Centuries had passed since the cataclysmic death of the old cultivation world. The land, once scarred by qi storms and matriarchal wars, had healed, reshaped into something alien and beautiful. New forms of life, vibrant and resilient, thrived in the raw, untamed qi that now permeated every corner of the realm. The crystal bloom, the massive, pulsating structure of condensed qi where Wushuang had sealed themselves, stood as a silent, ethereal monument, a living filter that continued to stabilize the world.
The memory of the old cultivation world, of sects and matriarchs, of spiritual hierarchies and rigid rules, had faded into myth. It was now whispered only in ancient tales, cautionary fables of a bygone era. Children were born with a natural affinity for qi, their bodies inherently adapted to its wild flow. Cultivation was no longer a secret art, but an instinct, a part of everyday life.
In this new world, a young woman named Mei Fanghua wandered. She was a direct descendant of Ling'er, carrying a faint, violet shimmer in her qi, a subtle echo of her ancestor's unique lineage. Fanghua was a scholar, a seeker of forgotten truths, drawn to the ancient ruins and the whispers of the past. She had heard the legends of the "Peerless Bloom Everlasting," of the god who had shattered the world to save it, but they were just stories, grand and incomprehensible.
One day, guided by an ancient, almost forgotten map passed down through her family, Fanghua found it. The crystal bloom. It pulsed with an ethereal light, a beacon of pure, harmonious qi in the desolate landscape. She approached it with reverence, feeling the profound stillness emanating from its heart.
As she drew closer, a consciousness stirred within the bloom, reaching out to her. It was not a voice, but a feeling, a profound sense of peace, of completion. It was the essence of Xu Jianyu, the original self, now fully integrated with Ling'er's spirit, a gentle, comforting presence within the vast spiritual network of the bloom.
Fanghua spent years at the foot of the crystal bloom, meditating, absorbing the harmonious qi, and listening to the silent echoes of the past. She learned of Xu Jianyu's torment, of Niánmei's rise, of Wushuang's vengeance, and of their ultimate sacrifice. She understood the lies that had birthed them, and the truth they had chosen to forge.
And then, she began to write. Not a history, but a philosophy. A guiding principle for this new world. She chronicled the journey of a soul fractured and remade, of a being who defied definition, who chose to break the world so it could truly bloom. She wrote of the dangers of rigid identities, of the necessity of choice, of the profound power found not in control, but in acceptance.
She called it "The Book of Blooming Names."
Her final inscription, scrawled on the last page, resonated with a quiet, profound wisdom: "This is not a tale of victory. It is a tale of choice. Wushuang chose to be whole. And in doing so, they showed us how to truly live, unbound by the names we are given, or the forms we are forced to wear."
The book was not a sacred text, but a living philosophy. It spread across the new world, its words resonating with the innate qi that now flowed through every child. The mythology of Wushuang took root, their story becoming a guiding principle for a new era, an era of fluidity, of acceptance, of endless possibility.