Unintended Immortality-Chapter 541: A Drop of Water Becomes a Lake

By late morning, the foot of Mount Huayan was swarming with people, moving like lines of ants.

“Sir, are you not continuing your journey?”

The merchant, his voice weak with exhaustion, stood beside Song You, casting him a questioning glance. When he saw that Song You did not respond, he finally spoke, “I will leave in a few days.”

The Daoist turned his head, looking over the weary refugees around him. Then, he glanced up at the sky, where the sun grew increasingly scorching.

This place was far drier than Shazhou.

Even if rain were to fall here, it would take more than a hundred days to make a real difference. And with the land’s inability to retain water—lacking both the proper terrain and sufficient inhabitants—one rainfall would be of little use. The water wouldn’t even last a day before disappearing.

Fortunately, he had another way.

“Then at least move to the back,” the merchant suggested. “There are shaded spots there. If you stay here under the sun, you'll dry up like a corpse in no time.”

“I have Daoist cultivation. The heat does not affect me,” Song You replied with a gentle smile, looking up at him. “This place is fine. I will sit here. It’s the perfect spot to attune myself to the spiritual resonance of this land.”

“...”

“You should not linger here for too long,” Song You continued, speaking as if he had all the time in the world, unconcerned about how many words it would take to persuade him.

“I see that you are a man of integrity. You’re disciplined, brave, and steadfast. Such qualities are rare. The rise and fall of one’s fortune is only temporary. If you can endure this hardship and press forward, in time, even if you do not achieve greatness, you will not live an ordinary, mediocre life. Leave soon. Seek a new path for yourself.” fгeewёbnoѵel_cσm

“...”

The merchant's lips were cracked and pale from dryness. He glanced at the Daoist’s water pouch, knowing there was barely more than a sip left. He dared not ask for more, nor did he have the strength to speak further. Instead, he simply cupped his hands in thanks, then staggered away toward the shade ahead.

Before he left, he turned back for one last look.

The Daoist sat cross-legged, motionless. His travel bag rested beside him. The jujube-red horse stood quietly at his side, while the calico cat had found a small sand dune, perching atop it with her neck stretched out, scanning the surroundings.

A truly strange Daoist.

The merchant reached the shade, finally able to take a breath of relief. But as soon as he relaxed, his legs gave out beneath him, and he collapsed onto the ground.

***

In the vast, desolate Gobi, there were few roads. Mount Huayan was the single unavoidable path through River City’s territory.

Countless merchants, travelers, and refugees converged here.

No one dared to travel under the scorching midday sun. No matter how much water one carried, they would collapse from the heat within a few li, their bodies quickly drying into lifeless husks. So as noon approached, people desperately searched for shelter. If no shelter was found, they would huddle beside their camels, using cloth to cover themselves. Only morning and evening were safe times for travel.

The rocky walls of Mount Huayan had been carved with numerous caves. Natural canyons and crevices also provided some relief, and makeshift wooden huts and shelters had been built for shade. Additionally, the mountain faced away from the western sun, so as noon passed, it cast a vast shadow over the ground. Over time, this place had naturally become a crucial refuge for weary travelers.

At this moment, the area was filled with people resting under the shade, their weak conversations drifting in and out.

Some words Song You could understand. Others he could not.

“This cursed weather...”

“Does anyone know where there's still water?”

“Where? Even River City’s river has dried up. The whole city is nearly abandoned. Haven't you seen the crowds fleeing?”

“How are we supposed to survive...?”

“Where are you heading? Do you really think you can make it out?”

“If we don’t leave, we’ll die here.”

“This trip is going to cost us our lives.”

“Sigh...”

They spoke with the last remnants of their strength.

It was a desperate attempt to find solace in conversation as death loomed near. It was a final hope for news of water. It was the sighing lament of lives on the edge of extinction.

“Oh, heavens above... If you won’t let us live, then just take us away already! Why leave us here to suffer? I've never done anything evil in my life...”

There were wails of despair, sighs of resignation, and prayers whispered to the heavens that did not answer.

Every voice drifted into the Daoist’s ears.

And whether they spoke or remained silent, many couldn't help but shift their gaze toward him.

Most people were huddled in caves, crouched in canyon shadows, squeezed into rock crevices, or sheltering beneath makeshift wooden canopies.

Only one man—this Daoist—sat alone in the scorching sunlight.

The Gobi sun was merciless, baking the ground hot enough to cook an egg and shining so brightly that people struggled to keep their eyes open. Under this blinding glare, the solitary figure of the Daoist was strikingly visible. His once-faded and dust-worn Daoist robes seemed to glow, appearing even whiter and brighter than before.

The spot where he sat happened to be a shallow depression in the ground.

He remained still.

And because he stayed, the calico cat and the swallow refused to leave either. The small shadow cast by the Daoist’s travel bag was just large enough for the two of them to stay cool beneath it.

They simply stared at him—watching, waiting.

Only the jujube-red horse, lying beside him, seemed to suffer the most.

Fortunately, whether it was the cat, the horse, or the swallow, all had cultivation to protect them. They wouldn’t die so easily from thirst or heat.

But discomfort was still discomfort.

And as time dragged on, as the sun blazed relentlessly and the days passed without water, the suffering only deepened. Even demons wouldn’t endure it easily.

The calico cat lay sprawled on the ground beneath the small patch of shade, her body limp. The swallow beside her was just as listless.

But as miserable as she felt, she couldn’t stop glancing at the Daoist. He had been sitting in the direct sunlight, completely still, for three whole days. He hadn’t moved, not even once.

Not even to open his eyes.

If he had been an ordinary person, he would have shriveled up and died within an afternoon.

“...”

The calico cat cautiously crawled forward. Her movements were slow, deliberate.

The moment her paw left the shade and touched the sun-scorched ground, a searing heat shot through her pads.

Startled, she instinctively recoiled, pulling her paw back in a flash. Only after enveloping herself in a layer of protective spiritual energy did she attempt again, carefully making her way toward the Daoist.

Once she reached him, she sniffed him curiously, just as she had when they first met. She examined his condition as if checking whether he was still alive.

Back then, she had done it out of fear that the Daoist had died.

Now, she knew better. She knew that he was not someone who could die so easily.

And yet, she still wanted to observe him.

“Daoist priest... are you thirsty?”

Her voice was barely above a whisper, hesitant, afraid of disturbing him but still hoping for a response.

“Meow?”

She tilted her head, peering closer at his lips. They were dry and cracked from the relentless heat.

“Do you want some water? We still have a tiny bit left!”

“Lady Calico, come back. Don’t disturb him,” the swallow's voice drifted over from behind. It was just as faint, nearly breathless.

“Mr. Song You is comprehending some kind of spiritual resonance.”

“Mm?” The cat instantly turned her head, staring at the swallow in confusion.

“Lady Calico, haven’t you noticed? There’s a spiritual resonance gathering around him. It’s growing denser, more profound,” the swallow said.

“Meow...” The cat concentrated, carefully sensing the air around the Daoist.

It did seem to be true.

“This feeling... it seems kind of familiar.”

“Yangdu.”

“Yangdu!”

“There was a similar resonance there before.”

“Oh!” The cat's eyes widened slightly. “You might actually be smarter than me!”

“The sun is scorching. We haven't had water for two days. Lady Calico, stop talking, and don't move too much. Just come back and stay in the shade. When the night cools down, I'll take the horse into the Gobi to search for water.”

“Okay...”

This time, the cat didn’t walk back.

Instead, she bent her legs slightly and, with a gentle leap, sprang from the Daoist’s side to land beside the travel bag.

Her form stretched gracefully in the air, casting a shadow upon the ground below.

The swallow immediately stiffened as though something deep within his bloodline had been awakened—a primal fear.

Instinctively, he almost took flight. His wings twitched open. But with visible effort, he forced himself to remain still and folded them back down.

Even so, when the cat landed beside him, he silently shuffled a little farther away, finally letting out a breath of relief.

The sun dipped westward, and dusk slowly descended. The searing heat of the world finally began to soften into something gentler.

Only at night did the air become truly comfortable. And dawn... Dawn was the coolest time of all.

But as soon as the sun rose, the temperature would climb swiftly again, as if flaunting its dominance over all beneath it.

And so, the cycle repeated.

During those cooler mornings and evenings, travelers passed by the unmoving Daoist.

Some, seeing him sit motionless, stopped to check on him. And when they realized he was a Daoist, they even made an extra effort to care for him. Though they themselves were weak from thirst and exhaustion, they still approached to ask if he was alive, urging him to leave this place.

The Daoist, of course, gave no answer.

Occasionally, there were those with ill intentions—people who eyed his belongings, curious about what lay inside his travel bag, wondering if his water pouch was truly empty.

But the moment one of them tried to test their luck, the jujube-red horse would rise and pretend to kick. That alone was enough to send them scurrying away in fear.

And so, he remained seated.

Days passed once again. The spiritual resonance around the Daoist grew denser and more profound.

Both the swallow and the calico cat could clearly feel it, though its mystery was beyond words. They didn’t know how to comprehend it, nor how to cultivate from it. Yet even by simply existing within this field of profound energy, they felt as if they were being purified. And if they could grasp even the slightest thread of it, it would bring them another thread of enlightenment.

On the tenth day...

In the midst of his cultivation and comprehension, the resonance of the Daoist’s practice naturally influenced the heavens and the earth.

Finally, he opened his eyes.

It was dusk.

Before him, countless merchants, travelers, and refugees still trudged along the road. People who had taken shelter in the shade of Mount Huayan were now emerging one by one, setting out toward the horizon. They were parched and exhausted, moving like walking corpses.

At that moment, an elderly Western merchant, leading a camel, staggered toward him.

He had likely been watching the Daoist all day from the safety of the mountain’s shadow. The midday sun had been too brutal to approach before, but now, with the heat fading, he finally dared to check whether the man was alive or dead.

Yet when he saw the Daoist open his eyes—calm, serene, completely unbothered by thirst—he nearly jumped in fright.

“You're... still alive?”

“Yes...” This was the first person the Daoist saw after opening his eyes.

“Sir, where did you come from? Why have you been sitting here all day? Why didn’t you take shelter in the back? Why haven’t you left?”

“I was cultivating,” the Daoist replied.

“Cultivating?” The merchant shook his head. “This place is too dry. Sir, you should leave as soon as possible. If you don't have enough water, I can spare a sip or two for you. Consider it a good deed.”

“Thank you.” Song You stood up, his voice warm with sincerity. “But I do not lack water.”

Many passersby turned to look at him. The Daoist picked up his water pouch as if he was about to drink.

At that moment, eyes filled with longing. Perhaps it was envy. Perhaps it was simply thirst.

Unconsciously, many swallowed dryly, their parched throats instinctively reacting.

But instead of drinking, the Daoist tilted the pouch.

The crowd froze.

“...”

There was almost no water left inside.

Even when he turned the pouch completely upside down, only a single droplet—clear and crystalline—formed at the mouth of the flask. It hung there for a few breaths before finally falling.

“Drip...”

The droplet struck the dry, cracked earth of the Gobi Desert. It was just a single drop of water. In an instant, the parched ground absorbed it.

Yet it did not vanish. Instead, it became an ignition point—a spark that awakened the land.

The ground beneath darkened and dampened, spreading outward like ink on parchment.

Then, it was as if the earth had cracked open, revealing an underground river beneath. From that single drop of moisture, water surged forth. It did not stop and continued to expand outward.

Slowly, it began to form a lake.

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