shut.

Yet, in the fleeting moment of their passing, Lin Xiaoxiao heard a chilling reprimand that churned her sea of consciousness: “Useless!”

A trickle of blood escaped Lin Xiaoxiao’s lips, but she quickly swallowed it back.

She knew her Martial Aunt harbored no intent to harm her; this was merely a consequence of the immense disparity in their cultivation.

She dared not harbor any unspoken resentment, for this Martial Aunt was someone who had already transcended that ultimate boundary.

At such close proximity, no thought, however deeply hidden, could escape the notice of such a grand cultivator.

Having grown accustomed to her Martial Aunt’s temperament, Lin Xiaoxiao remained calm.

Ye Jinghuang’s face, however, flashed through every conceivable expression she had ever made in her life, like a rapidly turning lantern.

It was difficult to imagine such a myriad of complex emotions gracing a face more exquisitely beautiful than any divine maiden’s portrait in the world.

“Sister?!”