Chapter 405

When the last wisp of time-reversal mist dissipated, there was no sound, no light, no omen at all.

It just vanished. A moment ago it had been drifting gray and hazy before his eyes, like a dirty scarf; the next moment it was cleanly gone.

Wang Ping stood where he was, waited a while, and confirmed no more mist was emerging from the void. None. The surroundings were clean and empty, only those tiny motes of law-light still drifting far away, like shells left on the beach after the tide recedes.

The aftershocks of the final heart tribulation also settled in his heart. The feeling was strange—like a string that had been taut for a long time suddenly loosening.

Not broken, but loosened. The string was still there, could still be plucked, but no longer taut. The smile of the Mountain-Moving Ancestor, Cangxuan's red-rimmed eyes, Yuliuli's tears, Youying's icy-cold hand—those images remained in his mind, but no longer stabbed. They had become something heavy, pressing down at the bottom of his heart, like old things pressed into the bottom of a box. You know they're there, but if you don't dig them out, they won't hurt.

Four people stood there, nobody speaking.

Not because there was nothing to say—but because their throats were all hoarse. They had shouted too long, called too long, cried too long in the heart tribulation; their vocal cords felt like they'd been sandpapered, each word had to be squeezed out of the throat. Better to stay silent than to strain to speak. Silence sometimes works better than speech.

Wang Ping lifted his head and looked ahead.

Then he froze.

Not an exaggeration. He really froze—feet nailed to the spot, body utterly still, eyes unblinking, even his breath stopped for that instant. Not from fear, not from shock, but because the sight before him exceeded his imagination.

He had seen many things. The mountains and rivers of the mortal realm, the cloud seas and pavilions of the immortal realm, the stellar meteorites of the void, the dark stillness of Gui Xu. He thought he had seen everything, that nothing could freeze him. But he was wrong.

It was a piece of land.

Not a star—stars are round, hang in the sky, shining faintly far away. Not a meteorite—meteorites are broken, big and small, drifting randomly in the void. This was a true, complete, flat piece of land. It had mountains and rivers, plains, river valleys, basins. It had color—not the gray-brown of stone, but a faint, warm hue like aged wood.

It was huge. How huge? The largest continent in the Spirit Realm, the Central Continent where Qingzhou lies, traveling from east to west on horseback takes several years, flying cultivators need ten days or half a month. And this land before him was even larger than the Central Continent.

A million li.

Wang Ping silently recited that number in his heart. A million li. One million li of land, suspended in the darkness of Gui Xu. One million li of mountains, rivers, plains, valleys, basins, lying silently there. One million li of immortal palaces, divine halls, immortal trees, immortal springs, standing broken there. One million li of memories, history, joys and sorrows, rises and falls, buried silently there.

It resembled a sleeping giant. Not the peaceful, sweet-dreaming pose—but the posture of one who fell into a coma after severe injury. Body curled, limbs stiff, breathing faint.

You don't know if he can wake up, don't know if waking will leave him the same as before, don't know if he might die in his sleep. You can only watch, wait, hope.

Its edge was not a coastline.

Coastlines are gentle—waves lapping sand, tides rising and falling, day after day. Coastlines are alive, breathing, changing.

But here the edge was not. Here the edge was—a wound. The lands once connected to it were torn open when the immortal realm shattered.

Not cut—cutting would at least leave a clean edge. This was torn. Like tearing cloth, like tearing meat, like tearing paper. Jagged, interlocking like dog teeth. Some places protruded, like broken bones piercing the skin.

Some places indented, like something had bitten a chunk out. Those protruding and indented edges were sharp as blades, as if touching them would slice you.

Those wounds had already healed. Thirty thousand years later, even the deepest wounds scab over. But scabbing doesn't mean pain is gone. The scab is hard, thick, dark red, wrinkled. It covers the wound, hiding the tender flesh still slowly growing underneath. You dare not touch it, fearing you'll knock it off, fearing what lies beneath, fearing you'll discover—actually the wound never truly healed.

Above the land, there was no sun, no moon, no stars. But there was light.

That light did not shine down from above; it emanated from the land itself. As if the land was glowing. Very faint—faint enough that if you didn't look closely you'd miss it. But it was warm—not warmth of temperature, for Gui Xu has no temperature. Rather, a feeling of warmth. Like walking into a room with a lit stove in winter: the fire isn't big, but the moment you enter you feel—warmed. Not your body warmed, but your heart warmed.

That light pierced Gui Xu's darkness. Gui Xu's darkness is a domineering thing—it can swallow all light, all sound, all existence. But this light, it cannot swallow. Not because this light is strong—it is weak, weak like a lamp about to run out of oil. But because this light's "root" is not in Gui Xu. Its roots are planted in the immortal realm fragments, in the immortal realm of thirty thousand years ago, in an existence older and more primordial than Gui Xu. Gui Xu can swallow this light, but cannot swallow its root. As long as the root remains, the light will keep shining. Even if faint, it will keep shining.

That light also pierced the mist of time reversal. Time reversal is a strange thing—it can make time retreat, make memories replay, let the dead stand before you again. But this light, it cannot reverse. Not because the light is unaffected by time, but because it has already endured enough time. Thirty thousand years. It has soaked in time for thirty thousand years; everything time could do to it has already been done. It fears no more.

It also pierced the illusions of the heart tribulation. Heart tribulation is a sly thing—it can seize your deepest fears, magnify, distort, concretize them, then throw them before you. But this light, it cannot deceive. Because this light is too simple. It is just a light, with no fear, no desire, no weakness. You cannot fool a light. You cannot even speak to a light.

That light shone on their faces. Wang Ping's face, Cangxuan's face, Yuliuli's face, Youying's face. All four faces bore tear tracks, fatigue, a dazed post-tribulation haze. But when that light fell on their faces, those tear tracks, fatigue, haze became different. They were no longer marks of "l sorry state," but turned into proof of "having been through."

"This place……is the immortal realm?"

Cangxuan's voice was very soft. Not because he deliberately lowered it, but because his throat could only produce that soft a sound. In the heart tribulation he hadn't shouted like Wang Ping, but he had clenched his teeth too long. Clenching tires the throat. After a while, his vocal cords swelled. His voice sounded like it came through a wall—muffled, hoarse.

But softness has its advantages. Once softened, the unnecessary embellishments in speech vanish. Only the core meaning remains—surprise, awe, and a hint of disbelief.

Youying nodded.

Her movement was very slow, not from hesitation, but because her neck was stiff. Standing too long in the time reversal, always looking up at the illusions, her neck had long since stiffened. This simple act of nodding, she performed like an old man turning a rusty door hinge.

"Immortal realm fragments." She said, voice equally soft. "Thirty thousand years ago, the ancient immortal realm battled the Pure World Court, the immortal realm shattered, most turned to nothing, only this fragment remains. The founder of the Myriad Phenomena Star Observers, it was on this fragment that he comprehended the method to oppose the Lord of Order."

As she spoke these words, her tone was flat. Like reciting a line from an ancient text—no emotion, no rise and fall, no pause. But after she finished, her lips still twitched slightly. Not because she wanted to say more, but because she was silently reciting. Silently reciting other words from those ancient texts—the ones she had memorized since childhood, descriptions of the immortal realm. Things like "myriad immortal palaces, endless," "countless immortals, breath like the sea," "celestial music drifting, day and night without cease." She knew those texts by heart, so familiar she could speak them without thinking. But now, she could not utter a single word. Because the scene before her did not match those words.

The immortal realm in the texts was alive. The immortal realm fragment before her eyes was dead.

Yuliuli cradled her guqin, fingers lightly stroking the strings. Her fingers still ached—forcibly playing in the Sea of Law had snapped a string, the broken string sprang up and lacerated her fingertip. The wound was not deep, but in Gui Xu it heals slowly. When she touched the strings, her fingertip felt a fine sting. But she did not stop. Because that sting was real. In this Gui Xu where everything is being devolved, dissolved, negated, real things are too few. Pain is real. The qin is real. She—is real.

Her qin was trembling faintly.

Not because her hand was shaking—her hand was steady, as a Falling Immortal clan qin master's hand never shakes. It was the qin itself trembling. The body trembled, the post trembled, even the broken strings trembled. Like a frozen small animal suddenly placed in a warm room, its body instinctively shivering.

Not from fear. The qin feels no fear. It is from resonance.

Those palaces, halls, immortal trees, immortal springs—though already ruined, collapsed, withered, dried up—still "sing." Not with sound—sound cannot propagate in Gui Xu. But with vibration. Using every inch of their material, every grain of their pattern, every wisp of lingering qi to vibrate. Those vibrations are very faint, too faint for even Wang Ping's chaotic divine sense to detect. But Yuliuli's qin felt them. Because the essence of the qin heart is resonance. A qin master, her qin, her heart, everything she touches—all will resonate.

That is a wordless song. The last testament left by the ancient immortals.

Yuliuli closed her eyes, her qin heart operating at full power. Those vibrations, in her perception, became a piece of music. No melody, no rhythm, no mode—too chaotic, too fragmented, too many sounds stacked together, like hundreds of people speaking at once. But she understood. Not understood with ears, but understood with heart. As one whose qin heart is clear, she need not understand every word. She only needed to understand that feeling.

That feeling was—guardianship.

"They are saying……" Yuliuli murmured, voice like sleep-talking. Her eyes remained closed, but her eyelids twitched minutely, as if her eyeballs were rapidly turning, following something unseen. "They say, the mission of the immortal realm is to guard the myriad worlds."

Her voice changed. No longer Yuliuli's voice, but the sum of those vibrations, hundreds of voices stacked, fused, mixed, then spoken from her mouth. That voice was very soft, yet thick. Like a very thick book, each page thin, but hundreds of pages stacked together become a substantial, weighty existence.

"They say, although the immortal realm has shattered, the will to guard remains."

Her tears flowed. Not sorrowful tears, but something more complex—being moved by something greater than oneself, the body's instinctive reaction. Like standing at the sea's edge, gazing at boundless waters, you have no reason to weep, yet you want to. Because the sea is too vast, you too small. Before such vast, ancient power, tears are the only language.

"They say, they are waiting. Waiting for a person to inherit this will. Waiting for a person to complete their unfinished undertaking."

She opened her eyes, looked toward Wang Ping. Those eyes were full of tears, but behind the tears, there was a light. That light was not spiritual light, not the light of spellcraft, but—trust. A pure, unreserved trust, having entrusted everything.

"Wang brother, they are waiting for you."

Wang Ping fell silent.

He was not used to being waited for. In the mortal realm, nobody waited for him. He cultivated alone, ate alone, slept alone. Later he came to the immortal realm, gained a sect, gained fellow disciples, gained friends. But when they waited for him, it was to wait for him to eat together, drink together, go on missions together. Those waits were concrete, brief, with clear purpose.

But the immortal realm's waiting was not. Thirty thousand years. Thirty thousand years of waiting, without concrete purpose, without clear timetable, without anyone beside you urging, calling, reminding you. Just waiting. In Gui Xu, in darkness, in stillness—waiting. Waiting for a person to come. Not knowing who that person is, not knowing when he will come, not knowing if he can succeed after coming. Just waiting. Waiting a full thirty thousand years.

Wang Ping gazed at those ruined palaces. The palaces were huge, huge like a city. But their roofs had collapsed, exposing layer upon layer of pavilions inside, like a beehive split open. Each pavilion layer held blurred traces—wall painting fragments, furniture debris, formation remnants. Those traces were too blurred to see the original appearance. But you could imagine—thirty thousand years

, these pavilions once had residents. They cultivated, discussed the Dao, drank tea, played chess within. They had laughed, quarreled, fallen silent, sighed there. Then they left. Some died in battle, some fled, some died of old age. Leaving these pavilions empty, waiting, until the roofs caved in, walls cracked, furniture rotted, paintings blurred.

He gazed at those collapsed halls. The halls' stone pillars lay scattered seven across, eight across, some broken into segments, some still connected, leaning against each other like two drunks propping each other up. The immortal patterns on the pillars had been worn by time into indistinctness, but some outlines remained—curved lines, round nodes, crossing networks.

That was the immortal realm's script, the language ancient immortals used to communicate with heaven and earth, to master the laws. Those characters were not invented by humans, but are the patterns of the Dao itself. Immortals merely discovered them, learned them, carved them into stone. Now the stone has fallen, the characters blurred, but the Dao—remains.

He looked at those withered immortal trees. The trunks were bare, the bark had peeled off, revealing the grayish-white wood inside. Some trunks still bore scars—marks left after branches were cut off. The scars had merged with the trunks, becoming round, darker imprints. Like the tree's eyes. Countless eyes, staring in the void, watching them. Not just Wang Ping alone—watching everyone. Watching every person who came to the immortal realm fragments. Judging whether they were worthy. For thirty thousand years, how many have they seen? No one knows.

He looked at those dried immortal springs. The soil at the bottom had cracked into countless irregular chunks, like a shattered map hastily pieced together. Each chunk of soil was as dry as pottery shards, edges curled up, and would crumble at the slightest touch of a finger. Yet in the deepest, darkest, narrowest, most inconspicuous corners of those cracks, a trace of moisture remained. That was the last trace of moisture in the immortal spring, the last tear left when the immortal realm shattered. It had lain there for thirty thousand years, neither evaporated nor dried nor disappeared. It was waiting. Waiting for someone to come and take it away. Waiting for someone to come and drink it. Waiting for someone to come and inherit what it had carried for thirty thousand years.

They are all waiting.

Waiting for thirty thousand years straight.

Waiting for a person to come awaken them. Waiting for a person to come inherit them. Waiting for a person to come fulfill their unfinished endeavors.

Is that person him?

Wang Ping doesn't know. He has never been a confident person. In the mortal realm, he didn't believe he could leave that small mountain village. In the immortal realm, he didn't believe he could survive those heavenly tribulations. In the Abyss of Return, he didn't believe he could escape those desperate situations. Every time, he felt inadequate. Every time, he felt he would fail. Every time, he was wrong. Not because his judgment was flawed, but because—he only realized he could do it after he had done it. Before acting, he never knew.

Perhaps this is right. Truly confident people often become overconfident at the worst moments and die miserably. Meanwhile, those who tremble, tread carefully, and feel they might collapse at any moment end up going the farthest. Because they fear, they are cautious. Because they are cautious, they survive. Because they survive, they have come this far.

He took a deep breath.

There is no air in the Abyss of Return, but there is on the immortal realm fragments. That breath surged into his lungs—carrying the scent of dust, rotting wood, and dry earth. Not a pleasant smell, but it carried something—reality. It was not an illusion, not a projection of law, not a dream in the heart-demon tribulation. It was real earth, real dust, real rotting wood, real dry soil. It was there, beneath his feet, before his eyes, in his breath.

He stepped forward.

The moment his foot touched the immortal realm fragment, he felt—earth.

Not the softness of void, not the hardness of the sea of laws, not the emptiness of time reversal. It was earth. Real, tangible, warm earth. His boot sank slightly into the soil, emitting a faint sound—"crack." That sound was tiny, but after walking so long in the Abyss of Return, after soaking in silence for so long, after staying in voicelessness for so long—that "crack" sounded like a thunderclap. Not because it was loud, but because it was real. It was the sound of boot sole rubbing against soil. The sound of matter meeting matter. The sound of existence meeting existence.

Then he felt—a force.

That force surged from the earth beneath his feet into his body. Not seeping in from the soles of his feet—but through every pore, every acupoint, every meridian. Like walking into a heated room on a winter morning: the warmth doesn't blow from one direction, but radiates from all sides, every corner, every piece of furniture. You don't need to "absorb" it; it simply enters on its own.

This force is not spiritual energy. Spiritual energy is the energy of heaven and earth, the foundation of cultivators' practice, something found in any world. Nor is it law. Law is the manifestation of Dao, the rules governing heaven and earth, something requiring comprehension to master. This force is older, more primal, more—intimate. It does not require you to circulate cultivation techniques to absorb it, nor does it require you to focus your mind to comprehend it like law. It simply enters, flows on its own through the meridians, gathers on its own in the dantian. Like an old friend reunited after long separation, needing no knock, no announcement—just pushing the door open and walking in. Because this is his home. He was meant to be here.

Immortal Spirit Qi.

Wang Ping had read this name in ancient texts. Immortal Spirit Qi, the fundamental cultivation of ancient immortals. It is not drawn from heaven and earth, but nurtured from the immortal realm's earth itself. The immortal realm's earth is itself a living thing—it breathes, pulses, nurtures. The breath it exhales is Immortal Spirit Qi. Immortals inhale it, refine it, then exhale it again. That exhaled breath returns to the earth, is reborn by the earth, and becomes new Immortal Spirit Qi. It is a cycle—a perfect, self-sufficient, eternal cycle. The immortal realm depends on nothing—not the sun, not the stars, not the void. It is its own source.

Later the immortal realm shattered. The earth died, no longer breathing, no longer pulsing, no longer nurturing. But the Immortal Spirit Qi already nurtured remained. For thirty thousand years, it has lain dormant in the earth. No one came to inhale, to refine, to take it out. It merely waited, waited, waited. Until today.

Immortal Spirit Qi flowed through his meridians. His meridians had suffered considerable damage in the sea of laws and time reversal—some places blocked, some narrowed, some even developed tiny cracks. But as Immortal Spirit Qi flowed through, those damages began to heal. Blocked areas were cleared, narrowed sections widened, cracks filled. Like spring floodwaters rushing over a dry riverbed, the bed, moistened by water, became damp, soft, and full of vitality once more.

Immortal Spirit Qi gathered in his dantian. His dantian, after battling the Devouring Beast and traversing the sea of laws, was nearly empty—the chaotic-hued golden core shriveled like a fruit drained of moisture. But as Immortal Spirit Qi surged in, the golden core began to regain fullness. Not "filled"—but "awakened." Immortal Spirit Qi acted like a key, unlocking a long-dormant space within the golden core. Inside that space lay all the chaotic immortal essence Wang Ping had accumulated through prior cultivation. They had not been consumed, merely "sealed." Because in the Abyss of Return, the consumption of chaotic immortal essence was too rapid, nearing the point where the golden core could not replenish it fast enough. To protect the golden core from being drained, the body instinctively sealed the final portion of immortal essence. Now, Immortal Spirit Qi unlocked that seal. The sealed immortal essence surged out, mingled with Immortal Spirit Qi, and became denser, purer, stronger chaotic immortal essence.

Immortal Spirit Qi resonated in his nascent soul. His chaotic nascent soul—the tiny figure identical to him—opened its eyes. Previously it had closed its eyes, not from sleep, but because in the Abyss of Return it could sense nothing, and closing eyes conserved energy. Now, it sensed—Immortal Spirit Qi. Like a starving person catching the scent of food, its eyes snapped open, mouth slightly parted, greedily absorbing those Immortal Spirit Qi. Its aura began to rise slowly.

Not an increase in quantity.

If it were quantity, that would be cultivation advancement—from early to mid Divine Transformation, mid to late, late to peak. That would be good, but not the most important. What matters most is—qualitative transformation. Immortal Spirit Qi is not ordinary energy; it is the essence of "Immortal." It will not make your chaotic immortal essence more numerous, but it will make it "purer." Like a pot of soup: adding more water only dilutes it, but adding a spoon of rich broth makes it richer, more fragrant, more flavorful. Immortal Spirit Qi is that spoon of broth. It is altering the "texture" of your chaotic immortal essence.

Wang Ping closed his eyes, immersed in that profound realization.

He saw—the splendor of the ancient immortal realm.

Not an illusion, not a dream, not a heart-demon tribulation. Those things are false, time reversed, memory replayed, heart-demon projected. But this is not. This is the "memory" contained within Immortal Spirit Qi—not one person's memory, but the memory of the entire land. The land remembers. Every inch of soil remembers everything it has endured—rainwater's scouring, sunlight's exposure, immortals' trampling, buildings' pressure, battles' tearing, the pain of shattering. It remembers all. For thirty thousand years, it has remembered all.

In the sky, countless immortals flew. Their speed was great—not the speed of sword-flight, but a more natural, more instinctive flight, like fish swimming in water. Because they were not "flying," they were "existing." In the immortal realm, the way of existence is to hover. The earth attracts them, but they also attract the earth. Mutual attraction, mutual pulling, mutual maintenance of a delicate balance. This balance needs no effort to maintain; it arises naturally, like water flowing downward needs no reason.

Their aura was strong. How strong? Wang Ping sensed a little, then realized—he could not sense it. Not that he couldn't sense "how strong," but that he could not even sense the concept of "strong" itself. Like an ant at the foot of a mountain knowing the mountain is large, but not knowing how large. Because it has never seen anything larger than the mountain. Wang Ping is that ant. Those immortals' auras are that mountain. He can feel they are strong, but does not know how strong. Because his cultivation is too low—too low to even have a measure for "strong."

But he knows one thing—those immortals' auras are very like those of the Transcendent. Not identical, but very like. Like different individuals of the same species—some tall, some short, some fat, some thin, some young, some old. But all the same species. Transcendents are the survivors of that species, while these immortals—are its peak era.

They discussed Dao in the immortal palaces. Not one person lecturing above while a crowd listened below, but everyone speaking, everyone listening, everyone thinking. Their voices wove together like an extremely complex symphony. Each voice was distinct, yet together they formed a naturally perfect, indivisible whole. They discussed "Dao."

Not discussing any specific law—fire, ice, thunder, space, time—but discussing "Dao" itself. What is the essence of Dao? Where does Dao come from? Where is Dao going? Must Dao be followed? Can Dao be changed? Does Dao have consciousness?

These questions, Wang Ping had never considered. Not that he didn't want to, but he couldn't think of them. His level was too low; daily thoughts were only how to break through, how to fight, how to survive. He hadn't even clarified "what is Dao," let alone its essence, source, or destination. But listening to those immortals discuss Dao, he suddenly felt—those questions might not be so distant. Not because his cultivation had risen, but because Immortal Spirit Qi was helping him "understand." Immortal Spirit Qi is the language of the immortal realm, the language of Dao. It needs no effort to comprehend; it directly implants understanding into your mind. Not "you understand," but "you just understand."

They cultivated in the divine halls. The halls were vast, large enough to hold thousands cultivating simultaneously. Yet no one spoke, no one moved, no one opened their eyes. Thousands of people, thousands of physical bodies, thousands of nascent souls, hovering simultaneously in the void. Their breathing was slow—one breath lasting a long time. Exhaling, Immortal Spirit Qi left their bodies and returned to the earth. Inhaling, Immortal Spirit Qi came from the earth and returned to their bodies. It was a cycle. Not merely between them and the earth, but among them, the earth, and Dao—a three-way cycle. They cultivated, the earth cultivated, Dao cultivated. Everything was alive, everything moved, everything breathed.

They contemplated Dao under the immortal trees. The trees' canopies were vast, large enough to cover a hilltop. Beneath the canopy, immortals sat—some eyes closed, some open, some gazing up at the canopy, some looking down at the ground. Each person's way of contemplating Dao differed, but each was contemplating. The immortal trees aided their contemplation. Not because the trees had consciousness, but because the trees' "existence" itself was a Dao. Having lived so long, endured so much, witnessed so much, they transformed their experiences, witnesses, and existence into something perceptible. Sit beneath it, and you can feel it. Feel it, and you can comprehend it. Comprehend it, and you are it.

They bathed in the immortal springs. The spring water was not water—it was liquid Immortal Spirit Qi. One immersed in it, Immortal Spirit Qi seeped through every pore, flushing out bodily impurities, clearing meridian blockages, washing away nascent soul dust. It was not a comfortable process—flushing impurities hurt, clearing blockages caused distension, washing dust induced dizziness. But after soaking, you would feel—lighter. Not that your body weight had lessened, but that your existence had lightened. Like carrying a heavy pack for a long journey, finally setting it down. Standing there, you feel your whole self might float away.

They guarded the myriad worlds. Not actively guarding, not passively guarding, but "existence itself is guardianship." Where the immortal realm exists, order exists. Where the immortal realm exists, the myriad worlds have a reliance. Where the immortal realm exists, those with ill intentions dare not act recklessly. Not because the immortal realm is strong—it indeed is—but because the immortal realm's "existence" itself is a fact. An fact that cannot be ignored, denied, or challenged. Like the sun in the sky—you need not prove its brightness; it is simply there. You need not uphold its authority; it is simply there. You need not warn those who wish to cause trouble; it is simply there. Existence itself is the strongest guardianship.

Then he saw—the descent of the Purification Court.

Silver light spread across heaven and earth. Not from one direction, but from all directions simultaneously. Like someone had packed the entire world into a silver box and then began pouring water in. Water surged in from all sides, through every gap, from every corner. You had nowhere to flee, nowhere to hide, nowhere to conceal. You could only stand there, watching the silver water rise higher—past your ankles, past your knees, past your waist, past your chest, past your head.

The power of order surged like a tide. Not "like" a tide—it was a tide. Wave after wave, billow after billow, strike after strike. Each strike carried something away. The first strike took sound—immortal realm music, immortals' discussions, spring water sounds—all gone. The second took color—palaces' golden splendor, trees' lush greenness, springs' clear clarity—all gone. The third took temperature—sunlight's warmth, earth's heat, body temperature—all gone. The fourth took—existence. Palaces remained, but were no longer palaces, merely piles of stone. Trees remained, but were no longer trees, merely piles of dead wood. Immortals remained, but were no longer immortals, merely piles of flesh.

The immortal realm army went to battle.

That was not battle—it was slaughter. The power of order was too strong, so strong that immortals' attacks struck it without even a ripple. Like punching water—you punch as hard as you can, water feels no pain. It parts, then recombines. Your fist passes through, your body passes through, then water recombines, enclosing you. Inside, you struggle, kick, shout—useless. Water has no ears to hear your shouts. Water has no bones to fear your kicks. Water has no heart to be moved by your anger. It simply is there, just there, just there.

Countless immortals fell. Their bodies turned transparent in the silver light, then shattered, then dissipated. Exactly like when the Falling Immortal Clan was exterminated. Exactly like the scene Wang Ping witnessed in the heart-demon tribulation in the Spirit Realm. Wherever the silver light passed, all returned to order. No chaos, no accidents, no variables. Everything ran according to preset rules. The rule-makers were the Purification Court. The rule-enforcers were the Lords of Order. The rule-keepers were those silver emissaries.

The immortal palaces collapsed. Not one by one, but entire sections collapsing at once. Foundations softened in the silver light, like soil soaked in water. Walls above could not stand, tilted, slanted, fell. Roofs crashed down from above, striking those below. Immortals were crushed to death—not by tiles, which cannot kill immortals—but by the fact of "collapse." The immortal palaces collapsing meant the immortal realm was no longer an immortal realm. A non-immortal immortal realm is not allowed to exist. Thus those immortals, too, were not allowed to exist.

The divine halls collapsed. Stone pillars fell one after another, like dominoes. The first fell, striking the second. The second fell, striking the third. The third fell, striking the fourth. Boom, boom, boom, boom—the sound was loud, enough to make the entire Abyss of Return tremble. But that was not sound—sound cannot propagate in the Abyss of Return. It was vibration. The vibration of falling pillars, the vibration of the earth being struck, the vibration of the collapsing halls. Those vibrations propagated in the Abyss of Return for a very long time, all the way to Wang Ping's feet. Thirty thousand years later, his feet felt it. Thirty thousand years, those vibrations still lingered. Because the Abyss of Return has no air, no medium, nothing to dissipate those vibrations. They kept transmitting, transmitting, transmitting. Until someone came to receive them.

The immortal trees withered. Roots tore from the soil, like countless hands reaching toward the sky. Not that they were praying for anything—they had nothing left to pray for. They were bidding farewell. Farewell to the sky, farewell to the earth, farewell to those immortals who once contemplated Dao beneath their shade. The roots twisted and struggled in the soil, then—stilled. Died. Leaves fell from the trunks one by one, not blown by wind—there was no wind. They fell of their own accord. The trees knew they were dying, so they stopped sending nutrients to the leaves. Without nutrients, the leaves turned yellow, withered, and fell. They carpeted the ground thickly, and stepping on them produced a rustling sound.

The immortal spring has run dry. The spring eye is still there, but the water no longer gushes. It is not because the spring eye is broken, but because the earth has died. The heart of the earth no longer beats, its blood no longer flows, its warmth is gone. The spring eye is the earth's blood vessel; when the earth dies, the vessel dries up. When the last drop of immortal dew welled up from the spring's bottom, it came slowly, so slowly, as if reluctant. It gathered at the spring's bottom for who knows how long, growing from a dot to a small pool, from a small pool to a small pond. Then it stopped moving. It simply lay there, like a closed eye.

The immortal realm shattered. Not with a booming explosion, but with a soft "crack." Like a mirror splitting down the middle, then the fissure spreading in all directions, growing denser and more numerous. Then the whole mirror shattered into countless fragments, scattered across the void. Some fragments are large, large enough to still see the immortal palaces, divine halls, immortal trees, and immortal springs upon them. Others are tiny, as small as a speck of dust. They drift in all directions—some sinking into the depths of the Return to the Ruins, some into void rifts, some into temporal turbulence. They can never be found again.