Chapter 395

The silver light receded like a tide, yet it withdrew unwillingly.

The aftershocks of the four fallen mid-Integration cultivators still echoed in the void, as if heaven and earth themselves trembled at the passing of these beings; silver origin fragments scattered like meteors, each containing a mid-Integration cultivator's lifetime of ordered power, now bursting like cheap fireworks in the void before fading, cooling, and finally turning to dust of nothingness.

These fragments flew at extreme speed—some tore through the void, striking distant floating meteors and shattering boulders of several li radius into powder; some plunged into the cloud sea below, raising towering waves that rolled outward in all directions; others rushed toward the ruins of the spirit realm's defensive grand formation, only to be blocked by residual formation power, turning into silver light rain that fell upon the surviving cultivators.

That light rain fell on skin, icy and piercing, as if reminding each person—just how terrifying was the self-detonation of those four mid-Integration cultivators?

The spirit realm cultivators burst into earth-shaking cheers, their voices hoarse, trembling, filled with the joy of surviving catastrophe and the sorrow of losing masters and comrades; some raised broken treasures to the sky and howled, some knelt in the void bowing toward the fallen direction, some embraced wounded comrades and wept bitterly, while others stood dazed in place, staring at the direction where the four silver lights had dissipated, unable to regain their senses.

Yet before the cheers could fully spread, they were suppressed by a voice.

"Pursue!"

Only one word. But when Wang Ping uttered it, it carried his remaining chaos immortal essence, the lingering might of the chaos domain, and an unquestionable resolve—like thunder exploding, it transmitted across a thousand li of void, making every person's eardrums buzz, even causing the scattering silver origin fragments to pause slightly in the void.

Everyone froze at this moment.

Pursue?

Though the enemy had collapsed, the three late-Integration cultivators were merely heavily wounded, not fallen; their retreat speed was astonishing, their ordered power still formidable—who could guarantee they had no counterforce? Though five mid-Integration cultivators had died, at least five more mid-Integration cultivators of the Order Apostles remained fleeing, their silver silhouettes madly dashing in all directions—pursue which? Not pursue which? Though the Order Apostles and battle puppets had suffered over half losses, their remaining power, concentrated, could still destroy a medium civilization—the spirit realm had won this battle, but everyone knew how heavily they were wounded.

If we pursue, will we walk into an ambush? Will it be the enemy's lure? Will we instead squander the hard-won victory?

Countless questions flashed through everyone's minds, but Wang Ping had already charged out.

His silhouette became a streak of chaos flowing light, moving with near-madness toward the fleeing silver lights; chaos domain surged violently around him, his eight-thousand-zhang domain power pushed to the limit, void constantly collapsing and reforming beneath his feet, each step covering several li.

Behind him, Cangxuan hesitated not.

This sword cultivator still bore dozens of wounds from the recent battle, a deep gash on his left shoulder revealing bone and still bleeding, yet he did not even glance at it; his natal longsword let out a clear, ringing sword cry, as if responding to his battle intent, then his entire being merged with the sword, becoming a peerless sword light closely following Wang Ping; where the sword light passed, the void retained an enduring sword mark, within which dwelled sharp sword intent, making even the void itself tremble slightly.

Yuliuli embraced her zither, stepping with the zither's sound in swift pursuit; her zither originally had seven strings, now only two remained, the body covered in fine cracks, the immortal-sound bell completely dimmed, like an ordinary copper bell hanging at her waist; yet her eyes held no trace of retreat, her zither's sound condensed into tangible sound waves beneath her feet, each step raising ripples in the void that propelled her forward; her speed was not equal to Wang Ping's or Cangxuan's, but she always kept close behind, never falling half a step.

Youying traversed the void via void laws, her silhouette flickering between visibility and invisibility, at times fully merging into the void, at times stepping out from a void several li away; void laws were her innate divine ability, and in this vast void, her speed even surpassed Cangxuan's by a margin; she continually probed the void's fluctuations ahead of Wang Ping, guiding him toward the fleeing enemies, while also guarding against possible ambushes.

The spirit realm cultivators exchanged glances, countless gazes meeting in the void.

They saw Wang Ping's charging silhouette, saw Cangxuan's sword light closely following, saw Yuliuli and Youying's unhesitating figures; they saw the four streaks of light tear through the void, pursuing the enemy's fleeing direction, growing ever farther, ever smaller, yet ever brighter.

Then they burst into even more earth-shaking roars.

"Pursue!"

"Slaughter them all!"

"Avenge Dean Jiang! Avenge Valley Master Lei! Avenge Immortal Maiden Bingyue! Avenge all our fallen brothers!"

Countless streaks of light shot up from the ruins of the spirit realm's defensive grand formation, dense as a golden torrent, pursuing the scattering silver lights; at this moment, there was no fear, no hesitation, only surging hot blood, only burning hatred, only death-defying battle intent surging.

Golden Core cultivators formed small teams in groups of three or five, pursuing isolated Order Apostles; Nascent Soul cultivators each locked onto targets, driving their natal treasures into dazzling escape lights; even those severely wounded and unable to fight further gritted their teeth to stand, launching final arts at the fleeing silver lights—even if only to delay them a moment, to create opportunities for comrades.

At this moment, the spirit realm cultivators displayed the most terrifying aspect of their thirty-thousand-year heritage—when they no longer cared for life or death, no longer calculated gains or losses, no longer feared sacrifice, their power could make any enemy tremble.

Wang Ping led the charge, his chaos divine sense fully unfurled, like an invisible net covering a ten-thousand-li radius of void.

In this state, he could clearly "see" each fleeing Order Apostle—their shape, size, speed, direction, even the flow of ordered power within their bodies, as clear as lines on a palm; he could "see" that the three late-Integration cultivators had already fled an extreme distance, converging toward a direction in the void's depths, seemingly to regroup; he could "see" that the five remaining mid-Integration cultivators each scattered in different directions, fleeing madly, their distances growing ever greater; he could also "see" that the Order Apostles and battle puppets resembled a disturbed hornet's nest, scattering in disorderly flight.

The chaos domain remained fully open during his pursuit; within its eight-thousand-zhang radius, all laws lay under his control; his speed, boosted by the domain, was like instantaneous teleportation—each step covered several li, and this speed kept rising—as he pursued, the chaos domain continuously devoured lingering spirit energy and order fragments in the void, converting them into chaos immortal essence to replenish his already greatly depleted reserves.

This devouring-conversion efficiency was not high, but in this void just after a great battle, scattered spirit energy and fragments were everywhere; little by little, they actually made his speed increase ever more.

A mid-Integration Order Apostle was fleeing madly.

Its form differed slightly from other Order Apostles, its entire body presenting a deep dark silver, as if after long ages, its surface silver had settled into a heavier hue; its speed was astonishing, each flash crossing several li of distance, its silver light leaving a long tail in the void, like a silver ribbon dancing in the wind.

It glanced back.

Wang Ping was still ten thousand li away, merely a blurred chaos-colored light point lost among the golden escape lights, not conspicuous; its program calculated the data, showing that with the current speed difference, Wang Ping could not catch it. Its heart slightly steadied, the operation of its ordered power steadied somewhat.

But at the very moment it turned its head—

The void suddenly solidified.

The void around it, as if gripped by an invisible giant hand, squeezed from all directions simultaneously, locking it firmly in place; this force was not brute strength, but ultimate mastery of void laws—space itself repelled it, squeezed it, and sought to "push" it out of this void.

It struggled desperately, its ordered power surging wildly, trying to break free; its ordered core spun at high speed, releasing silver ripples that struck the surrounding void; those ripples collided with void power, emitting low, rumbling booms, and the void showed countless fine cracks, like spiderwebs spreading in all directions.

But it could not break free.

For the force acting upon it was not only the binding of void laws, but also the suppression of the chaos domain—chaos power was devouring every order ripple it released, converting them to nothing, rendering all its struggles futile.

Then it saw Wang Ping.

That chaos flowing light had somehow appeared before it, within arm's reach; it could even see the chaos-colored light in Wang Ping's eyes, see the chaos power surging around him, see the virtual shadow of the chaos tribulation sword condensing in his hand.

"Void Grand Displacement..."

It murmured, its voice carrying a mechanical tremor; its program finally calculated the result—Wang Ping had locked onto its position the instant it turned its head, then crossed ten thousand li via Void Grand Displacement to appear before it; and its glance back had precisely provided the coordinates Wang Ping needed for the lock.

Its eyes were full of despair.

This was an emotion its program should not possess, yet here it was utterly real in its core; at this moment it understood the feelings of the final moments of life in the civilizations it had destroyed.

Wang Ping gave it no opportunity.

The chaos tribulation sword virtual shadow in his hand condensed into form, that sword shadow containing the full might of chaos laws—devouring, annihilation, creation, destruction, four powers interwoven on the blade, forming a transcendent ultimate power beyond order and chaos.

One sword strike descended.

No fancy moves, no complex sword techniques—just a simple, straightforward strike from above, straight down; yet the power contained in this strike could cleave a mountain range.

The sword light swept past—the core of that mid-Integration cultivator instantly shattered; silver ordered power gushed from the shattered core like a breached flood, but before it could spread, it was completely devoured by chaos power; its form froze in the void for an instant, then split down the middle, silver light bursting from the crack, finally turning into countless fragments scattering and splashing.

The second mid-Integration cultivator fell.

This scene was witnessed by countless fleeing Order Apostles, transmitted via their invisible order network at light speed to the core of every apostle.

In their programs, for the first time appeared the parameter "fear".

Not simulated fear, not a data-analysis conclusion of "should fear", but genuine, core-born fear—a kind beyond programming, beyond initial design, indescribable fear.

A mid-Integration cultivator, just like that, directly displaced before the face, struck down with one sword, not even leaving room to resist—what did this mean? It meant that before that chaos-colored figure, mid-Integration cultivation was meaningless, ordered power defense was like nothing, and fleeing speed, no matter how fast, was merely futile.

Flee! Flee fast! Flee as far as you can!

Those Order Apostles no longer maintained formation, no longer coordinated, no longer executed any tactics, but scattered in all directions, each fleeing for its life—some left, some right, some up, some down, some even recklessly charging into the void's depths, only seeking to put distance between themselves and that demon, farther and farther.

This chaotic flight instead created opportunities for the spirit realm cultivators; those isolated Order Apostles and battle puppets, having lost unified command, saw their combat power greatly reduced, and were picked off one by one by the pursuing spirit realm cultivators.

Wang Ping did not go after those ordinary Order Apostles. His target had been clear from the very beginning—those at the mid-stage of Nascent Soul.

After slaying the second one, his Chaotic Divine Sense immediately locked onto the third mid-stage Nascent Soul trying to flee. That Nascent Soul was fleeing toward the southeast of the void, its speed even greater than the previous one's, clearly burning its origin to accelerate after witnessing its companion's fall.

The Void Grand Displacement was unleashed once more.

This time, the reaction of that mid-stage Nascent Soul was much faster. It seemed to have been constantly on guard against such ambushes; as soon as the surrounding void began to distort, it frantically circulated Order Power, condensing a thick layer of silver light armor around itself while continuously altering its flight path—left, right, up, down—trying to break free of the lock.

It succeeded.

The Void Grand Displacement was forcibly interrupted by it—not because its power surpassed Wang Ping's, but because Wang Ping's Chaotic Immortal Essence had already been depleted by more than half, greatly diminishing the might of the Void Grand Displacement. That Nascent Soul only felt the surrounding void distort for an instant before returning to normal; it seized the opportunity to suddenly accelerate, once again widening the distance between itself and Wang Ping.

But it thus slowed down.

It was precisely this slowing that allowed Cangxuan's sword to arrive.

"Slash!"

A violent shout rang out, like thunder exploding.

A sword light cleaved down from the void, as if cleaving heaven and earth, carrying an unstoppable resolve, bearing the sharpness and dominance unique to sword cultivators. Within that sword light lay Cangxuan's lifetime of sword cultivation—three thousand years of sword intent condensed into this single blade; its sharpness was such that even the void was split open by a long gash.

That Nascent Soul gathered all its strength to condense a silver light wall before it, Order Power weaving before it into an impenetrable dense net. But the sword light was too fast—so fast its defense had not yet fully formed, so fast its Order Power had not yet woven the sturdiest net—when the sword light had already arrived before it.

"Screech—"

The sound of sword light entering flesh was exceptionally clear in the void.

Silver fresh blood sprayed out, scattering in the void, turning into silver blood beads that drifted slowly. That Nascent Soul's left arm was severed at the shoulder; the severed arm tumbled several times in the air before being shredded into fragments by the following sword light.

It let out a miserable cry, its voice carrying a metallic friction-like piercing tremor. Its body frantically retreated, Order Power surging at the severed arm, attempting to repair the wound, but Cangxuan's sword intent lingered in the wound, continuously disrupting its healing process, letting that excruciating pain incessantly stimulate its core.

But Cangxuan gave it no chance to retreat.

Second sword. The sword light swept horizontally, slashing toward its neck.

Third sword. The sword light thrust straight, aiming directly at its core.

Fourth sword. The sword light coiled around, sealing off all its retreat paths.

The sword light came continuously, like a violent storm, forcing that Nascent Soul to retreat step by step. Each sword contained the essence of Cangxuan's three thousand years of sword cultivation, each precisely striking its weakest defensive point, each leaving a new wound on its body.

That Nascent Soul exerted all its strength to resist, Order Power condensing before it into one silver shield after another, but those shields were as fragile as paper before Cangxuan's sword light—one sword, one shield, all shattering. Its body already bore over a dozen wounds, silver fresh blood soaking through its robes, its aura rapidly weakening.

Just as it was being pressed left and right by Cangxuan, unable to attend to both sides, Wang Ping arrived from the flank.

Chaotic Immortal Lightning condensed in his palm—a fusion of Chaotic Law and Thunder Law, a new divine ability he had comprehended in his understanding of the Chaotic Realm: using Chaotic Power as a guide, Thunder Power as form, condensing lightning that contained Chaotic Devouring Power; upon impact, it would not only cause lightning strike damage but also devour the target's internal power.

The lightning in his palm grew brighter and brighter, shifting from the initial chaotic hue to a dazzling purple-gold, its light blinding, so much so that even Cangxuan could not help but slightly avert his gaze.

Then he thrust that lightning straight toward the Nascent Soul's back heart.

"Boom—"

The lightning pierced the void, its speed so great the naked eye could not catch it. That Nascent Soul sensed the danger behind it, wanting to dodge, but Cangxuan's sword light pressed from the front, sealing off all its evasion space.

It could only endure it head-on.

Silver light armor condensed behind it, three feet thick, impenetrable. But the moment Chaotic Immortal Lightning struck the light armor, its Devouring Power immediately began dismantling the armor's structure, while Thunder Power followed the cracks in the armor, seeping inward, straight to its core.

That Nascent Soul's body stiffened.

It was precisely this moment of stiffness that Cangxuan's sword pierced into its core.

The sword tip entered from the front, exited from the back, the sword body wrapped with residual power of Chaotic Immortal Lightning, thoroughly shattering that Nascent Soul's core.

Silver light erupted from within it, like a volcanic eruption, illuminating the void within a hundred-li radius.

The third mid-stage Nascent Soul, fallen.

In the distance, the other two mid-stage Nascent Souls witnessed this scene.

They were terrified out of their wits—if they had souls and spirits. Their cores simultaneously issued the highest-level alarm; all procedures frantically calculated escape probability, but the result left them despairing: given their current speed, given Wang Ping's Void Grand Displacement range, given Cangxuan's sword light pursuit speed, their escape probability was under three percent.

Three percent.

They no longer held back, directly burning their origin.

The sight of mid-stage Nascent Souls burning their origin was extraordinarily magnificent—their entire bodies began emitting dazzling silver light, like two miniature stars; Order Power surged frantically from within them, forming a long silver tail behind them. Their speed instantly increased severalfold, turning into two silver streaks of light, fleeing toward the depths of the void in a nearly mad posture.

What burning origin meant, they knew better than anyone. It meant they would forever lose part of their cultivation, meaning they might need hundreds or even thousands of years to recover, meaning they would henceforth never again be able to touch the threshold of late-stage Nascent Soul.

But to live was more important than anything.

Wang Ping wanted to pursue, but the consumption of Void Grand Displacement was too great.

His Chaotic Immortal Essence, after successive great battles and two Void Grand Displacements, had been reduced to almost nothing. The light of the Chaotic Golden Core in his dantian had dimmed, and the circulation of Chaotic Power had become sluggish. Fine beads of sweat appeared on his forehead, and his breathing grew rapid.

Cangxuan had also reached his limit.

His sword-holding hand trembled slightly—not from fear, but from exhaustion. His sword body was covered in fine cracks, left from his hard clash with the late-stage Nascent Soul earlier. His robes were soaked through with blood, his own and the enemy's. His aura was in disarray, and the circulation of his sword intent was no longer smooth.

The two exchanged a glance, each seeing the same meaning in the other's eyes—we cannot catch up.

But just then—

Two zither notes came from afar.

That zither sound was not particularly loud, even carrying a hint of hoarseness and fragmentation, because the ancient zither playing it had only two strings left. But the power contained within that zither sound was astonishingly precise.

Yu Liuli.

She sat cross-legged in the void, the ancient zither resting across her knees, the remaining two strings vibrating at her fingertips. Her fingers had been worn raw, blood dripping along the strings, but she seemed to feel no pain at all.

Her zither sound was not an attack, but—slowing down.

This was a special divine ability she had comprehended through the Law of Melody. By using zither sound to influence the operation of laws in the void, she made a region of space become "viscous," so any object entering that region would encounter great resistance, its speed sharply dropping.

This divine ability placed extremely high demands on the practitioner—she must precisely predict the target's movement trajectory, must begin playing before the target enters the zither sound's influence range, and must evenly distribute the zither sound's power across tens of li of void. Any slight deviation would render the ability ineffective.

But Yu Liuli succeeded.

Wherever the zither sound passed, the void seemed to become viscous, like an invisible mire, or like solidified amber. The speed of the two fleeing mid-stage Nascent Souls, under the influence of the zither sound, gradually slowed down.

Although only slowed by a hair—given their origin-burning speed, the zither sound's slowing effect was actually minuscule—but this hair was enough.

Because precisely this hair of slowing allowed them to enter the effective range of Youying's Void Law.

Youying's figure appeared before one of the mid-stage Nascent Souls.

Her appearance was without warning, as if she had "grown" out of the void—just a moment ago there was nothing there, the next moment she was already standing there, her hands forming seals, the void laws operating at full power.

An invisible barrier appeared before that Divine Transformation cultivator.

That barrier was not physical, but a layer of "spatial fold" condensed from the void laws—it looked transparent, but was actually formed by countless layers of folded space superimposed, and anything that struck it would be continuously refracted, slowed, and ultimately halted within those spatial folds.

That Divine Transformation cultivator had no time to stop.

Its speed was too great, so fast that even its core had no time to process the information of the sudden appearance of the shadow, so fast that its instinctive reactions could not keep up with its speed. It crashed head-on into that invisible barrier, like a moth flying into a spiderweb.

"Boom—"

The barrier shattered. The shadow's void law cultivation was ultimately not profound enough, and under the impact of that Divine Transformation cultivator burning its origin, the barrier only held for an instant before shattering. But that Divine Transformation cultivator was also shaken back several steps, its form staggering, the state of burning its origin interrupted for a moment.

It was just these few steps, this few steps of distance, this few moments of time—

Wang Ping's Void Great Teleportation had already locked onto it.

Void solidified, translocation, sword fell.

This sword was cleaner and more decisive than any previous one, because Wang Ping knew his time was short, the depletion of Chaotic Immortal Essence allowing him at most one more sword. He gathered all his power into this sword, the Chaotic Tribulation Sword phantom condensing unprecedentedly, almost becoming solid.

The sword light swept past, and that Divine Transformation cultivator's core along with half its body was chopped to pieces.

Silver light surged forth like a breached flood, illuminating the entire void.

Fourth mid-stage Divine Transformation, fallen.

The last mid-stage Divine Transformation had already fled tens of thousands of li away.

It turned back and glanced, seeing the fall of its four companions—four clusters of silver light slowly fading in the void, like four fallen stars. It saw the Order Apostles and battle puppets being hunted by the Realm cultivators—silver light fading piece by piece, each fading representing the end of an Apostle or puppet. It saw that chaotic-colored figure coldly gazing at it, eyes devoid of regret for the failed pursuit, only a deep, icy calm, as if regarding a lifeless object.

It dared not turn back again.

The power of burning its origin had already caused irreversible damage to its internal order core, but it dared not stop, nor even slow down. It desperately burned, burned, speed increasing again, turning into a silver meteor, madly chasing toward the direction of the three late-stage Divine Transformation cultivators' escape.

Wang Ping did not pursue.

Because that direction was the escape direction of those three late-stage Divine Transformation cultivators. Pursuing would mean facing three late-stage Divine Transformation cultivators—although they were all severely injured, three late-stage Divine Transformation cultivators working together were still not something their current state could handle. For him, Cangxuan, Yuliuli, and the Shadow in their current states, going there would be suicide.

"Enough." He said softly, withdrawing his gaze.

His voice was very soft, drowned out by the wind in the void and the distant rumble of battle, almost no one heard it. But Cangxuan heard it, Yuliuli heard it, and the Shadow also heard it.

Cangxuan sheathed his long sword, the sword entering its scabbard with a clear chime, as if responding to his master's fatigue. His body swayed, nearly unable to stand, but he finally steadied himself. He planted his sword scabbard in the void, supporting his trembling body, taking heavy breaths.

Yuliuli stopped playing, carefully holding the ancient zither in her arms. Her ten fingers were all bleeding, the skin at her fingertips worn by the strings into rolls, exposing the tender flesh beneath. But she paid no mind, merely lowering her head to look at the zither that had accompanied her for thousands of years, gazing at the two remaining lonely strings, at the dense cracks on the zither's body, her eye sockets slightly reddened.

The Shadow emerged from the void, walking to Wang Ping's side. Her void law operation had already reached its limit, her face pallid to the point of nearly no color, her steps also somewhat unsteady. Yet she still strove to straighten her body, lightly grasping Wang Ping's hand.

Her hand remained icy cold, like ten-thousand-year-old ice. But this time, Wang Ping felt a hint of warmth—this warmth did not come from her palm, but from her gaze, from the way she looked at him, from her silent companionship at this moment.

Realm cultivators were still hunting those Order Apostles and battle puppets.

Those silver constructs bereft of Divine Transformation command, under the siege of Realm cultivators, ran about like headless flies. Their originally tight order connections had been severed, each Apostle now only able to fight individually, with no coordination between them.

One Order Apostle was surrounded by three Nascent Soul cultivators.

That Apostle's cultivation equaled late Nascent Soul; in single combat, none of the three Nascent Soul cultivators would be its match. But now it was not fighting one person, but three—and the coordination between these three was flawless, obviously honed through countless battles fought side by side.

One cultivator in front restrained, using a copper bell-shaped artifact to draw the Apostle's attention, the bell's sound shaking, disturbing its perception; one cultivator on the flank harassed, using a set of flying swords to continually slash at the Apostle's joints, preventing it from concentrating force; finally, one cultivator in the rear gathered power, the jade ruler artifact in his hand growing brighter, the spiritual power fluctuations increasing.

That Order Apostle surged left and right, silver order power continuously blasting, blasting the surrounding void into a thousand holes. But each of its attacks was blocked by the copper bell in front, each charge repelled by the flying swords on the flank, each attempt to flee locked down by the jade ruler in the rear.

Finally, the rear cultivator completed his power gathering, the jade ruler transforming into a stream of light, precisely striking the Order Apostle's core.

"Crack—"

The sound of the core shattering was crisp and brief, like glass breaking. That Order Apostle's form froze in place, silver light slowly seeping from within it, like melting wax, ultimately becoming countless silver fragments, dissipating in the void.

One battle puppet was entangled by ten Golden Core cultivators.

That puppet was entirely silver, ten zhang tall, possessing boundless strength, one punch able to shatter a small hill. Its body was covered in battle traces—sword marks, blade marks, scars from burning spells, and craters from self-destruction.

But the Realm cultivators feared no death.

One Golden Core cultivator was blown away by the puppet's punch, spitting blood from his mouth, yet immediately another Golden Core cultivator took his place. One Golden Core cultivator had a leg shattered by the puppet's kick, yet lay on the ground continuing to cast spells, delaying the puppet's steps. One Golden Core cultivator was seized by the puppet, his bones crushed throughout his body, yet at the last moment detonated his natal artifact, blasting a huge gap in the puppet's body.

Forward without hesitation.

This is the true portrayal of Realm cultivators at this moment.

One person falls, ten step up. Ten fall, a hundred step up. Their cultivation does not match the puppet's, their artifacts do not match the puppet's, their strength does not match the puppet's, but their will, their courage, their resolve, far surpass any puppet.

Finally, that battle puppet was literally worn to death.

Its body covered in wounds, each wound not fatal, but hundreds of wounds accumulated, finally overburdening its core. The operation of its order power within grew slower and slower, its movements increasingly sluggish, finally stuttering for an instant during an attack—just this instant, over a dozen artifacts simultaneously struck its core.

"Boom—"

That three-zhang-tall silver giant collapsed with a roar, turning into countless fragments, scattered in the void.

Many more Order Apostles and battle puppets were caught, surrounded, and slain during their flight.

Silver light faded piece by piece, each fading representing a loss of strength from the Purification Court in this world. The void was everywhere filled with floating silver fragments, under the illumination of those golden escape lights, flashing with points of cold light, like stars scattered across the sky.

When the last Order Apostle was slain, the battlefield erupted in earth-shaking cheers.

"We won!"

"We won!"

"Long live the Realm! The Realm is eternal!"

Countless cultivators embraced in tears. Those comrades who had fought side by side on the battlefield, shared life and death, now clung tightly together, tears mixed with blood streaming down their cheeks. They disregarded their wounds, disregarded the still-bleeding injuries, merely holding each other tightly, feeling each other's body heat, confirming each other still alive.

Someone knelt in the void, bowing toward the direction of their fallen comrades. One, two, three, foreheads striking the void, emitting muffled thuds. Their bowing was heavy, heavy enough to draw blood from their foreheads, yet no one stopped, for their hearts held too much gratitude and sorrow, unable to express otherwise.

Others stood silently in the void, gazing at the dissipating silver light, at the floating fragments, at the distant silver meteors, long silent. Their eyes held no cheers, no tears, only a deep exhaustion and a post-calamity relief at having survived.

Four, Post-Battle Accounting

Wang Ping stood in the void, gazing at all this, long silent.

Around him, chaotic light gradually retracted, like receding tidewater, point by point drawn back into his body. His breath slowly fell from its peak, the fluctuations of chaotic power growing weaker, more gradual. His body trembled slightly—not from cold, not from fear, but from exhaustion.

In his dantian, the light of the Chaotic Golden Core had dimmed to the extreme, like a candle in the wind, about to go out at any moment. In his meridians, the flow of chaotic power had nearly ceased, only a few wisps of weak power still slowly circulating. His divine sense also rapidly contracted, from covering ten thousand li of void shrinking to only a few li around, then further shrinking to only a few zhang around him.

He was now so weak that even an early Golden Core cultivator would surpass him.

But he stood very straight.

His spine was ramrod straight, just as his master Jiang Mingyuan had been in life. His gaze was firm and calm, just like the Chaos Tribulation Sword in his hand that had once slain four mid-stage Nascent Divinity cultivators.

Cangxuan walked up beside him.

This sword cultivator was also drenched in blood—his own, the enemy's, his comrades', all mixed together, staining his white robes dark red. The wound on his left shoulder was still oozing blood, and his right leg bore a through-and-through wound, leaving a bloody footprint with each step. Yet his posture remained ramrod straight, his sword hand steady, his eyes still sharp with sword intent.

"How did we fare?" Wang Ping asked. His voice was somewhat hoarse, weak from exhaustion, but his tone was calm, as if asking about a mundane matter.

Cangxuan fell silent for a moment, then said slowly: "Three late-stage Nascent Divinity cultivators were severely wounded and fled. Five mid-stage Nascent Divinity cultivators fell—you killed four, I assisted in killing one. Over half of the Order Apostles were lost; the exact number is still being tallied, but it's at least sixty or more. The battle puppets were nearly wiped out, with fewer than ten escaping."

He paused, then added: "This is the greatest victory the Spirit Realm has ever won against the Pure World Court in thirty thousand years."

Wang Ping nodded, saying nothing.

The greatest victory in thirty thousand years. This statement is no exaggeration. The war between the Spirit Realm and the Pure World Court has lasted thirty thousand years, with countless clashes and alternating victories. But before this, the Spirit Realm had never in a single battle slain five mid-stage Nascent Divinity cultivators—Nascent Divinity cultivators are rare phoenix feathers and unicorn horns in the Spirit Realm, each representing thousands or even tens of thousands of years of accumulation, and each death is enough to break the Spirit Realm's heart.

But today, they did it.

At the cost of the deaths of Jiang Mingyuan, Lei Wan jun, and Bingyue Xianzi, at the cost of countless Golden Core and Nascent Soul cultivators' sacrifices, at the cost of the complete destruction of the Spirit Realm's defensive grand formation—they did it.

Wang Ping did not know whether to feel joy or sorrow.

His master had died. The person who had brought him out of the mortal world, the one who taught him cultivation, taught him how to be a person, taught him how to survive in the cultivation world, the one who would show a relieved smile each time he broke through—was dead.

But they had won. The Spirit Realm still stood, those who needed protection still remained, and everything his master had guarded with his life still remained.

Was it worth it?

He did not know.

Yuliuli floated over, cradling her guqin.

All her strings had broken—the last two snapped completely in the final notes just moments ago, leaving the instrument bare, with only seven empty string holes. Her Spirit Sound Bell had gone utterly dim; the copper bell that once rang clear now looked like an ordinary piece of scrap iron. Her face was as pale as paper, her lips devoid of color, her eye sockets sunken, making her look as if she had suffered a grave illness.

Yet her eyes held a light.

That light was not spiritual power, not a treasure's glow, but the light of hope, the light of conviction, a kind of radiance that could still gaze upon the stars from the depths of despair.

"Wang brother, we have won."

Her voice was very soft, soft as the last note of a song in the wind, carrying a tremor of having survived a calamity, also carrying an unspeakable fatigue.

Wang Ping looked at her and gave a faint smile.

That smile was so faint it was almost indiscernible, but Yuliuli saw it. She had known Wang Ping for many years and rarely saw him smile. He was always too stern, too serious, his burdens too heavy. But now his smile, though faint, was genuine.

"Mm, we won." He said.

Youying emerged from the void, walked to his side, and gently took his hand.

Her hand was still icy cold, like ten-thousand-year-old ice. But this time, Wang Ping felt a hint of warmth—not from her palm, but from her gaze, from the way she looked at him, from her silent companionship at this moment.

Her hand trembled slightly—not from fear, but from exhaustion. The consumption of void laws was no less than that of chaos laws; she had continuously cast void laws in the pursuit earlier, and her spiritual power was completely exhausted.

Yet she still struggled to grip his hand tightly.

Wang Ping felt her trembling and, turning his hand, gripped hers even tighter.

He lifted his head and gazed into the distance.

That was the direction of the Spirit Realm. Passing through layers of cloud seas, crossing mountain ranges, one could see the outline of the Spirit Realm—the land he called "home," the land where he had grown up since childhood, the land his master had guarded with his life.

There stood his master's former residence, the cave where he cultivated, the training ground where he and Cangxuan first exchanged sword techniques, the cliff where Yuliuli first played the guqin for him, the moonlight where Youying first smiled at him.

There were countless souls who had guarded this land with their lives—Jiang Mingyuan, Lei Wan jun, Bingyue Xianzi, and every name, every face, every once-vibrant life that had fallen in today's battle.

"Let's go back." He said softly, "There is still much to do."

His voice was very soft, but Cangxuan heard it, Yuliuli heard it, Youying heard it, and the Spirit Realm cultivators cleaning the battlefield also heard it.

They all stopped what they were doing, lifted their heads, and looked toward this junior disciple who had once followed behind Jiang Mingyuan, now looking at this cultivator who could now stand alone as a Chaos True Lord.

His body was covered in wounds, his breath weak, his eyes showing undisguisable fatigue. But his spine was ramrod straight, his gaze firm and calm, his voice hoarse yet full of strength.

In this moment, they saw in him the shadow of Jiang Mingyuan—that resolve to protect at any cost, that courage that never retreated before a strong enemy, that strength that could still lead everyone toward hope even in despair.

Five, Return Journey

When Wang Ping and the others returned to the Spirit Realm, the ruins of the defensive grand formation were already crowded with people.

The scene was heartbreaking yet awe-inspiring.

The ruins of the defensive grand formation stretched for tens of li; what were once majestic foundations now lay as broken walls and remnants, the pillars inscribed with formations toppled sideways—some snapped at the waist, some uprooted, others blasted into fragments scattered across the ground. The light of the formations had completely faded, leaving only faint traces, barely discernible as the former exquisite patterns.

The ruins were covered with people.

The severely wounded cultivators had been carried to safe places, where Baicao Xianzi led a group of healing cultivators in frantic treatment. Baicao Xianzi's green robes were stained with blood—others' and her own. Her hands never ceased casting, sending out rays of healing light that fell upon the wounded, staunching bleeding, setting bones, and repairing meridians.

But there were too many wounded.

Her spiritual power was draining at a visible rate, fine beads of sweat appeared on her forehead, her face grew paler and paler. Yet she did not stop, not even taking time to wipe her sweat. She knew that every moment delayed might mean a comrade dying from lack of timely treatment.

The lightly wounded cultivators silently cleaned the battlefield. They carefully carried their comrades' corpses from the ruins, wrapped them in white cloth, and neatly arranged them on an open space. The postures of the corpses varied—some still held combat poses, hands clutching broken treasures; some retained casting postures, hands still maintaining the final hand seal; some kept guarding postures, using their bodies to block attacks that should have fallen on their comrades.

Each corpse was treated with the utmost care, as if handling a fragile treasure. For everyone knew these people had given everything for the Spirit Realm and deserved the utmost respect.

Those still able to stand stood on the ruins, gazing at their returning comrades. Their eyes held no cheers, no tears, only a deep reverence. They spontaneously made way, clearing a path to the eye of the defensive grand formation—where Jiang Mingyuan's body lay still.

Wang Ping walked step by step toward that place.

His steps were slow and heavy, each step like treading on cotton, yet like treading on a blade's edge. His gaze remained fixed on Jiang Mingyuan's body, never wavering for a moment.

Jiang Mingyuan's white hair scattered on the ground; those once-black locks had turned snow-white after burning his life force, drifting in the void like winter snowflakes. His robes were soaked through with blood, now dried into dark red hard lumps, stuck to his robes and his body. His hands still held the seal posture—the final seal of the Spirit Realm's defensive grand formation, which he had used to block the combined strike of three late-stage Nascent Divinity cultivators, buying crucial time for the Spirit Realm.

Yet on his face hung a faint trace of a smile.

That smile was so faint it was almost invisible, but upon close look one could see—the corners of his mouth slightly upturned, the wrinkles at his eyes slightly eased, his whole visage radiating tranquility and peace.

It was a smile of relief. At the last moment of life, knowing what he guarded still remained. A smile of release. After giving everything, realizing he had let down no one or nothing. A smile of peace. In this world, having no regrets, able to depart in peace.

Wang Ping knelt before him.

"Dong, dong, dong."

Three heavy kowtows, each striking the void with force—each so hard that blood seeped from his forehead, so hard that everyone in the ruins could hear the dull thud. But he felt no pain—or rather, the pain in his heart now far exceeded the pain on his forehead.

"Master, did you see it? We won."

His voice was very soft, so soft that only he himself could hear it, so soft like the last whisper in the wind, so soft as if afraid to disturb his master's peaceful rest.

"The Spirit Realm still remains. Your disciple still remains. All that you guarded still remains."

His voice began to tremble, his eye sockets began to moisten, his vision began to blur.

"You can rest assured now."

His eye sockets finally became moist.

Tears slid from the corners of his eyes, tracing down his cheeks and dripping onto the ground, spreading in those dried bloodstains, forming tiny round spots. He did not want to cry—because he was Jiang Mingyuan's disciple, because he was the Chaos True Lord of the Spirit Realm, because from today onward he must guard this land, must guard all that his master exchanged his life for. One who should guard others should not shed tears in front of people.

But he could not help it.

Those little moments spent with his master, at this moment surged like a tide upon his heart—

He recalled the scene when his master first brought him to the Spirit Realm. At that time he was only six years old, understood nothing, only clinging tightly to the corner of his master's robe, timidly gazing at this wondrous and strange world. His master did not despise him, but merely gently patted his head, saying: "Don't be afraid, for I am here."

He recalled the scene when his master first taught him cultivation. His aptitude was not outstanding; many techniques required repeated practice many times before he could master them, and sometimes he would even suffer deviation due to impatience. His master never scolded him, always patiently guiding him when he failed, gently encouraging him when he was disheartened.

He recalled the scene when his master first took him out for training. They encountered a demonic beast; he was so frightened his legs went weak, but his master stood before him and slew that beast with a single sword stroke. Then his master turned, smiling at him, and said: "Did you see? This is the meaning of cultivation—to make oneself strong, then protect those one wishes to protect."

He recalled the smile of relief his master showed each time he broke through. From Qi Refining to Foundation Establishment, from Foundation Establishment to Golden Core, from Golden Core to Nascent Soul, from Nascent Soul to Spirit Severing—each breakthrough, his master stood beside him, watching him, smiling, eyes full of pride.

He recalled his master's shock and ecstasy upon learning he had condensed a Chaos Golden Core. His master said the Chaos Laws had been lost for a million years, and that he could condense a Chaos Golden Core at the Golden Core stage proved he possessed talent and comprehension surpassing his predecessors. His master said he would surely become the greatest cultivator in the history of the Spirit Realm. His master said he felt proud of him.

He recalled his master's worry and reluctance upon learning he intended to challenge Spirit Severing with Nascent Soul cultivation. His master said, "You need not rush so; you can take your time, you still have plenty of time." But when he voiced his thoughts and resolve, his master fell silent for a long while, then nodded and said: "Go, I believe in you."

He recalled his master's resolute and calm demeanor when burning his life force in today's battle. His master knew what he was doing, knew what it meant, yet he hesitated not, retreated not, but walked calmly, firmly, as if toward an appointment, toward death.

Because he was Jiang Mingyuan. Because he was a Spirit Severing cultivator. Because he was the guardian of the Spirit Realm.

Because guarding was his lifelong belief.

Wang Ping stood up.

He wiped away his tears, took a deep breath, and let himself calm down. Traces of tears still lingered on his face, but his gaze had regained clarity and resolve.

He turned to face everyone.

Everyone on the ruins halted their actions, lifted their heads, and looked toward him. The severely injured cultivators barely propped themselves up; the lightly injured set down their tasks; those still able to stand straightened their spines. All gazed upon this former disciple who once followed behind Jiang Mingyuan, now a Chaos True Lord capable of standing alone.

His body bore countless wounds, his robes were torn and tattered, his breath was weak and feeble, yet his gaze was firm as iron, his voice hoarse yet ringing and powerful.

"Everyone—"

His voice was not loud, yet it clearly reached every ear, like the evening drum and morning bell, resonating in each person's heart.

"Today, we have lost much. Dean Jiang, Valley Master Lei, Immortal Bingyue, and countless comrades—they guarded the Spirit Realm with their lives."

His gaze swept over everyone, lingering on each weary, sorrowful, and resolute face.

"But we will not let their deaths be in vain."

His voice suddenly rose, like a drawn sword, carrying a sharp edge, carrying an undeniable resolve.

"The blood debt owed by the Pure World Tribunal will one day be repaid, one by one. For every blood debt accumulated over thirty thousand years, for every drop of blood shed by each fallen comrade, we will make them repay tenfold, a hundredfold, a thousandfold!"

His words echoed in the void, thunderous in every ear. Those weary, sorrowful, and confused gazes, at this moment rekindled into flames—flames of hatred, flames of battle intent, flames of indomitability.

He paused, letting his voice calm, yet the power contained within that calm was even more shocking than his earlier roar.

"Now, clear the battlefield, treat the wounded, collect the remains."

His voice was very calm, calm as if speaking of a mundane matter, yet everyone could feel the power beneath that calm—a calm earned only after experiencing life and death, transcending despair, a true and unshakable calm.

"Then—"

He raised his head, gazing toward the distant void where the silver light had dissipated. That direction in which the late-stage Spirit Severing experts of the Pure World Tribunal fled, the direction the Order Apostles escaped, that void once shrouded in silver light, now returned to darkness and silence. Yet he knew that darkness concealed greater danger, that silence brewed a more violent storm.

"Nurture essence and store energy, await the next battle."

His voice was low and firm, like the beating of war drums, striking each heart one by one.

"Because the Pure World Tribunal will not relent. The three late-stage Spirit Severing experts who fled will return to report, will bring more reinforcements, will launch a fiercer assault to make a comeback. Our victory today is merely a battle in this long war, not its end."

His gaze swept over everyone again, this time deeper, more solemn.

"But the Spirit Realm will not fall."

His voice suddenly became ringing and powerful, like metal striking metal, clear and resonant.

"For thirty thousand years, the Spirit Realm has never fallen. Today it will not, tomorrow it will not, forever it will not. Because we have this land, we have the people on this land, we have those predecessors who guarded all with their lives, we have comrades willing to die for the Spirit Realm. As long as we remain, the Spirit Realm remains. As long as the Spirit Realm remains, the Pure World Tribunal can never succeed!"

Everyone looked at him, looked at this former disciple who once followed behind Jiang Mingyuan, looked at this Chaos True Lord now capable of standing alone, looked at this young cultivator who in today's battle slew four mid-stage Spirit Severing experts.

He still bore wounds, his breath was still weak, his eyes still held traces of tears. Yet his spine was straight as an arrow, his gaze firm as iron, his voice ringing and powerful.

In him they saw the shadow of Jiang Mingyuan—that resolve to guard at any cost.

They also saw Wang Ping himself—a person who had experienced life and death, crossed despair, and risen anew from the ruins.

"Yes! Chaos True Lord!"

They responded in unison, their voices echoing through the void, shaking the floating silver fragments into faint tremors.

In that voice there was no hesitation, no doubt, only trust—absolute trust in one who had proven himself with strength.

Wang Ping turned, casting one last glance at Jiang Mingyuan's remains.

The master's remains had been personally wrapped in white cloth by Bai Cao Xianzi, the cloth embroidered with the Spirit Realm's emblem—a towering mountain peak, symbolizing the Spirit Realm's unyielding will. Four Nascent Soul cultivators carefully lifted the remains, placing them on a pedestal built of spirit stones, surrounded by flowers and offerings.

"Master, rest in peace." He silently said in his heart, "Disciple will guard the Spirit Realm well, disciple vows to you."

Then he strode toward the Spirit Realm.

His steps were slow, for his body had reached its limit, each step requiring great effort. Yet his steps were steady, one after another, never pausing, never swaying, as if telling everyone—I am still standing, I can still walk, I can still fight.

Behind him, Cangxuan followed closely. This sword cultivator still bore dozens of wounds, but he carried his long sword on his shoulder, his steps still vigorous and strong, like an eternal war god who will never fall.

Yuliuli embraced the ancient zither with its broken strings, following behind Cangxuan. Her steps were somewhat unsteady, but her eyes held light—the light of undying melody and unextinguished battle intent.

Youying walked last, her figure appearing and disappearing, the void laws slowly turning around her, ever vigilant against possible threats. Her gaze continually fell upon Wang Ping's back, that gaze holding worry, heartache, and also pride.

Behind her, countless Spirit Realm cultivators, countless survivors of the calamity, countless willing to die for the Spirit Realm.

They walked slowly—because many bore wounds, each step demanding endurance of great pain; because many supported injured comrades, carefully avoiding jolts; because many still immersed in grief over lost masters and comrades, their steps heavy as if filled with lead.

Yet they walked with determination.

Because they knew, as long as someone remained, the Spirit Realm would not perish.

As long as someone remained, the Purification Court would never succeed.

As long as someone remained—hope, was here.

Their silhouettes gradually faded into the void, turning into streams of golden light that sank into the Spirit Realm's cloud sea, while the silver fragments still drifted in the void, flashing with cold glints under the Spirit Realm's radiance, like scattered stars across the sky, or countless eyes silently watching over all this.

The war has not yet ended.

A greater storm still lies ahead.

But at least in this moment—they had won.

This was enough.