The sutra was uttered in the vastness.
A whisper that cut like thunder.
Xie Wuchen stood above the kneeling form of Lan, his arms outstretched, robes fluttering as if caught in the breath of a storm that did not exist. His voice, dark and cold and absolute, echoed through the depths of the spiritual sea.
"From rot, the lotus blooms.
From fracture, the vessel awakens.
From the death of self—transcendence."
The words seared into the fabric of Lan's being. They were more than chants, they were verdicts even. Every syllable painted pain into the sky. The ocean of his soul responded—boiling, thrashing.
From the black waves, lotuses of shadow bloomed and crumbled in seconds. Their petals screamed as they burned. The horizon twisted.
Lightning split the air in jagged silence, striking the sea and splitting it open in luminous cracks. Each bolt was a memory. Each crack, a fracture in sanity.
