A question haunted Wang Lin: “Whose specter is that, cradling a lifeless form…and whose form is it?” He dared not ponder it, refused to dwell, feared to face the answer.

Within the hallowed Ancestral Temple, he sat in silent meditation, counting the years that had slipped away.

“Time… grows short,” he murmured, his voice a fleeting whisper in the ancient sanctuary.

In the heart of the Primeval Royal City, the emergence of twenty-seven radiant halos upon the statue of the Ancient Ancestor sparked a wave of fervent murmurs that swelled into a roaring tide. All eyes were fixed upon the effigy, drawn to the spectacle unfolding within.

“Eighteen years… His first split took three, the second fifteen. He is surely shattered, yet seeks perfect unity!” one elder exclaimed.

Another mused, “The first attempt showed promise, but this second…a mishap occurred. What of the third?”

“If Wang Lin persists in this complete sundering, he risks oblivion in the third. Were I he, I’d halt it prematurely, securing what remains,” a third voice declared.

As the city held its breath, Wang Lin, deep within the Ancestral Temple, exhaled slowly, banishing the spectral visions that threatened to consume him. He focused his entire being upon the third Divine Severance, the final ordeal of the Ancient Path.

He felt the surge of power, the profound growth of his spirit from the successful second division. His cultivation had strengthened, and should the third succeed, the merging of spirit and flesh would propel him to a pinnacle of existence!

A pinnacle that might… transcend the Ancient Path itself!

A fierce determination ignited in Wang Lin’s eyes. He closed them, and the colossal aura of his nascent spirit, which filled the chamber, began to fracture, commencing the third, and ultimate, division.

“Three years… fifteen years… how many this time?” No answer came.

The seasons turned, and seven years passed in the Ancestral Temple. The clansfolk of the Primeval lineage, ever hopeful, cast anxious glances toward the twenty-seven halos above the Ancestor’s statue.

Meanwhile, the Primeval Emperor, in a slow and deliberate transfer, ceded control to Ji Du, the new Emperor-designate. The day of Ji Du’s coronation drew ever closer.

As the date approached, the gaze of the Primeval people shifted from the Ancestor to this monumental event, the dawn of a new reign.

With twenty-five years remaining until the coronation, the Primeval Emperor gradually released his grip on the vast armies, entrusting them to Ji Du, granting him ample time to learn, to prepare for the looming war with the Immortal Ancients, a conflict that might erupt within centuries.

“Five years… five years… five years…”

Seasons marched on, unnoticed in their gentle rhythm, and another fifteen years slipped away. Twenty-two years had now passed since Wang Lin commenced his third Divine Severance!

Adding the previous years, nearly ninety years had elapsed since Wang Lin first entered the Ancestral Temple!

Ninety years, enough to reshape lives, a mortal’s span, the rise of a new Emperor. The Primeval Emperor had receded into the shadows, leaving Ji Du to command.

Although the coronation was yet to come, Ji Du shouldered all responsibilities, adorned in the Emperor’s robes, though lacking the crown.

And yet, Ji Du never relinquished his morning ritual: a silent vigil facing the Ancestral Temple. He held firm faith in his benefactor’s triumph!

Within the temple, the colossal aura of Wang Lin’s spirit, once so vast, lay shattered into countless fragments, undergoing its final dissolution.

This time, Wang Lin had learned from the past. He had left a spark of his consciousness within his physical form, a beacon to guide his return when the time was right.

Decades of agonizing spiritual fragmentation, an ordeal few could endure, Wang Lin withstood, his senses dulled to the pain.

As the ninety-fifth year arrived, as the Primeval lineage began preparations for the coronation of the new Emperor in five years’ time, the fragments of Wang Lin’s shattered spirit finally crumbled into dust.

He began the reintegration!

Mindful of the previous near-disaster, Wang Lin proceeded cautiously, choosing a slow, incremental fusion, piecing together the fragments, seeking perfect union.

Moreover, a deeper ambition stirred within him, an ambition that demanded fulfillment during this very process.

Year after year flowed by, and in the ninety-sixth year, Wang Lin completed nearly thirty percent of his spiritual essence. The resulting aura was small, only the size of a hand, but the power it contained dwarfed even the spirit he possessed after the second division. A complete reintegration might indeed bring Wang Lin to the ultimate pinnacle.

By the ninety-seventh year, Wang Lin’s spiritual essence had reached fifty percent, growing significantly stronger.

Only three years remained until the hundredth, a thousand days and nights.

The Primeval Royal City teemed with life, for before such a grand occasion, all the mightiest members of the Primeval lineage converged upon the city, eager to witness this monumental event!

The transfer of power had set the entire lineage in motion. Yet Ji Du, the Emperor-designate, retreated into solitude during the ninety-seventh year, seeking solace at the foot of the Ancestral Temple, where he meditated in silence.

He abandoned all other duties, dedicating these final three years before his ascension to his benefactor.

As the days waned, more clansfolk returned, and emissaries from the other two great lineages neared the city.
Near every morn, a multitude of souls made pilgrimage to the ancient Imperial City, yet in stark contrast to the city’s booming heart, the thousand-foot sanctuary housing the Ancestral Temple remained eerily silent. Since epochs past, it had been declared a hallowed ground, inviolable to all but the ordained, ringed by legions of the Imperial Guard.

Within this quietude, Ketu sat in silent meditation, eyes closed, the clamor of the outer world but a distant echo.

“Father-by-oath,” he murmured, “in three short years, I shall ascend as the Ancient Imperial Lord…”

There, in the sanctuary’s heart, as day bled into night, the ninety-eighth year of his vigil turned, then the ninety-ninth, until the hundredth passed in hushed anticipation.

On this momentous day, the centennial, all eyes in the Imperial City were drawn once more to the colossal statue of the First Ancestor. But it was not the celestial halo that enraptured them now, but rather, the presence residing within: their future Imperial Lord!

The city held its breath, hushed as a tomb. Within the Imperial Palace, countless clansmen awaited the dawn of the new reign. Upon the grand plaza, a sea of faces, a multitude stood in expectant silence.

Emissaries from the sister tribes arrived in solemn procession, bearing gifts beyond measure, their retinues led by nobles of royal blood. They too stood upon the plaza, awaiting the destined hour.

At the plaza’s very heart stood a colossal brazier.

Within its depths lay a bed of soft earth, upon which rested a colossal incense stick, as yet unlit. The right to ignite this sacred offering belonged solely to Ketu.

This was the Incense of Imperial Authority. Once kindled, its smoke would conjure tempests and summon forth the Thunderdrums of Heaven. Only Ketu could strike these drums, and when their resonance echoed nine times through the celestial sphere, he would receive the obeisance of all the Ancient Imperial people.

All present waited, including the aged and weary Imperial Lord, nearing the end of his reign.

“The auspicious hour nears, Your Majesty…” A quavering voice broke the silence. Beside the Imperial Lord, an elder hesitated, then spoke softly.

“Wait!” the departing Lord rasped, his voice like wind through ancient tombs. “Our lineage knows no appointed hour. The moment Ketu arrives, that is the moment of benediction!”

The elder bowed his head in assent.

Outside the Ancestral Temple, Ketu remained in his meditative posture, eyes closed, seemingly indifferent to the momentous day. Soon, faint footfalls broke the silence behind him. A squadron of guards in blackened armor approached, their pace slowing as they neared.

“Your Majesty,” the leader of the squadron knelt upon one knee, his voice a respectful whisper. “The hour has come…”

Ketu offered no reply, remaining motionless.

The kneeling guards fell silent, their vigil unbroken.

The space of half an incense-stick’s burning elapsed, and then, a sigh escaped Ketu’s lips. He opened his eyes, gazed upon the Temple, and rose. Kneeling upon one knee, he bowed his head three times before the ancient edifice.

“Ancestors,” he murmured, “I go forth.” Raising his gaze one last time to the Temple, he turned and strode away, the guards rising and falling into step behind him, a somber procession disappearing into the distance.

As they departed, within the Temple, Wang Lin’s soul stirred. A radiant aura, no longer the size of a palm, but now of a scale to encompass his very being, pulsed around him.

The radiance was complete, seemingly fused with him entirely. Yet, the eyes of this spiritual form remained closed in slumber.

A year ago, Wang Lin could have completed the fusion, which proceeded without hindrance. But he had purposely left a trace of incompleteness, drawing himself deeper into the process, like a man immersed in a dream.

He sought once more to return to the blurred landscapes he glimpsed during the Second Spirit Division. To witness again the mountain veiled in seven-hued snow. To see the figure there, and hear the full measure of their words.

Yet, even he knew not how he had stumbled into that shrouded realm. He did not even know what that place was. A year of contemplation and trials led him to this day, as Ketu led his company away. Within Wang Lin’s mind, a flicker of understanding ignited. He thought he saw the world he once visited.