Chapter Twenty-Three: Ten Clouds
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Chapter 23: Ten Clouds
No one knew how much time had passed before Wang Lin opened his eyes. It was pitch-dark outside the window. He climbed down from the bed and stretched for a while—nothing felt off—then pulled the stone bowl from under the bed. The liquid inside was gone. He picked up the bead and, after a careful look, was instantly overjoyed: the tenth cloud had appeared in the formerly blank spot.
He snapped to full alert, turning the mysterious stone bead over and over in his hand. Eyes shining, he put it away, hurried out to the mountain spring to fetch a big bowl of water, then rushed back and stirred the bead through it.
Afterward he took a sip of spring water, rolled it on his tongue, and found it no different than usual. Frowning, he studied the bead, bit it—still rock-hard. He squeezed a drop of blood onto it—no change.
Hesitating, he gritted his teeth, raised the stone bowl, and smashed down on the bead. Maybe, he thought, once ten clouds formed something inside would have changed.
Clang, clang—the bowl shattered, his hand went numb, but the bead didn’t bear a single mark.
He tried everything he could think of, yet the bead showed no new trick after the tenth cloud. Heart aching over the two gourds of dew he’d “wasted,” he tossed the bead aside in a huff.
After a while he still couldn’t let it go. He picked it up again and peered at it. As he stared, a wave of drowsiness welled up. He blinked. He’d only just woken—why was he sleepy again? Rubbing his eyes hard, he kept looking at the bead.
Bit by bit the sleepiness surged. The bead blurred before his eyes. At last Wang Lin slumped to the floor, the bead still clutched in his hand.
He dreamed. In the dream he came to a boundless place with no sun, moon, or stars—only countless points of light all around. Though it was a dream, his mind was crystal clear, and he even wondered why he was here.
He felt no discomfort. He knew he was dreaming, but couldn’t wake. With nothing else to do, he walked and walked through that endless space for a very long time.
He didn’t know how much later it was when the surroundings suddenly trembled. A tearing pain ripped through his body; with a groan he jerked his eyes open.
He was still in his room. Drawing a long breath, he wiped the sweat from his brow. Thank goodness that strange dream was over—then his expression turned odd. He stared dumbly at the bead in his hand. The ten clouds were gone, replaced on its surface by several tiny characters.
“Wha…?” He froze, then brought it close. The script was crooked and unfamiliar. He’d loved reading since childhood and knew many forms of writing; after a long mental shuffle he could only hazard a guess.
“They’re numbers—marks—not words with meaning,” he muttered. A spark flashed in his mind—he thought of the dream.
“Could it be tied to the bead?”
He lay back on the bed at once and forced himself to sleep, but he was wide awake and couldn’t drift off. Then he remembered how he’d dozed off naturally while staring at the bead. He fixed his gaze on it, unblinking. Drowsiness rose again, and before he knew it he was asleep.
The endless space returned. Wang Lin stood there, thoughtful. This time he didn’t wander. After a moment he began jumping—up and down—again and again.
As time went on he jumped higher and higher, until at last he could clear nearly half a zhang. When fatigue flooded him, that tearing sensation returned.
He woke.
The instant his eyes opened he hopped off the bed and sprang up—high. Exactly as he’d trained in the dream.
Disbelief flared in his eyes, followed by wild delight. He took a few deep breaths to steady himself and paced the room, expression shifting rapidly—now pensive, now vexed, now perplexed—sweat streaming down his brow.
“If this only lets me train my body in a dream, it’s a chicken rib—hardly worth the trouble. I can train in reality; why do it in a dream?” he murmured.
“No—that can’t be it. The bead only formed ten clouds after absorbing so much spirit-laden liquid; it can’t be some useless trinket. There must be more—there has to be! But what?”
His eyes burned with stubborn focus. Everything else fell away as he sank into thought.
“Could it be… time?”
He stopped short, as if catching a thread. “Time?” he blurted. “If it really relates to time, then even with poor talent I—Wang Lin—will become an immortal!”
He inhaled and exhaled several times, calming himself. Then he pulled out the oil lamp, filled it to the brim, lit it, and sat beside it with the bead in hand, silently keeping count.
A little over two shichen later (a shichen is about two hours), the full lamp guttered out.
He refilled and relit it, gripped the bead, and entered the dream once more.
This time he didn’t jump. He sat cross-legged and counted—measuring time.
Half a shichen, one shichen, five shichen, ten shichen… twenty-five shichen.
The tearing came; Wang Lin opened his eyes. The lamp flame was on the verge of dying.
“Ten times—time in the dream runs ten times faster than in reality!” He leapt to his feet, squeezing the bead tightly.
For the first time, he felt absolute confidence about cultivation.
By now the sun was high. He suppressed his excitement. He didn’t use the bead for cultivation right away. He knew that using it openly inside the sect during the day might draw unwanted eyes at any moment—and then he’d never keep it. He slipped the bead into his storage pouch, pushed open the door, and stepped outside.
- Writer
