Chapter 64
Pain arrived without warning.
Not sudden, not explosive—inevitable.
The moment the old man planted his staff into the stone, the training hall inverted. Platforms rotated, light draining from the air until the world dulled into shades of ash and shadow. The central formation did not flare this time.
It hollowed.
Shenping felt it immediately—something inside him was being removed.
He gasped and fell to one knee as sensation peeled away layer by layer. Sound dulled first, then color, then depth. His own body began to feel distant, like a memory recalled incorrectly.
The old man's voice cut through the distortion, sharp and absolute.
"Lesson two," he said. "Loss without drama."
Shenping tried to stand.
His legs failed.
Not from weakness.
From absence.
There was no strength to draw upon.
No pain to fight through.
No will to harden.
His cultivation—what little structure he had built since arriving in this era—was unraveling silently, thread by thread.
"You're stripping me," Shenping said, voice thin.
"Yes," the old man replied. "Because you keep reaching for what will betray you."
The hall fractured again.
Shenping found himself standing in a wide stone courtyard beneath a pale sky. Rows of figures stood before him—cultivators, soldiers, scholars, children. Their faces were familiar.
Too familiar.
Lin Yue.
Gu Tianxu.
Sang Sang.
Others he had lost.
Others he had not yet met.
They stood quietly, eyes fixed on him.
Shenping's breath caught. "This isn't real."
"No," the old man's voice echoed. "But your reaction is."
One by one, the figures stepped forward.
Lin Yue spoke first, arms crossed as always. "You always decide alone."
Gu Tianxu followed, voice calm but disappointed. "You never trust us with the cost."
Sang Sang stepped closer, her gaze unreadable. "You keep saving me so you don't have to choose."
Shenping shook his head violently. "Stop."
The figures did not raise their voices.
They didn't need to.
"You carry us," Lin Yue said. "But you don't let us carry you."
Shenping backed away. "This is manipulation."
"Yes," the old man agreed calmly. "So is leadership. So is sacrifice."
The courtyard darkened.
The figures began to fade.
Not vanish.
Erase.
Their outlines frayed, details dissolving into the pale sky.
Panic surged through Shenping's chest.
"No," he whispered. "Not like this."
He reached for them.
His hands passed through empty air.
The old man appeared beside him without sound. "You keep thinking pain is the price."
Shenping's voice broke. "Then what is?"
The old man looked at him sideways. "Witness."
The last of the figures vanished.
The courtyard collapsed.
Shenping fell again—this time into a narrow room with no walls, only edges. The floor beneath him was smooth, reflective, showing countless versions of himself staring back.
Some wore robes.
Some wore armor.
Some were bloodied.
Some were calm.
Some were dead.
"You see?" the old man's voice echoed. "Every path you survive creates another you that didn't."
Shenping looked down at his reflection.
It did not move when he did.
It smiled.
The reflection spoke.
"You're not special," it said. "You're just the one that kept going."
Shenping staggered back. "You're not me."
"No," the reflection agreed. "I'm what you leave behind."
The floor cracked.
Reflections shattered, fragments rising into the air like broken glass. Each shard showed a different ending—villages saved too late, friends dying because he hesitated, futures where he never returned.
Shenping screamed.
Not in rage.
In refusal.
"I won't accept this," he shouted.
The shards froze.
The old man stepped into view, standing amid the suspended fragments. "That," he said, "is exactly the problem."
He raised his staff and struck one shard.
It shattered completely.
The image within—Lin Yue dying in his arms—vanished without echo.
"Did you feel that?" the old man asked.
Shenping swallowed hard. "It's… gone."
"Yes," the old man said. "Not endured. Not processed. Gone."
He struck another shard.
Gu Tianxu's final stand dissolved into nothing.
Another strike.
Sang Sang screaming as a village burned—erased.
Shenping's knees buckled. "Stop."
The old man paused. "Why?"
"Because those memories matter," Shenping said hoarsely. "They define me."
The old man's gaze hardened. "They bind you."
He lowered the staff.
"You think remembering makes you strong," he continued. "But to things like the hunter, memory is a map."
Shenping's breath came fast. "So you want me empty."
"No," the old man said. "I want you untraceable."
The remaining shards trembled, then sank back into the floor, dissolving into dull stone.
The room brightened slightly.
Shenping stood alone again.
Different.
Something was missing.
He could feel it—not as a wound, but as a quiet gap where reflexive attachment used to live. The memories were still there, but muted, no longer screaming for response.
The old man watched him carefully. "Tell me what you feel."
Shenping closed his eyes.
"I remember," he said slowly. "But I don't… reach."
The old man nodded. "Good."
He turned away and walked toward the central formation, which now pulsed faintly again.
"This is the second foundation," he said. "Non-attachment without detachment."
Shenping frowned. "That sounds contradictory."
"It is," the old man replied. "Which is why it works."
He gestured sharply.
The hall shifted one final time.
Shenping found himself standing at the edge of a battlefield. Bodies lay scattered across the ground—cultivators and machines alike, frozen mid-destruction.
At the center stood the hunter.
Not fully revealed, but closer than ever.
Its presence pressed down, familiar and heavy.
It turned.
It sensed him.
Recognition flared.
Shenping waited.
No anger rose.
No fear.
No urge to act.
The hunter advanced one step.
Reality warped.
Shenping did nothing.
The pressure intensified, searching for response, for resistance, for meaning.
Shenping remained still.
The hunter paused.
For the first time—
It hesitated.
The old man's voice whispered from everywhere. "It cannot correct what does not assert itself."
The battlefield dissolved.
Shenping returned to the training hall, chest heaving but steady.
The old man studied him in silence for a long moment.
"You survived lesson two," he said finally. "Barely."
Shenping wiped sweat from his brow. "How many lessons are there?"
The old man's expression darkened.
"Enough to break you," he said. "If you insist on staying whole."
The air shifted.
Far beyond this hidden place, something moved again.
Closer.
More deliberate.
The old man looked toward the unseen distance and tightened his grip on the staff.
"Rest," he said curtly. "You'll need it."
Shenping nodded, lowering himself onto the stone platform once more.
As his eyes closed, one thought surfaced—quiet, dangerous, undeniable.
The hunter was learning.
And so was he.