Chapter 404: Time Reverse Flow (2)

His silhouette held his habit—when he stood, his weight was always on his left foot, his right foot slightly tiptoed, as if ready to step forward at any moment. When he held an axe, his thumb pressed the top of the handle, the other four fingers loosely gripping it like holding a pen. When he looked at people, he would lower his head slightly and look up from below—that was the habit of a mortal-world blacksmith shop owner, because his shop's lintel was too low, so he always greeted customers with his head down.

So true. So true that Wang Ping wanted to deceive himself—maybe it really was? Maybe the Mountain-Moving Old Ancestor hadn't died? Maybe after he self-detonated the Mountain Core, a wisp of remnant soul escaped, drifted to the Return to the Void, drifted into the Time Reverse Flow, drifted here? Maybe the Time Reverse Flow brought him back? Maybe—

Maybe.

This is a very dangerous word. It can make a rational person go mad. It can make a clear-headed person become muddled. It can make someone who has walked the edge of life and death countless times willingly jump into the abyss.

Ban Shan Lao Zu looked at Wang Ping, at the tears in his eyes, at the struggle in his eyes, at the—maybe.

He laughed.

That smile was different from memory. In memory, the Mountain-Moving Old Ancestor laughed heartily, boldly, carefree. When he laughed, the whole mountain trembled with him. When he laughed, you felt nothing in the world was insurmountable. When he laughed, you felt even if the sky fell, you wouldn't fear, because there was someone taller, stronger, harder than you, holding it up for you.

But now, his smile was different.

It was light. Thin. Gentle. Like a father watching his son finally grow up—not relief, not pride, but something more complex. It was 'I know you will suffer, but I can't help you anymore' ache. It was 'I know you will be afraid, but you must go through it yourself' helplessness. It was 'I know you will miss me, but you must learn to forget' cruelty.

"Brother, don't cry."

His voice was very soft, soft as wind. But in the dead silence of the Return to the Void, in the strangeness of the Time Reverse Flow, in the torment of the Dao Heart Tribulation—that voice rang clear as a bell. It exploded in Wang Ping's ears, echoed in his mind, and was etched into his heart.

"Old Stone, in this lifetime, the most worthwhile thing was meeting you brothers."

He raised his hand.

That hand was large, the palm thick, the fingers coarse. Thick calluses covered the knuckles—formed over hundreds of years of moving mountains, stones, and timber. His nails were cut short, so short the white part was barely visible. Several scars marked the back of his hand—a knife wound, a burn, a gash from law fragments. Those scars were old, their color lighter than the surrounding skin, like white worms lying on his hand.

That hand lightly patted Wang Ping's shoulder.

Wang Ping felt—

That palm had warmth.

Not the cold, illusory, phantom-world warmth. It was real, warm, the warmth of a living person. That warmth traveled from his shoulder inward, following the meridians down to his heart, where it stopped. Then that warmth became a key, opening a door. Behind that door were all of Ban Shan Lao Zu's memories—what he looked like when he first saw Wang Ping, the tone when he first called Wang Ping 'brother', the laughter when he first drank with Wang Ping, the gaze when he last looked back at Wang Ping.

All those memories surged out from behind the door, flooding into Wang Ping's heart—like a bursting dam, like a erupting volcano, like an exploding galaxy. His heart couldn't hold it all, so it flowed from his eyes as tears.

"Senior of the Moving Mountain…"

Wang Ping's voice choked. His throat felt stuffed with cotton, each word forced out through the gaps. His lips trembled, his chin trembled, his whole face trembled. He wasn't a person who cried—he didn't cry in the mortal world, didn't cry in the immortal realm, didn't cry in the Return to the Void. But now he cried, crying like a child.

Ban Shan Lao Zu looked at him, his eyes full of satisfaction.

That satisfaction wasn't the praise 'You did well,' but something deeper—the fulfillment of 'You have finally become the person I imagined.' At the moment he self-detonated outside the Law Corridor, he didn't know if Wang Ping could survive, if he could walk out of the Law Corridor, if he could reach the Return to the Void, find the Immortal Realm fragments, save the Spirit Realm. He didn't know. But he believed. He believed Wang Ping could do it. Because Wang Ping was his brother. His brother would not let him down.

"You've grown up." His voice was soft, carrying the weight of time. "Even stronger than Old Stone imagined."

He paused, as if organizing his words. Ban Shan Lao Zu wasn't good at expressing himself—he was better at speaking with his axe, his fists, his body. But now he had to use words. Because in the Time Reverse Flow, axes couldn't cut anyone, fists couldn't hit anyone, bodies couldn't touch anyone. All he could use was language.

"Old Stone is watching you from heaven. Watching you kill those silver trash, watching you undergo tribulation, watching you guard the Spirit Realm. Old Stone is proud."

The last three words were spoken heavily: 'Proud.' He bit down on the 'proud' character, dragged out the 'arrogant' character, and said the 'ah' lightly. Three words, like three hammer blows, struck Wang Ping's heart.

Wang Ping's tears wouldn't stop flowing.

On his face, tears and blood were indistinguishable. His collar was soaked in a large patch, the neckline drenched with tears, limp and clinging to his neck. His eyes were swollen and red, his eyelids puffed and heavy as if stung by bees. His nose was blocked; he could only breathe through his mouth, each breath accompanied by a faint whimper—the sound of air forced out from his throat after his nasal passages were clogged.

He wanted to speak. He wanted to say sorry—sorry I came late. Sorry I couldn't protect you well. Sorry I left you alone to self-destruct, alone facing death, alone walking toward nothing. He wanted to say these things, but he couldn't utter a single word. His throat was stuffed with too much—guilt, regret, unwillingness, longing. They clogged there, trapping each word at the throat's entrance.

He just stood there, tears streaming down his face.

Ban Shan Lao Zu looked at him, then suddenly reached out and flicked his forehead.

Very light. Very light.

That force was light as a feather falling on water—no ripples even formed. Yet the feeling was heavy. Heavy as a mountain pressing on his forehead—not pain, but weight. It was the weight of Ban Shan Lao Zu's hundreds of years, the weight of his self-detonation of the Mountain Core, the weight of his expectations for Wang Ping.

Just like back then on the World-Breaking Shuttle.

Back then, they had just escaped from the Law Corridor, covered in wounds, exhausted. The World-Breaking Shuttle drifted slowly through the void like a leaky ship. Wang Ping sat in the corner, eyes closed, regulating his breath to heal. Ban Shan Lao Zu sat opposite him, gripping that stone axe, watching him. Then he reached out and flicked Wang Ping's forehead. Very light. Wang Ping opened his eyes and saw Ban Shan Lao Zu smiling. That rugged face bore a hearty, warm smile.

"Blockhead, what are you thinking about?"

"Nothing."

"If you're not thinking anything, think of something. If you don't use your brain, it'll rust."

That was the most ordinary conversation between them—no life-or-death stakes, no passionate fervor, no grand speeches. Just two people on the World-Breaking Shuttle, idling, chatting a few lines. But Wang Ping remembered. He remembered the force of Ban Shan Lao Zu's flick on his forehead—light but precise. Not painful, yet clear. It was like someone stamping his forehead, telling him: you have been remembered.

Now, that flick came again.

Same force. Same position. Same warmth.

"Blockhead, why are you crying?"

Same voice. Same tone. Even the pause was the same.

"Old Stone isn't not coming back."

He paused. On that rugged face, his smile gradually softened into something deeper, more tender—not hearty, not warm, not satisfaction—but love. An elder's love for a junior, a brother's love for a brother, a dead person's love for the living.

His voice became very soft, very gentle. That gentleness completely mismatched Ban Shan Lao Zu's image—a burly, rugged, hearty big man speaking the softest words in the quietest voice. This contrast made Wang Ping's heart ache more, because he wasn't used to such a Ban Shan Lao Zu. He was used to the loud-mouthed, loud-laughing, big-gestured Ban Shan Lao Zu. He was used to the one who could slap a shoulder and knock someone down, who drank from vats, ate meat from basins, and spoke by shouting.

Not this. Not this gentle, soft-spoken, cautious Ban Shan Lao Zu.

"When you finish that battle, when you win, when you guard the Spirit Realm, Old Stone will come back."

He raised his hand and pointed at Wang Ping's chest.

"In dreams."

Then he pointed at his own chest.

"In wine."

Then his fingers moved from his own chest and pointed into the deep void. There, countless points of light drifted—red, blue, purple, transparent, gray—all colors of the rainbow, like someone had overturned a box full of stars.

"In the heart."

"Old Stone, I've always been here."

His silhouette began to fade.

Starting from the feet.

Those big feet—bare, never wearing shoes. The soles were covered in calluses, thick enough to walk on blade tips. The toes were short and thick, like five little radishes. The ankles bore several scars—from being smashed by rocks, bitten by demons, sliced by law fragments. Those scars were old, their color much lighter than the surrounding skin, like white threads wound around his ankles.

Those feet began to turn transparent. You could see the points of light behind them—the red, blue, purple points shining through from behind his ankles, like his feet had become frosted glass.

Then came the calves. The calves were thick, muscles taut, like two stone pillars. Leg hair was dense, dark black, like a small forest. Knees were large, joints protruding, like two round stones.

Then came the thighs. Then came his waist. Then came his chest.

It faded bit by bit, from bottom to top, like a lit incense stick. Not burning—burning has flame, temperature, ash. This was fading. Like someone using an eraser, bit by bit, rubbing him out of this picture. His feet were gone, his legs were gone, his body was gone—but his hand remained. The hand that had patted Wang Ping's shoulder, the hand that had flicked Wang Ping's forehead, the hand that held the stone axe.

That hand was also fading. Starting from the fingertips, bit by bit it faded. Thumb gone, index finger gone, middle finger gone, ring finger gone—only the little finger and palm remained. Then the little finger faded, the palm began to fade from the edges, like a sheet of paper on fire, curling inward from all sides toward the center.

All that remained was his smile.

That rugged, heroic, gentle smile froze for an instant in the void, like a photographer pressing the shutter, freezing that moment into eternity. Then that smile began to fade—first the lips, then the teeth, then the outline of the nose, then the eyes. Those thick brows and big eyes—eyebrows coarse and black, like two brushes. Eyes large, eyeballs black and bright, like two polished obsidian stones. In those eyes there were no tears, no sorrow, no reluctance—only smile. A pure, unreserved smile that gave everything away.

Then that smile also scattered.

Turning into countless specks of light, drifting toward the depths of the void.

Those specks of light were larger, brighter, and warmer than the light specks of the Sea of Laws. They were golden—not the cold, hard gold of bullion, but the warm, soft gold of sunlight. They drifted in the void like a group of fireflies just released. They drifted slowly, leisurely, without hurry or anxiety—as if taking a walk, as if saying farewell, as if saying: Don't see me off, go back.

Wang Ping reached out his hand, wanting to grab him.

His hand passed through that figure.

That figure no longer existed.

His hand paused in the void for a moment—fingers spread, palm forward, as if feeling an invisible wall. Then his hand began to tremble—starting from the fingertips, spreading to the palm, to the wrist, to the forearm, to the whole arm. His arm trembled, his shoulder trembled, his body trembled.

He knelt down.

His knees struck the void, emitting a dull thud—not the sound of knees hitting ground, but the sound of bones striking existence. His body curled up, head lowered, forehead nearly touching the void's ground. His hands braced on the ground, ten fingers spread, fingertips deeply embedded in the void—not because the void has substance, but because his fingernails pressed hard, until the nail beds turned white.

"Ban Shan Senior—!"

His hoarse shout echoed in the void.

That sound was not like a human voice—it was more like the mournful cry of a wounded beast. Hoarse, broken, tinged with blood. It did not come from the throat, but from the chest, from the heart, from the soul. That sound spread in the void, meeting those light specks, triggering a fierce resonance. Those golden specks trembled for an instant in that sound, then continued drifting away.

Those light specks drifted before him for a moment.

They circled him once, as if making a final farewell. Then they formed a line and drifted toward the depths of the void. The golden light grew farther and smaller in the darkness, finally becoming a string of light points in the distance, like a golden river flowing in the heavens.

That river wound its way through the void, skirting the remnants of the Sea of Laws, skirting the vortices of time reversal, skirting the illusions of the Dao Heart Tribulation—then it turned a corner and vanished. Like a river flowing into the sea, like a child returning to a mother's embrace.

Ban Shan Lao Zu's smile finally froze before his eyes.

That smile—heroic and warm. The corners of his mouth split wide, revealing yellowish teeth. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes resembled an opened fan. His nose slightly scrunched, as if smelling something pleasant.

Just as back then outside the Law Corridor.

Back then, they had just been chased for three days and nights by the Silver Guard, exhausted, covered in wounds. The entrance to the Law Corridor lay ahead, but the Silver Guard pursued too closely, leaving them no time to open the entrance. Ban Shan Lao Zu halted his steps, turned around, and faced the pursuing Silver Guard. He glanced back at Wang Ping, smiled, and said:

"Brother, take care."

Then he turned, gripped his stone axe, and charged at the Silver Guard. His silhouette—broad, sturdy, like a mountain—receded in the silver light, growing smaller. Then the silver light engulfed him. Then a tremendous roar. Then—

There was no 'then' anymore.

Wang Ping knelt in the void, tears streaming down his face.

Behind him, Cang Xuan stood there, motionless.

His posture was exactly the same as when Wang Ping left the Law Corridor—feet spread shoulder-width, spine straight, chin slightly tucked. His hands hung at his sides, right hand lightly clenched, fingertips touching his pant seam. His face showed no expression—a swordsman's face, which never shows much emotion. But his eye sockets were slightly reddened.

That was not crying. Cang Xuan does not cry. It was—sand got into his eyes. There is no sand in the Return to the Void, but there is in the time reversal. Those fragments of time, like fine sand grains, drifted into his eyes. Yes. That's it.

His right hand was tightly clenched into a fist. Fingernails dug into his palm—not intentionally, but unconsciously. His body was doing something for him—clenching. Clenching the fist, clenching the sword hilt, clenching anything that could be clenched. For if he did not clench, he would loosen. Loosen the fist, loosen the sword hilt, loosen—himself.

Yu Liuli embraced the ancient zither, tears streaming down her face.

She did not suppress herself—her zither heart would not allow her to suppress. For one whose zither heart is enlightened, emotion is the most direct, most genuine, needing no concealment. She wept unrestrained, loudly, ungracefully. Tears welled from her eyes, streamed down her cheeks, and dripped onto the zither. On the strings, the body, the pillars—everywhere was her tearwater. Those tears slid across the zither's body, leaving trails of wet marks, like a window on a rainy day.

Her lips moved, as if saying something, but no sound came out. Perhaps it was some ancient incantation—the language of the Fall Immortal Tribe, which she had learned since childhood but never used. Perhaps it was a melody—without tune, without rhythm, only notes. Perhaps it was simply Ban Shan Lao Zu's name—over and over, again and again, like a song consisting of only three words.

You Ying stood beside Wang Ping.

She did not cry. People of the Void Lineage do not cry in front of others. Her tears, at the moment they would flow, are devoured by the Void Law—not vanished, but hidden. Stashed in some corner of the void, in some fold of time, in a place no one can find. When one day she is alone, the void will return those tears to her. Then she will cry. Cry for a long time.

She lightly grasped Wang Ping's hand.

Her hand remained icy cold. Cultivators of the Void Lineage always have a lower body temperature than ordinary people. But now her hand was even colder than usual—not because the Void Law was suppressed, but because she was sharing Wang Ping's burden. He wept, she felt cold. He felt pain, she felt cool. He gave her a share of his emotions, and she exchanged it with her body temperature.

She gripped his hand tightly. Tight as if confirming—he was still alive. Time was flowing backward, the world being rewritten, everything being erased. Yet he remained. She could feel his body temperature—though his temperature was dropping, she could feel it. She could feel his pulse—though his pulse was erratic, she could feel it. She could feel his existence—though time tried to erase him, she could feel it. He was here. He still was here. He had not vanished.

After a long while.

Wang Ping rose to his feet.

His movements were slow—his knees lifted from the void, the angle between thigh and calf shifting from acute to right, from right to obtuse, to a straight line. His body trembled slightly—not from cold, not from fatigue, but from the aftershocks of emotion. Like after an earthquake, the earth still quivers slightly. The epicenter was in his heart, the aftershocks throughout his body.

He wiped away his tears.

He wiped with his sleeve cuff—a rough, forceful motion, as if trying to erase every trace on his face. Tears, bloodstains, sweat—all wiped away. Wiped clean, as if he had never cried. But his eyes were still red, the tip of his nose still red, his lips still slightly trembling. Those could not be wiped away. Those were etched on his face, etched in his heart, etched in the Dao.

He gazed toward the direction where Ban Shan Lao Zu had vanished. There, the void held nothing—no light specks, no golden river, no that burly figure. Only darkness. Only the eternal, unchanging, dead silence of the Return to the Void.

He bowed deeply.

He bent low to a great extent—his upper body nearly parallel to the ground. His hands pressed against his thighs, fingertips pointing down. His head was lowered, his chin nearly touching his chest. He held this pose for a long time—so long that Cang Xuan thought he would not rise again. But he rose. Slowly, steadily, like a tree bent by the wind, gradually straightening after the wind ceased.

"Senior, take care."

Three words. Light and faint, like saying 'see you tomorrow.' But his voice carried something—not sorrow, which weakens; not strength, which stiffens. It was something deeper, softer, more resilient. A promise: 'I will carry your share and live on.' A proof: 'You will not have died in vain.' A declaration: 'I will win.'

Then he turned.

His movement was swift, without hesitation, without looking back—like a soldier turning on command: left foot as pivot, right foot tracing an arc, body rotating 180 degrees. His gaze withdrew from the void and turned forward. There, the light of the immortal realm fragments still flickered. It was still waiting for them.

He stepped forward.

His steps were firmer than before. Each step landed solidly, steadily, as if he wanted to imprint his footprints in the void. He wanted time to know—I am here. I have walked here. I have existed. You may reverse, erase, rewrite—but you cannot erase my footprints. Because my footprints are not stepped in the void, but in the Dao.

His gaze was brighter than before. That brightness was not spiritual light, not the glow of sorcery, but a deeper thing—the light possessed by one who, after experiencing darkness, still chooses to move forward. Not because he is unaware that darkness lies ahead, but because, knowing it, he still chooses to go on. For beyond darkness, there is light.

Because his heart now held an extra ray of light.

That was the light left behind by Ban Shan Lao Zu.

It was not the light of law—Ban Shan Lao Zu's legal principle had already dissipated in his self‑explosion. It was not the light of spiritual power—Ban Shan Lao Zu's spiritual power had been exhausted in the Law Corridor. It was not the light of the Dao—Ban Shan Lao Zu's Dao, together with him, had been buried beneath the solitary peak behind the Ninth Dao Institute.

What light was that?

It was the light of 'brother'. It was the light in his eyes when he turned outside the Law Corridor to look at Wang Ping. It was the light on his fingers when he flicked Wang Ping's forehead on the Boundary-Breaking Shuttle. It was the light of sweat droplets splashing on stone as he moved mountains in the mortal world.

That light told him—go forward. Don't look back.

He didn't know how long he had walked.

The surrounding scenery began to change again. Those points of light disappeared—not swept away by time flowing backward, but because they had walked past them. The afterimage of the Sea of Laws also vanished—those seas of fire, ice peaks, thunderstorms, abysses, and amber all disappeared into the void behind them, turning into a hazy glow in the distance, like the lights of a city gradually receding.

They stood in an expanse of nothingness.

Around them was endless darkness. This darkness was different from the darkness at the entrance to the Return to the Void—the darkness there was an 'existent' darkness, a darkness of being. It had weight, temperature, texture. You could feel it pressing you, squeezing you, trying to devour you. But the darkness here was different. The darkness here was an 'empty' darkness. It had no weight, no temperature, no texture. You did not feel pressed, nor squeezed, nor devoured—you only felt—non‑existent. It was as if you had never existed.

Only in the distance did the light of the Immortal Realm shards flicker.

That light stood out in the darkness—like a lamp lit in the deep sea. But it was far away, far enough that you felt you could never reach it. You took a step, it retreated a step; you took ten steps, it retreated ten steps; you started to run, and it ran too. It would never let you get close. For time was flowing backward. As you moved forward, time flowed backward. The faster you went, the faster time flowed. The distance between you and it never changed.

But Wang Ping knew they had not yet arrived.

Only because of the Heart of Dao Tribulation had it just begun.

The Sea of Laws's core trial is the 'Reverse Flow of Time'—it makes time go backward, erases the path taken, wipes out the traces of existence. But that is only the surface trial. The true trial is the people who emerge in the Reverse Flow of Time—those you thought you had forgotten, those you thought you had let go of, those you thought your wounds had healed.