The cultivation master

The silence of death echoed in his heart. Was this the end of the road? If death marked the end, where was he now? In this void, time had no meaning. Moving forward changed nothing. Everything was tied to one feeling: regret.

Zhu Fan tried to recall his past, but much had been sacrificed in his final moments. He had forgotten the warmth of home and could barely remember who he was before stepping into the world of cultivation. Thousands of lives, thousands of names—but one name echoed through them all: **Cyrus**.

He delved deeper. The path he had traveled spanned countless worlds. Each life held a memory, each memory a feeling, and each feeling concealed a truth that defined existence as success or failure.

"Why did you fail to bring this life to an end?" A voice broke the silence.

Zhu Fan froze, his heart pounding. The void remained empty.

"You failed in this life, and now you must pay."

"Who are you?" Zhu Fan demanded.

The voice, dark and slow, seeped into his mind.

"I am your creator, **Cyrus**, and you are my servant."

A cold sweat broke out on Zhu Fan's forehead.

"I am **not** Cyrus!" he shouted. "My name is Zhu Fan. I am a cultivator from the central plains. I failed in battle against the spiritual realm, and now the curse of immortality exiles me to nothingness."

"Nonexistence?" the voice mused.

"Yes. A soul is the manifestation of its spiritual path. A benevolent soul ascends; a wicked one burns in its own flames. I took my life by my own hand, and now I'm condemned to solitude."

"And is there anything more sacred than solitude?" the voice asked.

"Solitude without choice is torment." Zhu Fan's voice trembled.

"Is torment not an opportunity for progress?"

"Perhaps," Zhu Fan admitted, hesitant.

"Then forced solitude is better than chosen solitude, is it not?"

"Must I endure this forever?" Zhu Fan whispered.

"Life begins with solitude and ends with it," the voice replied.

Zhu Fan remained silent, feeling the weight of the truth.

"You are ignorant, **Cyrus**."

The words rattled him to his core.

"Your beliefs are flawed. Existence, and the ability to change, is sacred. It's not in books or ancient tablets. **Your heart** sanctifies what you hold dear."

Zhu Fan saw wisdom in the words but couldn't release the belief that sanctity was a barrier to human desires. Boundaries were necessary to keep order, to prevent chaos. If people viewed themselves as sacred, wouldn't they cast off restraint, consumed by selfish impulses?

"True sanctity," the voice said, as if reading his thoughts, "means seeing yourself as sacred so that you do not defile your own nature. If one truly understands their connection to the world, why would they act against it? The balance between spiritual sanctity and material life is the salvation of humanity."

Zhu Fan felt regret, deep and painful, for the centuries he had spent in pursuit of power. He had sought answers to trivial questions, blind to the one truth that mattered.

"What now?" he asked, his voice hollow.

"Eight hundred years have passed, and still, you do not understand?" The voice grew fainter.

Zhu Fan realized time had slipped by. Eight hundred years—gone in the blink of an eye. But where time existed, so did opportunity. He looked within himself and found part of the essence of the goddess of time, now suffering inside his soul.

Suddenly, he saw her—**Ammonia**. Her presence, concealed until now, was revealed.

Zhu Fan stared at her, stunned. She was familiar, but why? Her golden hair flowed around her pale face, and her blue eyes brimmed with tears. She stood alone in the void, wearing a silk dress that shimmered in the darkness.

Zhu Fan waited, but the voice did not return. His most important question remained unanswered.

Why did they call him **Cyrus**?