Douluo Dalu: Ascension Across the Realms

Time passed. Ten years swept by like flowing water, vanishing in the blink of an eye. In this span of a decade, Chen Xiaoming's appearance h

Time passed. Ten years swept by like flowing water, vanishing in the blink of an eye.

In this span of a decade, Chen Xiaoming's appearance had changed. Once youthful and elegant, his features now bore the traces of middle age. Faint wrinkles lined his once-handsome face, evidence of the years gone by.

Like his neighbor, Old Wang, who used minor spells to age his appearance deliberately, Chen Xiaoming, too, had not yet completed his journey down the Path to Mortality.

Over the years, he had changed greatly. The once-striking aura that set him apart had gradually faded in the bustle of everyday life. Even the faint immortal radiance that clung to him had long been worn away by time.

Now, Chen Xiaoming truly looked like an ordinary man. Though his frame remained upright, he was no different in appearance from a mortal who had spent a lifetime toiling under the sun.

Creak.

He pushed the door open as usual. A gust of wind, chill with the late-autumn air, swept in and rustled the withered leaves along the ground. A shiver ran through him, and he instinctively pulled his thick coat tighter, tugging the brim of his fur cap down against the wind.

Shoulders hunched and hands tucked inside his sleeves, he shuffled slowly toward the tavern not far ahead.

Creak.

The sound echoed again behind him. Chen Xiaoming paused and turned to see a slightly hunched figure emerge—a man with a weathered face and an upright coat collar pulled high to guard against the cold.

It was Old Wang from next door, his fellow cultivator walking the same Path to Mortality. Chen Xiaoming paused to wait. Over the past decade, the two had exchanged brief words, but their connection had remained distant.

Wang Lin was cold-natured, wholly absorbed in seeking the Dao through mortal experience. Chen Xiaoming walked a similar path, though his goal was to comprehend karma.

Aside from the occasional daily meeting, little conversation passed between them.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

Dry leaves crumbled beneath Wang Lin's slow steps. His gaze flicked toward Chen Xiaoming with a brief glimmer of surprise, but he said nothing, continuing his unhurried pace.

Just then, a burly young man emerged from the nearby blacksmith's shop, carrying a bucket of spent charcoal. Spotting the two men, he grinned widely.

"Uncle Chen! Uncle Wang! Off to listen to opera together?"

Wang Lin halted, turned back with a rare smile. "Da Niu, bring us two flasks of wine."

The young man nodded quickly, dumped the charcoal aside, and hurried into the shop. Moments later, he returned with two clay wine flasks in hand. A touch of concern flickered in his eyes.

"Uncle Wang, you're not young anymore. Go easy on the drink—just a sip to warm you up, yeah?"

As he spoke, he cast a wary glance at Chen Xiaoming behind Wang Lin—just as the elder stepped forward, as if he had heard.

"Da Niu," Chen Xiaoming called out, voice amused, "you were such a well-behaved boy growing up. What happened? You're turning out just like your father. Wine's a treasure, not a poison. Don't forget, I'm still—"

"Yes, yes, Uncle Chen. You're the doctor. You know best." Da Niu ducked his head and nodded rapidly, no longer the clueless youth he had been ten years ago.

Yet despite the passing years, his respect for Chen Xiaoming had only grown deeper.

In ten years, Uncle Chen had made a name for himself across the capital with his remarkable medical skills. More impressively, he treated the poor for free, earning the admiration of the entire neighborhood.

Though he wasn't perfect—his lazy nature often had him idling at the tavern for hours, sipping his beloved wine—whenever someone criticized his drinking, he would lean on his title of "doctor" and counter with a litany of eccentric justifications.

"Hmph. At least you've got some sense," Chen Xiaoming scoffed, snatching one flask and glaring at Da Niu with a mock sternness. He tucked the bottle into his coat and turned, ambling off.

Wang Lin smiled faintly, took the second flask, patted the young man's shoulder, and followed at the same leisurely pace.

Da Niu stood there, watching their retreating figures. A twinge of sadness stirred in his chest.

In these ten years, both Uncle Wang and Uncle Chen had grown old. He still remembered the days—so vivid now—when their faces had radiated vigor, their eyes shining like stars.

Ten years. Just like that, gone.

A quiet sigh escaped him. Then, with the weariness of sudden reflection, he turned back to his tasks.

The late-autumn wind carried a biting chill. Chen Xiaoming and Wang Lin walked side by side, saying nothing. Their silence hung heavily, comfortably between them.

Soon, they arrived at a tavern near the street corner. As they stepped inside, a sharp-eyed young attendant with a towel over his shoulder spotted them.

"Well, well! Manager Wang! Doctor Chen! What breeze brings you two in together today? Please, come in, come in!"

"Doctor Chen, the usual?" he asked, already familiar with their habits.

The clinic had grown steady over the years, and Chen Xiaoming's tavern visits had increased. In the last three years, he had come almost daily. By now, the staff knew him well.

"Mmm. I'll sit with Manager Wang today."

Wang Lin's eyes briefly flickered with a sharp light, but he said nothing, silently agreeing.

"Of course! Right this way."

The attendant quickly led them to a table near the eastern window, wiped it clean with his towel, and stepped back with a bow.

Chen Xiaoming took his seat and drew the fruit wine from his coat. Across from him, Wang Lin settled in as well.

Soon after, the server returned with a few side dishes and a small charcoal pot of boiling water. Chen Xiaoming placed his wine flask into the pot to warm it.

As the fruit wine heated, the two sat in silence, unhurried.

Chen Xiaoming glanced at Wang Lin—not with divine sense or bloodline perception, just with his eyes. He hadn't used his immortal energy in years.

"The wine's ready. Here."

He poured a cup and slid it across the table. Then filled another for himself, took a small sip, and leaned back, eyes half-closed as he gazed at the corner of the tavern.

A group of musicians emerged from the back—a few lute players and a singer. The lead performer, a woman with enchanting eyes and flowing sleeves, stepped forward. Her melodious voice floated through the air, immediately earning applause and cheers from the other patrons.

Wang Lin raised his cup, sipped the wine, and listened quietly. Even in Chen Xiaoming's presence, he showed no change—just a man enjoying music, as ordinary as any other.

At the same time, Chen Xiaoming, equally relaxed and absorbed in the opera performance, sat with his eyes half-closed, clearly enraptured by the music. From time to time, he would lift the fruit wine on the table and take a small sip.

Just as the two of them were quietly enjoying the show, a sudden commotion broke out. A disheveled old man in a grey cotton robe stormed through the entrance. His hair was a tangled mess, his face bruised and battered with blue and purple blotches, and several large muddy footprints were stamped across his chest.

The moment he entered, his eyes swept across the room, and with a lewd tone, he cackled, "Oho, this little lady sings well! Lured me all the way from the northern quarter—excellent!"

Chen Xiaoming raised an eyebrow and, with a flicker of his gaze toward Wang Lin, caught a fleeting glint of sharp light in the latter's eyes the instant the old man appeared.

"Brother Wang, do you know him?"

Although Chen Xiaoming already had his suspicions about the man's identity, he asked the question knowingly while scanning the elder from head to toe.

Wang Lin's expression returned to calm. "We've met once before," he said evenly.

Years ago, that very old man had once tricked Wang Lin into buying him a meal. Yet the man's true strength remained elusive. And since Wang Lin was walking the Path of Mortality at the time, he hadn't bothered to look deeper.

He hadn't expected that after so many years, their paths would cross again.

"Oh? Then it must be fate," Chen Xiaoming remarked with feigned surprise. He waved over the tavern owner, leaned in close, and whispered a few words in his ear. The owner frowned but, after glancing at Chen Xiaoming, reluctantly nodded.

"Fine, let him in. Take him to Doctor Chen."

His brows were furrowed, and his tone carried a hint of distaste. Were it not for Chen Xiaoming's request, he would never have allowed a filthy beggar inside.

"Hmph! At least your boss has good taste!"

Hearing that the tavern owner had spoken on his behalf, the old beggar let out a snide, arrogant snort. The nearby waiter seethed with frustration but was helpless to act.

"Let's go," the waiter snapped impatiently. Though every fiber of his being resisted, he couldn't openly refuse. After all, in the entire tavern, only that kind and compassionate Doctor Chen might be willing to help this beggar.

Moments later, the waiter brought the old beggar over to where Chen Xiaoming and Wang Lin were seated. With a respectful nod to them both, he promptly excused himself.

"Have a seat," Chen Xiaoming said with a casual smile, gesturing toward the spare stool nearby. He didn't spare the beggar much attention.

"Heh, you brat… hmm?"

The old beggar squinted at Chen Xiaoming with a grin, but as his eyes slid past him to Wang Lin, he paused mid-glance. Suddenly taken aback, he turned his head and gave Wang Lin a thorough once-over. His expression twisted into something odd.

"It's you!" he exclaimed in surprise.

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