Mo Zhenyu sat in the vast, towering library on the third floor of the Heavenly Eye, surrounded by endless shelves filled with ancient texts. The weight of knowledge pressed down on him, yet he eagerly turned page after page, his eyes burning with hunger for understanding.
He had spent hours reading about Astral Cultivation—the foundation of power in this world.
"Astral cultivation is the process of channeling astral energy through one's guiding constellation, strengthening both the body and the destiny artifact. The first five foundational ranks are as follows:
Star Forging – The awakening of one's astral body and artifact.
Astral Flow – The forging of deeper links between the cultivator and the constellation.
Celestial Resonance – A state where the cultivator and constellation exist in perfect synchronization.
Constellation Baptism – A rebirth, where the celestial energy tempers both mind and body.
Astral Embodiment – The final stage of early cultivation, where one becomes a true extension of their guiding star.
Mo Zhenyu leaned back, exhaling slowly. So the key to true strength lies in deepening the bond with my guiding constellation...
He continued reading.
"Constellations are not just celestial bodies; they are sentient, choosing their bearers based on affinity. The most effective cultivation path is to embody the nature of one's guiding star. Many attempt shortcuts—shaping their consciousness to mirror their star, consuming rare pills, or using external treasures—but none of these methods compare to walking the true path of the constellation."
His fingers tightened on the page.
"Each constellation bestows abilities equal to its number of stars. A six-star constellation grants six unique abilities, shaping both the wielder and their destiny artifact. The artifact itself is not just a tool—it is a physical manifestation of the cultivator's bond with the heavens, existing solely to further their path."
His father's voice echoed in his mind.
"A brush is not just a tool. It is an extension of the soul. Through it, you leave your mark upon the world."
Mo Zhenyu's heart pounded. My father's path was calligraphy—drawing talismans infused with power. My own path… is painting.
A slow, understanding smile stretched across his lips.
Everything led back to a single truth.
His guiding star was the Chromatic Owl—an entity that painted life itself.
His destiny artifact was a brush—a tool of creation.
His greatest passion was painting—capturing the essence of the world.
His path was clear.
"Primordial beings,
Chromatic Owl wings in flight,
Across the void, a vibrant sight.
With starlit brush and colors free,
Painting new heavens."
A new heaven. A bigger sky. A boundless world of colors waiting to be brought to life.
But before that, he had five years.
Five years to master the six abilities of the Chromatic Owl.
Five years to refine his cultivation and reach Astral Embodiment.
Five years to comprehend the Primordial Talismans left behind by Celestial Hozan.
A daunting task for a nine-year-old.
He exhaled sharply and withdrew his consciousness from the Heavenly Eye, feeling the rush of cold energy as he returned to reality.
Rising to his feet, he gathered his painting box, brushes, inks, and canvas. He moved without hesitation, stepping into the open air, following the familiar path toward the cliff where his father was buried.
The wind howled softly, whispering forgotten memories.
Mo Zhenyu set up his canvas. He dipped his brush into the ink.
And with quiet determination, he began to paint.
Although his left eye remained closed, Mo Zhenyu took in the world before him—the rising sun casting golden light across the horizon, birds soaring through the sky, their wings slicing through the morning glow. The lingering dark of night clashed with the dawn, stubbornly refusing to fade. Clouds drifted endlessly, stretching toward distant islands that vanished into the horizon.
He inhaled deeply, then shut his remaining eye.
With slow, practiced movements, he pulled out his painting box and set it before him. His hands moved instinctively, almost mechanically, as he dipped his brush into the colors—the deep blue of the sky and ocean, the navy hue of the retreating night, the lush green of the trees, the earthy brown of their trunks, the bright yellow sun, and the crimson streaks of its rays. The roaring sea, the endless waves—every detail was committed to memory.
Stroke by stroke, the painting came to life.
This was a scene he had painted every day for ten years. A scenery etched so deeply into his soul that, today, he no longer needed to look. His hand moved like a virtuoso, each stroke precise, effortless, infused with something he had never quite captured before.
For the first time—the painting breathed.
The birds seemed to flap their wings. The rivers shimmered, flowing with silent motion. The sun radiated warmth. It was no longer just a painting—it was a world.
Then, a soft glow ignited deep within his body.
A delicate, warm light shrouded him, filling his limbs with vitality, his mind with clarity. It lasted only an instant—but the sensation lingered.
Yet, instead of joy, sorrow took hold.
Tears spilled from his eyes, unbidden, uncontrolled. A choked sob tore from his throat.
"You fool! Why did you leave? Why did you sacrifice yourself for me?"
His voice trembled.
"You should have just killed her!"
The grief he had buried, the resentment he had suppressed, surged like the crashing waves below, drowning him in pain. Days of silent suffering, of pretending to be fine, shattered in an instant.
And then—he felt it.
A familiar presence. A guiding force. His father's soul, lingering in the brushstrokes.
His hand moved, not of his own will, but guided by something beyond him. It traced the final addition to the painting—a tombstone.
As the last stroke fell into place, a tiny spark of light flickered on the canvas.
Mo Zhenyu watched, frozen, as the painting began to burn.
The flames were silent, consuming the canvas without heat, without pain. It was as if his father's lingering regrets, his unspoken farewell, had finally been released.
Zhenyu did not move.
Did not dare to stop it.
He only watched.
And when nothing but ashes remained, he exhaled a shaky breath.
"I understand now."
He wiped his tears, voice hoarse but steady.
"I will take care of myself. Thank you… for everything.
Wherever you're going… take care."
He picked up his brush and signed the empty space before him.
Goodbye, Loving Father, Renyu.
For the first time, he had created a painting filled with emotion.
And for the first time—he had truly let go.