Dao of the World Walker (Xianxia) Book 2

Yang jolted awake.

His eyes snapped open, and the first thing he felt was disorientation.

His body was wrong. The proportions were off and the weight distribution unfamiliar. He sucked in a breath, and the air filling his lungs felt different than it should. He tried to move, and his limbs responded too quickly, without any delay at all. The wrongness deepened because, for as long as he could remember, there had always been a lag, a small gap between intention and movement that had become his normal.

He scrambled backward off the platform before he had decided to move, his body reacting to the disorientation with a reflex he had not used in almost seventeen years, and his back hit the wall, and he pressed against it and looked around with his heart beating fast.

Stone walls. Fireless lamps lit on the walls. Rough ceiling close overhead.

His first thought was another world, another body, another transfer and then recognition arrived, the walls carved in the mountain. The books on the shelf, their spines facing outward in the order he had placed them. The Heaven-Refining Soul Sutra beside the platform where his hand had set it before sitting down years ago. The incense stick in its holder, its thin thread of smoke rising straight up in the still air.

His cave residence. White Cloud Sect.

He let out a deep sigh of relief.

He was home.

The realisation arrived, and then without any conscious effort on his part, the wrongness began to resolve. The shock of it fading into a recognition that this was correct, and what had come before was the aberration.

He looked at his hands and they were his hands, his proportions, his calluses, the small scar on his left index finger from a careless moment with a stone knife when he was nine years old. He flexed them and they moved with an immediacy that still felt startling after almost seventeen years of Lucien’s mortal delay, yet reliving like muscles cramped for too long finally relaxing. It was like he had been wearing tight, ill-fitting clothes for seventeen years and had forgotten what it felt like when clothes fit and allowed full range of movement.

He stood carefully and his body moved with a sureness that Lucien’s frame had never had.

The beast core transformations and the months of cultivation work were all still there in his flesh, the accumulated strength of a body that had been reforged, and after Lucien’s ordinary mortal limits, this felt almost excessive. His legs held him without any effort. His balance found itself without any searching.

He stood still for a moment and let himself simply be in his own body.

Then suddenly he looked around the cave to work out how much time had passed.

The incense tip was barely gone, only the very end consumed. He crossed to the small table beside the entrance, where he had left food and water before sitting down. The bun was exactly as he had left it, cold but still fresh. He leaned down and examined the water in the pitcher beside it. Clear. No film. No staleness. He touched the back of his hand to his jaw and felt no change in stubble. He checked his nails and hair. Both still the same length as he always kept them.

His body carried no evidence of time passing at all.

Over sixteen years. Almost seventeen. He had spent almost seventeen years in that other world, in Lucien’s body, in Lucien’s city, and here it seems like not a single hour had elapsed.

He lived through a whole life and mere moments have passed here, he thought back to the first months in the cramped flat. The slow grinding work toward his first functional light card. Lord Ardeth, and the long partnership that had carried him from poverty to a proper workshop, through grade certifications and commissions and the careful hope of watching the status bar move. The crystal source chamber. The bar reaching one hundred. The words Cardwright World appearing in his Sea of Consciousness and nothing following them.

Almost seventeen years of memory sitting in a body that had not aged a single morning.

He crossed to the cave entrance and stepped out.

Morning light lay across the outer sect peak, soft and clean. The floating mountains rose in the distance with their bases in cloud and their peaks lit by the first direct sun.

The same morning he had left.

He stood there for a moment, then went back inside and sat on the meditation platform, pressing his palm against the cool stone.

He let himself think through what had happened carefully.

He had opened his Inner Eye for the first time, felt something foreign emerge in his Sea of Consciousness, and been dragged out of his own body and deposited into another world in a dead man’s body. No explanation. A status bar with no instructions. He had spent almost seventeen years filling it. When it completed, the words appeared, the door implied by them opened, and his consciousness returned here. No, the door appeared, but he returned here after causing his own death.

His body still sat at the second stage Qi Condensation, exactly where it had been. His qi foundation was unchanged. Whatever his soul had lived through, the body had simply waited in statis.

But the soul itself was not what it had been. He was certain of that without needing to examine it closely. The Heaven-Refining Soul Sutra worked through sustained internal observation, the slow and patient tending of the Sea of Consciousness that refined the soul’s chaotic raw state into something ordered and deliberate.

In the Cardwright World he had no qi, no spirit stones, no cultivation resources of any kind, but the internal observation had never stopped. His Sea of Consciousness had been the one thing available to him.

He turned his attention inward.

He delved into his sea of consciousness and it still looked the same, the vast interior space with his soul with its slow luminescent movement, each thought and feeling giving life to movement from the soul. The web of light threads extending in all directions through the dark.

He examined the web threads carefully. The patterns of his soul’s movement. The quality of the luminescence. Everything appeared intact and as it should be, and yet there was something in the way the light moved that felt subtly different.

He looked for the status bar.

The space it had occupied was not empty anymore. When he looked at the reflective webbing, he didn’t have to delve deeper; something small was already attached there to the webbing, exactly at the point where he used to delve deeper in the web to look at the status bar. It was like a small bud, pulsing and glowing brighter than the web it was attached to.

A better description would be to call it like a budding fruit or flower growing from a vine.

He tried to look deeper into the bud and the word Cardwright World came to him. It was not exactly written, but the awareness of it came in a way that was impossible to put into words.

Yang moved his attention carefully toward it, the way you approach a dangerous unpredictable beast. When he was close, the feeling became clear. A pull, steady and present. Nothing like the violent seizure of that original tendril all those years ago, but unmistakable in what it was communicating. Contact would send him back.

It was a door, and the door was unlocked now.

He withdrew immediately, not willing to risk another jaunt in the Cardwright World.

He retreated back to the surface of his consciousness and let his eyes open to the cave.

The incense still drifted its thin line of smoke. Through the entrance, the mountain morning continued exactly as it had been.

Yang sat with everything he now knew and let it settle.

Almost seventeen years of knowledge about inscription and card theory that no one in this world possessed, understanding that had come from a place with no cultivation, no qi, no spiritual resources, but with its own complete and sophisticated approach to channeling and directing energy. A door back to the Cardwright World sitting in his Sea of Consciousness, available whenever he chose to examine it further. His cultivation base intact, his body exactly as he had left it, and somewhere in his soul a change he could not yet fully comprehend but could feel the edges of.

He thought about Senior Brother Bo Yu and his seventh-stage breakthrough. Elder Fu Ming’s talisman class and the pile of failures and successes he had been working through. The outer sect peak and the stone path down to the main hall, and the food hall beyond it, where breakfast would be happening soon.

All of it still here. The same morning, the same sect, the same life he had been building before being pulled away from it. Waiting for him to come back and pick up where he had stopped.

Yang stood, crossed to the entrance and stepped out into the morning light.

White Cloud Sect. His sect.

He had spent almost seventeen years missing this place.

He started down the path.

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