Ascension of the Immortal Asura

The Grand Abbot stared at John, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape. It was an expression never before seen on the man's face, at least not by anyone during the last several hundred thousand years he had roamed this world.

He was a man of incomparable experience, a man of complete control over his emotions. And yet, he felt only disbelief at the moment.

Thrum!

A thrumming sound echoed out within the void, soft, yet completely noticeable. It was like the pulse of a heartbeat, slow, but steady.

Thrum!

The sound echoed again, slightly louder than before. It came thirty seconds after the prior, and was followed by another slightly louder thrum thirty seconds later.

Thrum!

Thrum!

Thrum!

The thrums continued, each following the previous in perfect timing, like the ticking of a clock. Only the ticking was growing slightly louder with each thrum, as if the clock were becoming more and more powerful with each passing tick.

Thrum!

The thrumming did not surprise the Grand Abbot. It was an expected thing when one was breaking through to the Dao Transformation Realm.

The transformation of one's Qi!

The transformation of one's soul!

The unison between the two, both elevating the other to a new form of existence, completely unique within the universe.

This was how it was with every human who cultivated to this level. It was an instinctual thing to do when breaking through, as it was the only way to transform one to the next realm. The only way to break through.

That was not what stunned the Grand Abbot.

It was not the thrums emanating from John, but the number of thrums that had boomed out within the void they were in. The Grand Abbot's mind was a blur, and he thought back to the cultivation principles, trying to see if he had missed something. Misremembered something.

He knew that was impossible, but he did so, nonetheless.

And the process was futile. His knowledge was perfect. There was no mistake.

He thought back to his own breakthroughs from a time that seemed so long ago as to be ten lifetimes ago.

"Ten Dantian Compressions," he mumbled softly, recalling the number of dantian compressions he had achieved as a child when breaking through to the Core Formation Realm. Even from the place he came from, that was an awe-inspiring number. He had been heralded as a genius of geniuses.

Only freaks from ancient powerhouses and ancient inheritances could surpass the heavenly limit of ten, and thus it was a number that all strove for. His talent had set him on a life of wondrous adventure and growth, until he eventually came face to face with his Dao Transformation ascension.

He could still clearly recall that day, another day of triumph.

Everyone knew the laws of the Dao Transformation Realm. They were as certain and resolute as the laws dictating the Core Formation Realm breakthrough.

The soul infuses the dantian, the dantian nourishes the soul. The two grow together in unison, two thrums completing a cycle of growth. And the amount of thrums was known by all. The limit was certain.

The number of cycles was limited to the number of dantian compressions one obtained at the Core Formation Realm.

For him, that limit had been ten dantian compressions!

For him, that limit had been twenty potential thrums, or ten complete cycles.

But that was only a limit. Not a guarantee. The only ones capable of reaching that limit were the geniuses who had managed to grow to perfection, not squandering a single aspect of their cultivation in the time between the Core Formation Realm and the Dao Transformation realm.

Even the greatest of geniuses lost a step or two between these realms, as he had done as well.

His ten compressions had become sixteen thrums, or eight cycles. He had failed to reach his limit of ten thrums, but that was expected.

That number had elated all those around him at the time, his friends, his family, his loved ones.

"A true genius," he recalled them saying as they learned of his feats.

He knew of many others with better numbers than he had achieved, but he was still able to hold his head proudly. He might not have been a pinnacle genius, but he was a genius nonetheless. He had recalled a story from his youth of a certain cultivator who had achieved twenty-eight thrums. Fourteen cycles.

That cultivator had been a pinnacle of everything. A god of the cultivation world. His fame was known throughout all of existence. He had never compared himself to that existence. No one did. It was a benchmark, a goal, but a hopeless one as everyone knew.

There were even rumors that despite that individual's strength, the fourteen cycles were nothing more than a rumor. A myth perpetuated in the individual's younger years, which eventually stuck and became a truth.

The Grand Abbot didn't care if it was the truth or not. It didn't change a thing. Twenty-eight thrums, fourteen complete cycles, was a mythical limit reserved for the gods. It was impossible to achieve, or even get close to. He knew it. The world knew it. It was a cultivation rule as firm as any in existence.

Thrum!

And yet, he was wrong. The world was wrong. That rule was shattered, decimated, by the entity before him. He couldn't even consider the figure before him to be a person at the moment. Was a human even capable of such a thing? It was a feat reserved for only the gods, if they existed, and the figure before him was certainly not a god.

Entity felt like the right word.

Thrum!

Each thrum shook the Grand Abbot further to his core. He held his breath, not willing to breath out for a singular moment. He didn't dare make a single sound.

Thrum!

Each thrum was more unexpected than the last. It was utterly impossible! It couldn't continue! It had to stop!

Thrum!

And yet the next one came, ever rhythmic in its timing. The Grand Abbot felt himself go numb. He couldn't feel more shock. He was at his limits. He just watched, eyes wide, body numb.

Thrum!

The thrums, like heartbeats of the world, continued as if they would never end. They had started off soft, but now sounded like the poundings of war drums, booming with explosive power.

And then they stopped. The Grand Abbot's mind shook, snapped out of his dazed stupor. His cleared mind counted the thrums instinctively, recalling how many he had heard. The number was impossible, but he knew he was not wrong. He couldn't be wrong about something so simple. Someone as powerful as him couldn't mistake what had happened.

He breathed out with exhaustion.

"Twenty full cycles! Forty thrums!" he whispered softly, his eyes resting on John's back. "What have I witnessed? What…is this child?"