Li Qingyun sat cross-legged atop that cloud mass, at once real and illusory.
In an instant, an inexplicable ripple spread through his will, making him feel as though, at this moment, he had faintly connected with Primordial spacetime.
That strange, contradictory sensation of ancient and present seeming connected yet unconnected immediately drew him into a daze.
In that daze, he entered a state of "sitting in oblivion."
He had no sense at all of time passing.
He seemed to become that ancient figure with its back turned, sitting here in desolation through untold ages. Spacetime shifted, eternity turned to ash, yet he regarded all things with indifference, unmoved by the countless changes of calamities rising and falling.
A saint's single thought was a mayfly's entire life.
Li Qingyun had been too bold—or rather, nearly reckless. The moment he sat down, he fell into a predicament of spacetime.
This point of cloud mass flickered endlessly between Primordial and the beginning of time. One thought found him in Primordial, and the next moment he was in the beginning of time.
These countless instantaneous transformations of spacetime were not something an ordinary quasi-saint could endure!
Yet Li Qingyun was trapped in this strange and dangerous state, unable to extricate himself.
From afar, he looked like a piece of dead wood, sitting motionless at the cliff's edge, facing the gray cloud-sea. No sound came from him, no breath stirred—he was like a corpse.
Only moments had passed, yet his black hair had already turned frost-white, then withered like wild grass.
The Qingyi condensed from saintly essence around him rapidly faded, grew old, and finally rotted away, scattering in the wind at the cliff's edge like shattered butterflies.
An air of age began to diffuse from his body.
There was no concept of time within