Chương 102: Book 2 Chapter 16: Impossible

A divine treasure had no equal in the world, save for another divine treasure. This was common knowledge. Yet for the average cultivator, whose understanding of such things was shaped more by legend than lived experience, it was less a proven truth and more a kind of inherited certainty, passed down through generations. It was true, of that there was no doubt, but why?

First and foremost, every divine treasure, regardless of its form, whether shen or gui, was no more than the merest sliver, the faintest shadow, the smallest fragment of a deity's natal artifact. Even such a fragment was enough, though, to grant boundless power. Yet a divine treasure was not considered divine merely because of its origin, but because of what it could accomplish in mortal, or more accurately, immortal hands. A divine treasure required no effort to wield.

It demanded no qi, imposed no conditions, and exacted no price, save in the rarest of circumstances. It was akin to stumbling upon the greatest treasure in existence by the roadside, and being able to claim it, keep it, and spend it as one pleased, without lien, debt, or fear. After all, divine treasures had been created for mortal use. The deities who cast them off had intended them to be simple, effortless, and absolute.

There were stories of newly ascended immortals who, upon discovering a shen within their soul, suppressed even Realm-Hopping Immortals without difficulty. Others spoke of bloody wars waged over the mere rumor of a single gui, drawing in immortals from not one world but many. It was even said that, should an immortal master a divine treasure to a certain extent, they could use it to cross worlds, albeit slowly, and without direction, unlike the rare treasures crafted specifically for travel.

One old and cherished tale from Tianxia told of the Immortal of Wisdom, wielder of the Ruyi Lotus Scepter. He had descended from his palace on the moon to intervene in a war between immortals that had spiraled beyond control, threatening to drown an entire continent in blood. He stood alone before two vast armies, led by scores of immortals, and refused to move until they heard him out. Whether from fury or desperation, both sides unleashed their full strength against him. The land quaked. The heavens split.

The world trembled beneath the force of their assault, until at last they exhausted themselves. Yet the Immortal of Wisdom did not raise a hand. He stood untouched within a radiant lotus of light, a defense no force short of another divine treasure could breach. Faced with such an existence, the armies laid down their arms and reached a peaceful accord. The tale itself had been lost in the Shattering, but fragments endured in half-remembered lore.

It was that kind of power Mo Jian intended to summon to resolve the crisis at the Kanchi Jade Mine. Of course, not being an immortal, his options were limited. Conventional wisdom held that a gui was useless below the immortal realm. A shen did not even warrant consideration; it simply never appeared in mortal hands. A gui could, in theory, but even then, what of it? To a cultivator who had yet to reach immortality, it was no more than a fancy paperweight. Except that wasn't entirely true.

It wasn't a rule set in stone. In the story Mo Jian had read long ago, in his previous life, there had been one exception. A cultivator had obtained a gui – the Peach Blossom Bow – and managed to use it in a way that defied expectation. It had not been a major moment in the narrative. Ye Chen had noted it in passing, remarking on its peculiarity and briefly wondering how it had been possible, but nothing more. Now, however, that moment was something Mo Jian could use.

What made a divine treasure function, and what imbued it with limitless qi, was something known as Immortal Breath. It was, in essence, an immortal's qi transformed into xian, a higher state of existence that could be infused into artifacts, particularly their natal ones. The critical point was this: that transformation resulted in effectively infinite qi. Once comprehension was achieved, energy ceased to be the limiting factor. Thus, even the natal artifact of a newly ascended immortal contained Immortal Breath.

The same held true for divine treasures, though both many times removed, and on a far greater scale. In the book, the Nascent Soul cultivator who had obtained the Peach Blossom Bow – Lu Anchen – had used it as a font of endless qi. He had not damaged it, nor extracted anything from it in the literal sense, both of those being beyond his ability to do. Rather, he had induced it to release its Immortal Breath, flooding his surroundings with xian. The result had been extraordinary.

The Great Upper Forest, where he resided, was transformed into an endless sea of peach trees, all in full bloom. A floral mist blanketed the land, saturating it with vitality. It had not saved him when an immortal eventually arrived, but it had been a memorable scene. And now, Mo Jian intended to recreate it. He had the necessary pieces, at least on paper. A gui: the South-Pointing Chariot. Though aligned with navigation, there was no reason to assume its xian would adversely affect a jade mine.

A location: barren, stripped to its bones, and almost devoid of qi. An influx of Immortal Breath – of xian – might transform it, restoring what had once made it valuable. And lastly, he had knowledge: imperfect and secondhand, but knowledge nonetheless. Simple, in theory. In practice, Mo Jian sat cross-legged at the bottom of the mine, in the deepest shaft he could reach, and wondered if his confidence had been misplaced.

He had already declared success before so many people: his new employees, the well-wishers who had come to visit him in the days following his advancement to the Nascent Soul realm, Bai Ning, and perhaps most importantly, people like Su Lianhua and Lu Shan, whose lives were tied, deeply and inextricably, to the mine. What would they think if he failed? He pushed the thought aside with effort, forcing his mind toward success; toward the quiet awe, the relief, and the vindication that it would bring.

You are a Nascent Soul elder now, he scolded himself. Act like it. The thought brought little comfort. Part of the problem was that he didn't feel like a Nascent Soul cultivator. Yes, his qi had grown by orders of magnitude. Yes, his cultivation now progressed on its own, which was convenient in the same way breathing was convenient, noticeable mostly when one thought about it too much. But beyond that… what, exactly, had changed?

He did not feel particularly wise, or powerful, or as though he had grasped some deeper truth of existence. Hells, he had not even reforged his body yet, something every Nascent Soul cultivator was granted the chance to do once upon advancing. He suspected it would only happen after his Nascent Soul fully merged with his soul. Until then, he remained in an awkward in-between, having stepped into a higher realm, yet not truly inhabiting it. Mo Jian exhaled slowly, then paused.

On the other hand, when he thought of the Nascent Soul elders he had actually met, his lips twisted slightly. Perhaps it was for the best that the process was slow. Better this, than a sudden swelling of ego. Best he remain grounded. If he turned out like Ancestor Qing… or Wei Shentong… Mo Jian suppressed the thought with a visible shudder, as though even entertaining it might invite something foul into his heart. Alright, enough stalling, he declared in his mind. Time to begin.

He straightened slightly where he sat, adjusting his posture with deliberate care. The mine around him was silent and oppressive. The deeper shafts had long since been abandoned, stripped of qi and left barren, the stone walls dull and lifeless. A fitting stage, he supposed. If this worked, it would not remain so for long. If it didn't… Mo Jian exhaled slowly through his nose. With a small, almost ceremonial motion, he raised his hand. The gui responded.

It floated out of his storage pouch, as small and silent as the first time he had beheld it: a little chariot barely large enough to fit in his palm, made of something that looked like bronze or brass. A tiny figure stood atop it, a cultivator fashioned from the same metal, one arm outstretched, finger pointing straight ahead. In appearance, it could very easily be mistaken for an actual south pointing compass of the sort that sailors and navigators used.

It did not even have any sort of presence or aura to refute that. It felt, at least to him, no different from an ordinary rock on the roadside. In a way, that was far more disturbing that it having some strange grandeur. This deep in the mine, it was almost completely dark. Mo Jian did not need any light to see, so he had not called up a qi light. Thus, the South Pointing Chariot was dim and dark instead of twinkling with light, the figure pointing its finger straight at his face.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. He had gone over the account of Lu Anchen twice in his memory before descending into the mine. He had turned it over in his mind for days, testing the logic of it, searching for the flaw, the gap, the detail he had misremembered or misunderstood. There had been nothing. His memory of it was clear, if brief: Lu Anchen had not attempted to use the Peach Blossom Bow as a weapon.

He had simply allowed it to exist, in his hands, at his direction, and it had breathed. The Immortal Breath within the artifact had done the rest. Mo Jian took a slow breath and steadied himself. The stone around him was cold and close, the corrupted spirit dust that had once choked the deeper shafts mostly cleared away now by the days of preparation work. The air was stale and thin with qi.

He had chosen this shaft precisely because it sat at the intersection of the greatest number of exhausted veins, the epicenter of ruin, so to speak. If the xian spread from here, it would have the farthest reach. He extended his palm upward, and held it still beneath the gui. The South Pointing Chariot hovered. Its figure pointed. Mo Jian exhaled, softly, and asked it to breathe. There was no technique for this.

He knew no incantation or refined application of qi that could work here; he had nothing to go on but the memory of what he had read, and the conviction – fragile, if he was honest – that what had worked for a fictional cultivator in a novel about someone else's life might work for him now, in a collapsing mine, in the dark, with people depending on the outcome. He sat with that conviction, and waited. The gui did nothing. He waited longer. Sweat gathered at his temple, which struck him as embarrassing.

He was not exerting himself. He had not done anything worth sweating over. He was simply sitting in a mine, attempting to coax a divine treasure into exhaling, and the divine treasure was, in its implacable and ancient way, entirely indifferent. Mo Jian breathed again, slower. He released the last of the bracing tension across his shoulders, the coiled readiness he had not even noticed was there. He let his grip on the outcome go, or tried to. Maybe that was the difficulty. He wanted this.

The wanting itself was a kind of force, and force was the wrong approach. He turned his attention away from the gui. Not away from what he was doing, that he held steadily in mind – the intention of it, the direction – but away from the wanting. He thought instead of the workers above him, the ones who had come back despite every reason not to.

He thought of Su Lianhua, standing at the summit of the mountain and asking him directly, in front of everyone, if it could be done, so that his answer might give them something to hold. He thought of Lu Shan growing into his oversized clothes, and of the other mortal families at the mountain's base with their washing pools and their long-stilled hands. He felt it before he understood what it was: a loosening. Something releasing.

Something vast, older than the mountain and older than jade, exhaling for the first time in a very long time. The Immortal Breath came out as warmth. That was the only word for it. A warmth without temperature, light, or sound. It moved like water through stone; finding every available path and filling it. It passed through his palm without asking. It spread through the air and then through the bedrock in silence, and then, slowly, through the whole mountain.

Mo Jian sat motionless in its wake, and felt the mountain begin to change. The stone groaned. It was a deep, structural sound, and he felt in the chest before he heard it in his ears. It came from everywhere at once: from the floor beneath him, from the walls pressing close, from far above where the mountain met the sky. Mo Jian rose instinctively to his feet. The first crack appeared in the wall to his left. It was a clean, vertical fracture, running from the floor upward with unhurried certainty.

He watched it spread, following the old vein lines, the long-dead channels that had once carried jade through this rock and left only their memory behind. The crack widened. Within it, something began to surface: green. Deep, dense, saturated green, the color of still water over dark moss, the color of the best jade he had ever seen. The second crack opened on his right. A third split the floor between his feet, running south.

A fourth appeared somewhere above him, out of sight in the shaft above, and then a fifth, and he lost count. The groaning rose and fell and rose again, a sound like the mountain clearing its throat, like the earth turning over in its sleep. The cracks raced outward from him in all directions, following the old vein maps as though they remembered the way, filling in as they spread with that same dense, saturated green. Then the mountain began to push it out. Jade came through the stone like water through old wood.

Veins thickened and surfaced, running down the walls in long, curving lines. Clusters pushed through the ceiling of the shaft in smooth rounded masses, their surfaces already polished by whatever pressure had shaped them. The floor crept upward beneath his feet as jade forced itself through the stone below. Every old exhausted channel was filling. Every stripped and hollow vein was finding its shape again. The fractal patterns appeared last.

He saw them first at the floor cracks: compass-rose arrangements, identical at every scale, repeating inward and outward simultaneously, as though the jade could not help but remember what had breathed it into being. Everything pointed south. The mountain had made up its mind. Mo Jian stood in the center of it all and felt the warmth continue past him, moving outward and upward through the rock, carrying the xian into veins he couldn't see, toward the surface and beyond.

He could feel it spreading through the mountain the way a held breath finally lets go. Above him, somewhere near the summit, through hundreds of meters of stone and earth, something cracked. Through that came the sound of people. ……………………………………………………………… The noise was heard at the summit first. Su Lianhua was at the overseer's residence when the mountain began to move.

Not violently; there was no lurching or falling of stone, and thus, no cause for immediate alarm, but with a deep, subsonic shudder that moved through the soles of her feet, intimate and enormous at once. She grabbed the doorframe. Around her, the tools hanging on the wall swayed and settled. Then came the sound from beneath the ground, that great, structural groan, and with it a crack from somewhere down the east slope, sharp as a split branch, then another from below, and another.

She was already outside and moving when the first peak broke through. It erupted from the mountainside fifty meters below the summit, a slow, inexorable emergence, jade shouldering through granite as though the stone were soft clay. The peak was enormous, taller than a man, broader than two with arms extended, and behind it came another, and another, rising in a jagged line down the slope. The noise was not the shattering crash she expected. It was a low, grinding, continuous emergence, stabbing at her ears.

She stood with her hands pressed together over her mouth and did not move. He Jianyu arrived in a streak of flying light from the direction of the lower shafts, his usually composed expression entirely abandoned. There was something streaked across his cheek, either dust or stone powder, and his eyes were very wide. He stopped beside her and looked at the emerging peaks in silence.

"Is that-" he began.

"Yes," she said, briefly forgetting he was a Core Formation cultivator. A moment passed.

"Is this Senior Mo – should we-" He tried again.

"I don't know," she said honestly, and found she meant it. Below, on the lower slopes, she could hear the workers begin to scream. ………………………………………………….. Zhao Wenhai had been conducting his rounds (it wasn't night, so there was no need, but who was going to stop him?) when the floor of Shaft Seven shifted under his feet. He went down on one knee by reflex, one hand against the tunnel wall, and felt the mountain's groan pass through his palm and up his arm.

In the years he'd spent in mines – more than he usually admitted to, and in worse conditions than he preferred to recall – he had learned to distinguish the quality of rock-sound. The sound of imminent collapse was tight, irregular, and generally shot through with small pops of failure. It usually heralded him summoning a qi barrier and fleeing at top speed. What he felt now was none of those things. He held very still and waited, and the jade found the wall beside him.

It pushed through at the level of his shoulder, a smooth mass of dark green, and kept coming. Zhao Wenhai watched it emerge. He looked down at the faint hairline fractures spreading from it across the tunnel floor, each one filling in behind the crack with the same deep green as it spread, and he felt something blossom in his chest. He leaned back on his heels and laughed.

It came out louder than he intended, and somewhat less dignified than was appropriate for a Core Formation cultivator conducting professional activities. He did not especially care. He pressed his back to the wall opposite the emerging vein, slid down it until he was sitting on the floor of the tunnel with his knees up, and laughed until the sound of it bounced strangely off the jade pushing slowly through the walls around him. ……………………………………………………….

The first screaming reached Su Lianhua from down the slope, and it took her three full seconds to understand that it was not screaming from fear. She had sent runners down at the first sign of activity, but sound traveled faster than feet on a mountainside (she should have sent someone who had a flying tool, but she hadn't thought of it in that instant).

By the time the workers nearest the main shaft entrance understood what was happening, when the fractures spread to the entrance itself and jade began pushing through the stone above the frame, gleaming and enormous and without any apology, there was no quiet response to be had. Several of them ran. Several ran toward the emerging jade rather than away from it. More than one fell to their knees. She could not hear the words from this distance, only the sound: part joy and part disbelief, coming from the workers.

The mortal families at the foot of the mountain heard it next. They went quiet. Several stood and watched, even as the ground heaved beneath them, eyes fixed on the new peaks rising from the mountainside, the lines of green splitting the grey stone, the workers above pointing and shouting. Some wept openly. A woman stood with her daughter and watched in silence. Her daughter, fourteen, old enough to understand what a failed mine meant for the families who lived by its work, grabbed her sleeve and pointed.

The woman covered her daughter's hand with her own and said nothing. The mortal families looked up at the mountain that had taken much from them, and watched it give something back. ……………………………………………………………… By the time Mo Jian emerged from the depths, climbing out of the deep shaft with stone dust on his robes – a hasty spell took care of that – jade was pressing up through the floor behind every step he took. The mountain around him was transformed.

Veins ran from ceiling to floor along the major shafts, dense and dark-green and alive with qi. New clusters had broken through the outer faces. The fractal patterns were everywhere, on every surface, at every scale, compass roses pointing south. He emerged into cold mountain air and found every worker on the slope standing still and looking at him. He immediately wrapped a sphere of qi around himself, took to the air, and flew to the summit. If anyone asked, no, he was not fleeing. Bai Ning was waiting.

She looked at him for a long moment, then at the mountain around them both; the peaks, the veins, the green running through the grey in every direction.

"Well," she said, as though it were a complete sentence.

"Well," Mo Jian agreed. Time to get back to work. Now that there was actually work to be done.