Chapter 402

The darkness of Return to the Void seemed endless.

This is a very strange feeling. Wang Ping remembered having walked many roads——the mountain paths of the mortal world, the cloud bridges of the immortal realm, the rifts of the void, and even that passage twisted to the point of nausea. Every road had an end, every journey had a destination. But Return to the Void was different. Walking here was like turning in circles in a room without borders. You thought you were moving forward, but the scenery around you——if it could be called scenery——never changed. Forever darkness, forever stillness, forever that void that drives one mad.

Wang Ping tried to recall how long he had walked.

An hour? A day? A month?

He didn't know. Here, time had no meaning. No sunrise or sunset, no turning of the stars, no reference to mark the passage of time. His heartbeat became unreliable here——sometimes fast like a drumbeat, sometimes slow like dripping water, completely unusable as a timekeeper. He even began to doubt whether the concept of time existed in Return to the Void. Perhaps they had walked for a very long time, perhaps they had just set out. Perhaps both were true.

Occasionally, World Echoes flickered around them. The cries of dead civilizations flashed and vanished in the darkness, like a drowning person's final struggle. Each flicker, Wang Ping could see some blurry images——a burning city, a collapsing mountain range, a figure kneeling on the ground, a pair of desperate eyes. Those images vanished instantly, like someone rapidly flipping a picture book in front of you; you could only catch glimpses of fragments, unable to piece together a complete story.

Each time Yu Liuli saw those lights, she would slightly turn her head away. She didn't speak, but Wang Ping knew what she was thinking——would the Spirit Realm also become like this? Those mountains and rivers she knew, those cultivators and mortals she knew, those tunes she had played, those words she had heard——would they all become a point of light in Return to the Void?

"Don't think too much." Wang Ping's voice was soft, but unusually clear in the stillness. "The Spirit Realm won't become like that."

Yu Liuli didn't answer, merely clutching the guqin in her arms tighter.

He could feel that they were going deeper.

This wasn't a visual sensation——the darkness all around looked the same, with no distinction between "deeper darkness" and "shallower darkness." It was an instinctive feeling, like diving into water: although everything around is water, you can feel the pressure growing greater and colder. Return to the Void's "pressure" acts not on the body but on the soul.

Chaos Divine Sense was being compressed more and more.

When he first entered Return to the Void, he could still spread his divine sense to a hundred zhang. Now, a hundred zhang became fifty, fifty became thirty, thirty became ten. With each step, his divine sense was being compressed, as if an invisible hand were clenching his perception, wanting to snap his feelers one by one.

A range of ten zhang would normally fail to scan even a single room. But here, it was his only eyes. Beyond ten zhang lay absolute unknown. You never knew what lurked in the darkness, never knew whether the next step would plunge into some abyss, never knew whether that unseen devouring beast was opening its mouth waiting for you.

The faint law fragments around them also grew denser.

At first they merely drifted by occasionally, one or two pieces, like scattered autumn leaves, lonely and solitary. Then they gathered in groups of three or five, wandering like a school of fish without direction. Now they blanketed the entire field of view densely, like a river flowing through the void, soundless yet mighty.

Those fragments, each one different.

Some were remnants of the Fire Law. They emitted a scorching red light, shaped like burnt leaves, edges curled, veins clear. Staring at them, you could feel a wave of heat washing over you——but that heat was not temperature, but the lingering echo of the law. It was the final memory left by the Fire Law when a world burned.

Some were fragments of the Ice Law. They condensed into azure ice crystals, shaped like shattered lenses, each reflecting hazy images——endless snowfall, frozen rivers, ice‑locked cities. Those images drifted across the fragment surfaces, like insects trapped in amber, forever frozen at the moment of destruction.

Some were embers of the Thunder Law. They crackled with silver‑white arcs, shaped like broken branches, the forked tips still faintly glowing. Those arcs leapt between fragments, emitting faint crackling——one of the few sounds in Return to the Void, like distant firecrackers or dry twigs bursting in flame.

They drifted soundlessly in the darkness, like a troupe of silent wraiths. When Wang Ping's Chaos Domain brushed past them, he could feel each fragment trembling slightly——not fear, not hostility, but something deeper. Like a wandering child who finally sees someone they can rely on, wanting to draw near yet afraid to.

"We're almost there."

Youying's voice came from behind, carrying a faint tremor she could barely hide. It wasn't fear's tremor—Youying wasn't the type to fear. It was exhaustion's tremor, the tremor of depleted strength. Her Void Law had almost completely failed here; she could only rely on Wang Ping's Chaos Domain for protection. For a successor of the Void Lineage, this feeling was like pulling a fish out of water and throwing it onto the shore. She was still alive, still breathing, still able to speak, but every inch of her skin craved the undulation of space, each breath longing for the echo of the void.

Her forehead was covered in fine beads of sweat, her lips slightly pale. Her steps felt a bit unsteady, as if walking on cotton—each step required far more effort than an ordinary person's. Yet she still followed closely behind Wang Ping, not missing a step. People of the Void Lineage have hard bones. If the law is gone, the Dao remains; if the Dao is gone, the person remains; as long as the person remains, they cannot fall.

Cangxuan walked on the left, his hand always resting on the sword hilt.

His posture looked relaxed, like a swordsman strolling through the mountains. But Wang Ping knew that relaxation was feigned. Cangxuan's muscles remained subtly tense, every fiber primed to draw his sword. His sword intent, compressed by the pressure of the law fragments to the extreme—originally able to project a hundred zhang, now could only condense within three cun of the blade. That three‑cun sword intent was so intense it was almost substantive, coalescing into an invisible edge on the blade.

Yet his gaze remained as sharp as a blade. Return to the Void could compress his sword intent, swallow his sword light, suppress his cultivation—but it could not break his will. A swordsman's will is harder than the sword.

Yu Liuli walked on the right, cradling her guqin.

The strings trembled faintly, not from fear—Yu Liuli's fear had faded after the battle with the Devouring Beast. This tremor came from resonance. The law fragments vibrated in sympathy with her guqin's tone, like countless invisible hands lightly plucking her heartstrings. She needed not play; merely holding the instrument let her feel the emotions within those fragments—the fire's anger, the ice's despair, the thunder's unwillingness, the void's bewilderment, the time's weariness.

They were dead. But they had once been alive. They had once been part of a world, where countless lives had thriven, reproduced, loved and hated, lived and died. Now they were merely fragments drifting in Return to the Void, waiting to be utterly consumed by darkness.

Yu Liuli's eye sockets were a little red, but she didn't cry. She merely stroked the guqin's body gently, as if comforting those fragments—and herself.

Wang Ping stopped.

He turned around and looked ahead.

There, a faint light shone.

It differed from the World Echoes he had seen before. The light of World Echoes is pallid, azure, dark red—each hue bearing the color of death, like bruises, like livor mortis, like the last breath exhaled at death's door.

But this light was different.

It was more complex, more dazzling. Within the light were crimson, azure, silver‑white, jade green, golden yellow, and purplish black. Countless colors intertwined like a vast palette slowly turning in the darkness. Those colors were not static—they flowed, merged, separated, collided. When crimson met azure, purple sparks burst forth. When silver‑white intertwined with jade green, they became a cyan mist. When golden yellow collided with purplish black, orange ripples exploded.

That light surged, churned, and roared. Unlike the quiet, resigned World Echoes, it lived—living in a frenzy, violent, unyielding way. Innumerable laws tangled, collided, annihilated, and reborn within it; each cycle released enough energy to rend the void.

It emitted a low, deep rumble.

That rumble was not sound—sound cannot propagate in Return to the Void. It was the vibration of laws, the resonance of all things, the final roar countless worlds unleashed upon dying. You cannot hear it, but you can feel it. It shakes your bones, boils your blood, and shatters your soul.

Sea of Laws.

Wang Ping drew a deep breath.

There is no air here, but the act of "drawing a deep breath" itself has meaning. It puts the body into a state of readiness, tenses the muscles, excites the nerves, focuses the consciousness. Mortals do this before great deeds; cultivators do too. It is an instinct written into life's genes, unrelated to cultivation level.

He stepped forward.

The moment he stepped into that light, the whole world changed.

Underfoot was soft void, yet hard as iron.

This is a contradictory feeling, but in the Sea of Laws, contradiction is the norm. When your foot presses down, you feel a soft resistance, like stepping on thick fresh snow, or on rain‑soaked mud. But when you put your full weight upon it, that softness instantly turns to hardness—hard as millennia‑old cold iron, like primordial bedrock.

Around, it was a boundless ocean—an ocean without water.

Here the Fire Law became towering waves. Crimson‑red surges rolled and roared, rushing from all directions. Each wave stood a hundred zhang high, blotting out sky and sun, mighty and grand. When they clashed, they burst with piercing roars and showers of sparks. Those sparks falling into the void burned for ages, like red lotuses drifting in the darkness.

But those waves were not water. They were fire—living fire that had burned for untold myriads of years. Every droplet of spray was a flame, every surge a sea of fire. Their temperature was unimaginably high—not the heat that scorches skin, but a more fundamental "heat." It is heat at the level of law, heat at the level of existence. It can incinerate your flesh, your primordial spirit, even your Dao.

Wang Ping stood at the edge of the Sea of Laws, the "water" lapping no higher than his ankles.

In that instant he felt countless extremes at once.

Scorching heat and freezing cold struck simultaneously—not alternating, but together. The blaze of the Fire Law and the extreme chill of the Ice Law collided within his body, as if someone had simultaneously poured a bucket of boiling oil and a bucket of ice water into his veins. Heaviness and lightness acted at once—the pressure of the Space Law made him feel as if he bore an entire mountain on his shoulders, while the drift of the Time Law made his body feel as light as a feather. Stillness and motion coexisted—the fixation of the Time Law slowed his every action to a snail's pace, while the agitation of the Thunder Law made every nerve twitch wildly.

Countless laws collided, intertwined, and annihilated beneath his feet. Each collision unleashed terrifying energy capable of destroying a world. Those energies raged in the Sea of Laws, whipping up higher waves, fiercer surges, wilder storms.

But Wang Ping's Chaos Domain kept those energies outside.

When those law forces touched his domain, they were embraced by Chaos Power. It was not a head‑on clash—if it were, he, an early‑stage Spirit Transformation cultivator, would be no match for an ant before the Sea of Laws. It was inclusion. Chaos Power is like a vast sponge; the violent law forces are like water. Water striking a sponge does not splash or rebound—it is absorbed, embraced, assimilated.

Then, the power of those laws was transformed into the purest chaotic energy, merging into Wang Ping's body. He could feel his chaotic immortal essence slowly recovering—eighty percent of the immortal essence consumed in the battle against the devouring beast was being replenished bit by bit. It was like a dried riverbed receiving spring rain, like withered trees receiving sweet dew.

This feeling is wonderful. The sea of laws is attacking him, yet at the same time nourishing him. The Dao of Chaos possesses such ability—to turn enemies into friends, harm into benefit, destruction into rebirth.

"Stay close to me." Wang Ping's voice was low but firm. "Every step, you must step where I have stepped. Do not touch any law, do not look at any law, do not think of any law."

He did not turn his head to look, but he knew the three were nodding.

Cang Xuan followed behind him, each step landing exactly where he had stepped. On those spots, chaotic power still lingered with a faint warmth, like a row of streetlamps just extinguished. Standing there, the pressure of the Sea of Laws would lessen greatly—not disappear, but partially neutralized by chaotic power.

Cang Xuan's sword hummed in its sheath, his sword intent flowing within him, ready to strike at any moment. He knew his sword intent was useless here—any law in the Sea of Laws surpassed his sword intent; unleashing it couldn't even raise a ripple. Yet he readied himself, for if Wang Ping could not hold on, he would stake his life to buy time. A swordsman need not win, but he must draw his sword.

Yu Liuli cradled her ancient guqin, its strings trembling faintly. She did not play—playing here would be meaningless, the notes drowned by the Sea of Laws' roar. Yet she lightly plucked the strings, producing no sound, only vibration. Those vibrations resonated with the surrounding laws, letting her sense their fluctuations. As a Heart‑of‑the‑Qin enlightened one, her perception far exceeded ordinary people's; in this place of lawful chaos, her awareness was even sharper than Wang Ping's Chaos Divine Sense.

She transmitted the information she perceived through the guqin's vibrations to Wang Ping—not language, for words were too slow here. It was the resonance of the Qin Heart, the soul's vibration. Wang Ping could feel her perception as naturally as feeling his own fingers.

You Ying walked at the rear.

Her Void Law was suppressed here to the extreme—not an action of "being suppressed" but the fact that it "did not exist." In the Sea of Laws there is no place for Void Law, because here it has been concretized. It is no longer an illusory rule, but those massive vortices, those abysses that devour everything.

You Ying, deprived of usable Void Law, was like a bird with broken wings. She could not fly, could not shuttle, could not hide. She could only walk, step by step, like an ordinary mortal.

But her eyes were glowing.

This was not spiritual light, not the glow of a spell—it was the light of her bloodline. As a descendant of the Myriad Phenomena Stargazer, her blood carried the most primal perception of laws. This perception needs no support from laws, no drive from spiritual power; it is like a heartbeat, an instinct etched into her bones.

She saw.

The lawful gaps that Wang Ping's Chaos Divine Sense could not perceive, she could see. Not "sensed," but "seen." Those gaps in the Sea of Laws resembled transparent ribbons, winding between the violent laws. They were narrow and fragile, liable to be swallowed by the surrounding laws at any moment—but they existed. At the border of fire and ice, in the crevice between space and time, in the gap between thunder and all things—they existed.

"Three steps to the left, there is a gap." Her voice was soft yet perfectly clear.

Wang Ping turned left and took three steps. Sure enough, the lawful fluctuations there had weakened considerably. The violent laws lingered at the edge of the Chaos Domain for a moment, then, as if losing their target, slowly dispersed.

"Five steps ahead, there is a wider gap."

Wang Ping stepped forward five paces. There the lawful fluctuations were nearly nil, like the eerie calm in the eye of a storm. He could sense that within a radius of a hundred zhang, fire surged, ice peaks collapsed, lightning struck—but here, nothing existed. Only silence. A silence deeper than the Return to the Void.

"Seven steps ahead to the right, be careful—there is a vortex of spatial law there."

Wang Ping halted his steps.

Chaos Divine Sense stretched fully toward the front‑right. He sensed it—a minuscule vortex, only fist‑sized. Yet in the Sea of Laws, a fist‑sized vortex was already deadly. It rotated slowly; each turn devoured all surrounding laws. Fire surges were sucked in and vanished silently; ice fragments were drawn in without a sound. Even light reaching its edge would bend, twist, and then disappear.

Its suction was terrifying—not a physical pull, for the Sea of Laws has no air, no matter, nothing that could be "sucked." It is a law‑level suction. It devours not matter but "existence." Any law it touches is assimilated, digested, absorbed, becoming part of it.

Had he not stopped just then, he would have stepped into that vortex with one foot. Then his whole self would be devoured—not death, which at least leaves a corpse, but "dissolution," his very existence erased, as if he had never existed.

"Thank you." Wang Ping said softly.

You Ying gave a faint smile. Though pale, amid the dazzling radiance of the Sea of Laws it appeared especially warm.

"No thanks needed. You clear the way, I watch the path. We cooperate."

Wang Ping nodded and continued forward.

Two hours passed.

In the Sea of Laws, two hours felt like two years. Every step required utmost caution; each footfall needed repeated probing. Wang Ping's Chaos Divine Sense remained at peak intensity, his brain rapidly processing massive amounts of data—the fluctuation frequency of fire laws, the motion trajectories of ice laws, the burst cycles of thunder laws, the positions of spatial vortices, the density of temporal mist. All this information wove together into an extraordinarily complex dynamic map.

And he had to find a passable route within that map.

It was like dancing on a blade's tip, walking through a minefield, strolling along a cliff edge. No—harder than that. Dancing on a blade's tip at least the blade is still; walking a minefield at least the mines don't move themselves; strolling a cliff edge at least the cliff doesn't suddenly turn flat then back again. But in the Sea of Laws, everything changes.

Fire surges roared, ice peaks collapsed, lightning struck, spatial vortices spread, temporal mist drifted. Every law was in motion, changing, trying to devour any intruder. One breath a path might be safe; the next it could become a dead end. One breath the sea might be calm; the next it could raise hundred‑zhang waves.

Beads of fine sweat appeared on Wang Ping's forehead.

His Chaos Immortal Essence was being consumed frenziedly. Maintaining the domain's expansion had already drained half his strength, and seeking the path was overtaxing his divine sense. In his sea of consciousness, his Chaos Primordial Spirit spun at high speed, each thought having to process vast amounts of information. This drain was horrifying—if fighting a devouring beast were weightlifting, then crossing the Sea of Laws would be weightlifting while playing chess, singing, doing accounts, and memorizing a ten‑thousand‑word tome.

But he could not stop.

For if he halted, those laws would erupt again. Now they are merely held in check by the Chaos Domain, but that restraint is dynamic, requiring constant upkeep. The moment he stops his steps, the moment his Chaos Immortal Essence ceases output, those laws will rebound like a beast held down by a spring, and then everyone will die.

He kept walking.

One step, two steps, three steps.

Ten steps, twenty steps, thirty steps.

With each step he paused, using his Chaos Divine Sense to carefully probe the road ahead. You Ying's perception gave him a general direction—where gaps lay, where danger lurked, where passage was possible. But he needed to verify it himself, to confirm, to turn those perceptions into an actual path.

Cang Xuan followed behind him, each step landing exactly where he had stepped. His face remained calm, but his grip on the sword hilt whitened his knuckles. Not fear—Cang Xuan does not fear. It was tension, the particular tension a swordsman feels when facing a formidable foe. The Sea of Laws was that foe, one he could not defeat with his sword. All he could do was wait, trust, and entrust his life to the one leading the way.

For Cang Xuan, this was harder than death.

But he endured. Because he is a swordsman. A swordsman is not a brute who only knows how to draw his blade; a swordsman knows when to draw and when to sheathe. Now is the time to sheathe.

Yu Liuli's fingers slid lightly over the strings; the resonance of the Qin Heart let her sense the lawful fluctuations within a hundred‑zhang radius. In her perception those fluctuations resembled an immensely complex symphony—fire as brass, ice as woodwinds, thunder as percussion, space as strings, time as harp. Each instrument played its own melody, intertwining into a noisy, chaotic, dizzying whole.

Yet she had to draw from that chaotic symphony the hidden melody—the safe path.

Beads of sweat also appeared on her forehead, tracing down her cheeks to drip onto the guqin. The strings trembled faintly, emitting an extremely low hum, as if responding to her effort.

You Ying walked at the rear, her eyes ever fixed on the lawful gaps. Those gaps in the Sea of Laws were like swimming snakes, constantly shifting, changing, vanishing, reappearing. Her task was to find the next one before they disappeared, then the next, and the next.

Her eyes were sore and dry, blood vessels spreading across them. Yet she dared not blink, for each blink might cause her to miss a gap. Missing a gap could mean a misstep; a misstep could mean eternal doom.

Four people, four lives, bound by a single thread.

After walking roughly three thousand zhang, Wang Ping suddenly felt a wave of intense vertigo.

Not fatigue—fatigue he could endure. This was a deeper, essential vertigo—the work of temporal law.

He lowered his gaze to his feet and discovered he was standing on a puff of gray‑white mist. The mist was faint, almost invisible, yet it truly existed. It was the corporeal form of temporal law—temporal mist.

The moment he stepped on it, time began to behave abnormally.

His heart raced then slowed, his breathing gasped then eased, his thoughts flickered like lightning then crawled like a snail. He even felt his life force accelerating—hair turning white, skin loosening, bones growing brittle. Yet simultaneously he felt himself growing younger—his body shrinking, memories fading, consciousness blurring.

Temporal law simultaneously aged and rejuvenated him—an utterly contradictory, agonizing experience. His body told him he had lived ten thousand years and was near death; his soul told him he had just been born and knew nothing. The two sensations coexisted, clashing, tearing at each other.

Wang Ping clenched his teeth, chaotic power surging at full throttle to dispel that mass of temporal mist from beneath his feet. The mist lingered unwillingly, circling him a few times before drifting away like a snake that had found no prey.

"All right?" Cang Xuan's voice came from behind.

"I'm fine." Wang Ping's voice was hoarse, but he had steadied himself. "Keep going."

What he did not know was that this was only the beginning.

They walked another two hours.

Wang Ping suddenly halted his steps.

This time it was not due to vertigo, nor fatigue, but because he saw something ahead.

There, the Sea of Laws had changed.

Although the previous Sea of Laws was violent, at least it still followed some pattern. The flame waves had cycles of rise and fall, the ice peaks had rhythms of collapse, the lightning had bursts with gaps, the spatial vortices had trajectories of movement, and the temporal mist had changes in density. As long as you were careful and patient, you could always find the pattern within, and then use those patterns to find a safe path.

But ahead is different.

There, the laws are ten times stronger, ten times denser, and ten times more chaotic than before.

The flame law is no longer waves but a sea of fire that blocks the sky and covers the earth. The entire void is burning, with no gaps, no empty spaces, no chance to breathe. Fire is alive, conscious, and hunting. It will track your breath, cut off your retreat, and lunge at you from all directions at once.

The ice law is no longer peaks but an endless ice plain. Not just one or two peaks, but an ice plain as vast as a continent. It covers everything, covering the void, the darkness, the fire—no, the fire is not covered; the fire burns on the ice plain. Ice and fire coexist, something impossible outside, but in the core of the Sea of Laws, anything is possible.

The lightning law is no longer lightning but a thunderstorm that blankets heaven and earth. Each bolt is as thick as a water bucket, each thunderclap can shatter souls. They are not occasional strikes of one or two—they are continuous, unceasing, like someone has opened a faucet in the sky that can never be closed, and what flows out is not water but lightning.

The spatial law is no longer vortices but an abyss that devours everything. Those vortices have become enormous, with diameters of a hundred, a thousand, ten thousand zhang. They slowly spin, swallowing everything around them—flame, ice, lightning, time, light, sound, existence. Nothing can escape them.

The temporal law is no longer mist but time amber that solidifies everything. That mist has become thick as glue; once it sticks, you are eternally frozen at that moment. Not death, not sleep, but true 'forever'. Your consciousness remains, your perception remains, but you cannot move, think, or do anything. You can only stay forever in that instant, watching time flow around you while you yourself never move.

"Ahead is the core of the Sea of Laws."

Yin Ying's voice was soft, yet carried a tremor—a genuine tremor, not from fatigue or exhaustion, but from fear. As a descendant of the Myriad Phenomena Stargazers, her bloodline flows with the most primal perception of laws, so she knows better than anyone how terrifying what lies ahead is.

"Passing through there will let us reach the fragment of the Immortal Realm." She paused, as if hesitating whether to continue. "But the power of the laws there is ten times stronger than the outskirts. Your Chaos Domain——"

She did not continue.

But everyone knew what she wanted to say.

Wang Ping's Chaos Domain was barely holding up in the outskirts; each step consumed most of his mental energy, and every two hours he had to pause to rest and replenish his spent immortal essence. In the core, where the law's power is tenfold, his Chaos Domain——could not hold.

Wang Ping fell silent for a moment.

He gazed ahead at that violent, nearly mad Sea of Laws, his eyes calm. Not feigned composure, but genuine calm, because before arriving here he had already considered this possibility. The core of the Sea of Laws could not be the same as the outskirts; if he couldn't even think of that, he wouldn't be Wang Ping.

"Brother Cang." He spoke.

"Here." Cang Xuan's voice was deep, as if he had already guessed what he would say.

"If I can't hold on, take Jade Immortal Maiden and Yin Ying and retreat."

Cang Xuan frowned, his brows knotting into a deep three‑line shape.

"And you?"

Wang Ping did not answer.

He simply stared ahead at the violent Sea of Laws, his gaze resolute. That resolve was not the ignorant fearlessness of a newborn calf unafraid of tigers, but the determination of one who has crossed thousands of mountains and rivers, endured countless life-and-death trials, seen the dead end ahead, and still chose to go on.

"I will not retreat." His voice was soft, yet each word sounded carved into stone. "The fragment of the Immortal Realm lies ahead, the Lord of Order is about to awaken, and the Spirit Realm still waits for our return. I cannot retreat."

He paused, drew a deep breath—although there is no air here.

"Nor will I retreat."

The last three words were spoken slowly and heavily.

Cang Xuan looked at him, silent for a long time.

Then he laughed. Not a bitter laugh, not a helpless laugh, but a genuine, heartfelt laugh. That smile carried something—respect. A swordsman's respect for another cultivator. Not because of Wang Ping's high cultivation, not because his Dao is strong, but because his bones are hard.

"Good." Cang Xuan said only one word, yet it contained a thousand words.

Wang Ping drew a deep breath and closed his eyes.

Chaos power, operating at full capacity.

In his dantian, the chaos-colored golden core spun wildly, releasing vast amounts of chaos immortal essence. Those essences flowed through his meridians to his whole body; each meridian bore immense pressure—as if a pipe were suddenly pumped with ten times its water, the walls expanding, trembling, emitting a faint hum.

His face turned flushed, then pale, then flushed again. This is the manifestation of chaos immortal essence running rampant inside him—not loss of control, but him forcibly pushing the output of chaos power to its limit. Normally he uses only seventy percent of his strength, keeping thirty percent in reserve, but now he must exert a hundred and twenty percent.