I was a mineral prospector in Chengdu, who transmigrated into the body of a mortal sword immortal.

The fog instantly engulfed Li Bai's vision. The bronze hall, the eternal lamp, the figure of the high priest—everything vanished the moment he stepped through the portal. Beneath his feet were rough, damp stone steps that stretched upwards, disappearing into the thick, impenetrable white fog.

The air was filled with the smell of soil and decaying leaves, mixed with a faint, unsettling sweet and fishy odor.

The surrounding silence was terrifying; even his own breathing and heartbeat were amplified several times over. Li Bai gripped the broken Qingming sword tightly, a steady warmth emanating from its blade. He looked up, gazing at the unseen end of the stairs deep within the mist, and took his first step.

Almost simultaneously, a familiar yet heartbreaking sobbing sound rang in her ears—it was Yang Xiaohuan's voice.

"Li Bai... don't worry about me... you should go..."

The voice was intermittent, choked with suppressed sobs, as if it were only half a step behind him. Li Bai paused, his back instantly tensing. He turned sharply—behind him was only swirling thick fog, the stone steps blurred beyond a few steps. But the voice was so real, so real that he could hear the despair contained in every tremor.

"Xiao Huan?" he called softly, his voice quickly fading into the mist.

There was no response. Only the low sobbing continued, like a fine needle pricking his eardrums.

Li Bai took a deep breath, forced himself to turn back, and continued walking upwards. He knew this was an illusion, the beginning of the "journey of self-examination." The High Priest had said that one must confront one's own inner obsessions, fears, and confusion. Yang Xiaohuan's voice was the embodiment of his obsessions.

The stone steps were narrow, allowing only one person to pass at a time. On either side lay bottomless darkness, and occasionally a cold, damp wind blew up from below, brushing against his bare wrists and neck, raising goosebumps. The surface of the steps beneath his feet was covered with fine cracks, the crevices filled with dark green moss, making them somewhat slippery. With each step, the steps emitted a soft, hollow echo, as if descending into an abyss.

He walked up about a dozen steps.

The fog suddenly churned, no longer a uniform white, but began to change colors—first a dark red, then a rusty brown, and finally solidified into a thick, nauseating scarlet.

The scene before my eyes suddenly became clear.

It's not stone steps, it's not mist.

It was a street scene in Chengdu in 2003. It was dusk, the sky was just beginning to darken, and the streetlights were casting a dim, yellowish glow. The air was filled with the spicy aroma of hot pot broth, the pungent smell of car exhaust, and… a strong, metallic stench of blood.

Li Bai looked down and saw a dagger stuck in his chest.

The knife handle was rough black plastic, held in a hand wearing a black leather glove. That hand was steady, slowly and resolutely pushing the blade deeper. The sensation of the cold metal cutting through flesh, pushing aside ribs, and piercing internal organs was so clear, so real. A sharp pain exploded from his chest, spreading throughout his body; every nerve screamed. He could feel warm blood gushing from the wound, soaking his shirt, dripping down the hem to the ground with a "drip, drip" sound.

He raised his head.

Before him stood Yang Xiaohuan's face. The face he had loved for years, the face he knew to the core, was now adorned with heavy makeup, her lips painted a vibrant red, her eyeliner sharply defined. She wore a tight-fitting black dress, draped with an expensive fur coat, exuding a deliberately crafted, flamboyant allure. But her eyes—those eyes—were brimming with tears, brimming with sorrow, brimming with unspeakable helplessness and pain. The tears had smudged her eyeliner, leaving black streaks on her cheeks.

"Li Bai, stop bothering me!" Her voice trembled, yet she struggled to maintain a cold tone. "Even if you truly were the great poet of the Tang Dynasty, I wouldn't like you! Besides, you're just a geologist who spends his days chipping away at rocks in remote mountain valleys! All I like is money, and you, you penniless wretch, get out! Sign the divorce papers tomorrow, or they'll break your legs!"

Behind her stood two burly, tattooed men. They were expressionless, their eyes fierce, like two guardian deities.

Li Bai opened his mouth, as if to say something, but only spat out a mouthful of blood with a rusty taste. He could see the fleeting panic and a deeper sorrow in Yang Xiaohuan's eyes. She tried to rush over, but the burly man behind her held her shoulders firmly.

"Xiao Huan..." he managed to squeeze out two words, "Go home..."

The dagger was suddenly pulled out.

Blood splattered. The world began to spin and darken. The last thing that came into view was Yang Xiaohuan's figure collapsing to her knees in despair, and her heart-wrenching cries that she couldn't suppress even with her mouth covered.

The excruciating pain and suffocation subsided like a receding tide.

Li Bai found himself still standing on the stone steps, his chest unharmed, without a dagger or any blood. But his heart was still pounding, his breathing rapid, and cold sweat had soaked his inner shirt. The scene he had just witnessed was too real, so real that he almost thought he had died again.

He gripped the broken Qingming sword tightly, and a more noticeable warmth emanated from the hilt, like a warm current spreading from his palm to his arm, slightly calming his turbulent blood and qi.

"It's an illusion," he whispered to himself, his voice hoarse. "It's a replay of memories. I've died and come back to life. Now I'm in the Tang Dynasty, in Xiling, on the Path of Self-Examination."

He forced himself to recall the state of mind he had during geological exploration—facing unknown rock formations, complex geological structures, and potential dangers, what was needed was calmness, observation, and analysis. Fear cannot solve problems, and emotional reactions will only lead to mistakes.

"This 'path of self-examination' is a kind of spiritual geological structure." He continued to mutter to himself, trying to understand everything before him using a familiar thought framework. "It probes the 'stress concentration points' deep within my consciousness—that is, obsessions and fears—and then amplifies and concretizes them, forming 'spiritual fault lines' or 'illusory earthquakes.' What I need to do is not to be destroyed by these 'earthquakes,' but to stabilize the 'spiritual rock layer' and find a path to cross the 'fault lines.'"

This analogy calmed him down a bit.

He took another step upwards.

The fog shifted again.

This time, the lighting was dim, the music was loud, and the air was thick with the pungent smell of cigarettes, alcohol, and cheap perfume. He stood at the door of a tacky-looking KTV room, and through the glass window in the door, he could see what was inside.

Yang Xiaohuan sat in the center of the sofa, surrounded by several men. She wore a revealing halter dress, an exaggerated smile on her face, and was clinking glasses with a bald, middle-aged man next to her. The man's thick hand rested on her bare shoulder, his fingers groping erratically. Yang Xiaohuan visibly stiffened for a moment, but her smile widened, and she even leaned in and whispered something in the man's ear, eliciting a burst of laughter from him.

The private room was filled with smoke, and neon lights flickered. Deafening pop songs drowned out all other sounds. But Li Bai "heard" it—not with his ears, but directly in his mind—the voice of Yang Xiaohuan's heart.

"Dad's dialysis still costs 30,000...Mom's medication can't be stopped...The loan shark interest rate has gone up again this month...Liu Han said if I entertain Boss Wang well tonight, the previous debts can be given a few days' grace...Just bear with it, just bear with it a little longer...Li Bai, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..."

The voice was fragmented, filled with self-loathing, despair, and deep weariness.

The scene changes.

It was the stark white corridor of the hospital. The smell of disinfectant was overwhelming. Yang Xiaohuan squatted alone in a corner, hugging her knees and burying her face in her arms. Her shoulders were trembling violently, but she made no sound. From the next ward came the regular beeping of medical equipment and the painful groans of an elderly person. A doctor in a white coat, with a cold expression, walked over and handed her a long payment slip.

"If you don't pay, the medication will be stopped tomorrow. You should understand what stopping the medication means for your father's condition."

Yang Xiaohuan looked up, her face streaked with tears, her makeup a complete mess. She stared at the form, her eyes vacant, as if her soul had been ripped away. Her hands trembled as she took the form, the paper rustling softly. Then, she slowly stood up and walked to the public phone at the end of the corridor. She dialed a number.

"Brother Liu...it's me, Xiao Huan...I'm free tonight...yes, the usual place...thank you, Brother Liu..."

She hung up the phone, slid down against the cold wall, and buried her face in her palms. Suppressed, broken sobs escaped through her fingers, echoing in the empty corridor, more heartbreaking than any loud wail.

Standing on the stone steps, Li Bai felt as if an invisible hand was squeezing his heart, the pain almost suffocating him. He had witnessed it all, everything Yang Xiaohuan had endured after his death. The humiliation beneath her forced smiles, the tears she swallowed alone in the dead of night, the choices she was forced to make when she had no other options… it was more agonizing than seeing her corpse directly.

"This is what she saw as 'sorrow and helplessness'..." Li Bai murmured, his eyes welling up with tears. "Back then, I only saw her outward ruthlessness, but I didn't know the immense pressure she carried behind her back... I died, ending it all, but she has to live in purgatory..."

Guilt gnawed at his heart like a venomous snake. If only he had worked harder, earned more money, and given her a better life… If only he had realized the threat posed by Liu Han's Group sooner… If only he hadn't been so stubbornly unwilling to let go…

"No." He shook his head violently, shaking off these useless self-reproaches. "The past cannot be changed. I was reborn, I came here, I have a chance. The Path of the Heart showed me these things, not to break me, but to make me understand more clearly—what I must protect, what I must change."

He gripped the sword tighter, his nails digging almost into his palm. The pain kept him conscious.

"I want to go back. I want to save her. I want those who hurt her to pay the price. This is my 'heart,' my 'obsession.' I don't need to run away from it; I need to control it."

He continued walking upwards, his steps more determined than before.

The mist surged again, and the colors became bright and luxurious—vermilion, bright yellow, gold powder, and the luster of silk.

Solemn ceremonial music filled the air, with the clear, crisp tones of chime bells and the melodious strains of sheng and xiao. The air was thick with the rich aroma of ambergris and precious sandalwood.

He stood on the wide Zhuque Avenue in Chang'an City.

The sun shone brightly, and the streets were packed with onlookers, a bustling and noisy scene. A magnificent imperial procession slowly approached. Leading the way were guards holding aloft plaques reading "Retreat" and "Silence," their armor gleaming, swords at their waists, and expressions solemn. In the center was a gilded palanquin carried by eight men, its sides draped with bright yellow gauze curtains that fluttered gently in the breeze. Seated atop the palanquin was a young girl.

Yang Yuhuan at the age of fifteen.

She wore a crimson palace gown and a jeweled crown, her face exquisitely beautiful, like a jade sculpture. Sunlight bathed her, making her skin appear almost translucent and fair. Her eyes were slightly lowered, her long eyelashes casting soft shadows on her cheeks. Her hands were clasped in her knees, her posture dignified, yet exuding a calmness beyond her years, or perhaps… resignation.

Palace maids and eunuchs lined both sides of the palanquin. Behind them came even more guards and eunuchs carrying various ceremonial objects. The procession, grand and imposing, headed towards the imperial city.

The people on both sides of the street knelt down one after another, shouting "Long live the Emperor!" or whispering among themselves, praising the Imperial Concubine's beauty and grace.

Li Bai stood in the crowd, watching Yang Yuhuan on the palanquin draw closer. He could see every detail of her face—her pert nose, her full lips, her clear eyes tinged with a faint melancholy. This face bore a seven-tenths resemblance to Yang Xiaohuan, yet she was younger, more delicate, and more…fragile.

As the palanquin passed in front of him, a gust of wind lifted the gauze curtain.

Yang Yuhuan seemed to sense something, raising her eyelids and her gaze inadvertently sweeping across the crowd. Her gaze briefly met Li Bai's.

In those eyes, there was curiosity, confusion, a hint of fear of an unknown fate, and... a very faint longing for the free world outside the palace walls, a longing that she herself might not even be aware of.

Then, the veil fell, obscuring her face. The palanquin continued onward, leading her to the palace that symbolized supreme glory, but also meant a lifelong prison.

The scene changed again.

It was Mawei Slope. The night was deep, and a fierce storm raged. Muddy roads, flickering torches, panicked soldiers and palace maids. Beneath a solitary old pear tree, Yang Yuhuan, dressed in plain white, her long hair flowing freely, a white silk ribbon tied around her neck, stood. Her face was ashen, her eyes vacant as she gazed towards Chang'an. The rain soaked her clothes and hair, making her resemble a pear blossom about to wither.

Gao Lishi stood expressionless to the side. Chen Xuanli had his back to her, his hand on the hilt of his sword. The soldiers around them had complex expressions in their eyes—anger, pity, and above all, a kind of incited, blind killing intent.

"Your Majesty, please proceed." Gao Lishi's voice was icy cold and devoid of any emotion.

Yang Yuhuan slowly closed her eyes, two lines of clear tears mingling with the raindrops as they slid down her cheeks. She did not struggle, nor did she cry out; she simply waited quietly for her fate to end. It was a utter, suffocating despair.

"No--!"

Li Bai, standing on the stone steps, let out a low roar and instinctively tried to rush forward. But as soon as he took a step, the scene before him rippled out like water and dissipated into the mist. He remained standing on the Path of Inquiry; the scene he had just witnessed was merely another vivid illusion.

But his heart felt as if it had been struck by a heavy hammer, a dull ache gripping him. He knew it was history, something destined to happen—if he didn't try to change it. Witnessing Yang Guifei's death, even if it was just an illusion, made him feel deeply; the sense of powerlessness and anger almost overwhelmed him.

"This is fear..." he gasped, sweat trickling down his forehead and dripping onto the stone steps. "Fear that even with power, I cannot change the predetermined course of history... fear that I will ultimately watch helplessly as she dies in another time and space, in another way... fear that all my efforts will be in vain..."

He stopped, leaning on his sword, bending slightly to calm his turbulent blood and emotions. The warmth emanating from the broken Qingming sword was constant, like a silent companion, offering him support.

"The Poet Immortal Li Bai..." He suddenly chuckled softly, a hint of self-deprecation and magnanimity in his laughter. "'Life is short, so seize the day and enjoy it to the fullest; don't let your golden goblet stand empty before the moon'... 'Heaven has endowed me with talents, which will surely be put to use; though a thousand pieces of gold are spent, they will return again'... When I wrote these poems, how carefree and confident I was! How come when it comes to myself, facing the slightest unknown or difficulty, I start to cower and doubt myself?"

He straightened up and looked into the depths of the fog.

"In geological exploration, when facing unknown strata, we rely on knowledge, tools, and courage. In cultivating immortality and seeking the Dao, when facing an unknown destiny, I should also rely on wisdom, strength, and... faith."

"What are my beliefs?" he asked himself.

"It is to protect," he answered himself. "To protect those I love, to protect the path in my heart. This belief will not change because of difficulties, nor will it waver because of fear. History may have inertia, but it is not immutable. Even the flapping of a butterfly's wings can cause a storm. I, Li Bai, carrying the memories of two lifetimes, the legacy of Mount Shu, and the broken sword of Qingming, am I not allowed to add my own stroke to the scroll of history?"

His eyes regained their clarity and determination.

"The 'Quest for the Heart'... it's about questioning this 'heart.' It lets me see my obsessions, my fears, and the worst-case scenario. But it also asks me—after seeing all this, do you still dare to move forward? Is your 'heart' firm enough, strong enough enough to bear this weight, to face these challenges?"

He took a deep breath and took another step.

This time, the illusion became more direct and more impactful.

He saw himself, white-haired and wrinkled, sitting alone in a remote cave in the Shu Mountains. The cave was damp and cold, moss-covered walls, and the air thick with the smell of mildew and decay. His spiritual energy was barely a wisp, his meridians were withered, and his golden core had long since faded and shattered. He tried to circulate his cultivation technique, but it only resulted in a violent cough, the phlegm streaked with blood. He looked outside the cave; the sun shone brightly, birds sang, and flowers bloomed, but that vibrant world was no longer relevant to him. And so, in this unknown corner, he slowly awaited death. His heart was filled with resentment, regret, and utter powerlessness—he had ultimately failed to change anything, failed to save anyone, and had even become a laughingstock himself.

He saw himself wielding the broken Green Destiny sword, charging into the imperial city of Chang'an. Wherever the sword flashed, imperial guards fell like mowing grass, their blood staining the palace walls and white jade steps. He found Emperor Xuanzong, and Yang Guifei. Xuanzong was terrified, and Guifei wept bitterly. He took Guifei's hand, wanting to lead her away. But Guifei, seeing his blood-soaked body and the carnage around them, her eyes filled with fear and unfamiliarity. She pulled away from his hand and retreated to Xuanzong's side. Outside the palace, because of the emperor's assassination (or disappearance), the world was in chaos. Warlords rose up, war raged, people were displaced, and starvation filled the land. He had gained her body (perhaps), but lost her heart forever, and had personally plunged the entire world into the abyss of war.

He saw that Liu Han's group was still at large in the modern world, even growing stronger. Yang Xiaohuan, finally overwhelmed, jumped from a high-rise building. Her parents died one after the other, consumed by grief and debt. And he, even if he returned, could only face cold tombstones, possessing immense martial prowess but unable to bring back the lost lives or atone for the sins of his past life.

Images and possibilities flashed before his eyes like a revolving lantern. Each one struck at his deepest fears and weaknesses. Sadness, anger, despair, violence, regret... all sorts of negative emotions crashed against his mind like a tidal wave.

Li Bai gritted his teeth, a trickle of blood even seeping from the corner of his mouth. His body trembled slightly, sweat soaking through his clothes, which clung to his skin, creating a sticky, cold sensation. But he did not stop.

He held fast to that sliver of clarity in his mind, like a lighthouse in a storm, never extinguished by the raging winds and torrential rain.

He silently repeated the word "protect." It wasn't an empty slogan, but rather a vivid image of Yang Xiaohuan's tearful eyes in her past life, Yang Yuhuan's fleeting glance in this life, the groans of his parents at their sickbeds, the potential suffering of the people... all these people and things that needed his protection surfaced in his mind. These images were more real and more powerful than any terrifying illusion.

With the composure of a geologist, he analyzed the “structure” of each illusion—how they were combined using fragments of his memory and emotional weaknesses, where their “stress points” were, and how to “bypass” or “reinforce” them.

With the magnanimity of the poet, he tried to "resolve" those extreme emotions—"My white hair hangs down three thousand feet, I laugh and all worldly affairs are over"... "Let us enjoy a cup of wine before we die, why should we need a thousand years of fame after we die"... It is not escapism, but a broader perspective that transcends personal gains and losses.

Most importantly, he is supported by the will of "Li Bai"—whether he is a modern geological engineer, a poet of the Tang Dynasty, or a cultivator who is becoming a sword immortal—that stubbornness and pride deeply rooted in his soul, that refusal to yield, to accept fate, and to follow the crowd, which propels him step by step, upward, and upward again.

The stone steps seemed to have no end.

The fog remained so thick it wouldn't dissipate.

The sense of time becomes blurred. It might only be a quarter of an hour, or it might be several hours, or even several days.

Li Bai lost count of how many steps he had climbed. His legs felt as heavy as lead, each lift requiring immense willpower. He was utterly exhausted, as if he might collapse at any moment. Yet, the light in his eyes grew ever brighter and purer.

Finally, after taking that step.

Without warning, the surrounding fog began to dissipate.

It doesn't fade slowly, but rather recedes rapidly like the tide, revealing a clear view.

The rough stone steps beneath my feet still stretched out, but I had reached the end. Ahead lay a flat platform paved with bluish-gray flagstones. At the edge of the platform, a light, normal mountain mist hung in the air, and in the distance, I could see the suspended, luminous crystals and the strange outlines of the mountains and rivers within the Xiling Secret Realm. Sunlight (or a similar light source) fell softly, bringing a warm, dry feeling. The air was filled with the fresh scent of grass and trees, and the fragrance of earth after rain; the sweet, fishy, ​​and rotten smells had completely vanished.

Li Bai stood at the edge of the platform, slightly out of breath. He looked down at himself—his clothes were soaked through, clinging to his body and outlining his slightly thin but upright figure. His knuckles were slightly white from gripping the sword. But he could feel that although his spiritual energy had been significantly depleted, it was circulating more smoothly and freely. His mind was clear; the negative emotions stirred up by the illusion were like the sky after a rain—the traces remained, but they could no longer obscure his true self.

More importantly, he "saw" his own "heart" clearly.

The obsession remains, but it is no longer a reckless madness; instead, it has transformed into a calm and steadfast goal.

The fear remains, but it is no longer a helpless nightmare; instead, it has transformed into an obstacle that needs to be guarded against and overcome.

The confusion dissipated, and although the road ahead was not entirely clear, the direction was now certain.

He raised his head and looked towards the center of the platform.

There, a figure appeared out of nowhere.

He wore a long black robe, his silver hair cascaded down his back, and his face was shrouded in a soft halo, obscuring his features. But his silver-gray pupils, which seemed to hold the starry sky, were quietly watching him.

High Priest of the Western Mausoleum Kingdom.

She stood there, seemingly integrated with the surrounding world, yet also seemingly independent of time and space.

Her gaze fell on Li Bai and lingered for a moment. Then, she nodded slightly.

The movements were very light and the amplitude was very small.

But Li Bai understood the meaning behind it.

Recognized.

The first test, "asking one's conscience," has been passed.