Young Master Duanmu stood rooted to the spot, his mind a blank.
He could not understand. He had only sought a path of cultivation—why had it brought him such cold disdain?
"For those who cultivate, struggling against Heaven is our very fate. What's wrong with wanting to break free from this mortal flesh?"
He steadied himself and voiced his unwilling challenge.
In that moment, all the obsequiousness had vanished from his face. In its place was a solitary courage that seemed ready to raise a sword and question Heaven, demanding an answer for the obsession in his heart.
"You do possess a trace of wisdom-root."
Cang Hao's expression did not change. He was unmoved by the retort and merely said calmly:
"Yet without longevity, one cannot struggle against fate, and without strength, one cannot struggle for supremacy. If you had not been born into an imperial family, but were instead an ordinary man scrambling merely to fill your belly, how would you have embarked upon the path of cultivation?"
His voice fell like the tolling of a bell in an Ancient Temple, each word striking straight at the heart.
"I..."
Young Master Duanmu opened his mouth, wanting to say something, only to find that everything sounded pale and feeble.
He looked towards the old farmers bent over their work in the distant fields and asked himself: They labored all their lives, but had they ever had a chance to touch the gate of cultivation?
No matter who came, they would probably have to answer: Face reality.
At that thought, he suddenly understood. In Cang Hao's eyes, he was no different from those old farmers. They had all been born in this barren and forsaken land. No matter how lofty their ambitions, they were ultimately trapped in the mortal world.
"But