The rain outside continued falling endlessly.

Yet the puddles on the ground were forever covered with the same layer of pale ripples.

The medicinal fragrance grew even heavier, its bitter taste settling on her body while strange pain emanated from deep within her bones and flesh. The woman looked at the white brocade pouch in her hand, paying no attention to the pain throughout her body for the first time, a trace of confusion flashing in her eyes.

In her memory, someone seemed to have pressed this pouch into her hand: “This is the protective charm my mother gave me. I’m giving it to you to keep you safe.”

Who was speaking?

She blankly turned her eyes, looking around. These familiar furnishings from the past decades suddenly felt somewhat strange.

It was as if another scene was slowly emerging from her mind, occupying her original memories. There were no such chaotic crowds there, nor such endless medicinal soups to drink. She looked down at her own hands—skeletal hands—how could they possibly grip an azure stick?

An azure stick? The woman was startled. Why would she need to grip an azure stick?

The embroidery on the pouch flickered with fine luster. Before her eyes appeared a pale-faced youth in azure clothes crying with tears streaming down like pear blossoms in rain, chattering to someone: “Young Mistress, please take care of your health on this journey. I heard that place called Yushan is quite ominous… If only my health were better, I would accompany Young Mistress.”

What place was Yushan?

The woman was somewhat lost in thought.

Young Mistress… who was that again?

A thunderclap crashed down from the clouds, and the wooden window rattled heavily under the fierce wind, as if it would be brutally shattered the next moment. The woman sitting on the bed slowly tightened her grip on the pouch as countless painful memories surged up, forcing another completely unfamiliar memory into her mind.

Endless bitter medicinal soups every day, and the maid who had served by her side for over ten years.

Bright red rivers in a black city, ghostly flames burning silently in an empty great hall.

Always tightly shut doors and windows, mountaintops adorned with a rainbow dawn.

Cups painted with vivid colors, an azure hairpin broken in two on the ground.

“Madam…”

“Young Mistress…”

“Poor health since birth…”

“You are the one who can save the demon race…”

Countless voices came from afar, drilling into her ears like demons whispering, disturbing her heart. She didn’t know who she was, nor which one was real. It was as if decades of life were nothing but a long dream—one she could neither continue nor wake up from.

She furrowed her brow, as if asking others, yet also asking herself.

“Who am I?”

“Rumble—” The rain outside grew more violent, urgently and rapidly beating against the window eaves as if to destroy heaven and earth.

“Who am I?” She asked again.

Thunder roared across the sky. With a “crash,” the cup on the small table seemed shaken by the thunder and fell to the ground, shattering into pieces. The rain became distant and prolonged. At some unknown moment, heaven and earth had quieted down.

A silver-white flash of lightning appeared like a fleeting glimpse, illuminating the face of the woman on the bed.

She raised her eyes, as if seeing her surroundings clearly for the first time, her gaze calm and lucid.

“I am…”

“Yang Zanxing.”

…

Behind similarly tightly shut doors and windows, in the room, the young man on the sickbed had a peaceful expression, his features serene yet handsome between his brows.

Medicinal fragrance curled like an invisible cage, binding people within.

Yet the person on the bed remained calm, showing neither the pain of being tormented by illness nor half a trace of confusion. His eyes were tranquil as he silently gazed out the window. After a long while, he finally closed his eyes and spoke faintly.

“All conditioned things are impermanent, all dharmas are without self.”

…

Blood flowed steadily from within her body.

Life force was gradually dissipating.

Outside were the chaotic footsteps of people. In the forest shrouded by night, someone was breathing heavily.

Bandits had stolen her gold and silver and wounded her body. The woman lay on the ground, blood continuously flowing from her body and the corners of her mouth. Life slowly dissipated from her body, and the approaching breath of death gradually invaded, making her instinctively feel a surge of fear.

A fear of death.

Zanxing raised her head. Through the gaps between tree branches, she could vaguely see clear starlight, cold and bright.

She sighed softly.

Unable to use any strength, also unable to change the scene before her. This place was different from illusions—it wasn’t that once you saw through the truth, everything would return to its original state.

She had become a newborn baby, become an elderly person with snow-white hair, become a young woman bedridden with illness, become a traveler like a candle in the wind. Each one was her, yet each one also wasn’t her.

Everything experienced here was very real, a lifetime from beginning to end, as long as an entire lifetime. One day was one day, one year was one year. People lived within it—laughter and tears, partings and reunions were always exceptionally real.

At first, she could still know who she was and understand why she appeared here. But as days passed, the time spent as a baby, an elderly person, a young woman, and a traveler exceeded the time spent as “Yang Zanxing.” There were no sects here, no demon realm, no conspiracies and calculations, and no wars with rivers of blood. Here was peace and tranquility, and she only needed to endure the sufferings of being human, the sufferings of countless mortal beings.

Buddhism speaks of eight sufferings: birth, old age, sickness, death, separation from loved ones, meeting with those we hate, not getting what we seek, and the suffering of the five aggregates burning.

On that summer afternoon, at the small table beside the sickbed, she had inadvertently discovered a white protective charm. The illness demon hadn’t lied—the protective charm he gave could remove human disease and pain. So in that instant when pain solidified into stillness, it finally allowed her consciousness to regain a trace of clarity.

Zanxing finally understood.

All cultivators, when cultivation reaches its heights, always face tests of their dao heart. She had seen many such scenarios before—in countless trials, whether one could persist in being oneself and not be tempted by worldly prosperity to leave midway.

The Five-Wheel Pagoda was the same.

But it also seemed different.

It didn’t require the trial-taker to persist in their original heart through countless reincarnations. For instance, at this moment, Zanxing already understood that all this was false, yet the real sensation of death was still within reach. The Buddhist pagoda seemed to only require those who came for trials to reincarnate through thirty-six realms, experiencing the sufferings of sentient beings.

Each experience was very real, and each pain could not be escaped.

She was about to die, about to begin the next life. Zanxing understood this in her heart. She didn’t know how long this reincarnation would continue, nor how much time in reality each lifetime in reincarnation represented. She imagined that past trial-takers at the Five-Wheel Pagoda had all been like this. Those trial-takers entered this pagoda—perhaps some would lose their true nature in these endless trials, gradually forgetting their own lives and the original intention of their cultivation. Perhaps others would persist to the end, experiencing the sufferings of all living beings before passing the trial.

All according to the pagoda’s intention.

Zanxing lowered her eyes. She was about to die. Before death, she felt as if she had become a feather, gradually becoming lighter, her consciousness gradually dispersing and merging into this night.

In the blood, a trace of worry flashed through Zanxing’s eyes.

How were Gu Baiying and the others doing?