Bloomless

Centuries had passed since the cataclysmic death of the old cultivation world, and even longer since the Peerless Bloom Everlasting, Xu Wushuang Shenghua, had sealed themselves within the crystal bloom. The world, now vibrant and reshaped by the untamed qi, thrived under a new, fluid order, guided by the philosophy of "The Book of Blooming Names." The memory of sects and matriarchs was a distant, almost incomprehensible myth, replaced by an innate understanding of qi and the boundless possibilities of identity.

In a tranquil, sun-dappled valley, untouched by the echoes of ancient wars, a young orphan played by the edge of a silver lake. The child, neither distinctly male nor female, with eyes that held the clear, unburdened innocence of a new era, knelt at the water's edge. The lake was still, its surface a perfect mirror reflecting the azure sky and the lush, green mountains.

The child dipped a hand into the cool water, disturbing the perfect reflection. Ripples spread, distorting the image. And then, as the ripples settled, something else appeared in the water. Not the child's own face, but another. A fleeting, ethereal presence.

It was a face of impossible beauty, neither male nor female, but a harmonious fusion of both. Its eyes, ancient and knowing, held a profound, quiet peace, and a subtle, almost imperceptible sadness. It was the face of Xu Wushuang Shenghua, the Peerless Bloom Everlasting, the god who had shattered the world to save it, the seed that had bloomed into a new reality.

The child, innocent and unafraid, gazed at the reflection, their small hand reaching out towards the shimmering image.

"What are you?" the child whispered, their voice filled with a pure, unburdened curiosity.

The face in the lake did not speak with words. Instead, a feeling resonated, clear and profound, directly into the child's heart. A sense of endless possibility. Of boundless transformation. Of a journey completed, and a legacy begun. It was a whisper of freedom, of choice, of the inherent power within every living thing to define its own truth.

Beneath the tranquil surface of the lake, deep within the earth, the crystal bloom pulsed softly, its ethereal light a gentle beacon, a symbol of hidden power and continuous transformation. It was a reminder that even in stillness, change was constant.

The face in the lake shimmered, then slowly faded, leaving only the child's own reflection, clear and bright, gazing back from the silver surface. The child smiled, a knowing, innocent smile, and turned to face the new world, a world of endless possibility.

The story of the Bloomless God was not a tale of an ending, but a testament to the eternal cycle of creation and destruction, of death and rebirth.

Some gods are born. Others bloom.