Chapter Fifty-Eight: Overthinking

At night, the rain poured down in torrents.

Far from the Baiyang Sect, though he knew not how far, Liu Pan’s eyelids fluttered slightly as he awoke. Cold rain slapped haphazardly against his cheeks, soaking him through. Though he could clearly feel the chill seeping into his body, Liu Pan did not find it uncomfortable; rather, a sense of exhilaration welled up within him.

Only a scant trace of primordial energy remained in his dantian, and a deep fatigue weighed down his limbs. Evidently, the aftereffects of the Explosive Essence Pill had not yet faded.

He lifted his eyes and swept his gaze around—nothing but darkness. The only sound was the relentless drumming of rain all around. Liu Pan frowned and, with a thought, sent his spiritual sense outward.

Although he had consumed the Explosive Essence Pill earlier, that pill merely stimulated the latent potential of a cultivator’s body; it had little bearing on the powers of the soul. Thus, Liu Pan felt no difficulty as he extended his spiritual sense.

With its expansion, he grasped the situation of his surroundings: he was in a forest, seated on a branch some three meters above the ground, his back against the tree trunk. Not far from him, Liu Kuang rested on another branch, the Desolate Blade nestled in his arms, its scarlet light flickering faintly.

Scooping rainwater into his hands, Liu Pan drank deeply and let out a long breath. He had no idea how long he had been unconscious. All he remembered was that, after using the Pill Support Technique to destroy Yang Jiangshui’s mark on his spirit, the aftereffects of the Explosive Essence Pill had swiftly overtaken him. In a daze, he lost consciousness atop the Desolate Blade, and upon waking, this was the scene that greeted him.

He sat in a daze for a long while before sighing softly, yet an inexplicable smile played at his lips. Then he closed his eyes and began to cultivate.

Having escaped the Baiyang Sect, Liu Pan had no way of knowing how much the plot would now diverge from the book’s original course. All he could do was take things one step at a time.

The sheer unpredictability of his current predicament struck Liu Pan as both amusing and exasperating. Back at the Baiyang Sect, he had been determined to keep his distance from Liu Kuang—now, the two of them had fled together, bound by shared mortal danger. From now on, keeping his distance would be no easy matter.

Precisely because he so clearly understood this, Liu Pan quickly decided to stop overthinking and simply let things take their course.

Since the storyline’s deviation could no longer be prevented, he might as well let it unfold naturally.

He had come to realize that, since he—the author—had crossed into his own novel and become entangled with the protagonist, Liu Kuang, the plot was bound to change to some degree; it was impossible for the story to continue as written.

No matter what, the plot was destined to shift, so what was the point of trying to forcibly correct it? Besides, he alone knew the “script”—even if he managed to adjust surface events, he could never alter the thoughts of every character.

Thus, correcting the plot was ultimately meaningless. Once a person’s mind is changed, even if events briefly return to the “right track,” they cannot remain so for long; after all, for the characters, the “script” does not exist. No one would live their life according to a script that means nothing to them.

Having decided to go with the flow, Liu Pan felt a sudden lightness of heart. Only then did he realize that he had simply been overthinking everything.

In the end, Liu Pan had cared too much that this world was a book and had obsessed over its plot. Now that he could not set things right, he wondered—what was the point of worrying so much? With his meager strength, was it not pointless to fret over the direction of the “script”?

What’s more, he was the author, not originally a character in the book. If he insisted on following the plot to the letter, he would end up shackled by it himself.

Forcing himself into the narrative as though he were just another pawn—Liu Pan now saw how foolish that was.

He recalled how, upon first arriving in this world, he had resolved to seize the protagonist’s golden opportunities and become the main character himself. What had become of that determination?

Had he lost confidence in himself? That could hardly be the case. Liu Pan had every faith he would one day stand at the pinnacle of this world—more so than anyone else here. His worries about the plot were nothing more than idle concerns.

A wise man, even after a thousand deliberations, is bound to err at least once; a fool, after a thousand, may stumble upon some truth. Liu Pan had thought that, by preserving the plot, he could control everything that was to come.

Yet the human heart is unfathomable. Even as the author, all these characters were of his own creation, but he could not predict their every thought, let alone control their every action.

Thus, the urge to “correct the plot” was nothing but arrogance and ignorance.

Understanding this, Liu Pan resolved to change his attitude toward this world—to return to the person he had been upon his arrival. For only then was he truly himself.

The rain on a summer night was cold, and the temperature had dropped sharply. Yet, thanks to the Extreme Frost Physique, Liu Pan felt no discomfort.

As for Liu Kuang, he remained unconscious. Though Liu Pan’s spiritual sense detected the rain mercilessly pelting him, he could not be bothered to move him. In truth, the downpour was so fierce that there was nowhere in the forest to take shelter; it made little difference whether he moved him or not.

Nor did Liu Pan worry that the wet clothes and invading cold might cause Liu Kuang to fall ill. With the Desolate Blade—a fire-elemental sentient artifact—clutched in Liu Kuang’s arms, if even it could not dispel a little chill from the rain, it would hardly deserve its reputation.

Time slipped by unnoticed during cultivation. When Liu Pan opened his eyes again, dawn had broken, and the storm had passed.

Stretching lazily, he still felt traces of fatigue throughout his body, but his mood was buoyant.

He glanced at his right arm, a hint of wonder in his eyes. In his battle with Li Liao, the bones in his arm had been fractured in countless places—just the memory of that pain made him shudder, for it was far beyond what ordinary men could endure.

On Earth, a bone injury would take months to heal. But here, on the martial-dominated continent of Tianfeng, things were different. Cultivators could use primordial energy to speed their recovery, and with quality medicinal pills, healing would be even faster.

Liu Pan, having taken three Bone-Mending Pills earlier and nurtured his injuries with primordial energy throughout the night, had already recovered considerably. By his estimation, his arm would be fully healed in about half a month.

His fight with Li Liao had brought gains beyond mere wounds. Most notably, Liu Pan had perfected the Sevenfold Water Element Seal and advanced his cultivation to the second rank of Martial Apprentice.

Yet, despite perfecting the Sevenfold Water Element Seal, Liu Pan was left puzzled. After all, ice and water were distinct elements, and to use ice-elemental energy to master a water-element technique to perfection seemed inherently contradictory.

Still, though he found it odd, there was nothing he could do. For all that he was the author, when it came to the mysteries of cultivation, he was a novice, ignorant of the profound workings of martial techniques.

All he could do was wait until his cultivation deepened, or seek out someone to ask, or consult relevant books—only then might he find the answer.

As for his progress in cultivation, it left Liu Pan rather unmoved.

After all, in countless novels, the protagonist’s cultivation would leap forward after each great battle with an enemy. Liu Pan had grown numb to this trope.

In fact, he would have found it strange if Liu Kuang, upon waking, didn’t advance to the Martial Apprentice realm.