He placed the coins together, their cold surfaces meeting with a subtle hum that vibrated through his very bones. A profound sense of impending change, of cosmic alignment, settled over him. With renewed resolve, he offered his blood again, a generous flow now, letting it pool over their combined surface. This time, as the drops were consumed, a profound transformation occurred. A deep, resonant thrumming began, echoing the beat of his own heart. The two coins fused, not merging into a new shape, but becoming one, their identities shifting. One side deepened to an obsidian black, a void of primordial power, while the other radiated a luminous white gold, shimmering with an ethereal purity. A gentle, yet insistent, glow emanated from the newly formed coin, bathing his hut in an otherworldly light. He waited, his anticipation a tangible weight, his breath held, but no further revelation materialized. A faint dread began to creep into his heart. Had he miscalculated? Was this all there was?
By now, the cumulative blood loss had begun to take its toll, a stark reminder of his current mortal fragility. His vision swam at the edges, and a cold sweat beaded on his brow. This body is too weak, too new to such profound demands. Steeling his resolve, his mind a tempest of desperate knowledge, he decided to gamble everything.
Relying solely on his past knowledge, he knew it would be a futile endeavour against his formidable enemies, starting anew from scratch with nothing but a fragile mortal shell. His spirit, subtly invigorated by the faint white-gold aura absorbed earlier from the initial interaction with the coin, could now be channelled with a more forceful intent, a desperate, final surge of his former genius. He directed his spirit inward, bypassing the external layers of muscle and sinew, guiding it towards the very core of his being: the heart's innermost vessels. There, a viscous, brown-tinged fluid circulated—what cultivators termed heart's blood, or lifeblood. This was not the common, superficial blood that flowed through veins, but the very quintessence of vitality, painstakingly refined and accumulated over a lifetime of cultivation, a truth amplified a thousandfold for cultivators. The body produced this precious essence in minuscule quantities, and while minor losses could be replenished with rare spiritual medicines, significant depletion could cripple even a seasoned Immortal Ascendant, let alone a nascent mortal. Blood, it seemed, was indeed the key to awakening these coins, or rather, this singular, merged artifact. But mere external blood would not suffice. It demanded essence. In his ancestral world, replenishing lifeblood, though difficult, was not impossible with proper preparations and the cultivation of rare spiritual herbs. Here, in this barren lower realm, within this frail mortal coil, it was an insurmountable challenge, a gamble with his very existence. Failure to awaken the coin, to manifest a miracle, would mean his absolute demise, a permanent oblivion for Lin Wei. Left with no recourse, his face grim, he hardened his resolve, channelling a portion of his heart's blood towards his skin, forcing it through his pores, creating a small, almost invisible incision, and placing the coin directly upon it, pressing it into his flesh.
The moment the lifeblood touched the coin, it erupted in a blinding flash, a miniature sun blazing in his palm, searing his vision. Mu Yan's heart surged with triumph, a roaring crescendo of vindication. Success! He had done it! The gamble had paid off! But his euphoria twisted into cold dread as he realized the coin was still drawing, still sucking, pulling the remaining life blood from his very core. The blinding light intensified, and a phantom chill, colder than any abyss, spread from his chest, stealing his warmth, his life force. An anguished cry tore from his throat, a primal sound of agony and despair, as he struggled to pull the coin away, but it clung with an immutable, terrifying force, like a parasitic twin. Slowly, inexorably, his body began to fail. His muscles spasmed, his nerves screamed, and streaks of stark white invaded his hair, spreading like frost across his scalp, a visible testament to his rapidly dwindling lifespan. Darkness swam at the periphery of his vision, encroaching, threatening to swallow him whole. He fought to retain consciousness, clinging to the threads of his will, but the strain proved too great. The world spun, then dissolved into an inky blackness. He succumbed to the encroaching void, his last thought a defiant, desperate plea: Not like this. Not after everything.