Lan remained unmoving in the sealed chamber, knees to stone, eyes closed. The air hung heavy around him, thick with the scent of incense and the faint tang of spirit medicine still lingering on his breath.
His body did not move, but within—the storm raged.
In his mind's eye, the world was vast, endless, and black.
The mirror-sea now stretched longer across the horizon, smooth as obsidian and twice as dark.
This was his true inner world, the Black Foundation—the cursed but resilient root upon which he had rebuilt his path.
Xie stood beside him again, robe flowing like drifting smoke, his hands clasped behind his back. He gazed out over the still sea with a thoughtful, unreadable expression.
"You've come far," Wuchen murmured, his voice cutting through the silence like a chime in mist. "Most cultivators would spend decades merely stabilizing such a chaotic foundation. But you—" he glanced at Lan, "you've already shaped it. Made it obey, for a time."