The next day, when daylight slipped gently between the trees and spilled across the clearing, Shen An was already awake.

  He had been awake long before the first bird dared to sing.

  Dawn did not arrive with thunder or omen. It came quietly — a slow brightening of the eastern sky, a soft unraveling of shadows, a breath of pale gold touching bark and stone.

  Shen An sat beneath the old cedar behind the ruined estate, legs crossed, spine straight as a spear.

  The world around him was still.

  Not empty.

  Just… respectful.

  His breathing flowed in long, even cycles. Each inhale sank deep into the marrow of his bones. Each exhale carried a faint warmth that lingered in the air for a heartbeat before dissolving.

  There was no qi spiraling around him.

  No radiance.

  No visible phenomenon.

  Yet the ground beneath him held a faint pressure, as if something immensely heavy had chosen to rest there lightly.

  He slowly opened his eyes.

  For a moment, he did not move.

  His Spiritual Pulse extended outward naturally, like a ripple spreading across calm water. It touched the nearby trees, brushed against dew-wet grass, skimmed the edge of the small stream not far from the clearing.

  No hostility.

  No hidden presence.

  No fluctuation beyond the ordinary.

  He exhaled softly.

  “Still alive,” he murmured.

  The cracked white bowl resting on a flat stone nearby did not respond.

  It rarely spoke during his morning meditation.

  Shen An rose smoothly to his feet. His body carried no stiffness. Two years of relentless refinement had stripped unnecessary weakness from his muscles. When he moved, it was economical. When he stood, it was balanced.

  He walked toward the small makeshift cooking area he had built beside the clearing.

  It was simple.

  Three stones arranged in a triangle to hold a pot.

  A few pieces of dry wood stacked neatly nearby.

  A flat slab of granite that served as both cutting surface and dining table.

  Shen An crouched and began to prepare breakfast.

  There was no rush in his movements.

  He washed a handful of wild greens in the stream. He sliced thin strips of dried beast meat with a short blade. He poured water into a worn iron pot and set it over flame.

  Soon, the faint scent of simmering broth drifted through the trees.

  The forest did not mind.

  He worked in silence for a while, occasionally adjusting the fire, occasionally stirring.

  When the porridge thickened and the meat softened, he removed the pot and set it upon the large flat stone that served as his table.

  He glanced toward the bowl.

  “You’re far away,” he said casually.

  A faint vibration traveled through the cracked porcelain.

  “I was contemplating something profound,” the bowl replied in a small voice.

  “Mm.”

  Shen An did not press further.

  He walked over, lifted the bowl gently with one hand, and carried her to the stone table. He placed her opposite his seat, almost like a guest.

  “There,” he said. “You should at least look at food, even if you can’t eat.”

  The bowl made a soft sound that might have been a huff.

  “I can appreciate aroma.”

  “That’s unfortunate.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I cook well.”

  “…Arrogant mortal.”

  He snorted lightly and began to eat.

  For a while, there was only the sound of spoon against clay and the soft crackle of dying embers.

  Then, without looking up, Shen An said, “Tell me something.”

  The bowl shifted slightly.

  “That depends. If you’re asking whether you’ve become handsome, I can lie for encouragement.”

  He paused mid-bite.

  “Do I look like I need encouragement?”

  “Everyone needs encouragement,” she replied immediately. “Especially men who train until their shoulders resemble siege weapons.”

  He glanced down at himself, then resumed eating.

  They lapsed into a strangely comfortable rhythm.

  After a few more mouthfuls, Shen An said, “Tell me about your past life.”

  The forest seemed to lean closer.

  The bowl did not answer at once.

  Shen An waited.

  He did not press. He simply continued eating, patient as stone.

  Finally, she spoke.

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  “…You choose light mornings for heavy questions.”

  He shrugged faintly. “You said you were once a cultivator who pursued the Dao of Karma. That is not a small claim.”

  “No,” she admitted softly. “It isn’t.”

  There was a pause.

  When she spoke again, her tone had shifted. Less playful. Less sharp.

  “I was not born extraordinary,” she began. “I came from a mid-tier sect. Not weak, not famous. The kind of sect that survives by avoiding conflict.”

  Shen An listened without interruption.

  “I was talented,” she continued. “Not monstrously so. But enough that elders praised me. Enough that juniors envied me. Enough that I believed praise meant destiny.”

  A faint bitterness edged her voice.

  “I pursued karma because I was curious. While others chased sword intent or flame techniques, I was fascinated by cause and consequence. Why one person prospers while another suffers. Why fortune clings to some and abandons others.”

  “You tried to control it?” Shen An asked.

  “I tried to understand it,” she corrected quietly. “Controlling it came later.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “I advanced steadily,” she went on. “Foundation. Golden Core. Nascent Soul. I wasn’t the fastest, but I was relentless.”

  Her voice grew distant, as if she were watching herself from far away.

  “Eventually, I discovered fragments of an ancient scripture. Not complete. Not even intact. Just scattered lines hinting that karma could be severed.”

  Shen An’s spoon slowed.

  “Severed?”

  “Yes.”

  She paused.

  “And I was foolish enough to try.”

  He set the bowl of porridge down.

  “What happened?”

  “I succeeded.”

  The words were simple.

  But the air seemed to tighten.

  “I severed a karmic thread that should not have been touched. It was not mine. It belonged to something… older.”

  The forest wind stirred.

  “And?” Shen An asked quietly.

  “And Heaven noticed.”

  Silence stretched between them.

  “I was struck down,” she said at last. “Not by a person. Not by a sect. By inevitability.”

  She let out a soft, almost embarrassed laugh.

  “I thought I was clever. I thought I stood above causality. Instead, I became an example.”

  Shen An studied the cracked lines along her surface.

  “Yet you survived.”

  “Fragments survived,” she corrected. “My body was destroyed. My soul scattered. Only a shard clung to this vessel.”

  He absorbed that without comment.

  After a moment, he said, “Do you regret it?”

  She was quiet for a long time.

  “…No.”

  His eyes flicked up slightly.

  “I regret my arrogance,” she continued. “I regret believing I was untouchable. But I do not regret seeking understanding.”

  He nodded once.

  “That is enough.”

  The heaviness lingered only briefly.

  Then Shen An resumed eating.

  A few bites later, he finished.

  He wiped his hands on a cloth, then looked at the bowl thoughtfully.

  “You’ve been staring at my wrist for the past minute.”

  The bowl made a faint choking sound.

  “I have not.”

  “You have.”

  “…Perhaps I was admiring your vascular integrity.”

  He didn’t respond.

  Instead, without ceremony, Shen An lifted the short blade from the stone table.

  The bowl vibrated.

  “What are you doing?”

  He did not answer.

  He turned his left wrist upward.

  With a smooth, controlled motion — precise, not reckless — he drew the blade across his skin.

  It was not deep enough to cripple.

  Not shallow enough to be symbolic.

  A clean line opened.

  Dark red welled instantly.

  The metallic scent of blood bloomed in the morning air.

  Shen An lifted his wrist over the bowl.

  Blood fell in steady drops.

  The bowl trembled.

  “Master—!”

  The blood struck porcelain with soft taps.

  He held it there calmly, watching the crimson pool gather inside her cracked interior.

  It did not spill.

  It seemed almost absorbed.

  The scent grew warmer.

  Richer.

  After several moments, the bowl’s small voice emerged, softer now.

  “…Master.”

  He tilted his head slightly.

  “Yes?”

  “I truly like your blood.”

  The words came out almost shyly.

  “It carries intense yang vitality. It is… vibrant.”

  He stared at her.

  “That is the strangest compliment I have ever received.”

  She made a tiny sound that might have been laughter.

  “It is not a compliment. It is an observation.”

  He withdrew his wrist and pressed a cloth against the cut. The bleeding slowed quickly under the pressure of refined flesh.

  “Will that suffice?” he asked.

  “For now,” she replied, almost contentedly.

  He wrapped his wrist loosely.

  They sat like that for a while — a young man and a blood-filled bowl in a quiet forest.

  Then Shen An stood.

  He gathered the cooking utensils, rinsed them at the stream, extinguished the remaining embers.

  He returned, picked up the bowl, and began walking toward the shallow cave that had served as his shelter for two years.

  At the entrance, he paused.

  The light inside was dim compared to the forest.

  He stepped in.

  Then stopped.

  He turned around slowly.

  The bowl sensed something shift.

  His expression was no longer casual.

  “Before we leave,” Shen An said evenly, “I must ask you something very important.”

  The bowl felt something inside her… stutter.

  “Important?” she echoed lightly.

  “Yes.”

  He looked down at her.

  “I need to confirm that you are what you claim to be.”

  Her internal world froze.

  I am finished.

  The thought arrived cold and immediate.

  Does he know?

  Has he sensed the seal?

  Has he perceived the dormant presence?

  The Devourer—

  Her consciousness trembled.

  Shen An continued calmly.

  “If what we are about to do places my life at risk, then I must be certain that the benefit is real.”

  The bowl’s mind raced wildly.

  What does he know?

  What did I reveal?

  Where did I slip?

  Aloud, she stammered, “M-Master… you must believe your little and extremely harmless bowl.”

  Her tone rose into a soft, urgent plea.

  “I have only ever sought your well-being.”

  Shen An’s gaze did not soften.

  “Have you ever lied to me?”

  The forest outside was quiet.

  The air inside the cave felt heavy.

  “Of course not!” she blurted. “Never. Not in this life. Not to you.”

  He did not answer.

  He simply looked at her.

  And he kept looking.

  His silence was not ordinary silence.

  It was ancient.

  It was the kind of stillness described in forgotten scrolls:

  As if a mountain regarded a river and waited to see whether it would change course.

  One breath.

  Two breaths.

  Five minutes passed.

  The cave felt smaller.

  Finally, Shen An spoke again.

  “What about in your past life?”

  The question struck like a hidden arrow.

  The bowl hiccupped audibly.

  “O-Of course I lied,” she admitted instinctively. “I was practically the Queen of Deceit—”

  She froze.

  Her consciousness screamed.

  No. No no no.

  “But not to you!” she hurried on frantically. “Past life is past life. In this life, I shall be upright, pure, and morally radiant. A refined jade-white bowl of integrity.”

  Shen An’s expression did not change.

  “When I asked about my cultivation yesterday,” he said slowly, “why did you give me two different names?”

  Her mind went blank.

  He continued.

  “The first time we met, you told me the skill was called the Heaven-Defying Mortal Ascension Canon.”

  She trembled.

  “Yesterday, you said it was the Coreless Immortal Resonance Art.”

  He lowered his voice slightly.

  “Which one is it?”

  Inside her consciousness:

  Damn this mouth of mine.

  Why did I invent something grand and believable?

  Why did I not remain silent?

  Why did he remember?

  Aloud, she forced her tone into something dignified, almost embarrassed.

  “Master… at that time, my memory was fragmented. I did not recall the precise name. Thus… I improvised.”

  Her voice grew louder.

  “But the skill itself is absolutely authentic!”

  Shen An’s eyes cooled.

  “And the Coreless Immortal Resonance Art?”

  She stammered.

  “It is not that I— it is… that…”

  No words came.

  Her mind was empty.

  His expression darkened slightly.

  “In that case,” he said calmly, “let us end our bond here. I will leave you in this cave. You may attempt to survive alone.”

  The bowl shrieked.

  “No! Master, do not abandon me!”

  Her voice dropped instantly into a ridiculously cute tone.

  “Okaaaay, Master. I confess. But please, after I speak… do not laugh.”

  Shen An blinked faintly.

  “Why would I laugh?”

  The bowl hesitated.

  Then said in a small, resigned voice:

  “Because the actual name of the skill… is ‘Trash Mortal Skill.’”

  Silence.

  Shen An stared at her.

  She hurried on.

  “When I obtained the jade slip in the Forbidden Realm, the engraving upon it read exactly that. ‘Trash Mortal Skill.’ Everyone knew I acquired the final inheritance. If they asked the name and I answered honestly… I would have been mocked into spiritual collapse.”

  His face twitched.

  He looked as though he was deciding between laughter and despair.

  “Trash… Mortal Skill?” he repeated slowly.

  “Yes.”

  “Why would anyone name a cultivation method that?”

  “Because,” she said, her tone shifting subtly, “its creator was the Heaven-Piercing Mortal Sovereign — the Immortal who cultivated flesh beyond divinity.”

  The cave seemed to grow colder.

  “He once said,” she continued quietly, “‘All divine techniques rely on Heaven’s breath. I shall forge a path that Heaven cannot touch.’”

  Her voice dropped to a whisper.

  “Saw Buddha, kill Buddha. Saw God, kill God. Saw Demon, kill Demon.”

  Shen An’s confusion deepened.

  “He named it Trash Mortal Skill,” she said softly, “to mock those who scorned the mortal body.”

  He put a hand to his forehead.

  “A talking bowl.”

  “A bowl that assigns me destiny.”

  “A bowl that requires a body.”

  “And now a supreme inheritance named Trash.”

  He looked up at the cave ceiling.

  “What is wrong with this world?”

  The bowl made a small, indignant sound.

  “The world is fine,” she said primly. “It is merely… dramatic.”

  He stared at her.

  Then, despite himself, a faint breath escaped his nose.

  Not quite laughter.

  Not quite surrender.

  Outside, the forest light shifted.

  And somewhere deep beneath the white jade porcelain, something ancient stirred — listening.