After an indeterminate period, Mu Yan's eyes fluttered open. A deep, penetrating ache resonated through his very being, a phantom echo of the life force he had expended. Is this the ethereal embrace of heaven, the fiery depths of hell, or the twilight realm of the netherworld, the soul's ultimate destination? He struggled to reconcile the familiar scent of damp earth and old wood with the abstract concepts of the afterlife. Had he truly failed before even beginning, his grand ambitions extinguished before they could even take flight?
Slowly, his vision sharpened, revealing the familiar contours of his own humble home—the cracked mud walls, the patched roof, the single cot where he had laid his grandmother to rest. He was alive. The realization hit him with the force of a physical blow, a wave of profound relief washing over him. Had he succeeded? He frantically searched for the coin, his heart pounding in his chest, but it was nowhere to be found. He rose, pulling out a pot of water to gaze upon his reflection. Streaks of stark white now adorned his hair, a striking contrast against his dark locks that, surprisingly, lent him an air of austere beauty, a mark of hardship and inner turmoil. Yet, he knew the truth: it was a dire mark of his lifeblood loss, a stark subtraction from his remaining lifespan. By his calculations, based on the rate of his rapid aging and the ancestral texts on life force depletion, he had forfeited fifty years of life, leaving him with a mere seven to ten years within an average human lifespan of seventy. The imperative to expand his longevity through cultivation of rare fruits now loomed as his paramount concern, a shadow hanging over his nascent rebirth. Time. He was running out of time.
Dismissing that pressing thought for later, for now, survival was key. He parted his clothes, revealing his chest. There, precisely over his heart, was a coin-shaped tattoo, half obsidian, half shimmering white-gold, a replica of the fused coin. It felt cool to his touch, a silent sentinel over his very life force. He cautiously focused his spirit, extending it towards the tattoo, a tentative tendril of spiritual energy. It met resistance, a subtle but firm barrier, like an ancient array guarding a profound secret. He pushed, the effort agonizingly slow, each millimetre of progress a monumental struggle against an invisible force. Hours bled into one another, yet he felt a profound sense of nearing his goal, a breakthrough imminent. It is bound to my heart, my lifeblood. This is not a mere artifact; it is now a part of me. Based on his current progress, he estimated another month to fully achieve his objective, to truly unlock the power within the heart-bound coin.