Zǔ Zhòu sat in lotus position within the temporal scar's chamber, his consciousness expanding beyond the confines of flesh and local reality.
The paradox energy he'd absorbed created a resonance—like calling to like across dimensional boundaries. Through his connection to this single wound, he could feel them all. One hundred and twelve tears in reality's fabric, each singing its own song of impossibility.
"Show me," he whispered to the scar, and it obeyed.
His awareness exploded outward, racing along invisible threads that connected each wound. The sensation was like being pulled through a meat grinder made of mathematics, but the pain was secondary to the revelation unfolding in his mind.
The nearest scars appeared first—pinpricks of wrongness scattered across the continent. Most were minor, barely more than reality hiccups. But even these small wounds contained treasures: a scar in the eastern mountains that leaked gravity-negation laws, another in the southern desert that made identity fluid.
"Thirty-seven minor scars within the mortal continent," he catalogued, mental map crystallizing. "Accessible but requiring careful approach. Local powers have likely built around some without understanding their nature."
His awareness pushed further, crossing oceans of possibility. The Demon Realm held eighteen scars, clustered like infected wounds. Their songs were darker, angrier—these tears had been feeding on demonic energy for millennia, evolving into something more aggressive than their cousins.
"Demon Realm scars show adaptation," he noted. "They've learned to hunt. Fascinating."
The Spirit World's fifteen scars sang of death and transition. These wounds had integrated with the realm's nature, becoming part of the reincarnation cycle. Souls passing near them emerged... changed. Not corrupted exactly, but bearing tiny fragments of paradox that would manifest in their next lives.
"Unintentional soul modification. I've been creating paradox cultivators without knowing it." The thought amused him immensely.
But it was the major scars that truly caught his attention. Thirteen reality wounds so severe that space-time had formed scar tissue around them—entire regions where physics had given up and gone home.
The closest major scar pulsed 500 li to the north—roughly 250 kilometers of treacherous terrain, in what his borrowed memories identified as the Screaming Waste. Once fertile plains, now a deadland where even demonic cultivators feared to tread. Local legends spoke of the earth itself going mad.
"Not madness," Zǔ Zhòu murmured, studying the scar's resonance. "Temporal overflow. The past, present, and future exist simultaneously there. The screaming is just reality trying to process infinite contradictions."
Through the major scar, he could taste what it contained: complete temporal law fragments, not the partial pieces in minor wounds. A cultivator who successfully absorbed those laws wouldn't just manipulate time—they'd exist outside it.
"Worth the journey. But not yet."
He mapped the other major scars:
The Inverted City (Western Continent): Gravity laws reversedThe Nameless Deep (Eastern Ocean): Identity cessation pointThe Laughing Mountain (Southern Wastes): Emotional reality confluenceThe Void Garden (Northern Ice): Existence/non-existence boundaryThe Crimson Library (Central Desert): Knowledge that unmakes readersThe Spiral Tower (Demon Realm): Dimensional recursion pointThe Silent Market (Spirit World): Where death can be tradedThe Broken Bridge (Beast World): Causality loop structureThe Weeping Forest (Immortal Realm): Where joy becomes lethalThe Crystal Prison (Divine Realm): Frozen probability spaceThe Null Cathedral (Void Dimension): Anti-reality nexusThe First Wound (Primordial Chaos): Where he'd originally broken through
Each major scar was a catastrophe that had achieved stability, a disaster so complete it had become a permanent feature. And each one called to him, recognizing their creator despite his diminished state.
"Thirteen chances at apotheosis," he breathed. "Thirteen libraries of impossible knowledge."
But the mapping revealed something else—a pattern. The scars weren't randomly distributed. They formed a network, a constellation of wounds that created... something. The shape hurt to perceive, existing in more dimensions than mortal minds should process.
"It's a formation," he realized with growing delight. "I didn't just wound reality randomly. My subconscious created a galaxy-spanning array."
The formation's purpose remained unclear—his current cultivation couldn't process the full pattern. But he could see it was incomplete. The 112 scars were nodes in something grander, waiting for a final element to activate.
"My return," he whispered. "The formation is waiting for me to complete it."
His temporal anchor servant shifted nervously. The man had been standing guard, his partially fractured existence allowing him to remain stable within the scar's influence.
"Young Master? You've been meditating for six hours. But also ten minutes. Time is being difficult again."
Zǔ Zhòu opened his eyes, the mental map burning bright in his consciousness. "Time is always difficult. That's what makes it interesting."
He stood, joints popping as objective time reasserted itself. The complete mapping had given him more than just locations—it had shown him the optimal path. Which scars to visit in which order, how to extract maximum benefit while avoiding detection.
"The pilgrimage route," he explained to his servant, who nodded as if this made perfect sense. "Seventeen minor scars within a year's travel. Each containing different law fragments. Absorption in the correct sequence will create complementary comprehensions rather than conflicting ones."
He traced the route in the air with qi, creating a ghostly map:
Estate scar (current): Temporal accelerationWhispering Cave (30 li east): Sound-reality interface - half a day's walkThe Bent Tree (70 li southeast): Growth paradox - two days' journeyMerchant's Folly (150 li south): Value inversion point - four days by horseThe Dry Lake (200 li southwest): Absence manifestation - a week's travel
"The first five within a month's circuit," he explained. "The remaining twelve spread across the continent—the furthest nearly 3,000 li away. A year's journey accounting for cultivation time at each site."
"Five scars before reaching Qi Condensation peak," he calculated. "Each will accelerate cultivation while providing unique comprehensions. By the time I attempt the major scar, I'll have built resistance to paradox contamination."
The servant tilted his head—both left and right, though at different speeds. "Will you travel openly?"
"Hardly. Liu Wei needs to maintain his presence here. But cultivation retreats are common. Training journeys to 'find oneself.' The family will support it if I show sufficient progress."
He began planning the logistics. Each scar visit would be disguised as part of normal cultivation advancement. The Whispering Cave was near a famous herb market. The Bent Tree grew in a region known for body tempering. Plausible destinations for an ambitious young master.
"The true prize is the Screaming Waste," he continued. "But approaching a major scar at Body Tempering would be suicide. I need at least Core Formation to survive initial exposure, Nascent Soul to properly harvest."
The servant nodded with the wisdom of the temporally fractured. "Time is patient. We can afford to be."
"No," Zǔ Zhòu corrected. "Time is mine to spend. But you're right about patience. Sustainable evil requires proper foundation."
He spent another hour refining the pilgrimage plan, calculating optimal cultivation speeds and resource requirements. The map in his mind pulsed with possibility—112 chances to reclaim fragments of his former power, wrapped in wounds that reality couldn't heal.
"My past self was a better artist than I credited," he admitted. "This isn't just random destruction. It's a masterpiece of cosmic vandalism."
As they prepared to leave, the estate scar pulsed farewell. Or warning. With paradox entities, the distinction was largely academic.
"Continue your meditation schedule," he instructed his servant. "Three hours daily at optimal distance. Your temporal fracturing should stabilize into something useful within a month."
"Yes, Young Master. And if I accidentally age myself to death?"
"Then you'll make fascinating research notes for your replacement."
They ascended through twisted passages, returning to a manor that had no idea it housed a wound in reality's foundation. Above, dawn approached with tedious normalcy.
But Zǔ Zhòu now carried a map of impossibilities, a guide to reclaiming godhood one paradox at a time. The pilgrimage would take years, perhaps decades.
Time well spent breaking reality's rules.
In the cosmic machinery, alarms continued their futile warnings. But with 112 wounds to monitor and only one displaying activity, Heaven's attention remained diffused.
The infection spread one careful step at a time.