Chapter 6 — Three Years Beneath Two Heavens
Time did not move in the sea of consciousness the way it did in the outside world.
There was no sun to rise.
No moon to fall.
No seasons to mark the passing of years.
There was only the endless expanse of violet and gold—two vast currents pressing against one another without merging, like rival heavens locked in silent contention.
And beneath that pressure—
A boy struggled to breathe.
At the beginning, Long Shen could not endure even a single heartbeat.
The moment Cheon Ma's demonic presence descended, it felt as though the sky itself had collapsed. Violet pressure crushed downward without warning, slamming into his soul with such force that his thoughts scattered before his body even had time to react.
Sometimes he screamed.
Sometimes the scream never reached his throat.
Sometimes he did not remember screaming at all.
He only remembered waking up.
Cold.
The obsidian ground beneath him hard against his cheek, his chest burning as though someone had poured fire into his lungs. His mind felt torn—memories jagged, thoughts slipping through his grasp like sand through broken fingers.
Above him, violet runes still hovered, slow and merciless.
"Again."
Cheon Ma's voice never rose.
Never softened.
The word fell like a sentence.
Long Shen pushed himself up on trembling arms. His vision swam. The world tilted. Pain bloomed behind his eyes, thick and nauseating.
He tried to sit.
His legs folded.
His body hit the ground again with a dull sound.
The pressure had not even fully descended yet.
"…Again."
So he tried again.
And again.
And again.
He broke more times than he could count.
Sometimes he fainted before the runes finished forming.
Sometimes the pain hit so suddenly that bile rose up his throat, and he retched onto the black stone, his body convulsing while his soul screamed without sound.
Sometimes he curled into himself, arms wrapped around his knees, shaking violently as names slipped from his lips—names that no longer had voices to answer them.
In those moments, the violet pressure did not recede.
It waited.
Xuan Kong never scolded him.
Never urged him forward.
He only stood nearby, golden light flowing quietly around his robes, and said a single word.
"Breathe."
So Long Shen learned to breathe.
At first, it was not cultivation.
It was survival.
He counted each inhale as though it were a lifeline thrown across an abyss. Each exhale felt like surrender—like letting go of something precious just to keep living one heartbeat longer.
His back ached constantly.
His legs shook even when he sat.
His mind screamed for rest.
But when he collapsed, and when he woke—
He stayed.
One session became ten.
Ten became dozens.
Dozens became hundreds.
He stopped counting after that.
The boy who once scattered the moment Cheon Ma's aura brushed against him began to last a little longer.
Then a little more.
The pain did not disappear.
It changed.
At first, it had been a wave—violent, overwhelming, drowning him instantly.
Now it became a weight.
A crushing, suffocating mass that pressed down relentlessly, grinding him into the ground inch by inch.
And slowly—
He learned to remain beneath it.
The First Year — Not Breaking
The first year was not about strength.
It was about not breaking.
There were days—if days could be measured here—when Long Shen failed before even sitting properly. His legs would buckle the instant the pressure touched him. His arms would give out, his forehead striking the obsidian ground as his soul scattered like shattered glass.
Cheon Ma watched without expression.
"This is all?" the Demon Emperor sneered one time. "This is the resolve you offered me?"
Long Shen could not answer.
He could barely think.
But the next time the pressure descended, he clenched his teeth harder.
When his thoughts began to scatter, he forced them together—not neatly, not calmly, but desperately, like clutching broken shards with bare hands.
Pain tore through him.
Blood seeped from the corner of his mouth.
But he did not faint.
Xuan Kong stood quietly at the edge of the domain.
Golden light brushed across Long Shen's trembling shoulders—not shielding him, not easing the pain, but steadying the space just enough that his mind did not collapse completely.
"Feel where it breaks," the abbot said gently.
"And breathe there."
Long Shen did not understand.
Not fully.
But he listened.
When the pressure hit, he stopped fighting it blindly. He focused—not on escaping, not on enduring—but on noticing.
Where the pain began.
Where his thoughts scattered.
Where fear surged strongest.
And slowly—
Very slowly—
He learned how not to shatter instantly.
By the end of the first year, Long Shen could sit beneath Cheon Ma's aura for several breaths before collapsing.
The change came without warning.
There was no announcement.
No explanation.
One moment, Long Shen was seated beneath the familiar crushing weight—heavy, suffocating, but predictable.
The next—
Something cut.
Not down.
Across.
A sharp, invisible line tore through the space around him, and Long Shen's breath shattered in his chest.
"—Agh!"
His body jerked violently to the side as if struck by an unseen blade. The pressure no longer pressed evenly—it bit. A thin, merciless force sliced through his awareness, splitting his focus cleanly in two.
Pain exploded.
Not the dull, overwhelming kind he had grown used to.
This was precise.
Targeted.
It felt as if hooks had sunk into his soul and were being pulled in opposite directions, stretching him until something inside screamed that it was about to tear.
His thoughts scattered instantly.
Not fading—ripping apart.
Images flashed over one another without order: blood on stone, violet light, golden calm, fire, screaming—
Long Shen pitched forward.
His palms slammed against the obsidian ground, fingers clawing desperately as if he could anchor himself against the tearing force. His mouth opened wide, chest convulsing—
—but no sound came out.
The scream existed only inside him, trapped, tearing through his skull.
The cutting pressure did not stop.
It slid.
Shifted.
Another line carved through him from a different angle.
His vision warped. The domain spun. His knees scraped across the ground as his body sagged, trembling violently.
Then—
"Control it."
Cheon Ma's voice cut through the chaos.
Cold.
Unmoved.
"If it scatters," the Demon Emperor continued flatly, "you deserve the pain."
Long Shen couldn't answer.
His breathing came in broken, useless gasps, each inhale scraping his lungs raw. Sweat poured off him, dripping onto the black ground in uneven splashes. His arms shook so badly he could barely keep himself from collapsing fully.
The invisible blades withdrew.
Not mercifully.
Simply… finished.
Long Shen slumped forward, forehead hovering inches above the ground as his entire body quivered. His mind felt shredded, like cloth torn along uneven seams.
For a moment, there was only ringing silence.
Xuan Kong did not speak.
Not yet.
The golden presence nearby remained steady—present, but distant—allowing the aftermath to settle, allowing Long Shen's scattered thoughts to fall where they would.
Only when Long Shen's breathing slowed—ragged, uneven, but no longer spiraling—
did the abbot speak.
"Before the storm," Xuan Kong said quietly, "quiet your heart."
The words did not command.
They invited.
Long Shen squeezed his eyes shut.
His mind was chaos.
Pain still throbbed in sharp aftershocks, flaring every time he tried to focus. His first instinct was to push it away—to flee inward, to brace for the next strike.
But he remembered.
He remembered what happened when he fought blindly.
So he did something different.
He stopped moving.
Not his body.
His thoughts.
He did not chase the pain.
Did not resist it.
He let it exist—sharp, hateful, merciless—while he focused on the one thing that remained steady.
His breath.
In.
Shallow. Unstable.
Out.
Trembling.
Again.
The world did not calm.
But he did.
Not fully.
Not cleanly.
But enough.
The next storm came without delay.
This time, the pressure did not slice immediately.
It hovered.
Poised.
Waiting.
Then—
It struck from three directions at once.
Long Shen's shoulders jerked as the invisible edges slammed into him, carving inward. His teeth snapped together, a sharp sound echoing through the domain.
His knees bent—
—but did not collapse.
His hands dug into the ground, fingers shaking violently as he forced his spine straight. His vision blurred, black creeping in at the edges, but he kept breathing.
The pressure twisted.
Shifted angle.
Cut again.
His thoughts wavered—
—but did not scatter completely.
Something held.
Thin.
Fragile.
But present.
At the edge of the domain, violet and gold stirred.
"You're dulling his edge," Cheon Ma growled, demonic intent surging slightly as he watched Long Shen tremble but remain upright.
Golden light responded—not aggressively, but firmly.
"You're sharpening it too early," Xuan Kong replied, calm as still water.
The two forces pressed against one another.
Not colliding.
Testing.
The air tightened.
Long Shen sat between them, sweat streaming down his face, every nerve screaming as the opposing pressures threatened to pull him apart. His jaw clenched so hard it ached, but he did not fall.
Another cut came.
Then another.
Each one hurt.
Each one demanded response.
And slowly—
Very slowly—
Long Shen began to anticipate.
Not consciously.
Instinctively.
He felt where the pressure gathered before it struck. He sensed the direction of the blade a heartbeat before it cut. His thoughts pulled inward automatically, tightening, gathering, bracing.
Not blocking.
Receiving.
By the time the storm receded, his body was shaking uncontrollably.
But he was still standing.
Days—if they could be called that—passed like this.
Failures still came.
Pain still won.
But something had changed.
One session, Long Shen remained seated beneath the cutting pressure without screaming.
Another time, he rose to his feet and stayed there for three full breaths.
Then four.
Then five.
The domain no longer felt endless.
It had shape now.
Edges.
Distances.
He could feel where the pressure originated.
And—just as importantly—
Where it did not.
He sat in that space one time, chest heaving softly, sweat dripping from his chin, and realized—
He was no longer being torn apart immediately.
The blades still cut.
But they no longer decided everything.
Long Shen understood.
This was no longer about endurance.
This was about control.
The third year began without pain.
That was how Long Shen knew something was wrong.
The crushing pressure that had become his constant companion did not descend immediately. The cutting edges that had learned the contours of his soul did not arrive either. The domain lay still—unnaturally so—its violet light subdued, its runes dormant, as if the space itself were holding its breath.
Cheon Ma circled him slowly.
Each step echoed faintly across the obsidian ground, measured and deliberate. The Demon Emperor's presence was no longer a storm raging unchecked—it was a blade resting in its sheath, quiet and lethal.
Long Shen remained standing at the center of the domain.
His back was straight.
Not rigid.
Balanced.
His breathing was slow, controlled, each inhale deliberate, each exhale released with care. Sweat still clung to his skin, darkening the fabric at his collar and spine, but his hands—though tense—no longer trembled uncontrollably.
Cheon Ma stopped.
"You are no longer mud," the Demon Emperor said, his voice low and even. "Mud yields. Mud deforms. Mud breaks without protest."
He turned his head slightly, crimson eyes pinning Long Shen in place.
"You are metal now."
The air tightened.
"Unforged," Cheon Ma continued. "Undecided."
His gaze sharpened.
"And therefore dangerous."
The domain responded.
Not with noise.
Not with violence.
The light dimmed.
Violet hues deepened, saturating the space until shadows stretched unnaturally long. The air thickened—not with pressure, but with intent. It crawled across Long Shen's skin, slid down his spine, whispered against his instincts.
Death.
Not promised.
Considered.
Killing intent.
Not unleashed.
Measured.
Long Shen's breath hitched.
His body reacted before thought could intervene.
His knees bent sharply, muscles screaming as a primal urge surged through him—kneel. Submit. Survive.
His vision blurred.
The ground felt suddenly distant.
For a heartbeat—
He almost yielded.
Then he remembered.
Not words.
Not lessons.
A sensation.
The countless times he had fallen.
The countless times he had risen again.
The image of his grandfather's back—straight beneath impossible weight.
Long Shen exhaled.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
His knees stopped bending.
They shook—violently—but they held.
Sweat poured down his face, dripping from his jaw, soaking into the fabric of his robes. His teeth clenched, jaw tight enough to ache, but he did not kneel.
The killing intent pressed closer.
Not heavier.
Sharper.
Testing.
Inside him, something did not give.
It did not flare.
Did not rage.
It anchored.
Not fear.
Not anger.
Will.
At the edge of the domain, golden light flickered softly.
Xuan Kong watched in silence, hands folded within his sleeves, eyes calm. He did not intervene. He did not shield. He simply observed—as one might watch a blade being tempered in flame.
The killing intent receded.
Not withdrawn.
Satisfied.
Cheon Ma studied Long Shen for a long moment.
"…Hmph."
The sound was quiet.
Approving.
That was the year Cheon Ma stopped teaching endurance.
And began teaching shape.
There was still no weapon.
No blade.
No technique inscribed in glowing script.
Only space.
Cheon Ma would stand at the far edge of the domain, violet light coiled loosely around him, and say a single word.
"Show me."
Long Shen would close his eyes.
He did not draw upon power.
He did not gather energy.
He gathered himself.
Every thought narrowed. Every distraction was discarded. The noise of pain, memory, fear—pushed aside not by force, but by focus.
His breathing slowed.
His mind sharpened.
And then—
He thrust forward.
Not with his body.
Not with his hands.
With intent.
Most of the time, nothing happened.
The domain remained unchanged. The air unmoved.
Cheon Ma would snort in disdain.
"Again."
Long Shen would breathe.
Focus.
Try again.
Sometimes, the space around him trembled—just slightly, like air disturbed by heat. Once, a ripple spread outward from where his intent struck, warping the light for a fraction of a second before fading.
Failure followed failure.
But each attempt left something behind.
A clearer boundary.
A firmer center.
Then—
It happened.
Long Shen focused.
Not harder.
Cleaner.
He thrust forward.
And the air parted.
Not violently.
Not explosively.
A thin line appeared in the domain.
So fine it was almost invisible.
A pale scratch drawn straight through the violet light—as if reality itself had been grazed by something sharp enough to leave a mark.
The domain froze.
Even the runes stilled.
Cheon Ma stared.
Seconds passed.
Then more.
The Demon Emperor did not speak.
He simply looked at the line—at the proof that something without form had learned how to cut.
Then he laughed.
Low.
Rough.
Not mocking.
Not gentle.
Satisfied.
"…Good," he said at last.
The third year ended quietly.
There was no announcement.
No ceremony.
But the change was unmistakable.
Long Shen could stand beneath Cheon Ma's aura without collapsing.
He could walk through the domain while runes rotated and killing intent brushed against his skin.
He could hold his thoughts together when pain arrived—sharp or blunt—without scattering at first impact.
Inside him, something had formed.
Not a core.
Not power.
An axis.
A stable center around which everything else could align.
The sea of consciousness remained unchanged.
Violet and gold still pressed against one another.
The domain still existed.
The pressure never left.
But Long Shen no longer drowned.
One day, Cheon Ma stood before him again.
"Draw your breath."
Long Shen inhaled.
Steady.
"Stand straight."
He did.
Unwavering.
"Look at me."
Their gazes met.
"For three years," Cheon Ma said, "you have learned how not to die."
He turned away, violet robes stirring faintly.
"That is the minimum requirement to walk my path."
He glanced back over his shoulder.
"From today onward, we stop preparing the metal."
Crimson eyes sharpened.
"And start forging the blade."
At the edge of the domain, Xuan Kong closed his eyes.
A faint smile touched his lips.
And in the endless sea of consciousness—
A boy who had been broken, pressed, cut, and reshaped stood a little straighter.
Not strong yet.
Not complete.
But ready—
At last—
To truly begin.
Outside the Sea of Consciousness
The cave was silent.
Not the fragile silence of peace—but the careful, restrained quiet of a place where life was being rebuilt piece by piece.
Golden light pulsed steadily at the center of the chamber.
Long Shen lay upon the stone platform, his chest rising and falling in slow, even rhythm. The violent cracks that had once marred his body were gone. His skin was pale but intact, unmarred by fissures or bleeding veins. Bandages lay discarded nearby, soaked through from earlier days, now unnecessary.
The Divine Doctor stood beside him.
One hand hovered just above Long Shen's chest, fingers spread slightly as threads of refined spiritual sense slipped into the boy's body. His brows were drawn together—not in worry, but in concentration—as his awareness traced repaired meridians, reinforced bone channels, and newly stabilized pathways.
The flow was smooth.
Too smooth.
The Divine Doctor's fingers stilled.
Slowly, he withdrew his hand.
His eyes opened.
For a brief moment, surprise flickered across his face.
He looked down at Long Shen again.
The boy's meridians were no longer merely mended—they were settled. Spiritual pathways that should still have been fragile pulsed with quiet resilience. The repaired bones carried strength far beyond what freshly healed flesh should allow.
The Divine Doctor exhaled softly.
"…Faster than expected," he murmured.
He reached out once more, pressing two fingers lightly against Long Shen's wrist.
The pulse beneath his touch was steady.
Strong.
Too strong—for someone who should still be lingering on the edge of recovery.
A faint smile curved the Divine Doctor's lips.
At that moment—
Footsteps echoed from the cave entrance.
Soft.
Unhurried.
The Divine Doctor straightened as a familiar figure stepped through the veil of talismans.
The Thief King entered without ceremony.
Dust clung to his robes. His cloak was folded loosely around his shoulders, travel-worn and faintly torn at the hem. His eyes swept the cave in a single glance before settling on the stone platform.
He stopped.
"How is he?" the Thief King asked.
No greeting.
No pretense.
The Divine Doctor smiled faintly.
"You have good timing," he replied, turning fully toward him. "Come. See for yourself."
The Thief King approached the platform, gaze fixed on Long Shen. He did not touch him—only observed. The boy's breathing. His posture. The subtle rise and fall of life returning where it had once nearly vanished.
"He looks…" The Thief King paused. "…too stable."
The Divine Doctor nodded.
"His bones are fully repaired. His organs have recovered without complication. The meridians—" He gestured lightly. "—not only healed, but reinforced."
The Thief King's eyes narrowed slightly.
"That fast?"
"I thought it would take at least another half year for his body to settle," the Divine Doctor admitted. "But his recovery accelerated on its own."
He glanced back at Long Shen, thoughtful.
"As if something inside him is pulling the body forward."
The Thief King did not respond immediately.
His gaze lingered on Long Shen's face.
Quiet.
Unmoving.
But no longer fragile.
After a moment, he straightened.
"So," he said casually, "he could wake up any time."
The Divine Doctor nodded.
"Yes."
Then, as if remembering something, he turned back to the Thief King.
"You were gone longer than expected," he said lightly. "I assume you didn't simply wander for leisure."
The Thief King's posture stiffened.
Just slightly.
The humor drained from his expression.
The easy confidence he usually wore like a cloak faded, replaced by something colder. Sharper.
He turned away from the platform, walking a few steps before stopping near the cave wall.
The shadows swallowed half his face.
"…I didn't," he said.
The Divine Doctor watched him closely now.
The Thief King did not look back.
"What I found," he continued, voice low, "wasn't coincidence."
Silence settled heavily between them.
Outside the cave, a distant roar echoed through Demonic Beasts Valley—long, deep, and hungry.
The talismans at the entrance fluttered faintly.
The Divine Doctor's eyes darkened.
"…I see," he said quietly.
The Thief King finally turned.
"There are movements," he said. "Old ones. The kind that don't happen unless someone is looking for something."
His gaze slid back to Long Shen.
"Or someone."
The cave fell silent again.
This time—
It felt like the pause before a storm.
To Be Continued…....