After the medicinal power restored his Primordial Spirit to its peak state, it still did not stop.
It began to seep deeper.
Toward his origin.
The origin was the most fundamental part of a cultivator's existence, the core that distinguished them from all others.
It was neither the physical body, nor holy power, nor the Primordial Spirit, but something more abstract, more essential.
Once one's cultivation reached the Quasi-Saint realm, the importance of one's origin surpassed everything else.
So long as the origin remained undying, even if both the physical body and Primordial Spirit were utterly destroyed, there would still be a chance of rebirth.
But once the origin was damaged, at best one's cultivation would regress; at worst, one's Dao foundation would collapse, condemning them to eternal damnation beyond redemption.
Ye Lin's origin was a sword.
A sword of pure silver-white, condensed from pure Sword Dao.
This sword hovered in the deepest reaches of his existence. Ancient rune-light flowed across its blade, its tip pointed toward the Endless Void, its Sword Intent cold and awe-inspiring, its sharpness fully bared.
He had never allowed anyone to touch his origin.
But now, the medicinal power had come.
Golden motes drifted into the domain of his origin, floating toward that silver-white sword.
A trace of nervousness flickered through Ye Lin's heart, but he did not stop them.
Because he could sense no malice within those golden motes—only a pure, ancient power.
The golden motes settled upon the silver-white blade, like golden leaves falling onto snow.
The blade trembled faintly and released a clear, melodious sword cry.
That sword cry was not a sound, but a thought. It felt comfortable.
Ye Lin froze for a moment.
His origin—that silver-white sword representing the foundation of his Sword Dao—was actually expressing an emotion like comfort?