Death God: Starting from Refining Essence into Qi

As Xuan was pulled into the mental world, he began to ponder: "This feeling is..."

Normally, when entering the spiritual world during Blade Zen, it is a smooth, gradual descent, like a pebble sinking into water, embraced by warm darkness.

This time, the feeling was completely different; it was something Xuan had never experienced before—being pulled into a spiritual world.

Consciousness traveled through the Taoist temple floor—the familiar wood grain, the futon, the suspended golden pill—all of it rapidly receded before my eyes, as if sinking from the surface of the water to the bottom of the sea.

Xuan continued through the soil, through the rock layers, and through a transparent yet undeniably present barrier. That barrier, like an extremely thin layer of ice, shattered the moment he struck it, producing a crisp, lingering cracking sound.

Consciousness shattered into countless pieces as if falling into a mirror, each piece reflecting his face—bewildered, angry, indifferent, fearful. Countless selves scattered, spun, and reassembled in infinite space, like images shaken apart in a kaleidoscope.

The sudden feeling of falling stopped abruptly, and a hard sensation came from beneath my feet.

Xuan looked down and saw his reflection staring back at him from the mirror-like floor. He looked up, and above him was another mirror—not the ceiling, but another infinitely extending mirror. Mirrors were everywhere—up, down, left, right, front, and back. Countless Xuans stood in countless dimensions, as if imprisoned in slightly different mirrors.

There is no direction of gravity. There is no temperature difference.

The light source seemed to come from nowhere, filling every inch of space evenly and coldly.

Countless fragments of mirror light floated in the air, slowly rotating. They varied in size, some as small as a fingernail, others as large as a door panel, their edges sharp and reflecting a cold light. Rather than fragments of mirror light, they resembled a chaotic and lush cluster of crystals within a mineral ore.

Each fragment reflected a flowing scene. Xuan approached one of the fragments and saw the scene depicted:

Four-year-old him curled up on the tatami mat in the side courtyard, the half-withered cherry tree outside the window. A servant brought in a bowl of rice porridge, placed it on the table, and left, closing the door behind him. In the scene, he closed his eyes, never to open them again. The excruciating pain of his soul being torn apart reached its limit that morning, ending in the days when no one knew of it. There was no Qianri pushing open that door, no pastries, and none of what followed.

Xuan looked at another fragment:

A practical exercise at the Genji Academy. A spider-shaped Void's claws pierced the chest of the commoner student. In the scene, Gen was bound in place by the spiderweb, not unleashing his Kido—he chose to conceal his trump card. The student lay on the ground, blood gushing from the wound, seeping into the cracks of the obsidian floor. The surrounding classmates screamed and scattered, some calling his name, but he simply watched.

Another fragment:

He stood in an unfamiliar mansion, wearing the Kuchiki family crested haori and hakama. Behind him was the Kuchiki family crest, and before him lay a wife whose face he had never seen. His eyes were vacant, a polite smile playing on his lips as he exchanged pleasantries with the noble guests. At his waist was only an ordinary, nameless asauchi. He hadn't left the Shihouin family, had accepted the engagement, and lived a mundane and aimless life. He died. In an unknown year, in an unknown battle, his tombstone bore the surname Kuchiki.

Xuan stood still, his gaze fixed on the ever-shifting reflections.

A hand landed on his shoulder from behind.

"Stop looking," a voice said, both familiar and strange. "If you keep looking, you'll discover even more things you don't want to see."

Xuan turned around and looked at the person who had come.

It was a person who emerged from a piece of floating mirror fragment—but rather than emerging, it was more like a physical entity coalescing from the superposition of countless mirror images.

The man wore a Taoist-style topknot and a plain Taoist robe. His steps were casual, the hem of his robe brushing against the mirror without causing a ripple. Xuan recognized the face; he used to see it in the mirror every day. However, the expression was completely different from Xuan's past life—a slight upturn at the corners of his mouth, and a look of weariness and impatience in his eyes, as if he had been waiting for someone for too long.

He stood there, as if he had been waiting for Xuan for a long time.

"Oh," he said, his tone a mix of self-deprecation and relief, "I've finally managed to bring you in."

Xuan looked at him and had already guessed the identity of the figure in front of him—the sword spirit.

"Don't worry, you don't have schizophrenia." The sword spirit turned around and walked into the depths of the mirror world, its steps neither hurried nor slow.

"Come with me. It's too small here; your voice echoes."

Xuan followed him. The mirror beneath their feet reflected their images, but the one walking in front—Xuan looked down to check—had no reflection. No matter where he went, the mirror beneath his feet always reflected only Xuan's own image.

"Why do you always stop at the Taoist temple every time you enter the spiritual space?" The sword spirit walking ahead said without turning its head, its tone tinged with resentment. "It's been ten years. You've only been to the spiritual world a handful of times, and you've never even glanced down at the Taoist temple."

Xuan did not answer. He was certain that he had never spoken in this tone in his previous life, and a strong sense of unease rose in his heart.

The sword spirit stopped and turned around. He led Xuan to the center of the mirror world—a place where there was nothing. The mirror above reflected the wooden floor of the Taoist temple above, and the floating golden core was clearly visible. Beneath their feet was a bottomless silver-gray void, in which countless mirror fragments slowly rose and fell, like an endless snowfall.

"Alright, then I'll ask another question," the sword spirit said. "Why does the soul feel torn apart—didn't you already guess? Why didn't you expect that two parts of the soul could possess two Zanpakuto?"

Xuan's mind trembled slightly.

"Your first initial release was 'Zhenyuan'," the sword spirit continued, "because its origin was this world, and it was favored by the world. The sword spirit's gestation, initial release, and formation—each step was natural. As for me—" He pointed to himself, "I was already here on the day Zhenyuan took shape. I was just suppressed deep within by a sword spirit without consciousness, never seeing the light of day."

He walked to a floating fragment, which reflected the scene of Xuan fighting Unohana Retsu on the wasteland—the frozen moment, Xuan's hand just grasping the fallen Asada.

"Do you know why you didn't feel any repulsion when you held that knife?"

Xuan raised his eyes.

"Asauchi is a mirror container for the soul of a Shinigami. Once it is occupied by a soul, it will form an exclusive bond with that soul—and from then on, it will reject any other external spiritual power. A Shinigami usually only has one soul, which is why dual swords have almost never existed in the long history." The sword spirit flicked its fingertips.

"Once formed, Asauchi can carry a sword spirit. Only if the original Shinigami dies and then another person holds the Zanpakuto for a long time and re-polishes it will a new sword spirit be formed."

The reason you didn't feel any repulsion just now is because this Asauchi hasn't been possessed by any sword spirit yet—its original owner hadn't yet developed a sword spirit. It's like a blank Asauchi, which provided me with the perfect medium. Therefore, this Asauchi is your Zanpakuto, so of course you didn't feel any repulsion.”

He paused, looking into Xuan's eyes.

"Why am I able to be active now? Because 'Zhenyuan' was damaged, and I have been accumulating power for ten years, and you happen to have this blank shallow strike in your hands."

He continued, "The reason the other you doesn't reject spiritual power is because we are two halves of the same soul. I come from your original part of the soul—not belonging to this world, without any legitimate identity. If Zhenyuan is a registered, legitimate resident, then I am an unregistered one. The world's laws instinctively react to foreign entities with repulsion—the stronger the repulsion, the stronger it is. Every bit of power you increase in the Spirit King Soul Sleep increases the world's gravitational pull on it; at the same time, the more of your unregistered otherworldly soul is exposed, the stronger the repulsive force becomes. The pull and the push increase simultaneously, in opposite directions—what do you think will happen?"

"Tear apart," Xuan said.

"Tear." The sword spirit repeated, as if confirming an answer that had been long overdue. "Now, raise your head."

Xuan Yi looked up. The mirror above her head reflected the Taoist temple. Above the wooden floor was a futon, and above the futon was the suspended, perfectly round golden elixir—Zhen Yuan's sword spirit. And beneath the floor of the Taoist temple lay this mirrored world. Two layers, one real, one illusory, one bright, one dark.

"You understand?" The sword spirit walked to his side and looked up as well. "We're under the Taoist temple. Your Spirit King Soul sleeps up there—upright and honorable, favored by the world. As for me, I'm trapped in the deepest place, with no one to even talk to."

Xuan remained silent for a while, refraining from criticizing the other person for being a chatterbox, after all, it was equivalent to being locked up for ten years.

Dao Ling led Xuan to the boundary line of the spiritual world—there was a shocking rift filled with countless sharp shards of mirror.

"This is the repulsion between the two Zanpakuto, and its root cause is the tearing apart caused by the different treatment of the two parts of the soul by the world."

"However, there are ways to solve this problem."

Xuan spoke up, acting as the straight man, otherwise he felt the sword spirit would remain silent: "What method?"

The sword spirit turned and walked to the invisible boundary where the Taoist temple and the mirror world met—there was a transparent yet non-existent "membrane." The golden light above and the dark silver below twisted and turned at the boundary, forming a vortex that constantly broke and reformed, emitting a faint, electric-like sound. He lightly tapped the membrane with his fingertips, and ripples spread outwards from the point of impact.

"The two parts of the soul are like water and oil—no matter how you stir them, they will automatically separate into layers. To mix them together, you need to add soap. Soap molecules are hydrophilic at one end and lipophilic at the other, which can hold both sides at the same time, reducing interfacial tension and allowing things that originally repel each other to coexist."

He withdrew his hand and looked at Xuan.

"What you need to find now is that kind of thing. A medium that can be compatible with both the souls of this world and those of another world, and whose status must be equal to both. As for what it is—" He curled that wicked smile again, "...think about it yourself."

Xuan remained silent. What Dao Ling could think of, he could naturally think of as well, and he already had some guesses.

The sword spirit approached a floating fragment of mirror, and with a gentle touch, the fragment began to replay—the scene of Unohana Retsu wielding her sword on the wasteland. Her swordplay transitioned from the Satsuma Jigen-ryu's Dragonfly Style to the Yagyu Shinkage-ryu's Swallow Return, and then seamlessly switched to the Itto-ryu's Karata Take. Each strike was clean and crisp, without any superfluous movements. The arc drawn by the blade in the moonlight was as fluid as calligraphy.

"Speaking of which, Sister Hua is really amazing." The sword spirit turned to look at Xuan. "You know what? She doesn't use sight or spiritual pressure to sense threats. Her combat instincts have surpassed rational analysis—she doesn't even touch those ghostly paths with corrosive properties. That's a true combat genius, without intelligence or reasoning, she can make the optimal solution entirely based on instinct."

"You still have the mood to praise her?" Xuan said.

"I'm warning you." The sword spirit turned and walked towards him. "Even with my abilities, don't underestimate her. She didn't dodge your attacks by analyzing intelligence—she relied on 'intuition.' And intuition is hard to be fooled by sight. Just like how she sensed something was wrong with Aizen's corpse, and eventually found the flaw and exposed it."

He stopped in front of Xuan, the two less than a step apart. Countless mirror images of Xuan in the mirror world stopped moving and turned their faces, their gazes converging on the center.

"Once you leave, you'll briefly gain the power I've accumulated over ten years. What are your plans?"

Xuan was silent for a moment. Then he said, "Run away."

Dao Ling paused for a moment, then laughed—not a mocking laugh, but a laugh of "I knew it," tinged with a sense of relief: "You've defeated me. But it's alright, at least you're quite self-aware."

After laughing, he raised his hand and pointed behind Xuan. Xuan turned around and saw that all the floating mirror fragments suddenly flipped over, no longer reflecting the possibilities of the past, but instead beginning to reflect the shape of a sword—a Zanpakuto that was entirely translucent, like ice crystals. The blade shimmered erratically in the reflection of the mirror, sometimes appearing clear and sharp, and sometimes as blurry and indistinct as a holographic projection, leaving only a brief trail of light fragments in the air.

The sword spirit said, "This is me. Use it well, don't embarrass yourself."

He raised his hand and snapped his fingers.

The surrounding mirror fragments exploded in response.

He withdrew his hand, and the fragments returned to their floating mirror-like state.

Dao Ling paused for a moment, then suddenly changed the subject.

"That brat Ichigo... do you remember him? There will be a sword called 'Zangetsu' in the future." He said, "Zangetsu has two parts—the Hollow White represents the instinctive power of a Shinigami, and the old man represents the suppressed power of a Quincy. One was treated as an imposter, and the other has concealed his true name for twenty years."

He paused, then looked at Xuan.

"You are different from Ichigo. Your two parts of soul are not in a suppressive relationship—it is a true initial fusion of two world souls, ultimately producing the same consciousness."

The original body's consciousness has dissipated, so you are probably the consciousness born from the fusion of my soul and this body's, only possessing Xuan's thoughts and memories.

However, I will not harm you. After all, my obsession with Foundation Establishment in my past life has been fulfilled, and I, the Xuan of my past life, have become a sword spirit. Now, I only hope to protect you until I achieve a higher realm and prove the authenticity of the Daoist tradition.

Silence lingered between the two for a moment. Xuan cupped his hands in a respectful gesture, and the surrounding mirror shards slowly rotated, cutting their reflections into countless tiny facets.

Xuan asked, "I am the ego, you are the superego, and the thing you mentioned before that solved the feeling of being torn apart was the id, right?"

Dao Ling smiled without saying a word.

Xuan finally spoke: "Is there anything else you'd like to say?"

The sword spirit looked at him: "I've been holding back for so long trying to contact you, and there is indeed something I want to say, but it's not important, we can talk about it later. Let's not talk about it now. The spiritual world is a projection of the Grim Reaper's mind. Time here is extremely slow in the real world, but time is still passing. You're about to die outside, hurry up and get out."

The mirrored world around them began to tremble. The golden light from the Taoist temple overhead became blinding, and cracks began to appear on the mirror beneath their feet. The senses of the real world were reconnecting—the rough, unfamiliar feel of the weapon in their palms, the sharp pain from the wound on their thighs, and the heavy stench of blood in the wind.

"Since you inherited Xuan's name, then my name is—"