Chapter 400

At the end of the passage, there was nothing magnificent to behold.

Wang Ping had thought that after passing through that nauseatingly twisted passage, what would meet his eyes would be some grand scene—perhaps a sky full of stars, or an ancient gate spanning the void, or perhaps some great relic left behind by the progenitor of the Ten Thousand Phenomena Star-Gazers. But he was wrong.

There was nothing.

No earth beneath his feet, no sky above his head, in all directions only darkness.

This darkness was not the kind where you cannot see your hand in front of your face after turning off the light at night, nor the kind where sunlight cannot reach beneath the deep sea. It was something more absolute, as if someone had extracted the very concept of "darkness" from the world and then cast it into this entire space. Light arriving here was not "unseen," but "nonexistent." Just as you cannot ignite a flame on water, this darkness does not permit light to exist.

Wang Ping tried to raise his hand, condensing a thread of chaotic immortal essence at his fingertip. A point of chaotic-colored light glowed, then—

It went out.

Not blown out by wind, not devoured by something, but as if someone had pulled the plug. That thread of immortal essence was clearly still there—he could feel the power at his fingertip had not dissipated—but the attribute of "light" was simply gone, as if the rules here explicitly stated: no light allowed.

"This place…" Cangxuan's voice came from beside him, but it sounded as if from ten li away, muffled and distorted with an eerie sense of unreality. "... Something's wrong."

Wang Ping turned his head to look at him. Cangxuan stood just three steps away, his face clear, but the sound would not carry. The feeling was strange, as if sound had taken two steps through the air only to be sucked away by something, leaving only a faint echo barely reaching his ears.

Cangxuan clearly noticed the problem too. He furrowed his brow, said nothing more, and drew the long sword at his waist.

The moment the blade left its sheath, a flash of cold light appeared—then it too was swallowed by the darkness. That light existed for less than half a breath, like a firefly in the dark that had just lit up before being pinched out by an invisible hand. Cangxuan stared at his sword blade; the blade was still there, still sharp, but it no longer emitted light. It had become a silent, matte sliver of iron.

"My Void Principle…" Youying's voice came from the other side, tinged with a rare panic, "Gone."

Wang Ping looked at her. This usually calm inheritor of the Void Lineage now had a face pallid to the point of near-transparency. She raised her hand, fingers splayed, as if grasping at something in the void. But nothing happened. No spatial rift, no void ripple, not even the most basic spatial fluctuation.

"The space here is not 'chaotic,'" Youying's voice trembled, not from fear but from a deeper unease—like a champion swimmer suddenly discovering the water had vanished—"It is 'nonexistent.' No spatial laws can be invoked. I cannot sense any spatial nodes, folds, or even the most basic dimensional structure. Here… there is no space."

Yuliuli held her guqin, silent. Her fingers rested on the strings, but she did not pluck them. She needed not try—the qin's sound was sound, and sound here could not travel; how could the qin's sound fare any better?

The four stood back-to-back, forming a small circle. This was the most primal defensive posture, when laws failed and divine powers were suppressed, the body's instinct was more reliable than any technique.

Wang Ping drew a deep breath, attempting to release his chaotic divine sense.

Normally, his chaotic divine sense could cover ten thousand li with a single thought—every blade of grass, every insect and bird within that range would be within his perception. But now, his divine sense felt as if gripped by a giant hand, able to spread only with difficulty to a hundred zhang. Beyond that, it severed—not blocked, but directly devoured. Like throwing a rope into an abyss: the rope continues to fall, but you can no longer feel its existence.

Within a hundred zhang, he sensed the four's vital auras. Cangxuan's sword intent remained sharp, but suppressed within his body, unable to be released. Yuliuli's spiritual power circulated slowly, like blood thickening in cold. Youying's aura was weakest, her Void Principle completely sealed; she was now merely an ordinary girl who could grow weary and be injured.

Further out, he sensed nothing. Not "empty," but "nonexistent." Even the perception of emptiness was absent.

"Guixu." Youying's voice was soft, but in this deathly silence, it sounded unusually clear. She seemed to have recovered somewhat from her initial panic, after all, as an inheritor of the Void Lineage, her mental fortitude far surpassed that of ordinary people. "Our clan's ancient texts record this place. Guixu is the end of the universe, the terminus of all laws. Here there is no time, no space, no causality. All existence, upon arriving here, returns to nothingness."

"Then why are we still alive?" Cangxuan asked. His voice still sounded distant, but at least the content was clear now. Perhaps because the distance was too short, the sound reached his ears before being completely devoured.

Youying fell silent for a moment, as if recalling the ancient texts. "Guixu has an outer ring and an inner ring. We are still in the outer ring; laws are merely suppressed, not completely vanished. It's like… like standing at the edge of an abyss, still able to feel the ground beneath your feet. Go further in, to the inner ring, and that is true nothingness. There, even time does not exist; enter and you can never leave."

"Forever?" Yuliuli finally spoke, her voice somewhat hoarse.

"Forever." Youying repeated, her tone devoid of hesitation. "The ancient texts say that in Guixu's inner ring, there is no concept of time's passage. The moment you enter, it is eternity. No past, no future, no 'coming out' as an option. Because the instant you enter, you are frozen there."

The four fell silent for a while.

Wang Ping raised his head, gazing into the distance.

There, faintly, weak light flickered. Not starlight—starlight is warm and bright, and even across billions of li, one can still feel the presence of light. These lights were different. They were gloomy blue, dark red, pallid white, and even a kind of black that shone—a contradictory existence, how can black shine? But there it was, black yet luminous.

Those lights flickered, jumped, and died in the darkness, like the last breaths of a dying person. Each flicker carried an indescribable meaning, as if speaking, as if wailing, as if emitting a final plea for help.

"What are those?" Yuliuli asked, her unease deepening.

Youying stared at those lights, silent for a long time. So long that Wang Ping thought she would not answer, before she finally spoke softly: "The echoes of dead worlds."

Her voice was calm, but that calm was more heartbreaking than tears.

"Each point of light is a destroyed world. Immortal realm, spirit realm, mortal realm… at the moment of their death, they project their final light into Guixu. That is their last proof of existence. Then those lights drift here until utterly devoured by darkness. Like… like the last stick of incense at a funeral."

Yuliuli's face turned ashen.

She lowered her head, no longer looking at those lights. But her fingers trembled slightly, nails digging deep into her palms. She thought of the spirit realm—if the spirit realm were destroyed, its light would also become one of those countless points, drifting in the endless darkness, flickering, then fading. No one knows, no one remembers.

Wang Ping reached out and gently took hold of her wrist. Not to take advantage, merely to give her a point of support.

Yuliuli lifted her head to look at him, eye sockets slightly red, but she did not cry. She nodded, drew a deep breath, and pressed those emotions down.

Wang Ping released her hand, withdrew his gaze, and looked farther into the depths of Guixu, where a patch of chaotic-colored light flickered indistinctly. That light differed from the others—it was not like the dying echoes, but more like a tenacious, unyielding existence. It struggled in the darkness, persisted in the silence, as if waiting for something.

Immortal realm fragments.

The final destination of the progenitor of the Ten Thousand Phenomena Star-Gazers, their goal on this journey, the spirit realm's sole hope.

"Go." Wang Ping stepped forward.

Having taken fewer than a hundred zhang, the figure of the Transcendent suddenly appeared before them.

This time he did not emerge from the void, nor coalesce from light—he seemed simply to have always been here, only unseen until now. The feeling was strange: clearly nothing before his eyes, yet he stood there, as if he had always been, never departed.

His visage continued to shift—youth, middle age, old age, man, woman, and occasionally a nonhuman face—those faces belonged to no known race, the angles misplaced, the features disproportionate, like the last vestiges of a civilization long eroded in the river of time.

But now, that ever-changing visage bore a hint of gravity.

This was the first time Wang Ping saw such an expression on the Transcendent's face. Before, the Transcendent had always been serene, composed, even carrying a hint of worldly nonchalance. But now, his brow furrowed slightly, the corners of his mouth dipped, his eyes held something ineffable—not fear, for Transcendents do not fear. More like… remembrance. The expression of an old veteran recalling a brutal battle.

"I can only bring you this far." His voice was soft, but in Guixu's deathly silence, each word rang clear as if carved in stone. "Within Guixu, my power cannot endure long either. This is not a matter of strength—it is that this place does not allow 'existence.' Any existence will be eroded, dissolved, returned to nothing. I can maintain form for hundreds of millions of years outside, but here, at most three days."

He raised his hand, pointing toward that patch of chaotic light in the distance.

"The immortal realm fragments lie in Guixu's deepest reaches. Looks close, right?" He gave a bitter smile—the expression on his shifting face lasted only an instant before vanishing, replaced by another unfamiliar visage. "But distance in Guixu is not distance. It is a kind of… causal separation. You do not walk a road, but enact the very act of 'arrival.' Only when your existence is strong enough, strong enough for Guixu to deny your 'arrival,' can you reach that place."

He gazed at Wang Ping, his eyes deep as an ancient well.

"Remember, in Guixu, the most terrifying thing is not those monsters." His tone turned grave, nearly stern. "Those devouring beasts, void remnants, law fragments—no matter how frightening, they have form, regularity, weaknesses. But your heart does not. Guixu's darkness will devour your memories, your emotions, your Dao-heart. It will make you forget who you are, why you came here, whom you cherish. It will hollow you out bit by bit until you become an empty shell, becoming part of Guixu itself."

He paused, and that visage suddenly shifted into that of an old man, wrinkles covering his face, eye sockets deeply sunken, as if eons of ages had been etched upon him.

"I have seen too many who entered Guixu outside. Emperors, Heavenly Lords, ancient beings who lived through epochs. When they entered, each was full of confidence, each believed themselves unique, each thought Guixu could not touch them. But in the end…" He shook his head, and on that old man's face appeared a deep sorrow. "They all remained here. Not dead, but… dissipated. Became part of Guixu, became one of those light points. No one remembers who they once were."

Wang Ping fell silent for a moment, then nodded.

"Senior, rest assured, I will be careful."

He did not say "I will not lose myself," nor "I am not like them." For he knew those who say such things end up staying here. He merely said "I will be careful." This is a promise, a clear-headed, prudent commitment.

The Transcendent looked at him, then suddenly smiled.

At that moment, his visage froze—not that the shifting ceased, but in the interstices of change, one face lingered longer than usual. It was a middle-aged man's face, ordinary features, but eyes gentle, like a father watching his son set off on a journey.

"Take care of yourself."

His figure faded slowly, not merging into darkness, nor retreating into light—he simply vanished, as if he had never existed. No light, no sound, no fluctuation of law. He was just… gone.

Wang Ping knew that the Transcendent had not left, but his power had been exhausted, driven back by the Ruin of Return. This being who had lived for who knows how many eons could only retreat three lodgings before the Ruin of Return. It was not that he was not strong enough, but the Ruin of Return would not allow any "existence" to linger long.

The four continued forward.

The darkness grew denser.

This was not a visual sensation, but a deeper experience. Like diving into the deep sea, as depth increases, water pressure grows, squeezing every inch of skin and every breath. But the "pressure" of the Ruin of Return does not act on the body—it acts on consciousness.

Wang Ping could feel something trying to drill into his mind.

It was not a divine sense attack, not a mental intrusion, but something more hidden, more gentle. It was not like a robber, but more like a mother. It softly said: Sleep, stop struggling, give up, this place is fine. No pain, no worry, no responsibility. You only need to let go of everything to rest forever.

Wang Ping bit his tongue, the pain restoring clarity to his consciousness.

He glanced at the three beside him. Cangxuan's face was iron-blue, veins bulging on his forehead, obviously also resisting that erosion. His sword道 will was inherently firm and domineering, yet in the face of this gentle attack, he struggled all the more—like a hard wall unafraid of hammer blows, but vulnerable to water seepage.

Yuliuli's lips turned pale, her hands clenched tightly around the ancient zither, her knuckles whitening. Her Dao心 was the most fragile among the four—zither心通明 means extreme sensitivity to external emotions, and thus greater susceptibility to external influence. The erosion of the Ruin of Return on her was like throwing a person into icy river water, every inch of skin bearing the piercing cold.

Youying's condition was actually the best. Cultivators of the Void Lineage naturally excel at maintaining self in "non-existence"—their cultivation is seeking their position in the void. But her complexion was also poor, fine beads of sweat on her forehead, her breathing much more rapid than usual.

"How long have we been walking?" Cangxuan suddenly asked.

Wang Ping was stunned for a moment.

How long?

He tried to recall, but found his memory blurred. How long had they walked after leaving the Transcendent? One incense stick? One shichen? One day? He was utterly uncertain. In the Ruin of Return, time lost meaning. No sunrise or sunset, no shifting of stars, no heartbeat as a timer—because even the heartbeat here became unstable, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, utterly unreliable.

"I don't know." Wang Ping answered truthfully.

Cangxuan fell silent for a moment, then nodded, without further questioning. He understood—in the Ruin of Return, time does not matter. What matters is direction, goal, walking out alive.

Wang Ping continued to stride.

His chaotic divine sense maintained a hundred-zhang detection range, vigilantly scanning the surroundings. The Ruin of Return was not empty—he could feel it. In the depths of that darkness, something was moving. Not regular movement, not biological steps, but a more primal writhing. Like some huge creature slowly crawling in the darkness, each writhing stirring a weak fluctuation of law.

Those fluctuations were strange—they were not normal law circulation, but the final struggle when law is devoured. Like prey caught by a giant python, the brittle sound of bones breaking.

Suddenly, Wang Ping stopped.

"What's wrong?" Cangxuan immediately gripped his sword hilt, his body instinctively entering combat stance.

Wang Ping did not answer. He closed his eyes, focusing all his attention on his chaotic divine sense. In the depths of that darkness, he sensed something—

Not light, not sound, not law fluctuation.

But a more primal existence.

Hunger.

Pure, primal, reasonless hunger. It was not hunger from lack of energy in a living being, but an ontological hunger—it hungers because its very meaning is to devour. Like a black hole's gravity needing no reason, a flame's heat needing no explanation, its hunger is itself.

It lurked in the darkness, waited in the darkness, watched in the darkness.

"Something is there." Wang Ping's voice was low, but in this deathly silence, these four words were like four claps of thunder, exploding in everyone's heart.

Cangxuan drew his sword. Sword light flashed for an instant, then was swallowed by darkness. But he did not care—he needed not the sword light, but the sword intent. Sword intent flowed within him, condensed but not released, like a bow drawn to the full, waiting only for the target to appear.

Yuliuli's fingers pressed on the zither strings, her fingertips trembling slightly. She did not play, but spiritual power had already gathered on the strings, ready to erupt. The strings vibrated faintly under her fingertips, emitting a low hum only she could hear.

Youying stood beside Wang Ping, her body slightly leaned forward, like an alert cat. Her void law was suppressed, but she still had body techniques, hidden weapons, and the assassination arts passed down through generations of the Void Lineage. These needed no law, only the body.

The darkness was flowing.

Not wind—there is no air in the Ruin of Return. Not law—there is no law in the Ruin of Return. But some more primal flow, like darkness itself breathing. It surged from all directions, converging at a point ahead, then dispersing, then converging again, then dispersing again. Like a great lung contracting and expanding.

Then, a light shone in the darkness.

It was not the light of those distant world remnants—those lights were gloomy blue, dark red, pallid white, each color corresponding to a destroyed world. This light was different. It was transparent.

Not colorless—transparent light is a contradictory existence, but it is here. You can see what lies behind the light, as through a perfect pane of glass. But glass does not emit light, while this thing does. Transparent light pierced the darkness, illuminating everything within a thousand zhang ahead.

Then Wang Ping saw what was in that light.

His heart clenched tightly.

In that light, countless remnants of laws flowed. Remnants of the fire law—no longer resembling fire, only some red, twisted lines remained, like charred corpses. Remnants of the ice law—blue fragments floated in the light, each bearing eternal frost. Remnants of the thunder law—purple arcs jumped between remnants, but had lost the thunder's domineering might, leaving only dying, weak crackles. Remnants of the space law—space folded halfway, forever stopped there, like a crumpled paper never unfolded. Remnants of the time law—most strange of all, you could see segments endlessly replaying, a moment looped infinitely, never ceasing.

They were like countless dead snakes, writhing in that light, emitting a strange glow. Each "snake" was a dead law, each glow a world's funeral.

Then, the light moved.

It slowly rose, growing larger and brighter. At first just a point of light, then a fist-sized light ball, then a head-sized light mass, then a house-sized light body—and it kept growing.

When it fully appeared before the four, everyone sucked in a breath of cold air.

It was a living being.

A living being as vast as a star.

Its body was transparent, like a piece of glass blown to infinite size, through which you could see every law remnant within, every law fragment, every law fluctuation. They packed tightly together, like a pot of boiling porridge, churning, colliding, merging, splitting within that transparent body.

Its eyes were silver.

Not silver light, not silver beads—but silver pupils. No iris, no sclera, only two silver disks set in its transparent skull. Those silver pupils held no warmth, no emotion, no light any living being should have. Only endless cold, like two mirrors reflecting everything before it—then denying it. You do not exist, its gaze says. You never existed. Everything you are is illusion.

Its mouth was a great black hole.

Not a black mouth, not lips painted black—but a true black hole. Light that reaches it vanishes, law that reaches it is devoured, space that reaches it collapses. That black hole slowly rotated, each turn sending out weak gravitational ripples, pulling everything around toward it.

Void Devouring Beast.

Youying's face instantly turned deathly pale—that pallor was not fear's pallor, but despair's pallor—like a person in the desert seeing a mirage, then realizing it is only an illusion.

"This is… the Void Devouring Beast!" Her voice trembled, each word squeezed from between her teeth. "Our clan's ancient records mention this thing! It is one of the most terrifying beings in the Ruin of Return! It feeds on law—sword intent, spells, formations, divine abilities, anything containing law is its food! It is born in the Ruin of Return, makes the Ruin of Return its home, no law can harm it! Because—"

"Because it treats law as food." Cangxuan took over, his tone icy.

Youying nodded, her face worsening. "Not just eating. It can digest all law. Fire law entering its body becomes part of its body. Ice law, thunder law, space law, time law—without exception. What you see in its body are the remnants of countless laws it has devoured over countless years. Those laws are not dead, but assimilated by it. They became its nutrients, its strength, its life."

Cangxuan snorted coldly.

"Then let's try."

He drew his sword.

Sword light in the Ruin of Return's darkness flashed only an instant before being swallowed, but that instant was enough. A sharp sword intent shot from the blade, straight toward the devouring beast. That sword intent was not ordinary sword qi—it was Cangxuan's natal sword intent condensed from his own sword道, containing his lifetime's understanding of the sword, his insight into the Dao, his killing intent toward enemies.

The sword intent passed through, tearing a rift in the darkness. That rift existed for less than half a breath, but in that moment, the darkness of the Return to the Void showed a crack, revealing what lay behind—nothing. Not even darkness remained, only absolute void.

The sword intent struck before the devouring beast.

The colossal beast did not even move. It simply opened its mouth—a black hole-like mouth—and gently inhaled.

Like a person taking a breath.

That sword intent, capable of slaying an early-stage Divine Transformation cultivator, was swallowed whole by it in one gulp—like eating a peanut. No, even easier—eating a peanut at least requires chewing. It didn't chew at all, just swallowed it down.

Cangxuan's face changed.

It was not the change of anger, nor of surprise—but a deeper change. Like a swordsman discovering for the first time that his sword is useless against his enemy. Not fear, but… wavering. His lifelong cultivation of the sword Dao, in the Return to the Void, could not even wound a beast? Then what has he cultivated? His Dao, his path, his existence—what meaning remains?

Wang Ping sensed Cangxuan's state, reached out, and pressed his hand on his shoulder.

"Don't overthink it." His voice was calm, but in Cangxuan's ears, it felt like a bucket of cold water poured down. "It's not that you're weak—it's that its ability counters you. This isn't your fault."

Cangxuan drew a deep breath, nodded slightly. His hand still gripped the sword hilt, but the wavering had vanished, replaced by a deeper resolve. My sword cannot wound it—then I'll change my approach. The sword Dao is not only for slaughter, but also for protection. If I cannot wound it, I will block it.

Youying raised her hand, and a void law condensed into a blade, slashing toward the devouring beast. Her void law is her strongest attack—folding a region of space into a blade's edge; when it strikes the enemy, space suddenly unfolds, tearing the enemy's body in two.

The devouring beast opened its mouth and swallowed it whole. Inside its mouth, the void law was like a soft candy, chewed twice and then swallowed down.

Yuliuli plucked the zither strings, and a sound wave shot forth. Her zither tone is not ordinary sound—it is a Dao tone containing the rhythm of the Spirit Realm, able to pierce all defenses and directly attack the enemy's primordial spirit.

The devouring beast opened its mouth and swallowed it whole. The Dao tone rang once inside its mouth, then vanished—like a stone tossed into a deep pool, raising only a ripple before sinking to the bottom.

The three attacks were treated by it as snacks.

No, not even worthy of being called snacks. Snacks at least require savoring the flavor. It merely opened its mouth, swallowed, and continued staring at them—as if asking: Any more?

Cangxuan's face turned iron-blue, veins bulging on his forehead. His hand trembled—not from fear, but from anger. Anger at his own powerlessness, anger at his own weakness. His sword Dao can slay Divine Transformation cultivators in the Spirit Realm, but here it cannot even nick the beast's fur.

Yuliuli's fingers trembled, the zither strings emitting a faint hum beneath her fingertips—an instinctive reaction of a zither-heart-illuminated cultivator in extreme terror: the zither heart trembles, so the strings tremble. She does not fear death; she fears—if even the Return to the Void, which transcendent beings dread, cannot stop this beast, where lies the Spirit Realm's hope? Where is Wang Ping's plan? What can she still do?

Youying's eyes were full of despair. As an inheritor of the Void Lineage, she is completely suppressed by a void creature in the void itself—like a fish in water being eaten by another fish—not unfair, but ironic. Her lifelong cultivation of void laws, in the Return to the Void, has become nothing but food for others.

Wang Ping stood at the front, gazing at the approaching devouring beast.

Its mouth—that vast black hole—was aimed directly at them. He felt the suction strengthening—at first merely a breeze brushing past, but now it had begun to tug at his robes. The black hole slowly rotated, each turn sending out stronger gravitational ripples, pulling everything around it toward itself.

"Swallow—"

The devouring beast spoke.

That sound was not language. Not any language you could understand. It was the tremor of laws, the lament of all things, the final sigh of countless worlds at their death. The sound held no meaning, only power. Pure power, primordial force, irresistible force.

A tremendous suction surged from that black hole—not wind—there is no air in the Return to the Void—but the pull of gravity. The pull of space. The pull of existence. That suction acted upon everything—upon Wang Ping's body, upon his chaotic immortal essence, upon his chaotic divine sense, upon his chaotic domain. Everything, everything, was pulled by that suction, sliding toward that black hole.

Wang Ping's chaotic domain instinctively unfolded, seeking to resist that suction.

Then he saw something that made his heart sink to the depths—

His chaotic domain, before that suction, began to disintegrate.

Not because it was insufficiently strong. His chaotic domain can already cover a hundred-li radius, and in the Spirit Realm, few can break it head-on. But—his chaotic domain is itself a kind of law.

The chaotic domain is the manifestation of the chaotic Dao, the externalization of chaotic law. And the devouring beast eats laws. It is not "breaking" the chaotic domain—it is "eating" it. Just as you cannot stop a person eating a wall with a wall—he need not break the wall; he only needs to eat it bite by bite.

The edge of the chaotic domain began to crumble, fragments of chaotic law peeled off, swallowed, digested by that suction. Those fragments spun a few times in the black hole, then vanished into the depths, becoming part of the beast's bodily remnants of law.

"Wang Brother!" Cangxuan's voice came from behind, urgent and decisive. "Run! We'll hold it off! You go find the immortal realm fragments!"

He drew his sword, sword intent condensing again. This time not for attack, but for defense—he would use his sword intent to block that suction, buying time for Wang Ping.

Wang Ping did not move.

He stood there, gazing at the devouring beast, watching the law remnants within its body slowly circulate, watching that black-hole-like mouth incessantly sucking and pulling at everything.

Suddenly, he spoke.

"It eats everything, right?"

His voice was very calm, calm enough to make one's heart palpitate. At this moment of life and death, his tone sounded as if discussing today's weather.

Youying startled: "What?"

"Laws. It eats everything." Wang Ping's voice remained calm, but his eyes were glowing—not with spiritual light, not with the light of law, but with the light of enlightenment. "Sword intent, void law, zither tone, domain—anything containing law, it can eat. Law is its food, its power source, its foundation of existence."

He paused slightly, the corners of his mouth turning up.

"But there is one thing it cannot eat."

Youying looked at him, suddenly understanding. Her eyes widened, lips parting slightly—as if she wanted to say something, but thought it too mad.

"You mean…" Her voice trembled, not from fear, but from excitement. "The chaotic Dao?"

Wang Ping nodded.

Chaos embraces all things.

This is the core tenet of the chaotic Dao, the truth he understood from the first day he stepped onto this path. But now, in this graveyard of laws, the final destination of all things, he suddenly grasped that sentence more deeply.

Chaos is not law.

Chaos is the source of law.

Within chaos, there is no heaven and earth, no yin and yang, no five elements, no cause and effect. Yet all heaven and earth, all yin and yang, all five elements, all cause and effect—are born from chaos. Chaos is the mother, law is the child. Chaos is the soil, law is the flowers, grasses, and trees growing in that soil.

The devouring beast can devour laws, digest laws, assimilate laws. But it cannot devour the source.

Because the source is the very root of its existence.

Without chaos, there would be no law. Without law, there would be no devouring beast. It devours everything, yet cannot devour its own root. Just as a person can eat the fruit on a tree, chop off its branches and trunk, even dig up its roots—but he cannot eat the very concept of "tree." For without the concept of "tree," he cannot even define the act of "eating."

Wang Ping took a step forward.

The chaotic domain ceased to disintegrate.

It began to expand.

Ten zhang. A hundred zhang. A thousand zhang.

Chaotic-colored light blazed in the darkness of the Return to the Void—not ordinary light, but the light of the source, the first ray of light before all things were born. That light is not blinding, not scorching, not domineering. It simply exists there, gently, firmly. Like a mother opening her arms to embrace her lost child.

The devouring beast's suction, before the chaotic domain, began to weaken.

Not because the chaotic domain grew stronger—in pure power, the beast's force still far surpasses Wang Ping's. But because—the chaotic domain is not the "food" it seeks to eat.

That was its "mother".

You can eat the food your mother cooks, you can eat the fruit your mother grows, you can eat the chicken your mother raises. But can you eat your mother?

For the first time, hesitation appeared in the Devouring Beast's eyes.

Those silver pupils still had no warmth, still had no emotion. But beneath that cold gleam, something was changing. Not fear—the Devouring Beast does not fear. Not awe—the Devouring Beast does not feel awe. But... confusion. Its program encountered a situation it could not process.

It had encountered countless prey.

Since the day it was born from the Return to the Void, it had been devouring. It had devoured the sword intent of a God Transformation cultivator, devoured the law domain of a Great Heavenly Venerable, devoured the formations of an ancient civilization, devoured the final cries of the world's destruction. Every prey had laws. Every law, it could eat. Its program was simple: perceive law → devour law → digest law → gain power. Cycle endlessly, never stopping.

But it had never encountered—chaos.

Chaos is not law. Chaos has no structure that can be devoured, no components that can be digested, no attributes that can be assimilated. Chaos is simply chaos. It is a circle with no beginning, no end, no entrance, no exit. The Devouring Beast opened its mouth, but it did not know where to bite.

Wang Ping gave it no time to think.

He took one step and already stood before the Devouring Beast.

A distance of a hundred zhang, in the Return to the Void, was originally a long journey—laws were suppressed, space did not exist, even time lost its meaning. But Wang Ping walked over just like that, as if walking in his own backyard. The chaos domain unfolded beneath his feet, each step treading on nothingness, yet each step felt as solid as stepping on the earth.

The phantom of the Chaos Tribulation Sword condensed in his hand.

That sword had no substance—a phantom condensed from chaos power, semi-transparent, chaos-colored, like a long sword forged from crystal, but within the crystal flowed countless tiny points of light. Those points of light slowly rotated, like nebulae at the birth of the universe.

He swung down with one sword.

The Devouring Beast opened its mouth, instinctively wanting to devour this sword.

But it could not swallow it.

That black-hole-like mouth opened, that devouring suction surged out, and the law remnants inside it spun wildly—but that sword, it simply could not swallow.

The sword blade struck its lips—if that thing could be called lips—emitting a dull thud. Not the sound of metal colliding, not the sound of cutting flesh, but... a deeper sound. Like the earth splitting, like a glacier collapsing, like an ancient seal being broken.

For the first time, the Devouring Beast's mouth did not close.

What was contained in that sword was not law, but chaos. That was its source, its foundation, its mother. It could not devour its mother. Just as you cannot swallow your own tongue—not because you cannot, but because your body does not allow you to. This is a taboo engraved in the deepest part of existence.

The sword light struck the Devouring Beast's body.

It let out a miserable cry.

That cry did not sound like a biological sound—more like the sound of countless laws shattering simultaneously. The remnants of the fire law exploded inside it, splashing out a spray of red sparks. Fragments of the ice law flew everywhere, condensing in the air into tiny ice crystals. The arcs of the thunder law lost control, jumping wildly inside it, crackling with sound.

Its figure violently retreated.

Its transparent body traced an arc in the darkness, those law remnants inside it violently churning, like a pot of thick soup being stirred. On its body, another wound appeared.

That wound extended diagonally from its left shoulder to its right abdomen, slashing across its entire torso. The wound was deep, and one could see the law remnants inside it surging out from the wound, like blood flowing from a vessel. But what flowed out was not blood—it was countless law remnants, countless world heritages, countless civilizations' cries.

Transparent liquid flowed from the wound—that was its blood, a mixture of countless law remnants. Those liquids condensed in midair into tiny beads, each bead containing a fragment of law. They floated in the darkness, emitting a faint, eerie glow.

"You can wound it!"

Cangxuan's eyes lit up. That was the unique light of a swordsman—when an apparently invincible enemy reveals a weakness, a swordsman's eyes light up. Not from cruelty, not from bloodlust, but because—the Way of the Sword, again, had meaning.

Wang Ping nodded, but his expression was not relaxed.

"The Way of Chaos is its bane." He gripped the phantom of the Chaos Tribulation Sword in his hand, feeling the blade tremble slightly—this was the resonance between chaos power and the law remnants inside the Devouring Beast. "But it is too strong. I alone cannot kill it."

This was not humility, nor false modesty. Wang Ping could clearly sense the Devouring Beast's strength—the amount of law remnants inside it was too vast, the accumulated power of countless worlds, countless civilizations, countless eras. Even if chaos power could counter it, even if each strike could wound it, but how many strikes would he need? A thousand? Ten thousand? A hundred thousand?

His chaos immortal essence was insufficient.

Cangxuan gripped his sword hilt tightly and took a step forward.

"I will help you."

Wang Ping shook his head.

"Your sword intent, it can swallow in one bite."

Cangxuan fell silent.

He knew Wang Ping spoke the truth. His sword intent, no matter how strong, was still a product of law. And the Devouring Beast eats law. If he went up, he would not be helping, but delivering food. His sword intent would be eaten by the Devouring Beast as a snack, then transformed into the Devouring Beast's power, to be turned against Wang Ping.

This sense of helplessness made Cangxuan's sword-holding hand tremble slightly. Not from fear, but because—his Dao, here, was meaningless. A swordsman, in a place where swordsmanship is useless, what else could he do?

Yuliuli softly said: "Then what can I do?"

Her voice was very soft, but very steady. She had already walked out of the initial fear—not because she was no longer afraid, but because she had figured it out. What use is fear? Fear also cannot change anything. Rather than tremble, better to do something.

Wang Ping thought for a moment, looking at the ancient zither in her arms.

"Your zither sound can disturb it." He spoke quickly, his mind racing. "Although it can also devour, but when devouring, there will be a brief pause. Its mouth opens, it devours the zither sound, then closes—that process takes about one breath. During that breath, its attention will be scattered, its suction will weaken, its defense will show a loophole. That moment is enough."

Yuliuli nodded, her fingers pressing on the zither strings. She did not ask "What if we fail?" nor "What if we are too late?" She simply nodded, then waited for the moment to act.

Youying said: "I can bind it with the Void Law."

Her voice was very calm, but a flash of determination passed through her eyes. The Void Law in the Return to the Void had been suppressed to the extreme, but she was not going to use the Void Law to attack—rather, to use the Void Law as "bait".

"Although it can also devour, but devouring the Void Law takes time." She explained, speaking quickly, as if arranging aftermath. "The Void Law is not an ordinary law—it is the law of 'space'. The Devouring Beast can devour space, but space is not gone in one gulp. Space has structure, has dimensions, has folds. Devouring space takes time, just like eating requires chewing. That moment is also enough."

Wang Ping looked at her and nodded.

He did not say "Be careful", nor "Don't push yourself". Because he knew, Youying knew what she was doing. The inheritor of the Void lineage never needs others' reminders.

He took a deep breath, chaos immortal essence surging wildly in his body. Those law fragments flowing from the Devouring Beast floated around him, he absorbed the power from those fragments while adjusting his state to peak.

"Good. Then—"

A flash of sternness crossed his eyes.

"Kill!"

Wang Ping's chaos domain fully unfolded, enveloping the Devouring Beast within.

Within a thousand zhang, chaos-colored light illuminated the darkness of the Return to the Void. That light was not glaring, but thick, thick like a bowl of rice porridge simmered all night, thick like autumn morning mist. Within the domain, law changes followed the heart—he could create flames here, could condense ice here, could summon thunder here.

But those changes were ineffective against the Devouring Beast.

It devoured too quickly.

Wang Ping had just condensed a cluster of fire law within the domain, the Devouring Beast opened its mouth and inhaled, that cluster of fire law flew into its mouth without a sound. He had just condensed a layer of ice under his feet, the Devouring Beast inhaled again, that layer of ice shattered into countless fragments, sucked into that black hole.

Wang Ping gritted his teeth, abandoned all law changes, and attacked directly with chaos power alone.

The Chaos Tribulation Sword phantom condensed in his hand, each sword containing the primordial chaos. There was no sword intent, no sword qi, no sword momentum—only the purest, most primal chaos power. That was the one thing the Devouring Beast could not devour.

He swung his sword at the Devouring Beast's forelimb—if that thing could be called a forelimb. It was a transparent, thick limb, within which flowed countless remnants of thunder laws. The blade struck, emitting a dull thud as chaos power poured into the beast's body, violently reacting with those thunder law remnants.

The thunder law remnants, stimulated by chaos power, began to run wild—they were originally dying, unstable entities, and the intrusion of chaos power was like pouring oil on a pile of charcoal about to die out. Purple arcs of electricity danced wildly inside the Devouring Beast's body, crackling and splashing from those transparent wounds, blooming into purple sparks in the darkness.

The Devouring Beast let out a miserable cry, its forelimb gashed deeply. Transparent fluid gushed from the wound, mixed with purple arcs, flickering with an eerie light in the darkness. It violently swung its wounded forelimb, a tremendous force surging forth, and Wang Ping was flung away.

He rolled several times in the darkness, his Chaos Domain forming a protective layer around him, absorbing most of the force. But a trace of blood still trickled from the corner of his mouth—the Devouring Beast's power was too great; even with the Chaos Domain buffering, that blow had shaken his internal organs.

He did not stop, rolled to his feet, and charged forward again.

Second sword.

This time he aimed at the Devouring Beast's skull. The Chaos Tribulation Sword phantom surged in his hand, expanding from a three-foot green blade to a ten-foot giant sword. He gripped the sword with both hands, chaos power condensing on the blade into a rotating sphere of light—a highly compressed form of chaos power, whose eruption could level a mountain peak.

He swung his sword down.

The Devouring Beast sensed danger, its body jerking sideways to dodge the sword. But its size was too great—even as it strained to evade, the sword still struck its shoulder.

The blade cut into its transparent body, chaos power pouring into the Devouring Beast's interior, violently reacting with those law remnants. This time it was not just thunder law remnants running wild—fire law, ice law, space law, time law—all law remnants began to run wild under the stimulation of chaos power.

Inside the Devouring Beast, it was as if a pot of porridge had exploded. Fire law remnants burst forth with red light, ice law fragments condensed into blue ice crystals, space law folding structures began to lose control, time law circulating segments were disrupted. All law remnants inside the beast collided, fused, split, and exploded in frenzy.

The Devouring Beast cried out miserably, again and again.

That cry was more shrill and piercing than before. The sound of countless laws shattering simultaneously gathered into a sonic wave that exploded in the darkness of Gui Xu. That sonic wave contained the scorching heat of fire, the piercing cold of ice, the domineering force of thunder, the tearing of space, the chaos of time—it was the final death cry of countless worlds, the last wail of countless civilizations in destruction.

Wang Ping was shaken back several steps by that sonic wave, his ears ringing, his vision darkening. Blood seeped from his seven orifices—not from attack, but from being shaken by the law fragments in the sonic wave. Although the Devouring Beast had digested most of those law fragments, the residual power was still enough to wound a Divine Transformation cultivator.

He did not retreat.

Third sword.

Fourth sword.

Fifth sword.

He swung sword after sword, each with all his strength, each striking the Devouring Beast's body. The Chaos Tribulation Sword phantom traced chaotic-colored arcs in the darkness, like a painter waving a brush on a black canvas. Those arcs lingered longer and longer in the darkness—at first just a flash, then lasting a breath, then two breaths, finally the arcs condensed into substance in the darkness, becoming chaotic-colored light bands that wound around the Devouring Beast's body.

The Devouring Beast's body was covered in wounds. Those wounds extended from its shoulders to its abdomen, from its skull to its tail, from its forelimbs to its hindlimbs. Each wound oozed transparent fluid, each flickered with an eerie light. Law remnants constantly flowed out from those wounds in its interior, drifting, rotating, dissipating in the darkness.

But it was too strong.

Its regenerative ability was too terrifying.

Those wounds, as soon as they appeared, healed rapidly. When Wang Ping swung his third sword, the wound from his first sword had already healed over half. When he swung his fifth sword, the wound from his second sword had reduced to a faint scar. When he swung his tenth sword, the wound from his first sword had completely vanished, not even leaving a scar.

Inside it, countless law remnants cycled frenziedly, providing it with endless energy. For every law it devoured, it recovered a fraction of strength. For every law it digested, its wounds healed a fraction. And each of Wang Ping's attacks stirred up even more law remnants to run wild inside it—the energy released by those runaway law remnants became its nourishment instead.

This was a vicious cycle.

The harder Wang Ping fought, the more energy the Devouring Beast absorbed. The more energy the Devouring Beast absorbed, the stronger its regenerative ability became. The stronger its regenerative ability, the harder Wang Ping had to fight.

One day and one night passed.

In Gui Xu there was no concept of time, but Wang Ping could feel his Chaos Immortal Essence being consumed. At first it was abundant and full, like a lake brimming with water. Then it diminished and decreased, like a pond being drained. Finally it was exhausted and dry, like a riverbed baked by the sun.

His Chaos Immortal Essence had been consumed by more than half.

Yet the Devouring Beast's aura showed little weakening.

It still stood there, still exuding that suffocating pressure. Its wounds were still healing, its power still recovering, its mouth still devouring everything. The only difference was—its gaze had changed.

In those silver pupils, there was still no warmth, still no emotion. But something had been added—vigilance.

It began to be wary of Wang Ping.

Not fear, not awe, but a more primal, more instinctive reaction. It began deliberately avoiding Wang Ping's attacks, using its forelimbs to block his sword blades, using its tail to whip his body. It was no longer that beast that only opened its mouth to devour—it began to fight.

A Devouring Beast that only devours and one that fights are entirely different concepts.

Cang Xuan, Yu Liuli, and You Ying took turns attacking.

Every time the Devouring Beast opened its mouth to devour was their chance to strike. Cang Xuan's sword intent slashed toward the beast's core—the spot behind those silver pupils, where all its law remnants gathered, its power core. Yu Liuli's music disrupted the beast's perception—the Dao sound exploded in its ears, scattering its attention for a moment. You Ying's void law briefly restrained the beast's movements—space folded around its limbs, momentarily halting its actions.

That instant was Wang Ping's chance to strike.

One sword.

Another sword.

Yet another sword.

Each sword struck the same spot—the Devouring Beast's core, behind those silver pupils. Wang Ping could feel that the law remnants there were denser, more chaotic, more unstable than elsewhere. That was the Devouring Beast's heart, the source of all its power.

But those attacks, to the Devouring Beast, were merely tickles.

Cang Xuan's sword intent was swallowed whole by the Devouring Beast, then converted into its power. Yu Liuli's music was swallowed whole, then converted into its power. You Ying's void law was swallowed whole, then converted into its power. Each of their strikes was merely feeding the Devouring Beast.

"This won't do!"

Cang Xuan gritted his teeth, veins bulging on his forehead. His sword intent had already been consumed by more than half, each strike's power diminishing. It was not that his swordsmanship had regressed, but—his sword intent had been devoured too many times, each devouring eroding its source. If this continued, the foundation of his sword Dao would be damaged.

"We can't outlast it!"

Wang Ping also knew.

His Chaos Immortal Essence had been consumed by eighty percent, the Chaos Tribulation Sword phantom's power now only half of its peak. His body was covered in wounds—struck by the Devouring Beast's forelimb, swept by its tail, hit by law fragments splashed from within it. Those wounds were not deep, but numerous, each oozing blood.

His robes were soaked through with blood, indistinguishable whether his own or the beast's—if that transparent fluid could be called blood. His hair was disheveled, his face covered in blood grime, yet his eyes remained clear, his resolve firm.

He must find the Devouring Beast's weakness.

Every living thing has a weakness. Even the Devouring Beast born in Gui Xu, even the ender of laws, even the devourer of all things—it must have a weakness. For "perfection" does not exist in this world. The stronger the existence, the more hidden its weakness, yet simultaneously the more deadly.

Wang Ping closed his eyes.

Closing one's eyes in battle is a mad act. The Devouring Beast stood before him, its forelimb ready to lash out, its tail ready to sweep, its mouth ready to devour everything. Yet Wang Ping closed his eyes.

Chaos Divine Sense fully extended.

Not spreading outward—spreading outward would be meaningless, as Gui Xu's darkness would devour his divine sense. Instead, extending in one direction—toward the Devouring Beast's interior.

Chaos Divine Sense penetrated the Devouring Beast's transparent body and entered its interior. Inside was a scene of chaos—not the chaos of the Chaos Dao, but true, utter chaos. Countless law remnants frenziedly cycled within, fire remnants colliding with ice fragments, bursting into steam-like mist. Thunder arcs pierced space's folding structures, triggering chain reactions. Time's circulating segments were shattered, countless moments compressed into a point, then exploded into countless fragments.

Although those remnants were chaotic and frenzied, they followed some pattern.

Wang Ping carefully sensed those patterns.

They were not moving randomly. The remnants of the fire law always flowed in one direction, the fragments of the ice law always flowed in the opposite direction, and the arcs of the thunder law always leapt between them. The folded structure of the space law always unfolded at a specific position, and the cyclical segments of the time law always reset at a specific position.

They were flowing.

All the law remnants were flowing in the same direction.

Not flowing outward—if they were flowing outward, they would surge from the wound and dissipate in the Return to Ruins. They were flowing inward—toward the deepest part of the devouring beast, toward somewhere behind its silver pupil.

That was the devouring beast's core.

Wang Ping's eyes snapped open.

"Its core!"

His voice exploded in the silence of the Return to Ruins, like a thunderclap. Cangxuan, Yuliuli, and Youying heard it at the same time, and understood at the same time.

"Attack its core!"

Cangxuan did not hesitate.

He drew his sword—no, he had already drawn it, his sword had never been sheathed. He merely condensed his sword intent to the utmost, gathering his lifetime of sword cultivation, all the origins of his sword intent, and all his vitality into this one strike.

This sword had no light.

In the Return to Ruins, light is devoured. So he abandoned light. This sword had no sound. In the Return to Ruins, sound is devoured. So he abandoned sound. This sword had only sword intent. Pure, ultimate, with no retreat.

His sword intent became an invisible blade, straightly slashing toward the core position of the devouring beast.

The devouring beast opened its mouth, wanting to devour this sword intent. But it could not— not because it could not devour sword intent, but because Cangxuan's sword was too fast. So fast that the devouring beast's mouth had not yet opened when the sword intent had already struck the core's position.

Yuliuli's fingers slid across the strings.

Not plucking, but sliding. All ten fingers simultaneously slid across all ten strings, producing a piercing, sharp sound that almost tore the eardrums. That sound contained all her spiritual power, all her zither cultivation, and all her vitality.

The Dao sound exploded beside the devouring beast's ear.

That sound was not an attack—attacks would be devoured. That sound was interference. It was noise. A needle that prevented the devouring beast from focusing. The devouring beast's perception was disturbed by the Dao sound, slowing its reaction by half a beat. That half beat was the opportunity Wang Ping needed.

Youying raised both hands, and the void law condensed in her palms.

Not blades—blades would be devoured. She condensed the void law into chains, extending from all directions to entwine the devouring beast. Those chains had no offensive power, only binding. They wrapped around the devouring beast's limbs, its torso, and its neck.

The devouring beast opened its mouth, wanting to devour those chains. But the void law is not so easily devoured—space has structure, dimensions, and folds. Devouring space takes time, just as eating requires chewing. That moment of chewing was the opportunity Wang Ping needed.

Wang Ping moved.

He took a step forward, and the chaotic domain exploded beneath his feet, gathering all chaotic power into this step. His silhouette traced a chaotic afterimage in the darkness, so fast that even the darkness of the Return to Ruins had no time to devour that afterimage.

The phantom of the Chaotic Tribulation Sword condensed in his hand.

Not a giant sword of one zhang—but a slender, exquisite sword only three chi long. He compressed all chaotic power into this sword, to the utmost. The density of chaotic power was so high that the darkness around the blade twisted—not devoured, but pushed apart by the chaotic power.

He thrust forward with his sword.

Not a slash, but a thrust. Slashing power is dispersed, distributed along a line. Thrusting power is concentrated, focused on a point. And what he wanted to attack was the devouring beast's core—a point only fist-sized, hidden deep within countless law remnants.

The sword blade pierced the devouring beast's body.

Chaotic power poured into the devouring beast's body, like a red-hot blade stabbing into butter. Those law remnants, stimulated by the chaotic power, went berserk—fire, ice, thunder, space, time—all laws simultaneously exploded, releasing world-destroying energy.

The devouring beast's core—that fist-sized point hidden deep within countless law remnants—was struck by chaotic power.

At that moment, the devouring beast's body froze.

Its silver pupils contracted violently, from two discs to two dots. Its mouth—that great black hole—stopped spinning. Its limbs, torso, tail, all limbs froze in place.

Then, its core shattered.

Like a glass bead smashed by a hammer, like a heart pierced by a blade, like a star torn apart by a black hole. The devouring beast's core—the foundation of its existence, the source of its power, the root of its life—shattered.

The devouring beast let out a miserable cry.

That cry was its last sound, and also its most miserable. Countless law remnants inside it simultaneously exploded, releasing energy enough to destroy a world. That energy surged from its wounds, from its mouth, from its eyes, and from every crack in its body.

Its body began to collapse.

Countless cracks appeared on its transparent skin, like a dried riverbed. Those cracks grew larger, more numerous, deeper. Law remnants surged from the cracks, scattering like countless meteors, illuminating the entire darkness.

The remnants of the fire law became red meteors with long tails of flame, sweeping across the darkness of the Return to Ruins. The fragments of the ice law became blue meteors emitting piercing cold, condensing frost trails in the darkness. The arcs of the thunder law became purple meteors crackling, exploding into sparks in the darkness. The folded structure of the space law became transparent meteors, distorting, folding, and unfolding space where they passed. The cyclical segments of the time law became gray meteors, accelerating, decelerating, reversing, and cycling time where they passed.

Countless meteors streaked across the darkness of the Return to Ruins, illuminating corners of this dead land that had never been lit for millions of years. What was in those corners, no one saw clearly—those lights were too fleeting, fleeting enough only for a glance. But that glance was enough for Wang Ping to remember for a lifetime.

In those corners lay the skeletons of countless beings—not human skeletons, but those of some far older, vaster, and more terrifying creatures. They lay across the darkness of the Return to Ruins, some as vast as mountain ranges, some as vast as stars, some as vast as worlds. They had all died—died for how many eons, no one knows, died for how many tens of thousands of years. Their bodies had been eroded by the Return to Ruins for more than half, leaving only remnants lying silently in the darkness, as if telling the story of some forgotten age.

The devouring beast's body slowly collapsed.

Its eyes, that icy silver, gradually dimmed. From two silver discs, to two silver points, then to two silver glimmers, and finally—extinguished.

It gave Wang Ping one last look.

In that look, there was no hatred.

The devouring beast does not hate. Hatred requires emotion, and the devouring beast has no emotion. In that look, there was no anger. The devouring beast does not get angry. Anger requires self-awareness, and the devouring beast's self-awareness is weak. In that look, there was only one thing—

Liberation.

It could finally stop devouring.

From the moment it was born, it had been devouring. Devouring was its instinct, its mission, its entire meaning of existence. It did not need to think why it should devour, did not need to choose what to devour, did not need to decide how much to devour. It only needed to devour, devour, and devour again. Forever never stopping, forever never enough, forever never full.

Now, it could finally stop.

Its body turned into countless points of light, dissipating into the Return to Ruins.

Those points of light were not law remnants—law remnants had already surged from its body and scattered. Those points were the devouring beast's own particles, the last evidence of its existence. They floated in the darkness for a moment, then gradually faded, like stars in the night sky closing their eyes one by one.

In place, only countless law fragments remained.

Those fragments were the law remnants the devouring beast had swallowed over countless years, the heritage of countless worlds, the cries of countless civilizations. They floated in the void, emitting faint light—red, blue, purple, transparent, gray, colorful, like someone had overturned a box full of gems.

Each fragment trembled slightly, emitting a low, prolonged hum. That was not sound—sound cannot propagate in the Return to Ruins. That was the vibration of laws, the echo of worlds, the remnant of civilizations. Each fragment told a story—a story of birth and destruction, of brilliance and fall, of existence and nothingness.

Wang Ping stood in the void.

His body was drenched in blood.

That blood was his own, and the devouring beast's—if that transparent liquid could be called blood. His robes were already torn to shreds, revealing dense wounds all over his body. Those wounds were not deep, but many, so many as if he had been pricked with fine needles countless times. Each wound oozed blood, blood beads suspended in the darkness of the Return to Ruins—not falling, for there is no gravity here—but floating in midair, like red pearls encircling him.

His chaotic immortal essence was nearly exhausted.

The chaotic immortal essence within him, vast as an ocean, now remained only a final thread, faintly pulsing in his dantian like a lamp about to go out. If the Devouring Beast persisted for another half-hour, it would be him who fell.

His body was covered in wounds, his clothes soaked through with blood, his hair disheveled and hanging over his shoulders, his face smeared with blood and grime. Yet he still stood.

In the Return to the Void, in the graveyard of laws, in the final destination of all things—he still stood.

Cangxuan walked to his side.

Cangxuan's condition was no better. His robe was riddled with countless tears from shards of law, his left arm bore a deep wound down to the bone—inflicted by spatial law fragments sprayed from within the Devouring Beast. His face was pallid, his lips chapped, but his gaze remained sharp, his spine still straight.

He stood ramrod straight.

A swordsman may be wounded, may bleed, may grow weary. But a swordsman cannot bend. Once he bends, the sword breaks.

Yuliuli approached, cradling her guqin.

Three strings of her guqin were broken—when she delivered that final strike, her fingers struck the strings with too much force, and they could not withstand such power, snapping apart. She looked at her guqin with heartache, but did not weep. This instrument can be repaired, the strings can be replaced. But life comes only once, and the Spirit Realm is one.

Tears streaked her face, yet she smiled. That smile was not a forced grin, not making light of suffering, but a genuine, heartfelt smile born of having survived a calamity.

Youying leaned against a stone pillar—or what could be called one. It was a massive, upright shard of law, likely debris from some unknown world, shaped like a pillar. She leaned on it, gasping heavily.

Her consumption of the Void Law was the greatest—not because it was powerful, but because each use required her to oppose the Return to the Void's suppression of space. It was like walking underwater, each step enduring immense resistance. Her legs trembled, her arms trembled, her lips trembled. Yet her gaze remained resolute.

The four exchanged glances, then suddenly laughed.

That smile was weary yet warm.

Not the joy of victory—this was merely a small triumph, with a longer road ahead and stronger foes to face. But the joy of being alive. In the Return to the Void, in this place where all things return to nothingness, they still lived. That was enough.

"We won." Wang Ping said softly.

His voice was very quiet, as if confirming a fact. Not a cheer, not a celebration, merely confirmation. Confirming they were still alive, confirming they could still press on, confirming the Spirit Realm still held hope.

Cangxuan nodded: "We won."

His voice was deep, as if saying "We are still here." Sword cultivators speak no idle words; to be alive is enough.