Chapter 10: The Unity of Essence, Energy, and Spirit
Hougong stumbled backward in surprise, trying to avoid the bookshelf collapsing toward him. The shelves fell far too quickly.
‘Damn it!’
His body couldn’t evade the collapsing structure in time.
He crouched to minimize the impact.
At that moment, something miraculous happened.
The cascading books and shelves shattered into fragments of light, passing through his body before dissolving upon hitting the floor.
‘An illusion.’
Crash!
Another collapse followed. When Hougong looked up, the ceiling crumbled toward him. This time, he didn’t flinch. He stared blankly at the debris.
The wreckage scattered into glowing shards just like the bookshelf had. The same phenomenon then occurred with the floor beneath his feet, cracking and splintering like glass.
In an instant, the scenery transformed.
Hougong no longer stood in the study. Endless white snow stretched in all directions.
Thick snowflakes drifted down slowly. A biting coldness seeped into his bones—so vivid it felt real. His feet sank ankle-deep into the snow.
“Ah,” Hougong exhaled, surveying the winter landscape. “So this is winter.”
The book titled Winter had activated an illusionary formation. The Winter Mirage. A realm indistinguishable from reality, save for the spectral book floating before him.
Each step produced an audible crunch as Hougong walked. Snow blossoms clung to distant mountains and trees. Upon crossing a small hill, he encountered three snowmen.
A child snowman stood at the center, flanked by two larger ones. Branches connected them like hands—parents holding their child. The adults’ pebble eyes seemed to smile toward the smaller figure.
‘Beomhang,’ Hougong thought. ‘With his parents.’
For a moment, the frozen family radiated happiness.
“Huh…?”
Dizziness struck as Hougong focused on the motherly snowman. His vision blurred, the figure appearing to retreat—or was he being dragged backward? Before he could discern, light exploded before him.
Whoosh—
When he reopened his eyes, he stood in the western garden of Cheonhwa Seogo. Still trapped in illusions.
A plum tree towered before him, defiantly blooming alongside snow-laden branches. Wind scattered petals into a dance with the falling snow. The cold breeze against his cheek felt startlingly real.
No snowmen here. Instead, three human figures emerged: Beomhang and his parents. Hougong approached.
The mother sat slumped in a chair, her husband clutching her skeletal hand. Her pallid skin clung to sharp bones, hair thin but meticulously combed. Sunken eyes cast deep shadows—a woman clinging to her final breaths.
“Seeing…the plums bloom…with you…” Her voice frayed like worn thread. “Spring…will come soon…yes?”
Her husband forced a tender smile. “We’ll see them in full bloom when spring arrives, my wife.”
“Yes…”
Her trembling hand reached for young Beomhang. A single plum petal drifted onto the boy’s wrist.
“My son…I love you.”
Her touch stilled.
Hougong watched, yet somehow felt the coldness spreading through Beomhang’s body as the woman’s warmth faded. The boy’s tears blurred his vision. He scrubbed at his eyes with sleeves, but his mother’s face remained indistinct—a smeared watercolor. When renewed sobs erupted, they carried the despair of losing spring itself.
Whoosh—
The scenery twisted like a whirlwind, reforming into a room within Cheonhwa Seogo. Ten days after the mother’s passing.
An elderly man—the family patriarch—sat listlessly before a desk where an even older man lay deceased. The corpse’s hair had whitened overnight, skin marbled with death spots called ‘flowers of the underworld.’
‘Beomhang’s father.’
Grief had aged him decades in days. Clutching a brush, he’d died painting plum blossoms on parchment. Beneath them, a message lingered:
Beomhang…Forgive me.
“Aaaaaaah!” The patriarch wailed. Mourning both daughter-in-law and son within ten days.
Beomhang stood behind him, one corner of his mouth quirked upward. Empty eyes.
Four figures burst into the study: Uncle Beomgang, his wife, Yun, and Mumong.
Beomhang greeted them with radiant innocence. Mumong blinked in confusion, but Yun recoiled, trembling at the smile that didn’t belong on a boy who’d lost both parents.
Light detonated in Hougong’s mind.
The world fragmented. White brilliance flooded his vision as memories surged—Beomhang’s memories. Scenes and voices flickered like a storm: joy, grief, terror, epiphanies. A lifetime’s experiences poured into him, unbound by order.
“Young Master!”
Hougong blinked. Reality reasserted itself—the study, Songhwa before him clutching the Winter book, face pale with tear-streaked fear.
He understood. She’d panicked when he entered the formation’s secret realm, fearing his original memories might resurface.
“Songhwa,” he said mildly. “What’s this? Crying?”
“N-No! I just…yawned!” She forced a theatrical yawn, rubbing her eyes.
‘How transparent.’
He clicked his tongue. “Tsk. A grown girl yawning like a bear? Pretty face, but no grace.”
“My apologies.” Yet relief brightened her features.
“Young Master…you’re truly unharmed?”
“I walked a snowy field via the formation. Nothing more.”
“But…your memories…”
“What? Returning?” Hougong clutched his head suddenly, groaning. “Agh—my head—Songhwa!”
“Young Master?!”
He straightened instantly, grinning. “Well? If my memories returned, wouldn’t it happen like that?”
Songhwa gaped, expression caught between affront and disbelief.
“That look—what is it?”
“You—! Do you enjoy terrifying me? My lifespan shortens every time!”
“My apologies.” Chuckling, Hougong headed to his chambers.
Each step felt weightless. Though he’d expected agony from absorbing Beomhang’s memories, only tranquility flowed through him. Ripples spread where his feet met the ground—an illusion, yet not.
“Rest well, Young Master.”
He couldn’t reply. His body sank into the bed as if submerging in deep waters. Could he still breathe?
Dawn found Hougong awake, refreshed despite scant sleep. His mind clear, body light as air.
‘It’s done.’
The memory transference had unified essence, energy, and spirit. Soul and flesh harmonized at last.
This new body—once ill-fitting—now merged seamlessly with his consciousness. His profound enlightenment permeated every cell, unlocking energy channels and dantian. Cultivation methods rooted in mental mastery found fertile ground here.
Reaching his former pinnacle would take five years, ten at most. With rare herbs and spiritual treasures, faster.
In this regard, Cheonhwa Seogo—still wealthy despite its decline—was ideal.
