Xie Xuanwei's brows knitted tighter and tighter.
He instinctively wanted to answer, "The waking one is real; the dreaming one is an illusion."
But the words stopped at his lips. If the waking one was real, how could the butterfly in the dream know the joy of flight?
If the dreaming one was an illusion, did the surprise and freedom, fear and bewilderment born within the dream not count as experiences of the mind?
But what was the mind? Was it the Daoist's mind or the butterfly's?
If everything was a manifestation of the mind, could his standing on this long street in the Imperial Capital also be called a dream within his mind?
The ancient sword on Xie Xuanwei's back trembled faintly. His Sword Heart was stirring.
On either side of the long street, several old Daoists hidden among the crowd grew extremely solemn.
An old, white-browed cultivator in gray robes murmured, "A Butterfly-Dream Daoist, a Daoist Dreams of a Butterfly... This way of questioning is practically a supreme Daoist cultivation art."
A middle-aged Daoist beside him frowned. "Have you heard of it?"
The old cultivator shook his head. "Our Jade Clarity Daoist Sect has no relevant records. It seems this fiend truly does possess something extraordinary. He must not be underestimated. Now I really want to know what follows this question."
Up in a tavern, a young female cultivator who had initially only been watching the spectacle now said quietly:
"When I was little, I dreamed I became a white bird, too, and cried after waking up. If we ask it his way, was I myself then, or was I a white bird?"
No one answered her, because many people were now asking themselves the same thing.
Qing Chen stood in the middle of the long street, his