The air inside the underground chamber of the Nameless Ruin had stilled, as if even time dared not intrude.

Xu Mo extended his hand, and in that moment, the Dao of Silence materialized—manifesting as a thick mass of greyish, lustrous liquid swirling on his palm. It hovered in the air, suspended like a weightless sphere, silent yet brimming with immense power.

For the nth time, Xu Mo questioned the great Dao.

'Why did you choose me?'

The sphere pulsed lightly in response, spinning ever so gently, though no voice answered him.

He probed it with his will, hoping—no, yearning—for answers. The constant headaches, the whispered fragments of memory, the indistinguishable blur between past and present… it all weighed down on him. At times, he felt suffocated to the point of madness. He'd often wondered if it would've been better to cripple his cultivation altogether… or to have never walked this path at all, remaining instead a quiet mortal in some forgotten village.

Something had changed inside him. Within his very veins, a new energy was wreaking havoc. He could feel it, gnawing at his vitality—not rapidly, but with an unrelenting slowness, as if he were being devoured from the inside out.

'Are you a Dao too?' Xu Mo asked inwardly, though deep in his heart, he already knew the answer. There was no need for confirmation.

'You've chosen the wrong person. Can you please leave?' His tone was polite, even reverent, as he shaped the words silently in his thoughts. He tried connecting his intent to the alien energy coursing through his body, as though hoping to reach an understanding.

'I'm just a villain,' he thought bitterly, eyes dim as he gazed at the Dao suspended above his hand. 'Someone who was supposed to die—or maybe still will. Something like you… or even you.'

He wasn't just addressing the sphere.

He was speaking to both presences—the Dao, and the cold, parasitic force leeching away at his life.

'I don't deserve this kind of fortune. What's the use of power if I can't protect the ones dear to me?'

The image of his adoptive parents, the memory of Su Wenqing's departure, and the silence that followed haunted him like shadows trailing his every step.

If gaining this so-called "fortune" required sacrificing his loved ones… then he wanted no part of it.

'System,' he asked with growing despair, 'is there any method stored in you that explains how to separate a Dao from one's body?'

Ding—

[Of course there is. But you would need to unlock the store and accumulate enough points to afford it.]

Xu Mo sighed, a deep and heavy exhale that echoed in the chamber.

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'I want to throw you away too…' he muttered internally.

—Well done.

Huh?!

The words echoed in his mind—clear, sudden, and strange. But what startled him more wasn't the voice itself, but the fact that… he could understand it.

It felt distant, like something traveling through the folds of time and space, distorted yet familiar. There was no face, no identity—just a lingering presence that spoke through silence itself.

The sphere on his palm began to spin wildly.

Xu Mo's body tensed. Alarm bells rang in his head.

—You have passed the first test.

The voice came again, cold and clear.

Before Xu Mo could process it further, the energy within him—this foreign force, not spiritual in nature but something deeper—suddenly surged. The Dao of Silence was being drawn into the sphere, its essence flowing inward in thin, silken streams of light. And the sphere grew larger, denser, brighter.

Xu Mo gasped as he felt his vitality begin to recover, rapidly and with startling intensity. His skin, once pale and cracked from strain, began to smooth and stretch. Flesh regenerated. The aches in his bones faded.

He looked across the chamber—Su Wenqing was still seated in meditation, her slender hands weaving arcs in the air, tracing patterns he could not decipher.

He clenched his fists. He couldn't let her be harmed.

With great effort, he suppressed the surge in his cultivation. He bit back the urge to break through.

Spit—

Blood filled his mouth. He turned and stumbled, climbing halfway up the circular staircase that spiraled along the chamber wall. It hurt, but he couldn't stay down there. Not when she might be caught in the backlash.

The sphere vanished, absorbed into his body—but not as before. This time, something remained.

"Loneliness." That was its form now.

It had taken the shape of a perfect sphere and rotated silently beside his dantian, its presence profound and unnerving.

Xu Mo's breath hitched. His limbs trembled.

He fumbled into his storage pouch, pulled out a soft towel he had brought with him, and bit down on it—hard. He needed to brace himself. The pain was coming.

And then, it began.

A searing current ran through his veins—cold, not hot. Like shards of ice scraping across his soul. His bones creaked, twisted, warped like ancient timber under stress, cracking before snapping back into place with terrifying finality. Muscles coiled like taut bowstrings pushed beyond their limit, tearing and knitting again—tighter, stronger, more refined.

His skin crawled with sensation. Deep inside, tendons reshaped. Ligaments stretched thin and then snapped into perfect alignment, like a craftsman carving a sculpture from within.

Even his marrow burned—hollowed, forged anew. Each organ twisted in silent agony, reformed into vessels not only for qi, but for something more profound: the essence of silence itself.

His body convulsed, wracked with unbearable pain. Yet not a single sound escaped his lips. He clenched his jaw. His face had turned deathly pale, but his eyes remained sharp, unwavering.

The pain didn't flare like fire. It lingered—cold, calculated. There was no gentleness in it. Only necessity.

His transformation was thorough. His appearance now reflected youth, yet tinged with something ethereal—an unsettling serenity.

But the parasitic force remained.

It still gnawed at him, slowly—like a snail crawling toward his core.

His breath was shallow. Sweat soaked his robes, forming a dark sheen along his back and forehead.

"I asked why you chose me… and you answer by making me stronger?" he whispered to himself, his voice hoarse and ragged, barely audible.

There was no answer.

He reached into his storage again and retrieved the robe of an Outer Sect disciple. His True Successor robes—crafted from rare materials—had been torn and ruined during this single day of chaos.

As he dressed, the towel fell from his mouth, stained with blood. But the blood was no longer fresh. It had thickened and darkened—the worst was behind him.

His body was already regenerating new blood, pulsing with silent life.

Xu Mo looked down at his hands.

They didn't tremble.

He had not conquered the Dao, nor had he been accepted.

But something had changed.

The Dao of Silence had marked him, sculpted him, acknowledged him.

And in turn, he had survived.

Now, all that remained was to understand what it meant.

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