The Dharma Body aged and withered at a rate visible to the naked eye. Wrinkles crept across its once smooth, jade-like skin, and its Treasure Light dimmed, as if ten thousand years of vitality had been drained away in a single instant.
Deep within the Purple Mansion, the newborn Primordial Spirit—which should have been agile and immortal—swiftly dimmed and grew turbid under the corrosion of the Power of Time. Its thoughts slowed to a crawl, and the light of its spiritual nature flickered, on the verge of being extinguished.
Without a Fruit Position to uplift and protect him, he was left utterly exposed to the most fundamental, corrosive power of time itself.
He was like a piece of rootless duckweed struggling in a raging torrent, as if at any moment he would be utterly submerged and assimilated, unable to even leave behind a True Spirit Mark—becoming nothing more than an insignificant speck of dust in the long river of time.
Helpless, insignificant, and on the brink of despair.
