Chapter 403: Time Reverse

The Sea of Laws dissipated.

Those once-roaring flame waves, those once-collapsing icy peaks, those once-splitting lightning bolts, those once-spreading spatial vortices, those once-drifting time mists—at this moment they all turned into countless specks of light. They were no longer ferocious, no longer violent, no longer trying to devour every intruder. They merely floated silently in the void, like a night sky after rain, each raindrop turned into a star.

The light specks were very light, weightless. They drifted slowly in the void; occasionally two or three would collide, emitting an extremely faint sound—not a collision sound, but the resonance of laws. When the fervent heat of flame met the biting chill of ice, they produced a low hum, like a distant bell. When the ferocity of thunder met the profundity of space, they emitted a sharp hiss, like an eagle's cry across the sky. When the longevity of time met the brevity of all things, they let out a long sigh, like an old man reminiscing about youth.

The entire void was illuminated by this light—not a glaring, overbearing brightness, but a gentle, inclusive radiance. Like the first ray of dawn piercing the night's curtain, like the lingering glow of a deep autumn sunset on a calm lake, like the small night-light a mother lights beside a baby's crib—not bright, but warm enough.

Wang Ping stood at the center of the void.

His surroundings swirled with chaotic light—not emitted from within him, but he himself was that light. Having reached this stage of the Chaotic Dao, he no longer 'emitted' light; he was light. His skin, his hair, his eyes, his breath all carried the aura of chaos. Standing there, he was like a mountain on the earth, a river lying in its bed, a tree rooted in soil—he was not 'here'; he was part of this place.

His chaotic domain covered the ruins of the Sea of Laws. Within a million zhang, all laws were under his control. Those terrifying forces that once made his steps difficult—those that required him to expend all his focus to block for an instant—now behaved like tame pets, circling around him.

The flame law burned quietly beside his left hand, like a weary bird returning to its nest. The ice law condensed slowly beside his right hand, like a bud about to bloom. The thunder law flickered silently above his head, like a string of wind chimes waiting to be plucked.

The spatial law rippled gently beneath his feet, like a calm lake surface. The time law flowed slowly behind him, like a steady river.

He did not conquer them. Conquest is the posture of the strong, the declaration of the victor. He did not. He understood them.

Just as understanding a person means you won't fight them anymore—you know why they are angry, why they are sad, why they are desperate. You know their anger is not directed at you, but because they are in pain.

You know their sorrow is not from weakness, but from love. You know their despair is not from giving up, but from being utterly exhausted.

When you truly understand a person, you no longer fight them—you reach out, gently pat their shoulder, and say, 'I understand. You've worked hard.'

Sea of Laws, you've worked hard.

For hundreds of millions of years, you have roared here, struggled here, guarded the entrance to the Return to Ruins. How many intruders have you devoured? How many beings that coveted fragments of the immortal realm have you worn down? You no longer remember. You simply remain here, day after day, year after year, hundred million years after hundred million years. No one speaks to you, no one knows of your existence, no one thanks you for your guardianship. You merely exist here, lonely, silent, obstinate.

Now, you may rest.

Cang Xuan walked to his side.

The swordsman's steps were light, yet in the void each step sent out a faint ripple. Those ripples spread outward, meeting the surrounding light specks and stirring a delicate resonance. Cang Xuan's stern face rarely showed a hint of smile—not a polite, social smile, but a genuine one from the heart. It was the smile a swordsman shows upon seeing a worthy opponent defeated—not schadenfreude, but respect. Respect for the opponent, for the battle, for the Dao itself.

"You've grown stronger again." He said. Three words, no embellishment. A swordsman never needs ornamentation in speech.

Wang Ping shook his head.

"Just comprehended." His voice was light, carrying the calm after weathering a storm—like a sailor who had drifted at sea for three days and three nights finally sighting land: not excited, not agitated, but calm, a deep, weighty calm seeping from his bones. For he knew land still lay far ahead; he must keep rowing. But at least he had seen it.

He gazed into the distance.

There, the outline of the immortal realm fragments was clearly visible. A stretch of land spanning millions of li floated in the void, like a slumbering ancient beast. Its edges were jagged, broken surfaces sharp as knives, revealing the strata and soil within. Occasionally on those strata one could see ancient runes flickering—not activated flickers, but an instinctive, uncontrolled blinking like a heartbeat. Those runes had been flickering here for who knows how many hundreds of thousands of years; they had forgotten why they flickered, merely out of habit. Habit is a terrifying thing—it can make a person spend a lifetime on meaningless pursuits.

On the land, the ruined immortal palaces resembled rows of fallen giants. Their bases remained, a hundred-zhang high base showing former grandeur. The pillars remained, pillars thick enough for ten people to encircle, lying haphazardly on the ground—some broken into sections, others barely supporting a fragment of wall.

The roofs had long collapsed, tiles scattered across the ground, covered layer upon layer by the dust of ages. Some tiles still bore faint patterns—cranes, auspicious clouds, peaches of immortality, lingzhi—once the totems of the immortal realm, now only indistinct outlines remain, like characters soaked in water.

The collapsed temple was even more magnificent than the palaces, yet also more desolate. Its base stood a thousand zhang high, from afar resembling a mountain whose peak had been leveled. Carved upon its pillars were ancient totems—not dragons, not phoenixes, not any living being. They were totems of the Dao.

A curved line represents a law, a dot a node, a straight line a connection. The entire temple is a vast diagram of the Dao, the understanding and record of heavenly and earthly laws by the ancient immortals.

Now the diagram is shattered. Pillars lie on the ground, the totems worn indistinct by time. Some totems can still be barely recognized—a curve of fire law, a node of space law—but most have become illegible, leaving only shallow and deep scratches, like wrinkles on an old man's face, speaking a language no one can understand.

The withered immortal trees resembled countless hands reaching toward the sky. Their trunks were as thick as ten people could encircle; the bark had completely peeled off, revealing grayish-white wood.

That wood was extremely hard—harder than ordinary iron—but now it was cracked, fissures running from root to treetop like dry, chapped lips yearning for something. The roots had been upturned from the soil, twisted, entwined, knotted like countless dead snakes, still preserving their living posture.

The dried immortal spring left only a ring of white mineral residue—what remained after the immortal water evaporated. The ground around the spring eye was cracked into countless pieces, each as dry as fired pottery shards. If you crouch and touch those fissures with your hand, you can feel a hint of coolness—the last trace of the spring, the final evidence of its existence.

In ten thousand years, even this hint of coolness will vanish. In a hundred thousand years, the spring eye itself will weather into a flat plain. In a million years, no one will know that there once was an immortal spring here, that it once gushed sweet immortal water, that it once nourished the lands of the immortal realm.

The air was filled with an ancient, vast aura.

That was the aura of immortals—not spiritual qi, which is the energy of heaven and earth, the foundation of cultivators, something findable anywhere. The immortal aura is different. It is the lingering echo of the Dao, the reverberation of laws, the trace left by beings beyond the Divine Transformation stage. It is like a vat of wine aged for ten thousand years—you need not drink it; a single sniff conveys its richness, depth, and the weight of time's sedimentation.

Wang Ping drew a deep breath. That aura entered his lungs, carrying a faint fragrance—the last trace of scent left by the withered immortal tree, mixed with the final drop of sweetness from the dried immortal spring. The aroma was so faint it was almost imperceptible, yet it truly existed.

Like a person who has walked three days and three nights in the desert, lips cracked, throat smoking, then you hand him a cup of water—not iced, not with lemon, just plain cool water. That sip would seem the most delicious thing in the world.

Because you need it. After wandering so long in the Return to Ruins, struggling so long in the Sea of Laws, lingering so long on the edge of life and death—you need this sip of immortal aura. It tells you, you have arrived. Your coming was not in vain.

He did not rush forward.

Because he felt it—the Sea of Laws may have dissipated, but its 'root' remained. That root was planted in the void, in the long river of time, in the Dao-heart of every sea-crosser. The Sea of Laws was not destroyed; it was 'understood.' But understanding a person does not mean you can bear their past for them. The past of the Sea of Laws is a long, painful history—hundreds of millions of years of loneliness, hundreds of millions of years of struggle, hundreds of millions of years of waiting. That history will not disappear because of your understanding; it merely shifts from an 'external threat' to an 'internal trial.'

"There is still a road ahead." His voice was light yet carried a hint of gravity. "A road more dangerous than the Sea of Laws."

He did not explain why it was more dangerous, because some things need no explanation. However violent the Sea of Laws, it is 'external'—you can block it with a domain, resist it with immortal essence, envelop it with chaotic power. But the road ahead is 'internal.' It does not attack your flesh, your primordial spirit, or your domain—it attacks your Dao-heart. Your fear, regret, unwillingness, weakness—all the things you thought you had forgotten are actually there, deep in the Dao-heart like seeds waiting to sprout.

Yu Liuli held her guqin, three strings broken, the body bearing several fine cracks—marks left from forcibly playing in the Sea of Laws. Her fingers were wrapped in cloth strips stained with faint blood. Yet her eyes were bright. That brightness was not spiritual light, not the glow of techniques, but a deeper light—the kind that appears after despair when one finds hope again. Like someone who has walked a long, long time in a dark tunnel and then sees a glimmer of light at the far end—though small and distant, it is there.

"No matter how dangerous, we must go on." Her voice was calm, without fervor or heated passion, simply stating a fact—like someone saying "Tomorrow the sun will rise," needing no argument, no encouragement, no embellishment. Because it is a fact.

Ying Ying nodded. Her eyes were still somewhat swollen—aftereffects of overusing her eyes in the Sea of Laws. The perception through the gaps of laws had nearly drained her bloodline power; now her vision was still a bit blurry, as if seen through a thin veil of water mist. Yet she saw clearly—the immortal realm fragments lay ahead. Not seen with eyes, but perceived with the heart. As a descendant of the Myriad Phenomena Stargazers, even if blind, she would not lose direction. For her sense of direction lies not in the eyes, but in the heart.

"The immortal realm fragments are right before us; we cannot turn back." She said. Her voice had a hint of hoarseness but was firm. Those of the Void lineage never know what it means to turn back. In the void there is no path back—once you step forward, the road behind vanishes. All you can do is go forward, forward, and forward again—until you reach the endpoint, or die on the way.

Cang Xuan said nothing. He merely tightened his grip on the sword hilt. His sword intent's origin had nearly been worn away in the Sea of Laws; now it was slowly recovering, like a dry creek meeting spring meltwater. The cracks on the blade remained, the scratches on the scabbard remained, the bloodstains on the hilt remained. But sword intent—sword intent was reviving. Not infused from outside, but growing from within. Like a tree burned to ash, you think it dead, yet the next spring a tender shoot sprouts from the ashes. That is not rebirth—it is that it never died. Its roots remain, embedded in the earth, in the rock, in the memory of everyone who has seen it.

Wang Ping looked at them and gave a faint smile.

That smile was faint, yet in the darkness of the Return to Ruins it shone especially bright—not a victor's smile, for they had not yet won; not a strong one, for before the Return to Ruins no one dares call themselves strong. It was the smile of fellow travelers. The one leading the way glances back at those behind, sees they are still there, sees they have not fallen behind, sees they have not given up—and so he smiles. Not because the road has become easy, but because—someone walks alongside.

"Good. Then let us continue onward."

He turned and stepped forward.

Behind him, the three followed closely.

The light specks drifted beside them like countless fireflies, lighting the way ahead. Red specks of flame law led the front, like little lanterns. Blue specks of ice law guarded the flanks, like a silent squad. Purple specks of thunder law flickered overhead, like strings of wind chimes. Transparent specks of spatial law spread beneath their feet, like a glowing path. Gray specks of time law drifted slowly behind them, like a forgotten memory fading away.

Behind them, the ruins of the Sea of Laws gradually receded. Those light specks grew smaller and dimmer, finally becoming a distant, hazy glow—like the lights of a city fading into the distance.

Ahead, the immortal realm fragments drew nearer. Their outline grew clearer, details multiplied. You could see the carvings on the palace walls—those carvings more concrete than the temple's totems, true works of art: immortals riding clouds, dragons and phoenixes presenting auspiciousness, a hundred birds facing the phoenix, a gathering of immortals celebrating longevity. Yet most of those carvings were damaged—immortals' faces eroded beyond recognition, dragon and phoenix scales and feathers mostly fallen, birds' wings broken, the immortals' silhouettes blurred. They had once been breathtakingly beautiful, enough to take one's breath away. Now they were merely traces on the ruins, like scars on an old man's body, telling of a past he would rather not recall.

But they did not know that the deepest part of the Sea of Laws still concealed a final trial.

That trial is not external, but internal; not in the laws, but in time; not in the enemy's attacks, but in one's own Dao-heart.

It is an existence more strange and terrifying than any law—the Reverse Flow of Time.

They had walked about an hour.

Wang Ping suddenly stopped. His motion was abrupt, as if walking along and then bumping into an invisible wall. His body leaned slightly forward, as if still wanting to go forward, but something held him back. His brows furrowed—not from pain, but from confusion—a bewilderment when facing something incomprehensible.

He felt it.

The surrounding void changed.

It wasn't a change in law—the Sea of Laws had already dissipated, those points of light were still there, but their flow was normal, from dense to sparse, from near to far, from existence to nothing. It wasn't a fluctuation of spiritual qi—in the Return to the Void there is no spiritual qi, the immortal qi on the Immortal Realm Fragments is still far away, far beyond perception. Rather, it was a more fundamental existence. Something you usually can't feel, but when it changes, you feel that the whole world is off.

Time.

It is flowing backward.

"What's wrong?" Cang Xuan's voice came from behind. His voice had a hint of tension—not fear, but alertness. A swordsman's alertness when facing the unknown. His sword intent had not fully recovered, but his instinct remained. His instinct told him that something was off.

Wang Ping did not answer. He raised his hand and lightly waved. A strand of chaotic light flew out from his palm, drifting forward. That light was faint and light, like a feather blown up by the wind. It drifted forward, drifting farther and farther, growing fainter and fainter. Then——

It began to drift back.

It wasn't blown back by wind—the Return to the Void has no wind. It wasn't blocked by something—there was nothing ahead, only void. It simply—began to drift back on its own. Like an unseen projectionist rewinding a film. That light retreated along its original path, point by point. The trajectory it passed left a faint trace of light in the void—that trace started from Wang Ping's palm, extended forward about a hundred zhang, then turned back, returned to the origin, and then continued backward, drifting behind Wang Ping. It would not stop. It would keep drifting back, all the way to the moment it was born, to the moment the chaotic power surged from Wang Ping's palm, to the moment before time began to flow backward.

Like a reversed image, like a river flowing upstream, like an old man walking out of a grave and back into a cradle.

"This is..." You Ying's voice changed. That change was very subtle—not fear, which would make one scream. Not surprise, which would make one silent. But a deeper thing, a tremor that occurs when cognition is overturned. Like you've lived a lifetime thinking the sky is blue, the grass is green, water flows downhill—then one day you personally see the sky turn red, the grass turn purple, water flow from low to high. Your worldview won't collapse—collapse takes time. Your worldview will, in that instant, "click" split open a crack, and then you stand there, looking at that crack, not knowing what to use to patch it.

"Time reverse flow!"

Her voice echoed in the void, like a stone thrown into a calm lake, stirring up circle after circle of ripples. Those ripples spread outward, meeting the surrounding points of light, triggering a fine resonance. Those points of light seemed to sense something—they began to feel uneasy, began to speed up their drift, began to collide disorderly. The red of fire struck the blue of ice, emitting a sharp hiss. The purple of thunder struck the transparency of space, exploding into a silent firework. The gray of time moved between them, like a startled snake.

Yu Liuli's voice trembled: "Time…… reverse flow?"

She repeated those four words, as if confirming she hadn't misheard. Time reverse flow—these four words are a legend, a myth, a concept only mentioned in passing in ancient texts within the Immortal Cultivation World. The Time Law itself is the most mysterious, profound, and hardest to grasp of all laws. Cultivators who practice the Time Law are one in ten thousand. Those who can accelerate time are already as rare as phoenix feathers and unicorn horns. Those who can slow time are even more legendary among legends. Those who can stop time——in the history of the Immortal Cultivation World, only three people have ever done so, and those three all went mad afterward. Because at the moment time stops, what you see is something the human mind cannot bear.

As for time reverse flow——

That is something only the Dao itself can do.

Yin Ying nodded, her voice heavy as lead. "In the deepest part of the Sea of Laws, the flow of time is opposite." She paused, as if recalling the contents of an ancient text. The ancient texts of the Myriad Phenomena Stargazers—she had read them since childhood, flipping through each page countless times. But some contents, when you read them, you don't pay attention, because you think you'll never need them in this lifetime. Then one day, you find yourself standing in the scene described by those words, and you realize—those words are too pale, they cannot possibly describe what you feel now.

Here, time does not flow forward; it flows backward. For every step we take forward, time rewinds one step. It is not "our" time that is rewinding—it is the time of the "world" around us that is rewinding. Our memories, our cultivation, our bodies are not directly affected. But the world is. The places we have walked will be erased by time. The traces we leave will be wiped out by time. The things we have experienced will be rewritten by time.

She paused, as if organizing her words. Then she spoke the most crucial sentence—

"By the time we reach the fragment of the Immortal Realm, time may have already rewound to before our birth."

Silence.

That silence was not the silence of having nothing to say, but— the silence of not knowing what to say. When a piece of news is too great, too heavy, too unbearable to accept, a person's first reaction is not to refute, not to question, not to fear—but to fall silent. Because your brain needs time to process this news. It is too large, too large for your thoughts to contain. Too heavy, too heavy for your cognition to bear. Too unbearable to accept, accepting it means you must re-examine your entire life of the past decades, centuries, even millennia.

Cang Xuan was the first to speak. A swordsman's reaction is always the quickest, not because their brains turn fast, but because they are accustomed to making decisions in the shortest time. In battle, hesitation for a breath means death. This habit is etched into his bones, deeper than sword intent, longer than the sword way.

"What do we do? Go around it?"

His voice was calm, but his brow was furrowed. Not fear—Cang Xuan does not fear. It was thought. He was pondering what a swordsman could do when faced with a problem that cannot be solved by the sword. His sword intent was still recovering, his blade still bore cracks, his sheath still bore bloodstains. But he had no time to wait for them to fully heal. Time—was flowing backward.

Yin Ying shook her head.

"It cannot be bypassed." Her voice carried a hint of bitterness—not the bitterness of despair, but the bitterness of "I already knew it would be this." In the ancient texts of the Myriad Phenomena Stargazers, records of the Return to the Void are scarce, but each passage is detailed. She knows the existence of the time reversal, knows its scope, knows its law—knows it cannot be circumvented. "The time reversal covers the entire region. It is not a circular area, but a spherical domain—up, down, left, right, forward, backward, in all directions. To reach the fragment of the Immortal Realm, we must pass through here. There is no second road."

The four of them fell silent.

That silence was different from before. Before, the silence was "not knowing what to say"; now the silence is "knowing what to say but unable to speak it out."

Walking forward causes time to rewind. They might rewind to before their birth, to a time when they did not exist. This is not death—death at least leaves a corpse, a tombstone, a name remembered by people. Rewinding time to before birth means "never having existed." No corpse, no tombstone, no name. No one remembers you, because you never appeared. Your mother never carried you, your father never met your mother, your ancestors, several generations back, failed to produce descendants due to some tiny change. Your sect has no place for you, your sword path bears no trace of you, your music contains none of your rhythm. You are like a drop of water falling into the sea—not merging into the sea, but as if that drop of water never existed.

If we do not go, the fragment of the Immortal Realm lies before our eyes. The Lord of Order is about to awaken. The Spirit Realm is about to collapse.

To go, or not to go?

Wang Ping fell silent for a moment.

That moment was brief—only the time of three breaths. But in the Return to the Void, within the time reversal, three breaths are already enough to cause time to rewind considerably. He could feel that the surrounding points of light had drifted backward a distance. The red points of light of the fire law were now a little farther from him. The blue points of light of the ice law had grown dimmer. The purple points of light of the thunder law had become sparser.

He spoke.

"Go."

A single word. Light and faint, like saying "The weather is nice today." But his foot had already stepped forward.

It was not because he was unafraid. He was afraid. He feared rewinding to before birth, feared never having existed, feared the Spirit Realm's collapse, feared watching everyone die before him. But he feared more—standing here, doing nothing.

Behind him, the three followed closely.

At the moment Cang Xuan took a step, his hand rested on the sword hilt. Not because he wanted to fight—there were no enemies to fight here. It was because—this was his habit. Gripping the sword when afraid, when hesitant, when unsure what to do. The sword was his anchor, his root, his Dao. As long as his hand stayed on the hilt, he knew who he was.

At the moment Yu Liuli took a step, her fingertips lightly touched the broken string. The broken string trembled faintly under her fingertips, emitting an extremely low hum. That hum was not sound—sound cannot propagate in the Return to the Void. It was vibration. The vibration of the zither's heart, the vibration of the Dao, the vibration of life. She was telling the ancient zither: Don't be afraid. I am still here. You are still here.

At the moment Yin Ying took a step, she reached out and grasped Wang Ping's hand. Her hand remained cold—cultivators of the Void Lineage always have a lower body temperature than ordinary people. But she held it tightly, as if confirming—he still existed. Time was rewinding, the world being rewritten, everything being erased—but he was still there. She could feel his body temperature, his pulse, his presence. That was enough.

Time began to flow backward.

First step.

They felt it.

That feeling was strange. Not dizziness—dizziness is a problem of the inner ear's balance system, a bodily sensation. This is a deeper, more essential feeling. It is like someone turning a page of a book while you stand on the page. He turns past a page, and you jump from this page to the previous one. But your memory remains—you still remember the content of the next page, yet that next page no longer exists.

The surrounding scenery began to change.

Those points of light no longer drifted forward; they drifted backward. They came from afar, gathered around them, then continued drifting backward. Like a school of fish swimming upstream in a river that flows backward, they struggled forward. But they were not "struggling"—they moved easily, because this is their nature. In the time reversal, drifting backward is normal; drifting forward is the anomaly.

Wang Ping saw a red point of light sweep past him, drifting backward. He recognized that point—it was a fragment of the fire law, the kind he had absorbed in the Sea of Laws. He remembered it—it had been drifting in the outer reaches of the Sea of Laws, far from the core, even farther from the Immortal Realm fragment. But now it drifted backward, toward the Sea of Laws. It would return to the Sea of Laws, to the place where it was born, back to when it was still a "flame wave." Then it would continue backward, to when it was "a wisp of flame." Then further back, to when it was "a thread of law seed." Then further back—until it became nothingness. A nothingness that never existed.

Second step.

They saw—

The distant fragment of the Immortal Realm began to "retreat."

It was not movement—a stretch of land millions of miles long cannot shift silently. It was time rewinding. It grew farther and smaller. The shattered immortal palaces rose again from the ruins—collapsed columns flew up from the ground and reattached to their original places. Broken tiles rose from the dust and reassembled into roofs. Weathered carvings became clear once more; the immortals' faces regained their features; the scales of dragons and phoenixes regained their luster. Then those palaces continued to retreat, back to before they had collapsed, back to when they were still intact, back to when they were still inhabited. You could see vague figures moving within the palaces—immortals in ancient robes strolling the corridors, debating the Dao in the halls, drinking wine in the gardens. Their faces were indistinct, but their bearing was elegant—an elegance innate to immortals, etched into their bones, something mortal etiquette can never imitate.

Then those figures also blurred, faded, and vanished. The palaces continued to retreat, back to when they had just been built, back to when they were still a blueprint, back to when they were merely a stone, a piece of wood, a pile of earth. Then— they disappeared. Even the stone was gone. Those stones had existed for hundreds of millions of years, but time had rewound to before hundreds of millions of years ago. The stone had not yet been born. The earth had not yet formed. The void had not yet appeared. Nothing remained.

Third step, fourth step, fifth step—

The surrounding scenery grew ever more strange.

They saw the dispersed Sea of Laws recondense. Not "reappear"—time had rewound to before it had dispersed. Points of light converged from all directions, growing more numerous, denser. They collided, merged, reorganized. The red points of the fire law gathered into a thin fire line, which thickened, widened, became a small stream, then a river, then a— sea of fire. A towering sea of fire surged forth from the void.

The blue points of the ice law condensed beside the sea of fire, forming tiny ice crystals that stuck together, becoming a block of ice, which stacked into an ice hill, which rose into an— ice peak. A towering ice peak rose from the ground.

The purple arcs of the thunder law leapt overhead—at first only a few thin strands of electric thread, then growing thicker and denser, colliding and merging, emitting crackling sounds—then becoming a bolt of lightning. One bolt, two bolts, ten bolts, a hundred bolts— a heaven‑covering thunderstorm, splitting down from the sky.

The transparent ripples of the space law spread beneath their feet, circle after circle, growing larger and deeper. The ripples became waves, the waves became vortices. One, two, ten, a hundred— an all‑consuming abyss, spreading from all directions.

The grayish‑white mist of the Time Law drifted out of nothingness, at first very thin, so thin it was almost invisible. Then it grew denser and thicker, as if someone had poured a bucket of gray paint into the void. The mist coalesced, becoming chunks of semi‑transparent — amber. Time amber that solidifies everything, floating in the void.

Everything was rewinding. Everything was being replayed.

The path they had walked was being erased by time.

Wang Ping gritted his teeth and continued forward.

He did not know how long he had walked. Here, time had no meaning, because time itself was flowing backward. You could not measure it with 'one incense stick', for that stick was burning backward—smoke gathered from the air, returned to the incense tip, the tip grew longer, the stick became whole again. You could not measure it with 'heartbeat', for your heartbeat became unreliable in the reverse flow of time—sometimes fast as drumbeats, sometimes slow as dripping water, utterly unusable as a reference. You could not measure it with 'thought', for each of your thoughts was being tugged by time—you think 'How long have I walked?', that thought itself was being rewound, rewound back before you even thought of that question.

He could only move forward. Forward again. Forward again.

With each step, time rewound. With each step, the world was being rewritten. With each step, he drew nearer to 'non‑existence'.

He didn't care. Because the Spirit Realm was still waiting for him.

Suddenly, he stopped.

It wasn't fatigue— in the reverse flow of time, the body does not tire, because time is rewinding, and your fatigue is rewound as well. You take a step, time rewinds a step, and your bodily state returns to what it was before that step. This is a strange balance— you expend, time restores. You never tire, yet you never advance.

He stopped, because he saw——

Ahead, there was a person.

That person stood with his back to them in the void. His figure was burly—not the lanky kind of burly, but like a mountain. His shoulders were broad, broad enough to shoulder an entire sky. His back was thick, thick as a city wall. His arms were thick, thick as two beams. His skin was bronzed, and under those points of light it glowed with a warm sheen—the color of sun‑tanned skin, not something cultivated. In the mortal world he must have often labored under the sun—moving mountains, shifting stones, hauling timber. He wore nothing noteworthy on his upper body, bare‑chested, muscles knotted like stone carvings, each muscle seeming hewn from rock.

In his hand he gripped a small stone axe.

The axe head was tiny, toy‑sized compared to his stature. The haft was made of a grayish‑white stone, streaked with light and dark markings— the traces left by long‑term gripping. The blade was of black stone, polished to a shine that reflected a cold light under those points. The craftsmanship was rough—not because the maker lacked skill, but because the material itself was like that. A stone axe could not be as sharp as an iron axe, nor as hard as a steel one. Yet it was plain, heavy, and reliable.

Wang Ping recognized that stone axe.

It was the token of Ban Shan Lao Zu, which he had carved himself and never parted with. Even in battle he never stored it in his spatial bag, saying: 'My old stone's things must be held in hand; put them away and you'll lose them.'

Wang Ping's heart gave a violent thump.

That thump was heavy, as if someone had hammered his chest. At that instant his heart stopped beating—not halted by the reverse flow of time, but stopped by emotion. Then it started again, beating rapidly, fast enough to seem like it might burst from his chest. His breathing grew ragged, his vision blurred, his hand trembled.

"Moving Mountain Senior……"

His voice was hoarse to the point of being almost inaudible, as if someone were rubbing sandpaper on his vocal cords, each word tinged with blood.

That figure slowly turned around.

That face——

Rugged and heroic. Thick brows, big eyes, high brow ridges, deep eye sockets. The nose bridge was straight, the tip a bit large— in the mortal world this is called a 'garlic nose', unattractive but honest. His lips were thick, the corners perpetually tipped with a smile. Not the restrained, subtle smile of an immortal, but a bold, hearty grin like that of a mortal blacksmith shop owner. His chin was covered in dense stubble, bluish‑black, as if he hadn't shaved for three days. His ears were large, the lobes thick— in the mortal world this is a sign of good fortune.

At that moment, that smile remained.

Exactly as he remembered.

"Brothers, you've come."

Ban Shan Lao Zu's voice rang like a great bell echoing in the void. It was loud but not harsh— loud as a temple bell, you know it's resonant but it doesn't hurt. Because it isn't noise; it is— a proclamation. A proclamation of 'I am here.' A proclamation of 'I am still alive.' A proclamation of 'You've come, I'm glad.'

That voice was exactly as he remembered— heroic, warm, carrying a reassuring power. Like a bowl of hot porridge in winter, like an umbrella in the rain, like a lamp in the night. You don't think it's special, but when you lose it you realize— you'll never find another bowl of porridge like that, another umbrella like that, another lamp like that.

Wang Ping's tears welled up instantly.

Not pooling in his sockets— it gushed forth, as if someone had turned on the faucet of his eyes. Tears streamed from the corners of his eyes, down his cheeks, dripping onto his robe. His robe was already soaked with blood, now drenched with tears as well. Blood and tears mingled, indistinguishable which were pain, which were longing.

He wanted to rush over.

He wanted to embrace that figure, to hold him with all his strength, as if embracing a long‑lost kin. He wanted to tell him— how much he had missed him. In every lonely night, in every life‑or‑death battle, in every moment when he needed someone to stand beside him— he had thought of him.

He wanted to tell him— he had taken revenge for him. Those silver rabble, those lackeys of order, those who had killed him— he had slain them all, not a single one spared. He used the Power of Chaos, the Chaos Domain, the Dao of Chaos— he had avenged them.

He wanted to tell him— the Spirit Realm still endured. He had guarded the Spirit Realm, just as he had once guarded them. He had not failed his trust, had not forgotten his sacrifice, had not let his death be in vain.

He wanted to tell him— they were still alive. Cang Xuan was still there, Yu Liuli still there, You Ying still there. Together they had walked the Law Corridor, together they had walked the Returning Ruins, together they had walked the Sea of Laws. They were still there. They were still alive. They were still moving forward.

But he could not take that step.

Because his reason told him— it was false.

Ban Shan Lao Zu was already dead.

Outside the Law Corridor, to blast a path for them, he self‑detonated his Mountain Core. That was his lifebound object, his Dao, his life. He blew it up, blasting open a road. Then his body— that burly, mountain‑like form— turned into countless stones that drifted in the void for a long time, until the darkness of the Returning Ruins swallowed them.

His remains were buried on the lone peak behind the Ninth Dao Academy. No coffin, no tombstone— he needed none. He himself was a mountain; his remains were a mountain. Wang Ping erected a stele for him, chiseled from mountain stone, inscribed with 'Ban Shan Lao Zu's Grave'. Five characters, crooked and uneven, like the scrawl of a child just learning to write. For Wang Ping could not carve characters; he had never carved a stele for anyone, and he thought he would never need to in this lifetime.

That was false.

But——

That voice was so real. It carried his accent—a dialect from some mountain village in the mortal world, one Wang Ping had never heard. When he said 'brother', he would stretch the 'elder' syllable long, like a sigh. When he said 'I' (the colloquial 'an'), he would bite the nasal sound hard, as if a wad of cotton were stuffed in his nostrils. When he said 'Old Stone', he would insert a light pause between the two characters, like 'Old——Stone'.

That smile was so genuine. It bore his wrinkles— when he smiled, three deep lines would appear at the corners of his eyes, like an unfolded fan. The corners of his mouth would pull outward, opening wide to reveal his teeth— his teeth weren't pearly white, some were yellowed, but they were even. His nose would wrinkle slightly, as if he had caught a pleasant scent.