Volume One: A Thousand Years by the Stream Chapter Seven: Enlightenment

The winter beyond the Great Wall is not merely cold; it is bone-chilling. Half a month later, heavy snow fell for three consecutive days. Birds vanished, paths disappeared, and the world was stripped of all greenery.

Sun Zikai, dressed in the garb of a barbarian, led a donkey through the snow. The blade tucked behind his waist was still stained with dried blood.

Thick blankets of snow fell from the sky, and the freezing wind bit into his flesh. Sun Zikai could barely see ten paces ahead. It was too cold, and the footprints he left behind were swallowed by the snow in the blink of an eye.

Just then, a groan drifted toward him. A horse lay on its side, half-buried in a drift, with a man sprawled across its belly. The man’s face was purple with cold, his hands and feet frozen deep into the snow.

Sun Zikai approached and recognized him as a barbarian. The horse had likely slipped, and the man had exhausted himself trying to pull it up, only to collapse himself.

Sun Zikai knelt and lifted the man's hand. The skin, frozen into the snow, was rigid and necrotic. His feet were surely the same. Even if he were thrown onto a fire now, it would be of no use.

The barbarian’s consciousness was flickering like a dying candle, his throat emitting only faint, rattling sounds. Sun Zikai did not soften. With a single strike of his blade, he ended the man’s suffering. He stripped the corpse of its clothes, unhitched the horse’s reins, and draped the garments over the animal’s belly.

No sooner had he finished than another barbarian appeared. The newcomer approached, surveyed the scene, and grasped the situation. He pointed at the stripped corpse and asked, "Your father?"

Sun Zikai shook his head and replied, "I don't know him."

"Then you’re in luck," the barbarian said, rubbing his hands together. "Finally, we can start a fire."

"Start a fire?" Sun Zikai frowned, skeptical. "Where would you find dry wood in such a heavy snow?"

The barbarian said nothing. Likely unable to bear the cold any longer, he hacked at some snow-laden branches with his blade and piled them onto the dead man. He then pulled out a fire-starter, lit the corpse's hair, and watched as the head caught fire. Soon, the branches ignited, and a wave of heat pushed back the wind and snow, hitting Sun Zikai in the face.

The barbarian chopped more wood, piling it onto the remains, and sat by the fire. "Wet wood won't burn, of course. But a person can. There’s fat in the body; it burns easily."

The fire grew, and a pungent, scorched stench rose into the air. Fortunately, they were in a sheltered spot. Sun Zikai brought his donkey over and let it lie beside the horse to share the warmth.

The barbarian wiped his blade with a clump of snow and asked, "Just you?"

Sun Zikai nodded. The barbarian let out a sound of acknowledgment, but the flash of murderous intent in his eyes did not escape the boy. Ten seconds later, another naked corpse—still steaming, its throat slashed open—was tossed into the fire. Sun Zikai calmly leaned against the horse’s belly and fell asleep.

About an hour later, he woke in the snow. He placed his flask by the fire to warm, gave a few sips to the horse and donkey, and then took a gulp himself. A surge of heat flooded his blood, and he felt much better. Sun Zikai patted the donkey’s rump and led it away. The horse had regained its strength and stood up, but without its reins, it was free.

After walking about three hundred paces west, he encountered a group of barbarians—a small tribe of about twenty people. They perhaps lacked the fire-making wisdom of the previous man; their clothes were thin, and they took turns wearing two large fur coats. Everyone was so frozen they could barely walk. Sun Zikai shivered, wiped the snow from his face, drew his blade, and walked toward them.

Soon, he was draped in a large fur coat, and the donkey’s back was covered in one as well. The blade at his waist was still stained with blood. He popped a handful of dried biscuits into his mouth, chased it with a swig of fiery liquor, and finally, he knew he would survive the night.

That night, many did not make it. The further west he went, the more desolate the land became, and the fewer people he saw. Sun Zikai began to understand why the barbarians raided. If the land beyond the Wall was all like this, survival was indeed difficult. Yet, he still could not accept their way of raiding and fleeing, only to return the next year. They could have lived within the Wall or cultivated the land; they were not incapable, merely accustomed to plunder.

In recent days, he had interacted with many barbarians. They seemed to be indoctrinated from childhood with a singular philosophy: if you want to eat, take it from those who have it. If they refuse, kill them.

Sun Zikai felt no pity for these people anymore. Moving among them, he slaughtered every barbarian he encountered, leaving no survivors, which was why they remained unaware of his existence.

He had mastered the art of killing. Though he stood no taller than a horse’s belly, three or five grown barbarians were no match for him. He had devised many techniques—the draw-and-strike being the most effective. He would hide the blade beneath his cloak and, in the heat of battle, draw it with lightning speed to stab or slash. This move alone he had practiced day and night, over four thousand times.

Later, he improved his draw by shifting the blade to his left hip; after the initial strike, he could immediately reverse his grip to counterattack. The long, slender blade now whistled as it cut through the air.

Yet he was not satisfied. He realized that at this rate, he would be invincible beyond the Wall in a few years, but against those who practiced cultivation, he would still have to endure in silence as he had half a month ago. He wished there were a cultivator to help him hone his killing skills.

Lacking any path of cultivation, he had to realize it himself. He arranged his long-practiced killing techniques into a sequence, performing them daily. At first, there were only seven or eight movements, but soon they grew into a set of forty or fifty. He slowly refined the order, discarding the dross and keeping the essence, until he formed a technique that flowed like water and possessed terrifying power. He called himself a genius, and indeed, he was one.

He bound heavy stones to his legs, wearing them day and night, then his arms, then his body. But there were limits to the human frame; he could not keep adding weight.

That night, he sat beneath the stars. The snow had not yet stopped, and his liquor was gone.

He looked up at the moon sinking toward the horizon and muttered to himself, "The moon must have energy, too. The sun does as well, but the sun's energy must be stronger; otherwise, why would I feel heat? Is the sun hot and the moon cold? No, that's not right. In summer, the moon is very hot too."

"Wait. If the heat I feel is the sun's energy, what would happen if I could find a way to absorb more of it?"

And so, he had his goal for tomorrow.

The next day, the snow continued to fall, but he stood entirely naked, arms spread wide, feeling the sunlight. This was no different from suicide. Sure enough, he froze stiff, and it was only when the donkey draped a fur coat over him that he was saved.

Sun Zikai did not lose heart. Without a teacher, he had to enlighten himself, and he believed that the so-called "spiritual path" must have been discovered the same way. Huddled in the coat, he extended one hand. The sunlight struck his palm. His hand was small, and the light would not gather just because he willed it. It all felt so futile.

But he did not give up. He felt it made sense: the sun's energy must be absorbed by him, which was why he could feel the heat. Like eating, his skin was "eating" the light.

Eating?

He used his small knife to cut the back of his hand, then applied some powdered medicinal herbs. The wound stung—the result of his body devouring the medicinal properties. How did humans absorb nutrients? He recalled the medical texts he had memorized and felt for the acupuncture points on his body: which one governed the spleen, which one the heart...

He took off the coat and leaped out, naked. This time, he didn't just stand there; he practiced his technique. But the order of the movements was scrambled. He had mapped each movement to a nearby acupuncture point, defining the sequence of his technique by the order of those points. He made dozens of shallow cuts on his body near these points. Before the blood could flow, he applied the medicinal powder and continued through his movements.

By focusing so intently on the acupuncture points and wounds, he sensed "Qi." The medicine was delivered through the wounds to the points, and the points carried it through the blood vessels to his entire body. He felt the flow—it was like wisps of energy. He exerted himself even more. The wounds reopened, and blood flowed. He felt nearly delirious; his flesh seemed to be screaming, hungrily absorbing the "nutrients" or energy. The blood splashed onto the snow, soon to be buried. He felt as though he were dying, yet he finally perceived a unique process—the way his body absorbed things from the outside world. He memorized this process and redefined the order of his movements to match it.

He did not slacken. If he died, so be it—no, he could not die. He must live, and live hard. He stood frozen in the wind and snow. A fox saw him. The starving beast observed for a moment before lunging. The frozen man suddenly grabbed the fox, his hands tearing into its belly. Hot blood sprayed out, and Sun Zikai plunged his hands into the fox's guts, sensing his own blood vessels drawing nutrients from the fox's flesh through his acupuncture points and wounds. Without realizing it, the wounds on his own body healed.

He opened his eyes; the fox had stopped breathing. Sun Zikai noticed his own wounds had vanished. He missed no detail, observing the fox closely. Its fur was no longer as sleek as it had been; it seemed to have aged significantly. He wondered: during the absorption process, had he stolen the fox's vitality for himself? Why had the fox aged?

Why do people age?

Life force. Yes, perhaps a portion of the nutrients humans absorb from medicine or food is transformed into life force to compensate for the natural attrition of their own existence.

His thoughts were always wildly imaginative, but he did not immediately verify this theory. His attention returned to the sunlight.

He crawled back into his fur coat, wrapping himself tightly, and recalled the absorption process in his mind. He extended his hand. He held it there for four hours.

He did not fall asleep. Without the extremity of his earlier madness, he could not immediately feel that flow. He searched and searched, but found nothing. Suddenly, a thought struck him. He took his knife and pricked his palm. A small wound appeared, and a bead of blood welled up. He understood: the wound was absorbing something—energy or life force—and healing itself. Following the sequence of reactions he had felt in his acupuncture points, he pricked his palm repeatedly. For every point, he made a cut. The order in which they healed mimicked the way his body had hungrily absorbed the energy. This was a "path," a way for outside elements to enter his body in an orderly fashion.

He felt his palm growing warmer than before. The wounds were many but small, and soon they stopped bleeding. He carefully maintained that "feeling" of flow—a strange, ethereal sensation, yet it existed. He had to concentrate, or it would vanish.

His hand seemed hotter. Perhaps it was an illusion? He felt as if the light in his palm had brightened. Gradually, he realized it was no illusion. An hour later, his palm was dazzling. After a searing, burning pain, a speck of light the size of a pebble coalesced in his palm.

He lost his concentration, and the sensation vanished. He cradled the speck of light carefully, his heart filled with an excitement so intense he wanted to scream, yet he feared his voice would blow the ethereal thing away.

Carelessly, his finger brushed against it. It felt as if he had touched the sun itself. The agony lasted only an instant, but he endured it without pulling back. He was right: the speck of light merged with his finger—or rather, it was absorbed by his index finger.

Sun Zikai looked curiously at the patch of skin under his right index finger. It had visibly hardened. When he touched his face with that finger, he could still feel a warmth like sunlight radiating from that spot of skin.

He was ecstatic. Night soon fell, and he repeated the technique. Two hours later, his blood-stained palm held a speck of moonlight. He carefully touched it with the same finger. The absorption process was still difficult, but when it ended, Sun Zikai found that the skin under his right index finger had become even tougher while remaining flexible. It looked soft, but its hardness was more than ten times what it had been.

He cried out in joy. He had found it! He hadn't expected to find it so soon. This was his own path of cultivation. He called these specks "Essence"—Sun Essence, Moon Essence. And the first method of his cultivation was the very thing he had asked the cultivator about days ago: tempering the body.

If he used the essence of the sun and moon to temper his entire body, day and night, would there come a day when his flesh became so tough that even swords could not leave a mark? More extravagantly, if his entire body were tempered and evolved, would he become infinitely strong? And fire? Fire gave off light, and lightning did too. Could there be Fire Essence or Lightning Essence? If he used them all to temper his body, what would happen?

Sun Zikai looked up and laughed at the sky. From tomorrow on, he had new goals and plans.