The chamber was still, the faint glow of a lantern stretching shadows across the wooden walls. Wen Liang gestured for Elder Zhao to sit. The elder lowered himself with slow dignity, every motion as deliberate as a mountain's shifting. Yet his eyes carried a sharp glint, as if trying to pierce through Wen Liang's calm exterior.
For several breaths, the elder simply watched. Then his brow furrowed.
"Strange…" Zhao murmured. "I sense only Qi Refining, Second Layer. Yet, to heal my niece as you did, to see through her inner blockages with mere words—such insight cannot belong to one so low. You must be concealing your true cultivation."
Wen Liang stilled, his heart skipping. Concealing? If only you knew I nearly blew myself up forcing qi last night… But outwardly, he let the silence linger, neither denying nor confirming.
Elder Zhao nodded to himself, clearly convinced. "As expected of an Immortal Master."
The old man's expression shifted, and a deep weariness entered his voice. "You must already know why I am here. I stand at the very limit of Foundation Establishment. Every meridian of mine has been tempered, my dantian firm as steel, my spirit refined until no more impurities remain. Yet the Golden Core eludes me. Ten years I have prepared, ten years I have failed."
He exhaled heavily, shoulders drooping ever so slightly under the weight of that confession.
Wen Liang stayed quiet, allowing him to continue.
"You must understand," Zhao said, voice low, "to step into Foundation Establishment is to lay a stable ground for one's Dao. To form the Golden Core, however, is to compress all of that Dao—qi, spirit, and will—into a single indestructible truth. Few in this world achieve it. It is the true threshold that separates the fleeting from the enduring. Those who fail, remain as they are until time wears them down. Those who succeed… step into longevity."
His eyes dimmed. "I have everything prepared—pills, treasures, secluded caves. Yet each time I attempt to condense the Core, my qi scatters like sand, and my will trembles. Again and again. I do not know why."
Wen Liang leaned forward slightly, his gaze steady.
"Tell me, Elder Zhao," he asked gently, "why do you seek the Golden Core?"
The elder blinked, caught off guard by the question. "Why? For my sect, of course. For my disciples. For the Zhao family name. If I do not reach the Core, then our line weakens. Rivals will strike. The next generation will suffer without my strength to shield them."
Wen Liang inclined his head. "And what of yourself? Where are you in that answer?"
Zhao's jaw tightened. His lips pressed into a thin line.
"You spoke of duty," Wen Liang continued softly. "But not once of your own heart. Tell me—do you truly desire the Core for yourself, or only because you fear what will happen without you?"
The elder's shoulders stiffened, his breath halting. For the first time, his mask slipped.
"I…" His voice wavered. "I once wished for it. To see the vastness of the Dao, to reach beyond the veil of mortality, to grasp the horizon others only dream of. But as years passed, disciples gathered beneath me. My family looked to me. My sect relied on me. That personal desire… faded. Duty swallowed it. Now I cannot tell if I chase the Core because I yearn for it, or because I fear what my absence would mean."
Wen Liang exhaled slowly. The picture was clear.
"To form a Golden Core," he said quietly, "is to take all that you are and compress it into one indestructible truth. Not obligation. Not fear. Not borrowed expectations. Your truth. If your heart is divided—half for others, half for yourself—then your Core will always scatter. You cannot forge permanence from fragments."
Elder Zhao trembled. His hands gripped his knees, knuckles pale. His composure cracked, and in his eyes flickered raw pain.
"So it is my heart that fails me…" he whispered.
"Not failure," Wen Liang corrected gently. "Only chains. You have carried others so long that you forgot your own Dao. That burden binds your spirit. To succeed, you must reclaim the seed of your own desire. Ask yourself: if no one relied on you, if no sect demanded your strength, if all burdens fell away—what truth remains? What do you, Zhao, seek?"
The elder's lips trembled, breath uneven. At last, a whisper escaped.
"If all else vanished… then I would still wish to see beyond. To grasp the Core, not for duty, but for myself. To prove that I am more than a shield for others."
Wen Liang's voice softened to almost a whisper. "Then that is the seed you must nurture. Not obligation. Not fear. A Core cannot be born from chains. It is born from the courage to claim your truth."
For a long time, Elder Zhao sat frozen, his eyes shining faintly with unshed tears. His stern façade cracked, the mask of duty falling away to reveal the man beneath—the man who had once dreamed of Dao for himself.
When he finally spoke, it was with a hoarse voice. "In all my years, no alchemist, no master, no elder ever spoke so. They gave me pills, formulas, guidance—but none asked of my heart."
He bowed deeply, his forehead nearly touching the floor. "Immortal Master Wen… I see now why you conceal your realm. A mere Qi Refining cultivator could never speak such truths. Surely you walk far beyond what you show."
Wen Liang's throat tightened, but he let the assumption stand.
Elder Zhao drew a pouch from his sleeve and set it reverently before him. "Ten mid-grade spirit stones. A humble offering for guidance that may yet decide the rest of my life. Whether I succeed or fail, I will not forget today."
Wen Liang accepted with a calm nod. "Payment received."
As Zhao left, the room felt emptier, but Wen Liang's heart raced. He leaned back, pressing a hand against his chest.
They think me far greater than I am. But if words alone can move cultivators at this level… perhaps my path in this world is not in sword or flame, but in voice.
The lantern flickered, and Wen Liang sat in silence, the weight of his growing reputation pressing down heavier than any qi.