Prologue

When Yang Qing finally wrapped himself in the final outer robe, a good few hours passed, much longer than he would ever dream of spending on simply wearing clothes. The weight of his clothing was only exceeded by the weight of the gold he had spent purchasing this luxurious robe, yet, by the end of it, he could not even wear it correctly. Looking into the mirror, he could not recognize himself. He looked more like a lopsided dumpling, with all its stuffing at the bottom and the top broken open with tattered strands of dough hanging every which way. His hair white, and tied into a makeshift knot, looked wrong and entirely inappropriate, perhaps the worst part of this charade.

Just as Yang Qing was considering to redo this costume, perhaps spend some extra time correcting his hair or remove a few layers of his robe, the giant wooden clock beside him struck twelve, each ring sinking his hopes further for improving his own appearance. Sure, he never really minded his appearance and a basic robe covering his body was more than good enough. After all, the cultivator code was clothes that covered the body was good enough, unless it was a fight, then some armor would do. However, his mother would dig herself out of her grave and come to haunt him if she ever learned that he refused the robe. She was a traditional woman and his father wore a robe with this exact design. So did his father's father.

He was out of time and his mother should be happy that he wore the robe, albeit incorrectly. He never did understand how his father and brothers could bear to wear such clothing, but, he sometimes wondered, if, perhaps, he was the last one standing precisely because he did not join the royal court and its customs. Yang Qing shook his head as he walked out of the room. He had to perish the thought, joking about the dead was by no means respectable.

Although he had the royal surname, Yang, he lived in his mother's branch, the Qing family, for he did not cultivate the Nine Sun Yang Emperor technique. As such, he would die not where his father and mother did, but at her mother's ancestral hall. The hall was long, three hundred yards from the dressing room to the inheritance room. Countless portraits of his ancestors, the most famous and greatest ones, hung, staring down onto him, their eyes heavy and more focused than the alchemy emperors that watched him concoct a batch of pills.

The dark hall was both saved and scared him - it hid his appearance but he could swear that ghosts loomed in the hall, trapped in the neverending row of portraits. Of course, he probably would not be on the first floor, it was packed full of ancestral portraits already. He was more fit for the third floor, the newest one, each one would be added every two or three centuries after all. His alchemy achievements warranted that at least.

At the end of the hall, his wife, Luo Xuemei, stood, smiling at him, looking even more beautiful than ever. He walked half a step faster, for running down the hall just would not do. He held her hand as soon as he could, squeezing it until his veins began to show, but even then he was too weakened to put much strength behind it. He was afraid. Afraid that she would going to disappear if he didn't grip tight enough. They had one foot in the grave and the other was soon to follow. His strength was fading, and only faster as time passed. Perhaps spending so much strength holding his wife's hand was a waste, since every bit he used here meant one less for his great-grandchild, but he couldn't help it.

Luo Xuemei squeezed his hand just as hard, if not harder than he did. Her hair was also white, tied into a bun. She had considerably fewer wrinkles, though he knew she must have hidden some behind make up, hiding them all would have been too disingenuous. Still, she looked considerably younger than he did. After all, her cultivation was an entire realm above him; while it did little to increase her longevity, it did increase her vitality and qi.

He looked into her eyes one last time. He saw all the years they spent together flash by: the first time he met her, she challenged him in the U-10 tournament; they never did crosspaths there, since he lost the match before and she completely destroyed his opponent in revenge right after. She not only never leave his side when he was deemed a waste, a cripple, for staying in the second realm for twelve years, but eventually marry him and give birth to two wonderful daughters to bring his spirits up. He remembered how distraught she got when her third pregnancy, a miscarriage, would prevent her from giving birth ever again. Yet, they stayed together, even to this day, happily married. Today would be their last day together, and alive for that matter.

They looked to the door before them. It was a wooden double door, leading to the inheritance room. His parents must have felt exactly like he did in this position. A sense of fulfillment and a tiny bit of fear. His father was an emperor once upon time, but he finally got to enter his final rest with his favorite concubine, Yang Qing's mother. His mother was lucky, as she should be. She was the kindest woman he had ever known - save his wife, two daughters and maybe a couple of granddaughters - and she had outlived all the other concubines and royal consorts, so she got to be the one to perform the ceremony with her beloved. He was old now and satisfied with everything he had accomplish, save his cultivation, but he had long come to terms with it.

Yang Qing could remember that day. His father's back was no longer straight, weighed by too heavily by all the deaths of his sons and daughters for him to carry. His father had lived his last years a bit melancholic, remaining stoic only as emperor and in royal settings, but that waned bit by bit after passing down the throne once, twice and three times. It took a toll on him, watching his children die decades before him. None of his sons who cultivated the royal technique were alive at that point, the throne taken by one of his many grandsons he couldn't quite care to remember. The fighting for that throne created a law where infighting for throne was no longer permitted, only the one with the greatest merits would assume the throne and his brothers would be his ministers to aid him.

His mother was luckier in that aspect, both Yang Qing and his sister, Qing Xuefeng, survived. Yang Qing had struggled with his cultivation and that saved his life while his sister decided singing, not government, was her true calling in life. His father had once opposed, but every now and again he would mention perhaps she was the wisest one of all his children.

Yang Qing could only imagined the relief in his father's mind that he would not have to watch any more descendants die before him when he walked into the inheritance room. His mother must have also been tired of the fighting, especially between the concubines, and was cherishing her final moments with her beloved as she stepped into the room.

And now, it was he turn. He was strangely calm. He always thought he would hate the voice of death calling him just a few steps away, the echo of its chilly voice growing louder and louder with each breath. But, he was satisfied. He had a loving wife and two wonderful daughters and a plethora of grandchildren, unique in many ways but all lovable. Yang Qing gave Luo Xuemei's squeezed hand one more time and looked into her eyes before he opened the door and walked in.

His two daughters, Qing Guiying and Qing Zhengya, and their spouses, Song Jian and Li He, had whitening hairs and had quite a few wrinkles themselves - after all, Qing Zhengya, the youngest of the four, was only eighteen years younger than himself. They sat behind their great-grandchildren, Qing Rouchen and Qing Tian, respectively, patting them on the shoulders a couple of times before standing up and hugging Yang Qing and Luo Xuemei.

Yang Qing hugged his son-in-laws, his apprentices, first while his wife hugged their daughters. He couldn't be more proud of his apprentices and he never needed any more, they accepted him as a teacher when he was still struggling in the same cultivation as them. Although unwilling at first, their thirst for knowledge and dedication for their craft quickly put those initial distrust and unwillingness to rest. He was satisfied with them and had passed down all everything he had. Then he hugged his daughters. He smiled. It was like they finally returned into his embrace after they left for their husbands all those years ago. Then the four of them left. He brushed a few of his tears away then looked at his great-grandchildren with greater fervor.

Qing Tian and Qing Rouchen each sat within a level six array made for their cultivation technique and the specific purpose of inheriting his and Luo Xuemei's last bit of cultivation. He sat in front of Qing Tian and took out a black pill from his robe - the pills Qing Tian and Qing Rouchen would consume were personally crafted by him. The black pill contained three drops of his blood that remained after he refined a cup of his blood a day for six months and mellowed it so Qing Tian, a five-and-a-half year old, could withstood it. Qing Tian himself spent the last six months cultivating so he could consume this pill; it would not only increase his potential, it would strengthen him by several realms, which was the main reason why all this preparation was needed.

The children spent nearly ten minutes calming down before ingesting the pill. Yang Qing concentrate at each moment, trying to find any potential flaw and eliminate it before it would grow. This opportunity only happened once every three to four generations, since it sent its donator to their deathbed.

Two hours later, they finished refining the layer of the pill, instantly jumping four layers to the peak of the first realm. Yang Qing took out a dark blue pill from his robe and shoved it into Qing Tian's mouth. Qing Tian's face turned a bit healthier, the red had calmed down a bit and his qi, which was near exhaustion, was restored a bit. A few minutes later, he broke through to the second realm and his cultivation began to rush to the third realm.

At the end of the inheritance ceremony, Qing Rouchen had reach the third layer of the fourth realm and Qing Tian reached the ninth layer, the peak, of the third realm. The two children quickly bowed before leaving Yang Qing and Luo Meixue in the room alone.

Luo Meixue laid within his arms, gently breathing. Her pulse was barely sensible. At least, he couldn't. He could hardly feel in his extremities, so he used his eyes to see her chest slowly rise and fall. Neither spoke, nor did they have to. They were alone in the room, but he would never trade these final moments with Luo Meixue with anything in the world. His father and mother must have felt the exact same too.

When she died, he spent his last breath kissing her forehead, smiling. It was at this moment when his qi started coursing through his meridians out of his control, smashing into in his upper dantian but it resisted. His spirit threshold holding his soul into his body was already fragile, showing its last bit of strength before his entire body finally calmed down after his death, but it held. All the remaining qi in his body gathered and prepared a second, stronger strike. The spirit threshold held for one second, two seconds, before ultimately collapsing. His spirit broke from his upper dantian and the remaining qi integrated into his spirit, allowing it to reach the seventh realm, emperor. The six elements he couldn't interact with while he was alive merged with his fire element spirit, forming the seven element harmony in the legends. When the final connection between his spirit and his body was severed, a sense of drowsiness overcame Yang Qing and he fell asleep.

Yang Qing's soul was unprotected as he slept, dispersing into the world and immersing itself into the qi, it flew short distances and allowed itself to be carried by the wind. It cared not for time nor place, only concerning itself for areas soaked with the seven elements of qi, briefly staying as it extracted its own fill and slowly hammering its own impurities away. It could not be sensed by others and no one hardly even noticed the amount of qi it took, for it took a bit in different places and it was possibly not the only one, for it could not sense the others but it would not be surprised if others existed.

The areas filled with any of the seven elements of qi were giant beacons, lighthouses, for Yang Qing's soul. It had no mind of its own, only instinct for strength and life. Its mind was sleeping - saving every bit of energy as it could for a journey with possibly no end within the foreseeable future.

Slowly, the years went by, with Yang Qing none the wiser. Mountains became valleys, empires fell, land arose from the sea, but his soul kept on moving, hungry for the seven elements. Although his soul could now sense the seven elements, it had no fuel nor source for the elements, only a frail template that threatened to break from hunger.

When his soul was finally satiated, another long process of sealing his soul was required. His old body had long since decayed, much like the empire he once called home. Both allies and enemies alike could not stand testament of time, their vestiges long forgotten. He needed a new body and his soul was surprisingly picky in this aspect, spending many years sealing itself while scouring the world to no end, then cycling back once more. Options once available had been born, renouncing their candidacy. But when the final seal was form, the soul found a calling and moved at its own at record speed.