“Can I set foot on that path and enter the ancient sacred academy within the chaos?” Little Rascal muttered to himself, then quickly shook his head. From recent knowledge, he had learned that the sacred academy couldn’t be opened at will—it was rare for it to open even once in decades or centuries for a single individual. This time, the Sky Mending Pavilion had chosen Shi Yi, and no one else would be allowed to tread that path. Although the elders of the Pure Land had said that exceptional talent and outstanding performance could grant one the opportunity, those were merely words of encouragement.
“Ancient Sacred Academy…” Little Rascal murmured before resolutely turning away. On that path, a young man strode forward, hailed as a near-divine existence among his peers, harmonizing with heaven and earth, with divine hymns resonating as if sung by the gods of antiquity.
Little Rascal refused to let it trouble him and soon cast the matter aside. Gripping the tail of the furball, he tiptoed like a thief into a mysterious area. Though it was late at night, the surroundings were still visible.
This was an expansive garden filled with all manner of plants, small bridges over flowing water, pavilions, and ancient halls—yet everything bore a striking characteristic: decay. The bridges and halls seemed on the verge of collapse, as if untouched by repairs for millennia. The vegetation remained, but the stone arches and other structures appeared to be relics from ancient times, nearly ruined.
Treading lightly, he entered, still holding the furball’s tail. The furball’s large eyes darted around curiously; despite being held upside down, it didn’t mind, sharing Little Rascal’s fascination as it surveyed the surroundings.
This was the most mysterious place in the Sky Mending Pavilion—the dwelling of the Guardian Spirit. Spanning dozens, if not hundreds, of miles, this vast ancient garden was usually off-limits, as all had been sternly warned. There were no guards, for none were needed. After all, who would dare protect the Guardian Spirit of the Sky Mending Pavilion? It was the one safeguarding the entire ancient Pure Land.
“Guardian Spirit, I’ve come with a pilgrim’s heart. Isn’t it said that some disciples, if fated, may receive your guidance? I seek your wisdom with utmost sincerity,” Little Rascal mumbled while his large eyes darted around, searching for spirit herbs. The furball’s tiny nose twitched eagerly, its eyes gleaming as it scoured the area.
“Why is the Guardian Spirit’s dwelling so desolate?”
As they ventured deeper, the landscape grew increasingly barren. Vegetation dwindled until the earth became completely bare, devoid of even a single blade of grass. Here, Little Rascal felt the divine light within him surge, flickering as wisps of essence threatened to escape his body, while intricate patterns densely covered his skin.
The furball let out a startled cry, breaking free from Little Rascal’s grasp and leaping onto his shoulder, its expression alarmed.
Little Rascal inhaled sharply, finally understanding the reason for the desolation—a demonic force was draining the earth’s energy, stripping it bare. Strangely, this effect only manifested within this area; stepping back even slightly made the force vanish.
“What’s happened to the Sky Mending Pavilion’s Guardian Spirit? Has something gone wrong?” Little Rascal wondered cautiously as he pressed forward.
Ahead lay a barren wasteland, resembling a vast desert with only sand and stones underfoot. The silence was absolute, their footsteps echoing far into the distance.
“Guardian Spirit, I’ve come to pay my respects. Doesn’t every disciple get one chance? Please don’t mistake me for someone else,” Little Rascal muttered, his curiosity driving him onward.
The lifeless land stretched endlessly. After trekking dozens of miles, his body radiated like a miniature sun, covered in runes as he resisted the demonic force.
“So powerful… After absorbing the earth’s energy, it now devours celestial essence. Is the Guardian Spirit cultivating a secret art?” he mused aloud.
Above, divine light cascaded from the heavens, while the stars and the silver moon cast their glow like rain descending into the depths of the wasteland.
Finally, he approached an area where grass reappeared, leading him to an ancient garden enclosed by weathered walls, their surfaces etched with the marks of time. The gate had long rotted away, and the walls were overgrown with ordinary plants—no spirit herbs, no rare trees, just the most common vegetation.
“Why hasn’t the essence been drained here?” Little Rascal wondered. The garden was undeniably ancient, with only stone remnants left; all structures had collapsed, swallowed by vines.
Moonlight bathed the courtyard, nourishing the ordinary plants, allowing them to thrive rather than wither into barrenness.
“This looks like an ancient household’s courtyard!”
Upon entering, Little Rascal sensed something unusual. The compound had three sections, with the rear courtyard receiving the most moonlight—clearly where the Guardian Spirit resided.
Passing through, he noticed the ruins of buildings buried under wild grass, even the stone bridges broken and tangled with vines. The more he saw, the more it resembled an ancient family’s home.
Finally, he neared the rear courtyard, his heart pounding. Though his essence no longer drained away, an inexplicable reverence filled him.
“Greetings, Guardian Spirit!” he called from a distance before cautiously stepping inside.
“This is…”
At last, he saw it—and his eyes widened in shock.
Bathed in endless silver light, the place exuded sacred tranquility. There, a single plant stood—the Guardian Spirit of the Sky Mending Pavilion.
Contrary to expectations, it was neither radiant nor lush, but yellowed and sickly, as if on the verge of withering.
A gourd vine, draped over a pile of stones, devoid of luster or divine glow—only a withered yellow hue. It wasn’t large, merely five or six meters long, its leaves sparse like autumn had stripped it of vitality.
A dying vine, clinging to the faintest trace of life, its yellowed leaves unable to recover despite the celestial light pouring onto it.
This was the Guardian Spirit of the Sky Mending Pavilion—an ancient vine that had lived for countless ages. Even in its weakened state, it exuded an inexplicable majesty, like a deity!
Could it truly be a god? Little Rascal thought but kept silent.
After what felt like an eternity, he repeated his earlier words, his large eyes darting around to gauge the vine’s reaction.
Silence. The ancient vine seemed devoid of spirit.
“Wait—there’s a gourd!”
Hidden beneath the yellowed leaves was a green gourd, similar in size to the golden one held by the Sky Mending Pavilion’s elder—about the length of a palm, but differing in color.
Little Rascal’s eyes widened as he studied it. The gourd seemed miraculous, almost terrifying—as if containing an entire world, faintly pressing down with an overwhelming presence. Wisps of chaotic energy swirled around it, enveloping the green gourd.
On his shoulder, the furball remained unusually still, though its instincts screamed to snatch the gourd—yet it knew better than to act.
“Meditating here might be beneficial,” Little Rascal murmured, sitting cross-legged. Bathed in the silver light, he absorbed some of its energy, his body relaxing as his runes resonated.
He stole a glance at the Guardian Spirit—the vine remained motionless, its leaves silent.
“Guardian Spirit, Uncle, you don’t mind if I cultivate here, right?” he asked before quickly adding, “Are you ill? I know a willow tree that was once worse off than you—bare except for a single branch—yet it revived.”
He rambled on, but the vine remained still. Its decline wasn’t due to external harm but the exhaustion of its own lifespan.
“Even if you lose the whole world, as long as you hold hope, you can still live brilliantly. Stay strong, Uncle!” Little Rascal cheered, waving a tiny fist.
Peeking again and seeing no reaction, he sighed in relief. “Asleep? Then I’ll make myself at home.”
He focused on the Primal Chaos Scripture, studying its profound runes with solemn reverence, soon entering deep meditation.
A gentle breeze rustled the yellowed leaves as silver light bathed the sacred space.
Time passed indeterminably. During his meditation, Little Rascal faintly heard the resonance of the Great Dao. Startled, he opened his eyes to see the green gourd trembling, an ancient rune flickering upon it, shrouded in chaos—mysterious beyond words.
His heart raced. He strained to decipher the rune but failed repeatedly.
Calming himself, he realized that when the rune shimmered, the Dao’s voice thundered, making his comprehension of the Primal Chaos Scripture easier.
“This place is truly extraordinary!”
Deep into the night, Little Rascal awoke from his trance, knowing it was time to leave.
As he retreated, he paused—this was indeed an ancient household. Had the gourd vine been planted here? Had it never left?
Gazing at the ruined courtyard amidst the wasteland, a peculiar emotion stirred within him. For miles around, the land had turned to desert—yet this dilapidated home endured, its ordinary plants surviving. Had the Guardian Spirit preserved it to resemble its ancient state? Was it reminiscing—or mourning something?
Little Rascal sensed that this Guardian Spirit had its own “story.”
With a final bow toward the rear courtyard, he turned to leave, resolving to return the next night.
But as he stepped beyond the gate, a chill ran down his spine. He staggered back, and the furball screeched, its fur standing on end.
Before them stood an old man—gray-haired, hollow-eyed, with an ancient rusted sword piercing his skull. His arms hung limp, his fingernails black and half a foot long. His attire was archaic, matching depictions of ancient times in old texts.
No breath. No heartbeat. Not a trace of life.
Just standing there, his empty eyes like bottomless voids.
“Elder… you’re blocking my path,” Little Rascal ventured.
Silently, the old man vanished—as if never there.
Yet Little Rascal’s nape prickled. Whirling around, his scalp crawled.
The gray-haired man now stood behind him, nearly pressed against his back.
Little Rascal recoiled, his hair standing on end.
“Whoosh!”
The old man disappeared again, this time reappearing amidst the ruins, emitting a mournful wail—like weeping.
His speed was inhuman—materializing and vanishing as if reshaping reality itself.
“He has no life, no vitality… How can he move like this?” Little Rascal retreated warily.
“Wuuu…”
The sword-pierced old man flickered unpredictably—east, west, even appearing in the rear courtyard beside the Guardian Spirit, wailing sorrowfully before materializing before Little Rascal once more, blocking his escape.
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