I gain ten years' worth of cultivation every day, and even geniuses will only see my doorstep!

A mirror world. The sky is black, but there are no stars. It's as black as ink spilled on it, so thick it can't be dissolved. The ground is white, but not the white of snow; it's the white of bones, dry and without luster. The distant mountains hang upside down, peaks facing down, bases facing up, trees growing from the summit downwards, roots embedded in the clouds. The clouds are heavy, floating on the ground like cotton soaked in water.

The old man of time's white robes turned black the moment he entered this world. His white hair also turned black. He looked down at his hands and smiled bitterly. "Here, I am the opposite. So are you."

Qin Yuan raised his hand. His skin was a normal color, but his nails were black. Lin Qing'er's were the same. Not dirty, but "reverse"—the rules here were completely opposite to those of the myriad worlds.

"Every action has its opposite result," said the Old Man of Time. "Saving can lead to killing, and killing can lead to saving. Protecting can turn into abandoning."

Qin Yuan lowered his hand. He tried to activate the Heavenly Dao of Protection, and golden light shone from his palm, but the color of the light was not gold, but gray. It wasn't dim, but its "essence" here was gray. He couldn't feel the thought of "protection," but instead felt something strange and cold—like dragging someone out of bed and throwing them into the snow.

abandon.

Every living being in the mirror world is alone. Qin Yuan walked for a long time on the white ground, but didn't see two people walking side by side. One person tills the land, one person sows, one person harvests, one person eats, one person sleeps, one person dies. Their eyes are empty, not from sadness, not from numbness, but from the emptiness of "no connection".

In the distance, a woman stood on the white ground. Her clothes were blue, the same color as Lin Qing'er's. Her face was the same as Lin Qing'er's. But her eyes were different—not that they lacked light, but rather that the light shone only on herself, not on others. She looked at Qin Yuan, then at Lin Qing'er beside him, her gaze lingering on Lin Qing'er's face for a moment before shifting away.

Lin Qing'er in the mirror image.

"Why are you with her?" she asked Qin Yuan. Her voice was the same as Lin Qing'er's, but her tone was different. Lin Qing'er's tone was warm, like a blanket. Her tone was cold, like a knife.

Qin Yuan said, "Because I want to be with her."

Lin Qing'er frowned slightly. "Think?" She repeated the word, as if pronouncing a word she didn't recognize. "I've never 'thought' about anything. There's no 'thinking' here. Only 'doing.' Plow the fields when it's time to plow, sleep when it's time to sleep. There's no reason."

The old man of time whispered beside me, "The rule here is 'abandonment.' Not voluntary abandonment, but rather that there has never been an option of 'not abandoning.' From birth to death, everyone is alone. No partner, no family, no friends."

Qin Yuan looked at the mirror image of Lin Qing'er. She stood there, feet together, hands hanging at her sides, like a life-sized statue. Not because she wanted to stand up straight, but because she didn't need to sit down—no one needed her to sit down, no one needed her to do anything.

"I can help you," Qin Yuan said. "I can help you understand 'protection'."

The mirror image of Lin Qing'er looked at him, then at Lin Qing'er. "I don't need to understand. But I can help you understand 'abandonment.' If you want to repair the timeline, you must understand two rules simultaneously."

Qin Yuan nodded. Mirror Lin Qing'er reached out. The instant her fingers touched Qin Yuan's forehead, he felt his body being drained. Not his spiritual power, but the meaning within him. Everything he had done, everyone he had killed, everyone he had saved, every world he had traversed—all its meaning blurred in that instant, like ink soaking in water.

He stood in an open space. Not the white ground of a mirrored world, but a courtyard. A three-year-old girl squatted in the corner, holding a flower in her hand, tearing off the petals one by one. She wasn't playing; she was waiting. Waiting for someone to come. No one came. She waited all day. The flower was gone, darkness fell, she stood up, and went back inside. She poured herself water, washed her face, climbed into bed, and covered herself with the blanket. She didn't cry. Her eyes were dry.

Qin Yuan stood in the corner, watching the girl. He wanted to go over, but he couldn't move. Because it wasn't her memory, but her "feeling"—the feeling of being abandoned. He hadn't experienced that feeling, so he couldn't move. He could only watch.

The scene shifts. Ten years old. The girl stands before the mountain gate, carrying a bundle larger than herself. An old man emerges from the gate, glances at her, and says, "Good potential, stay." The girl kneels and kowtows, her forehead striking the stone slab until it bleeds. She feels she will not be abandoned again this time. Three years. The old man's patience lasts three years. In the fourth year, he finds a child with even better potential, calls the girl to him, and says, "Go. This place is not for you." No explanation, no apology. Just one sentence. The girl stands up, walks out of the mountain gate, and doesn't look back. She has learned. If you don't look back, you won't see those who abandoned you. If you don't look back, you won't have to wait. If you don't wait, you won't be disappointed.

Qin Yuan stood outside the mountain gate, watching her back. Her back was very straight, not out of strength, but out of stiffness. She dared not bend, for if she did, she would collapse.

The scene shifts again. She's twenty. She walks alone in the wilderness, no one with her. She's used to it. She doesn't need friends, partners, or mentors. She can live alone. But in her eyes—Qin Yuan sees it—there's something she refuses to acknowledge: longing. Not a longing to be loved, but a longing for "someone." Not a lover, not family, not a friend. Just someone. Standing beside her. Doing nothing. Just standing there.

Qin Yuan snapped out of his reverie. When he opened his eyes, he found himself crouching on the ground. Lin Qing'er's hand was on his shoulder, her palm warm. A mirror image of Lin Qing'er stood three steps away, her face expressionless, but her fingers trembling slightly.

"You weren't abandoned," Qin Yuan said. "You were never chosen at all."

Lin Qing'er, mirroring the image, retorted, "What's the difference?"

"Before being abandoned, at least you were chosen." Qin Yuan stood up, his legs a little weak, and he pressed his hands against his knees to steady himself. "You didn't even have the chance to be chosen. That's not your fault."

Lin Qing'er's eyes reddened. Not from crying, but from the secretion of an unfamiliar liquid. She reached up and wiped them, looking at the watermarks on her fingers.

"What is this?" she asked.

Lin Qing'er walked over and took her hand. "Tears. You shed tears when you're sad. Sadness is because you care."