Douluo Dalu: Ascension Across the Realms

Time passed in the blink of an eye. Three years had slipped quietly by. In a corner of the Imperial Capital's western district, business at

Time passed in the blink of an eye. Three years had slipped quietly by.

In a corner of the Imperial Capital's western district, business at Wang Lin's shop had flourished over the years. His wooden carvings had earned a growing reputation, drawing a steady stream of customers, including many cultivators who had heard of him and come from afar.

In contrast, Chen Xiaoming's medical clinic remained much the same as it had been three years ago. Although his business had improved considerably, most of his patients were still ordinary folk.

Yet Chen Xiaoming didn't mind. He had no desire to compare himself with others. His mindset was tranquil and unwavering. What he sought was the perspective of a mortal: to comprehend a mortal's life, to experience the cycles of heaven's law, the ebb and flow of karma. The clinic was merely a vessel for him to perceive the Dao.

Spring gave way to autumn, the sun and moon cycled as always. Day by day, Chen Xiaoming treated ailments, witnessing the full spectrum of birth, aging, illness, and death. For those whose diseases could be cured, he offered healing. For those he could not save, he could only sigh and shake his head.

Over these three years, witnessing life and death so often had deepened his understanding of a mortal's helplessness.

And yet, the more he understood, the more Chen Xiaoming felt a growing sense of melancholy.

For three years, he had all but forgotten the system, forgotten cultivation. His realm had remained at the peak of the Ascendant stage—untouched, unadvanced.

Even the comprehension he once devoted to the Origin of Bloodline and the Origin of Time had slowly faded into the background.

Creak.

Once again, he pushed open the doors to his clinic. Compared to three years prior, Chen Xiaoming now carried a quieter, steadier air. His handsome face bore the subtle marks of time—differences that couldn't be denied.

"Doctor Chen! My mother's not doing well, please, come quickly!"

As soon as the door opened, a figure came rushing toward him from nearby. A man in his forties or fifties, clad in a patched-up gray hemp robe, his face filled with desperation. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he grabbed Chen Xiaoming's hand. The soil-stained grip left smudges on the white fabric of Chen's sleeve.

"Wait here."

Chen Xiaoming gently pulled his arm free, turned back inside, grabbed his medicine box, and rushed out again.

"Lead the way."

The man's expression lit up with hope. Wiping the tears from his eyes, he turned and ran ahead to guide the way.

It was early morning, and many on the street were already up and about. Seeing Chen Xiaoming hurrying by with his medicine case, several onlookers revealed expressions of admiration and respect.

In these three years, Chen Xiaoming had earned quiet renown on this street for his remarkable medical skills—and more importantly, for his willingness to treat the poor free of charge, gaining a reputation for compassion and virtue.

Inside the shop next to the clinic, Wang Lin opened his door and watched the fleeting silhouette disappear into the distance, a deep and thoughtful expression in his eyes.

Three years ago, when they first met, Wang Lin never imagined that someone else would truly walk the same path as him—the Path of Mortality.

He couldn't discern Chen Xiaoming's cultivation level, but Wang Lin was certain the man was at least in the Soul Formation realm or higher. His strength was monstrous, the kind of cultivator who had already comprehended his own Domain—why would someone like that choose to become mortal?

Wang Lin didn't understand. Yet Chen Xiaoming was the only person he had ever met who was walking the same road as him.

Heading west, Chen Xiaoming followed the middle-aged man, running for nearly the time it took to burn a stick of incense before arriving at a dilapidated wooden shack. The roof had a gaping hole in it, and the ground was still wet from last night's rain.

Stepping inside, he saw a makeshift wooden bed where an elderly woman lay, hair as white as snow, covered in threadbare clothing. A small puddle had formed beside the bed from the constant dripping through the hole in the ceiling.

"Mother, Doctor Chen is here!"

The man rushed forward, seizing the old woman's hand, his voice thick with emotion.

Chen Xiaoming stepped through the puddle without hesitation, placed his medicine case down beside the muddy floor, and gently pressed his fingers to her wrist.

"Hmm?"

His brow furrowed. The elderly woman's pulse was faint, her breath as fragile as a wisp of smoke. She was barely holding on by sheer willpower.

"Doctor Chen… how is she?"

The middle-aged man's heart sank as he watched Chen Xiaoming fall silent. Tears welled up in his eyes, and he clung to the woman's hand as if terrified she'd vanish in the next breath.

With a soft sigh, Chen Xiaoming pressed gently on her pulse point, channeling a sliver of energy without a trace. Shaking his head, he rose and stepped aside to give them space.

A mortal illness—what could not be cured?

But Chen Xiaoming had chosen to walk the mortal path, to understand the entirety of a mortal's life. Birth, aging, illness, and death were all part of that journey. To interfere too much was to betray the essence of his path.

"Mother!"

The man broke down in sobs. A grown man's tears are not easily shed—but when grief runs deep, even the strongest weep. He held her tightly, his head bowed in guilt and sorrow.

"My son, don't cry… to see you again before I leave this world—this alone… makes me happy…"

The elderly woman's voice trembled with a sudden clarity—a final surge of life, the resurgence before death. Her frail hand reached up to caress his face, a smile of peace upon her lips.

Chen Xiaoming stood in silence, saying nothing. This was all he could do.

"Mother!"

The man gasped. He froze for a moment, recognizing this as her final moment of lucidity. Tears streamed down as he embraced her, unwilling to let go.

"My… son…"

Her voice faded, breath scattering with it. With a faint smile, she passed away in his arms, her final expression one of contentment.

Chen Xiaoming did not disturb them. Quietly, he picked up his medicine case and turned to leave.

As he stepped out of the shack, he exhaled deeply. Scenes like this—he had witnessed too many over the past three years.

Birth and death among mortals, the cycles of karma and reincarnation—all followed a set course.

Birth, aging, sickness, and death—these were part of understanding heaven's laws and grasping the Dao. Even if he used heaven-defying methods to extend someone's life by a few years, ultimately, none could escape the wheel of reincarnation.

Sigh…

Chen Xiaoming looked back at the road he'd come from. The path back now felt significantly heavier. The compassion of a healer—what was right and what was wrong? Even he no longer knew.

Before long, Chen Xiaoming returned to the clinic. He removed his soiled outer robe, changed into a fresh one, and once again reclined in his chair.

But this time, the tranquility of before was absent. Instead, a solemn weight pressed on his heart.

Closing his eyes, countless thoughts surged within. Having seen so many partings, so many final breaths, life itself began to feel like a dream.

Open your eyes, close them. From birth to death, a few decades of life—was it not all just a fleeting dream?

The cycle of heaven's law. The turning of karma.

In his mind, a spark of clarity flickered—an instant of insight. Yet it was gone as quickly as it came, as if he'd realized something… but also, nothing at all.

He gave a slight shake of his head and let out a faint, bitter smile.

His murmured words carried a trace of helplessness, ultimately dissolving into a quiet sigh.

"Sigh..."

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