Spiritual Energy Anomaly

Chapter 27: Spiritual Energy Anomaly

Time flowed quietly in the peace of the Safe Zone. Spring blossoms and autumn harvests—the seasons changed across this Primordial land according to a set of rules that seemed entirely different, far more grand in scale. But for Chen An, the concept of days was gradually blurring, replaced by a rhythm tightly bound to the land, to survival, and to his inner world. His life had entered a fragile balance: the vegetables in his garden, nourished by the Primordial World's spiritual energy, grew ever more lush, their crystalline emerald green seeming to freeze the radiance of life itself; the pottery kiln, though crude, produced vessels sufficient for his basic needs; the invisible barrier of the Safe Zone breathed as naturally as his own lungs, sealing off the dangers outside.

In this hard-won stability, spiritual needs grew more prominent. Chen An picked up a habit he'd had before crossing over—reading. The Tao Te Ching that had accompanied him through time and space had a worn cover, its pages carrying the scent of dried grass, yet it remained the most important anchor for his spiritual world. Whenever he finished his work, as night fell or dawn's first light crept in, he would sit before his crude "desk" made of tree trunks and animal hide, and by the dying embers of the hearth or the faint morning glow, immerse himself in those profound, ancient words.

That day, the weather was clear, sunlight filtering through sparse clouds to cast dappled shadows. Chen An had just finished watering his vegetable patch, breathing in the fragrance of damp soil and watching the crystal dewdrops roll off the leaves, his heart filled with peace and serenity. He walked back inside and lit a small pile of dry wood—not for warmth, but to dispel the slight stuffiness in the room. The flames danced, reflecting off his focused face.

He opened the Tao Te Ching, his gaze falling on the opening lines, those words passed down through millennia. This time, perhaps because of his state of mind, or perhaps because day after day of recitation had given him new insight into the deeper meanings behind the words, he decided to read aloud, letting the ancient wisdom flow between his lips and teeth, resonating with the silence of heaven and earth.

"The Tao that can be spoken is not the eternal Tao; the name that can be named is not the eternal name..."

His voice was not loud, carrying a hint of hoarseness, yet it was exceptionally clear and steady. Each word seemed to contain immense weight, yet also felt like a gentle breeze brushing the face, naturally merging into the air of the small courtyard. He read slowly, earnestly, trying to grasp the true meaning of the "Tao" that transcended the limits of language.

At first, everything was as usual. The vegetables in the yard stretched quietly in the sunlight, the Safe Zone's barrier hummed silently, and the distant roars of Demonic Beasts were like a far-off background noise. But then, as his voice touched the core opening lines—"The Tao that can be spoken is not the eternal Tao; the name that can be named is not the eternal name"—an extremely subtle yet undeniably real change quietly took place.

Chen An didn't notice it immediately. He was still immersed in his recitation. But just then, he felt the space around him... twist slightly? Not a visual distortion, but a more indescribable "sensation." As if the originally stable, flowing air had developed an extremely tiny, almost imperceptible "node" or "vortex." The surrounding temperature seemed unchanged, but the texture of the air felt different—denser, or perhaps more ethereal?

He instinctively stopped reading, frowned slightly, and looked around. The yard was empty, the vegetables were still there, the stone house was still there. Was it his imagination? An illusion from excessive focus?

Yet that peculiar "sensation" hadn't completely disappeared. He looked again at the center of the yard, above the packed earth. Was there a faint, barely visible wisp of pale green light that flickered and vanished, almost blending with the light itself? Or perhaps it was more like the air itself had formed an extremely tiny, slowly rotating ripple, barely discernible to the naked eye?

He couldn't be sure. This change was too faint, too brief, as if it were merely an unintentional breath of heaven and earth. He shook his head, thinking he was being too sensitive, projecting his mental focus onto his perception of the environment. He took a deep breath, turned his gaze back to the page, and continued reading: "The nameless is the beginning of heaven and earth; the named is the mother of all things..."

But at that same moment, far away, atop a solitary peak that pierced the clouds, untouched by human feet.

Mist swirled, fierce winds howled. A figure sat cross-legged on a protruding boulder, seeming to merge with the entire mountain. He (or she—their form and gender were beyond knowing) had closed eyes, radiating an indescribable aura, as steady and profound as an abyss or a towering peak. Their consciousness was not asleep, but spread out in a way that transcended the mundane, perceiving every detail of this vast Primordial World. The birth and death of billions of Living beings, the changes of mountains and rivers, the flow of heaven and earth's spiritual energy—all lay within their boundless perception.

Their consciousness was like a vast, precise radar, sweeping across endless void. Most of the time, what they perceived was merely the tides of energy, the pulse of life, and the cold operation of the world's laws. But at this moment, as their vast, star-ocean-like spiritual perception inadvertently swept over the small Safe Zone where Chen An was located, an extremely abnormal, discordant "ripple" was detected.

It was not the roar of a Demonic Beast, not the thunder of heaven and earth, nor the eruption of any known energy form. It was... a conceptual disturbance! A subtle interference with the local energy field of reality, purely triggered by a spiritual "utterance"!

In their perception, the small courtyard where Chen An was had originally been a chaotic "blind spot," wrapped in some kind of rule-based force field. But in that instant, within that "blind spot," the recitation of those lines from the Tao Te Ching had produced a tiny yet exceptionally clear "ripple," like a drop of ink falling into clear water. This ripple was not a change in energy intensity, but an imprint of "meaning," an attempt at "definition." It was so abrupt, so contrary to reason, yet it contained a power of Returning to Simplicity, pointing straight to the source.

"Hm?"

An extremely faint, extremely light question—barely a ripple in the spiritual realm—rose from the depths of this ancient being's heart. Their consciousness instantly focused on that small Safe Zone. What was it? Someone reciting? And actually stirring the dormant rule-force of this place, producing such a peculiar resonance?

But this flicker of surprise vanished as quickly as a pebble thrown into the sea. They merely glanced at it casually, not delving deeper. For an existence capable of overlooking billions of stars and perceiving the cycles of heaven and earth, such a trivial, incidental spiritual disturbance might not even qualify as "interesting," let alone be worth the effort to investigate. That strange ripple soon dissipated into the vast ocean of energy between heaven and earth, as if it had never existed.

Atop the solitary peak, the figure remained still, as if nothing had happened.

In the small courtyard, Chen An had finished reading that passage. Lost in thought, he closed the book and looked out the window again. That peculiar "sensation" had long since disappeared, and the yard had returned to its usual tranquility. The vegetables swayed gently in the breeze, everything so natural and ordinary.

He didn't know that just moments ago, his seemingly ordinary recitation had been like a tiny pebble thrown into a calm lake—not only stirring ripples in his own heart, but also, in the distant heavens, catching the momentary attention and curiosity of an ancient being.

This insignificant "Spiritual Energy Anomaly," this "light hum" heard by no one, was like an invisible thread, quietly connecting two completely different worlds, planting a seed of the unknown and the unpredictable that might one day take root and grow.

Chen An stood up, stretched, and walked into the yard, feeling the solid earth beneath his feet and the fresh spiritual energy in the air. He felt that today's recitation had deepened his understanding of the "Tao" by a fraction. He had no idea that he had become a brief, peculiar "bright spot" in the field of vision of a distant existence.

The Primordial World remained as it was. The sun rose, the moon set. The trajectory of life seemed unchanged by this moment's disturbance, but the loom of fate had already, in the finest detail, quietly plucked a single thread.

(End of Chapter 27)