Kublai Khan could sense that he was moving, but at the same time a part of him seemed to be frozen in place, with every step. The weakness he felt like he had never felt before was not entirely due to aging, and he couldn't tell what the reason was.

He felt as if he was going to kneel, but he held on and didn't fall. Then he sensed that the wind was actually in a direction, but it was so small that it was almost impossible to detect. There is wind in all directions, and the wind takes the place of the world around it, becoming a dynamic, but equilibrium law.

Everything was trembling, as if it had expanded from the clouds to other aspects of other things. He was already out of sight, because it was impossible for him to open his eyes. It was extremely dangerous in every sense of the word, but he was still stumbling, struggling to move forward, and clearly under the pressure of the same difficulties.

Then the sky tore.

There was a momentary lag in his senses. Not the clouds themselves, but the real sky pouring madly through the cracks, and the light pouring in from the cracks, expanding in all the direction of the chaos, and illuminating all the obscure camouflage that shrouded the mountains, the trees, the water, and the flowers. It's as if they weren't meant to have these shapes, or have simply been awakened from their slumber.

Everything almost suddenly lights up, suddenly gives shape and meaning. Stretching from a wide ridge to the far as the eye can see, it is deep and horizontal, incomparably grandiose, incomparably vast. And the light did not advance, but only appeared, and suddenly appeared like this, brightening up the truth, all the truth that he once thought he knew, but finally found that he knew nothing.

The wind continued to blow, turning from howling to roaring with anger and pride. Like many invisible curves stretching out in the void, taking on form. So the sky finally took on a real, distant blue color, and he didn't realize that the sky was the same color.

Kublai Khan raised his head and stabbed like a sword of sunlight into the middle of the sky. Then he saw the curves in the sky, huge, and really real curves. Something is crossing the sky, walking in God's way.

Is that the Celestial Ark?

He didn't even know which direction it was going, only that it was crossing the sky at a visible speed, and at the same time at a near-infinite speed. And the sky is infinitely vast, passing through infinite land and infinite time. He could imagine this great scene unfolding in the Nine Heavens, and in all parts of the Firmament.

Kublai Khan clearly felt the powerlessness of being a human being. How great and small is this mountain, and how small is his wisdom. Man is imprisoned all his life between the earth and countless insignificance, and never even has the opportunity to touch any part of it.

The wind was still roaring fiercely, making him stagger even more, but that was all. He knew that such a great thing would not stop because of the so-called human wisdom, nor would it change in any way.

The curve was like a pattern on the water, moving slowly but forcefully to both sides. At the same time, there was a huge and majestic sound that surpassed the thunder. He saw the fire sweep through the passing form, burning slowly and so closely the color of the sky. Countless clouds spread out from that infinite trajectory, forming dissipating and incomparably large fluctuations, which he had wanted to inquire about infinitely. Infinitely large, infinitely vast, infinitely expanding.

Kublai Khan could not describe the marching flames. Maybe it's the pen of the universe, maybe it's the bridge that connects the front and the back. It carries the infinite power and beauty of heaven and earth. It's transparent, and it's colored because of the wind. It is alive and may not be alive. But he prefers to believe in its growth. There is at least one power that can reach such heights, and there is a form of existence that can achieve such greatness.

Here again, he was strongly reminded of reincarnation. There will always be a moment in an infinite time when he will exist in such a form, such a consciousness, at least as a part of it.

Everything is still there, and everything is in an unquestionable reality. And the real is found in a greater reality. Perhaps in some larger world, it is nothing more than the ripples of fallen leaves on puddles, but the slow march of fish in the shallows. Kublai Khan suddenly understood that there were some things that people would never know, even a person with magical powers like Sun Hui would not be able to find out.

He remembered his life, everything about himself, and the countless travels he had been proud of, and he had thought that no one or thing in this world could have traveled farther and seen more dangers than he had. But it doesn't make sense now. In that slow but continuous flight, every moment was surpassing the entire distance he had traveled in his life.

So he almost began to despise fate, but vaguely looked forward to the distant future. Realizing this, he no longer feared death, but stared at the process that was already close to him with a complex expression of almost anticipation. Because the world is infinite, because the universe is infinite.

What exactly is hidden in the sky is still unknown. It was as if there were five colors of light that were difficult to grasp, or it was just an illusion on his part. He was still here, his body still trembling from his illness. He felt himself and he felt everything about himself. He felt himself bathed in a sacred torrent of light, wind, and rain.

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