The Hall of Celestial Inquiry had been built as a sanctum of wisdom, where only the most profound cultivators and scholars debated the nature of existence itself. Yet, today, it was a battlefield. The air was thick with the remnants of heated arguments, but as the voices settled, all that remained was the unsettling truth: none had managed to disprove Xian Wei’s reasoning.
The elders of the Order of Primordial Wholeness sat in grim silence. Their robes, adorned with symbols of the eternal, seemed to weigh heavier on their shoulders. Each attempt to refute Xian Wei’s model had been methodically unraveled. Appeals to tradition had been met with calm reminders that cultivation arts had always evolved. Personal attacks had been dismissed with unwavering composure. Their last refuge—demanding experimental contradiction—stood empty, for they had no such evidence.
But they were not ready to accept defeat. If one argument fell, they conjured another. “You misunderstand the deeper truths,” an elder scoffed. “What of the sacred texts? They explicitly describe the indivisibility of essence.”
Xian Wei responded patiently. “The sacred texts guide us, but they must be interpreted in the light of evidence. The ancients lacked the tools to see what we now observe.”
Another elder slammed his fist on the stone table. “So now you place your crude experiments above the wisdom of millennia?”
The debate spiraled. For every fallacy dismantled, a new one was conjured. “Even if we cannot disprove you, that does not make you correct!” “Your findings must be the result of flawed instruments or improper methods.” “You are leading young cultivators astray with your dangerous ideas!”
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Finally, the Grandmaster, the highest authority in the Order, raised his hand. The hall fell silent. His voice carried neither approval nor rejection, only duty.
“Enough.” He exhaled deeply. “You have upheld the traditions of intellectual rigor. In light of this, you are granted the license to teach your cultivation arts. But do not mistake this for acceptance.”
The pronouncement was law. Xian Wei had won. And yet, as he bowed respectfully, he could already sense it: he had also lost.
Victory in logic did not translate to acceptance in the world of cultivation. Within days, Xian Wei became a pariah. His name, once spoken with admiration, became a warning, a symbol of dangerous deviation.
The major sects shut their doors to him, their pride unwilling to entertain a theory that disrupted centuries of established cultivation doctrine. Even those who did not openly oppose him refused to acknowledge his work. His invitations to lectures were rescinded, and the disciples of prominent sects were warned against seeking his teachings.
To the elders, he was a dangerous radical. To the students, he was a cautionary tale. To the world, he was irrelevant.
At sect gatherings, former colleagues who once spoke warmly with him now avoided his gaze. At one banquet, an elder snidely remarked, “You should focus on refining pills, Xian Wei. At least alchemy still follows the old ways.” Laughter followed. He had become the subject of whispers and derision. His former students were pressured to renounce him, and many, fearing for their futures, did.
Only the Minor Sects and obscure academies sought his guidance. They had little to lose and much to gain, welcoming his ideas—not out of principle, but out of desperation for any advantage in an unforgiving world.
In private, Xian Wei remained undeterred. The truth was sovereign. Though his voice had been buried beneath scorn, he knew that knowledge, once unearthed, could never be truly buried again. And somewhere, beyond the walls that rejected him, a student was listening—one who would take the next step beyond even his understanding.
