As Liu Ten continued answering the questions, his body shrank at a speed visible to the naked eye.
From the size of a seven- or eight-year-old child, he regressed into a toddler of four or five. Yet the scholar’s robe upon his body shifted with him each time, perfectly fitted as though tailored anew.
But stranger still was what happened to his mind.
His original memories grew hazy, veiled beneath a thick fog that obscured their edges. In their place, countless fresh and tender memories surged into his consciousness, vivid and unstoppable.
He saw himself babbling as an infant, a gentle-faced woman holding him close, dipping her fingertip into honey-water to teach him how to write his very first character upon a wooden board.
He saw himself in a classroom, reciting scriptures with swaying head, while a stern teacher watched with a ruler in hand.
He saw himself laughing and chasing dragonflies with childhood friends by a clear mountain stream, the golden sunset spilling across the hills.
Scene after scene, moment after moment—detailed and lifelike. He could smell the faint scent of soap on his mother’s robes, feel the sting of the ruler upon his palm, hear the carefree laughter of his playmates as though it had all happened just yesterday.
These fragments knit themselves together into a seamless, radiant childhood—a childhood as if he had truly grown up beneath the righteous sect’s sunlit skies, living a happy and ordinary life.
But inside the cave, Liu Ming was wracked with unprecedented pain.
Two completely different sets of memories collided in his mind. One side was the cold, cruel reality of the Demonic Sect. The other was this warm and fabricated past.
The clash threw him into chaos. For a moment, he could hardly tell which was real.
If it had been his true body in the secret realm instead of a clone, he might have been completely devoured—unwittingly becoming someone else, believing with his whole heart that these new memories were his own.
But fortunately—Liu Ten was only a clone.
And under the shared consciousness, Liu Ming could still see the truth clearly.
No matter how vivid these “childhood” memories were, they could not possibly be real.
How could a clone possess memories of a childhood that never existed?
They were false—an elaborate lie woven by the secret realm.
The instant Liu Ming grasped this truth, his mind steadied, anchored against the tide of confusion.
A shiver of relief ran through him. Thank heavens he had only sent a clone. Had his true body entered, he might never have realized the deception.
So this was the so-called “rebirth” the righteous sect’s secret realm promised?
It wasn’t cleansing the heart—it was overwriting the self! Stripping away flesh and memory alike, until nothing of the original remained.
Was this any different from possession? No—this was worse. At least one who was possessed knew they had been taken. But here, the victim would embrace the falsehood with open arms, convinced from the soul outward that they had always been that person.
Liu Ming could not accept such an outcome. If this had been his true self, would he have been able to resist? Would he even realize the falseness?
Clearly, this so-called “way out” was no true escape at all.
If he wished to break free of the Demonic Sect, he would have to find another path.
At last, Liu Ming also understood why the righteous female cultivator outside hadn’t tried to stop him.
Because anyone who walked into this secret realm and emerged would be utterly remade—no matter what kind of sinner they once were, they would walk out as a pure disciple of righteousness.
Why would she oppose such a transformation?
The brilliance of the method chilled Liu Ming to the bone.
Yet amidst that fear, he realized something else.
Liu Ten… was a genius.
Or rather, Liu Ten was perfectly attuned to the scholarly path of Yin Learning.
Now he had already shrunk to the size of a three-year-old child, his small hands clumsy even in holding a brush.
That meant his answering speed surpassed all the others—he was racing faster than anyone else toward being remade into a “new” person.
And strangely, the exam questions were no obstacle.
In fact, they had become laughably simple—some reduced to the most basic of exercises, like recognizing single characters.
The real difficulty now lay in receiving the “memories.”
They did not come automatically. Accepting them depended on affinity—on whether one’s nature aligned with this fabricated life, and on the depth of talent along the path of learning.
Just like the earlier visions—if you had no talent, you could not see them at all. Likewise, without resonance, these new memories would not take root in your mind.
Thus, in the exam hall, some students shrank ever smaller, while others remained unchanged, still sweating over their papers, unable to pass even the first trial.
Only now did Liu Ten truly grasp what the fat golden man had meant by the greatest obstacle.
If you could not learn, you simply could not. No one could help you.
And those without talent would ultimately be eliminated by the secret realm.
But Liu Ten’s talent was undeniable.
At last, he finished the final question.
Turning the page, he found nothing but blank paper. The exam was over.
He looked down at his hands again.
This time, what he saw was not the soft hands of a child, but the long, powerful hands of a grown man.
Unknowingly, he had traversed an entire fabricated life—from a crying infant, through childhood and youth, into the prime of adulthood.
The memories were seamless, flawless. Even if he examined them closely, he could not find the faintest crack.
At that moment, he realized—
The secret realm had accepted him.
But he was different from the others.
Very different.
Because while they had truly become new people—he still remembered who he was.
He was Liu Ten. A clone of the true body.