The sect gates stood open.
Zhao Wen slowed unconsciously as he approached them, his steps hesitant despite the wide stone path beneath his feet. The gates were immense—taller than any structure he had seen in his life—yet there was no sense of oppression. No guards. No inscriptions glowing with power. They were simply there, ancient and quiet, as if they had been waiting for him long before he knew to arrive.
Beyond them, clouds drifted low, curling around the mountain peaks like slow-moving tides. Above, the night sky was startlingly clear. Stars shone with a sharpness he had never seen on Earth, as though distance itself had thinned.
He stepped through.
The moment his foot crossed the threshold, the air changed. It was similar to what he had felt on the mountain that day—cool, clean, faintly invigorating—but without the pressure, without the strange discomfort that had followed him there. His breathing settled naturally, deeper than usual, unforced.
Zhao Wen glanced back once. The gates were still behind him, unchanged.
Ahead, a long stone road stretched inward, winding gently through the mountain. Pavilions rose on either side at irregular intervals, their outlines softened by drifting mist. Narrow streams ran beside the path, water flowing soundlessly, reflecting starlight like scattered fragments of glass.
There was no one.
The silence was complete, yet not empty. It felt deliberate, as though sound itself had been set aside.
He walked until he reached the nearest pavilion. It was open on all sides, supported by smooth stone pillars. Inside stood a simple stone table and several stools, their surfaces polished by time rather than use. A shallow basin rested near the edge, filled with clear water that did not ripple despite the breeze.
Zhao Wen stood there, unsure. He did not know whether to sit, wait, or leave. The token lay warm against his chest, unmoving.
Then the air shifted.
He looked up just in time to see someone descending from above.
The man's robes stirred slightly as he landed, feet touching the stone without sound. Qing Shi stood before him, his expression calm, as though Zhao Wen's arrival had never been in doubt.
"You have come," Qing Shi said.
Zhao Wen nodded, his throat tight. "I… yes."
"Are you ready?"
Ready for what, he did not know. Still, he answered honestly. "I think so."
Qing Shi turned and began walking, not waiting to see if Zhao Wen followed. Zhao Wen hurried after him, his steps quickening as the path curved deeper into the sect.
They passed more pavilions—some large, some barely more than shelters—along with terraces overlooking sheer drops into cloud-filled depths. From certain angles, the clouds parted just enough to reveal distant peaks beneath them, floating like islands.
"This place…" Zhao Wen began, then stopped, unsure how to continue.
Qing Shi did not prompt him.
At last, they reached a small courtyard set slightly apart from the others. It was modest, enclosed by low stone walls, open to the sky above. A stone bed rested against one side, a water basin against another. Nothing was excessive, yet nothing was missing.
"This will be where you stay," Qing Shi said.
Zhao Wen stepped inside. The space felt complete, as though it had been shaped for occupancy rather than decoration.
Qing Shi spoke again. "The energy you feel here is called spiritual energy. It is not imagination, nor is it air. It is the vitality cultivators draw upon. You will not attempt to use it yet."
Zhao Wen listened carefully, committing each word to memory.
"For the next three days," Qing Shi continued, "you will not cultivate. You will not attempt to sit in stillness, control your breathing, or guide anything within your body."
Zhao Wen blinked. "Then… what should I do?"
"Observe," Qing Shi replied. "Walk. Rest. Look. Let your body become familiar with this place."
With that, he turned and stepped away, rising into the air and vanishing beyond the courtyard wall without sound.
Zhao Wen was alone again.
He wandered the nearby paths, careful not to stray too far. The sect seemed endless, yet never confusing. Wherever he went, he could still see the sky. Stars hung overhead, unbroken by city lights or haze. Time felt different here—slower, stretched thin.
Eventually, he returned to the courtyard and lay down on the stone bed. It was cool, but not uncomfortable. As he stared upward, watching clouds drift past the stars, a single realization settled quietly into his mind.
This was not a dream.
Above him, Heaven of Resting Peaks remained silent—unchanging, patient, and vast.
End of Chapter 41