In the heart of the cavernous realm, amidst the swirling mists and the colossal, ebon cauldron, lay a labyrinth of enchantments. Five mystical blossoms unfurled their petals, yet the third lay withered, its lifeblood drained. The Eight Gates, however, were cunningly concealed within the fifth flower, merged as one. These gates could manifest as any aspect of creation – a humble blade of grass, a towering ancient tree, a noble beast, or even a mortal being. The very fabric of existence served as potential portals.

To discern the single, true gate amidst this myriad of illusions within the fifth flower was a task of unimaginable difficulty. Despite the overwhelming odds and lack of a clear path, Wang Lin resolved to venture forth, to penetrate the heart of this ancient sanctuary, and overcome this final, formidable obstacle.

To awaken the fifth flower, the third wisp of the Seven-Colored Immortal’s soul was required as a catalyst – the fragment containing the sum of his memories. As the flower absorbed this essence, a bizarre transformation occurred, birthing a world shaped by the immortal’s past.

The heavens were not adorned with azure skies, but shrouded in ominous clouds, behind which nine blazing suns hung like malevolent eyes, casting an oppressive heat. Yet, the land was vast and boundless, and even their combined might failed to illuminate every shadowed corner.

A damp wind swept across the plains, stirring dust devils that danced toward a range of mountains stretching as far as the eye could see. The wind howled through the peaks, rustling the leaves of ancient trees in a symphony of whispers.

Nestled within the embrace of these mountains, structures of exquisite beauty clung to the slopes. Balustrades of jade and towering pavilions rose in a breathtaking display, their numbers reaching the thousands. Mountain and architecture intertwined, blurring the line between nature and creation, like a palace sculpted from the very bones of the earth.

Each pavilion and hall was unique, yet connected by the mountainous terrain, creating an ethereal spectacle, a celestial city suspended in the sky. Wisps of mist, like celestial breath, drifted through the peaks, partially concealing the magnificent city, imbuing it with an aura of mystery. Flocks of cranes, their cries echoing through the mountains, soared through the veils of mist, weaving tales of ancient games.

Upon the backs of these magnificent birds, figures could be vaguely discerned, their identities obscured by the swirling vapor. Within the heart of the mountains, behind the mists and beyond the towering structures, a small river cascaded down a mountainside, carving a narrow path through the stone. Over countless ages, the water had sculpted a channel more than ten feet across, flowing down into a tranquil pool below. From this pool, the waters branched out, their destination unknown.

Wang Lin sat upon a moss-covered stone by the river’s edge, his brow furrowed as he gazed into the flowing water, ignoring the distant peal of a bell that echoed from the mountains. He had spent over two months within this realm of the fifth flower, yet he had found not a single trace of the true gate.

The river mirrored his reflection: a figure clad in a jade-green robe that emitted a faint, protective aura. A simple jade pendant, suspended from his waist by a crimson cord, pulsed with inner light.

However, the face reflected in the water was not his own. It was a visage of striking beauty, with ruby lips, a determined jawline, bright teeth, and eyes that seemed to hold the secrets of the universe. An air of power and darkness emanated from the eyes. A face that might break the resolve of men and stir the hearts of women.

The reflection appeared to be no more than nineteen years of age and bore a haunting resemblance to the Seven-Colored Immortal of Greed, save for the signs of maturity that bore the weight of time upon them.

Even after two months, Wang Lin was still disturbed by this strange transformation. “I have entered the realm of the fifth flower, the memories of the Seven-Colored Immortal… and I have become him.” He sighed, shifting his gaze to the sky as the distant bells chimed once more.

“The Immortal Continent… so this is the Immortal Continent. Never did I think that within the fifth flower, within the immortal’s memory, I would first set foot upon this land.” Wang Lin gazed at the nine suns with a wry smile.

This world belonged to the Seven-Colored Immortal, a reflection of his memories, an illusion that was once reality.

“The sects of the Immortal Continent far surpass those of the Cavern Realm.” Wang Lin touched his robe, marveling at its strength, capable of withstanding the full force of a Nascent Soul cultivator.

“But how can I find the true gate? Perhaps the third wisp of the Seven-Colored Immortal’s soul holds the answer. My form has been altered by its influence, but I do not believe it to be a true merging.”

“Nor can I allow it,” Wang Lin muttered, scooping up water and letting it spill through his fingers. Suddenly, his brow furrowed once more.

“Su Dao! You insolent fool! The bells have rung twice, and you have yet to attend the Immortal Lord’s emergence!” A shrill voice echoed behind him. A youth of similar age, clad in the same green robe, strode down the mountain path, his eyes filled with icy malice.

“I have been tasked by the Senior Disciple to bring you before him, where you will be punished according to the sect’s laws!” The youth advanced, his hand outstretched, intent on seizing Wang Lin by the hair and dragging him to the grand hall at the mountain’s peak.

As the youth’s hand reached for him, Wang Lin turned and met his gaze with an icy stare. A single glance, yet the youth felt as though a pair of piercing swords had pierced his eyes and plunged into his very soul.

His face contorted in horror, he froze, his entire body paralyzed. As Wang Lin averted his gaze, the youth gasped for breath, stumbled backward, and stared at Wang Lin with wide eyes filled with terror.

“Y-You…”
Within the World of the Fifth Bloom, Wang Lin found himself embodied as the young, nascent form of the Celestial Seeker of Seven Hues, granted access to the memories of that bygone era. He discovered that this early incarnation of the Seeker was possessed of a gentler spirit, a far cry from the ruthless, calculating hero he would later become.

In his youth, the Celestial Seeker, then a mere disciple named Su Dao, should have been shielded within the sect walls, his prodigious talent demanding protection. However, his master remained perpetually secluded, lost in endless contemplation. Thus, his gifts bred envy amongst his peers, making his days within the sect far from peaceful.

Like the youth before him, many were those who sought to demean him. Yet, these brethren rarely dared to openly challenge him, preferring instead to strike from the shadows, often cloaked in the guise of enforcing obscure rules, as this particular youth was wont to do.

The early years of the Celestial Seeker saw him struggle until, over a decade later, his true potential was recognized by his grandmaster, who fostered his abilities, allowing him to gradually rise in prominence within the sect.

But Wang Lin was not Su Dao, and he would not idly stand by and allow the past to repeat itself. As the youth recoiled in bewildered fear, Wang Lin took a step forward, instantly appearing at his side. The youth’s face paled, his eyes wide with terror, unable to comprehend how Wang Lin had moved so swiftly.

Only yesterday, he had returned from a journey, and now he found Su Dao transformed, a stark contrast to the weakling he had so readily bullied.

“You…” the youth began, but his words were choked off. Wang Lin’s right hand had grasped his neck, lifting him off the ground. His breath constricted, his face turned crimson as he clawed at Wang Lin’s arm, desperate to break free.

Yet, no matter how he struggled, Wang Lin’s grip remained unyielding, like a vise of iron.

“Do not provoke me. There will be no second chance. Understand?” Wang Lin pulled the youth closer, his gaze locked onto his tormentor, each word delivered with chilling precision.

The youth’s eyes swam with terror, teetering on the brink of madness. He could not nod, his fear too profound, but his expression betrayed the depths of his newfound dread, the absolute certainty that he would never dare cross Wang Lin again.

Slowly, Wang Lin released his hold. A smile played on his lips as he gently patted the youth’s head. “Come, let us ascend the mountain together,” he said, turning and striding towards the grand hall atop the peak.

The youth, clutching his bruised neck, gasped for air, his composure slowly returning. He stared at Wang Lin with a mixture of terror and awe. He had tasted death in that moment, and he knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that this Su Dao would have, without hesitation, ended his life. Trembling, he followed closely behind Wang Lin.

The path wound upwards, a staircase of ancient stone ascending towards the heavens. As Wang Lin climbed, the wind buffeted him, whipping his long hair and fluttering his robes. Carried on the breeze was the sweet fragrance of earth, a scent that penetrated the heart and brought a profound sense of peace.

“Nourished by such celestial energies, all creatures of this Immortal Continent thrive, their bodies attuned to cultivation. Even the spirits of plants stir, and savage beasts take on human form…” Wang Lin knew, intellectually, that even the wind’s celestial energy and sweet fragrance were merely illusions, yet this deception served to emphasize the true nature of the Immortal Continent.

It was a world entirely unlike the Realm of the Caves.

As he journeyed onward, the clouds above, already heavy, grew darker, and the clash of thunder echoed through the heavens. Bolts of lightning, like writhing silver serpents, flashed across the sky.

“A storm is coming…” Wang Lin murmured, ascending the final steps to the mountain’s summit. There, he beheld the majestic grand hall, hundreds of feet in length, its imposing presence resembling a slumbering behemoth.

Before the hall lay a vast plaza, thousands of feet across. In its center stood a colossal incense burner, nine thick sticks of incense casting swirling plumes of azure smoke skyward.

Already, nearly a hundred cultivators stood upon the plaza, gathered in small groups, their voices murmuring in low conversation.

The moment Wang Lin set foot upon the plaza, a deafening thunderclap rent the air, and torrential rain cascaded from the heavens, forming a shimmering curtain that blurred the very shapes of those around him.

The rain lashed against the stone paving of the plaza, creating a cacophony of pitter-patter sounds that merged with the thunderous storm, amplifying the din. In an instant, the plaza was awash with rainwater, swirling and rippling across the ancient stones.