Chapter 406

Most turned into nothingness. Nothingness is not darkness. Darkness is something——darkness is a color, is an existence. Nothingness has nothing. No color, no existence, no concept.

You cannot describe nothingness, because description itself is an existence. You cannot think of nothingness, because thinking itself is an existence. You can only be "not".

Those fragments of the Immortal Realm that turned into nothingness are "not". They did not go somewhere; they simply are not. As if they never existed.

Only this piece remains.

The largest piece. The most intact piece. The most tenacious piece. It did not break, did not scatter, did not turn into nothingness. It drifted in the Return to the Ruins for thirty thousand years, stayed in darkness for thirty thousand years, endured in deathly stillness for thirty thousand years. It did not die. It merely slept. Waiting for someone to come and wake it.

Finally, he saw——the progenitor of the Myriad Phenomena Stargazers.

That old man, stood at the highest point of the Immortal Realm fragments.

That is a mountain. Not an ordinary mountain——it is the highest peak of the Immortal Realm fragments, the ridge of the entire Immortal Realm once. The mountain is very high, so high that its peak pierces the void. The mountain is very steep, so steep that even immortals must climb it cautiously. The mountain is very old, so old that its body is covered with cracks, like an old man's face.

The old man stood on the summit, his robes fluttering in the void. Not blown by wind——there is no wind. It is his robes moving on their own, as if alive. His hair is all white, white as snow, white as clouds, white as the feathers of an immortal crane. His beard is long, long enough to reach his chest. His eyebrows are thick, thick enough to cover his eyes. But through those eyebrows you can see his eyes. In those eyes, stars flow, galaxies spin, the universe is born and destroyed.

His countenance was very calm. Not the calm of a blank expression, but the calm after having seen everything. Like a person standing on a mountain peak, seeing the village below ablaze, seeing people running, screaming, weeping. He saw it, but he did not move. Not because he is cold-blooded, but because he knows——going down would save no one. The fire is too great, too great for one person to extinguish. All he can do is stand on the summit, watch, remember, and wait. Wait for someone who can extinguish this fire.

He gazed at the distant silver light. That is the direction of the Pure World Court, the direction of the Lord of Order, the source of the Immortal Realm's downfall. His eyes were full of pity——not pity for the Immortal Realm, not pity for immortals, not pity for himself. It was pity for the Lord of Order. Because he knows, the Lord of Order is not destroying. The Lord of Order is "correcting". In his view, chaos is wrong, disorder is wrong, turmoil is wrong. He is merely correcting a mistake. Just as you see a ink dot on a sheet of paper and wipe it away with an eraser. You do not feel you are destroying anything; you are merely restoring the paper to what it should be.

This is the most tragic part. The Lord of Order does not feel he is doing evil. He feels he is doing the right thing. He feels he is saving the universe. He feels he is righteous. An enemy who believes himself righteous is the hardest to deal with. Because you cannot persuade him, cannot transform him, cannot make him realize his mistake. He believes he is not wrong. He forever believes he is not wrong. All you can do is defeat him. Let him know——righteousness is not his alone.

He raised his hand and gave a light wave.

A chaos-colored light flew out from his palm. That light is different from the points of light in the Sea of Laws——the points of light in the Sea of Laws are broken, scattered, chaotic. This light is whole, gathered, orderly. It drew an arc in the void, then spread out, like an umbrella opening, like a flower blooming, like a heavenly canopy falling. That light enveloped the entire Immortal Realm fragments——from the highest peak to the outermost edge, from the far east to the far west, from the top to the bottom. Around the Immortal Realm fragments it formed a shield, keeping the darkness of the Return to the Ruins outside, keeping the silver light of the Pure World Court outside, keeping the mist of reverse time flow outside.

That light shares the same source as Wang Ping's chaotic power.

Wang Ping felt it——not with his divine sense, not with his eyes, not with his ears. It was a feeling of the "Dao". The feeling of the Dao of Chaos. Like two rivers flowing down from different mountains, meeting at the foot. At the moment of confluence, the two streams need not greet each other, need not verify identities, need not check whether the other is water. They are simply water. Water meeting water naturally merges. One cannot tell which stream came from which mountain.

That light resonated with his primordial chaos source.

Primordial chaos source——the thing sleeping in his dantian, the thing taken from the chaos core, the thing that makes even transcendents wary three parts. It rarely responds to Wang Ping. Most of the time it just sleeps, like a hibernating bear. When Wang Ping calls upon chaotic power, it gives a little, but grudgingly, like a stingy landlord giving alms to a long-term worker. But now it woke. Not fully awake——just turned over, eyes still closed. Yet it made a sound. That sound was so low Wang Ping's ears could not hear it. But his primordial spirit heard it. The sound said——hm, an old friend.

"Although the Immortal Realm has shattered, the will of the Immortal Realm remains."

The old man's voice sounded in Wang Ping's heart. Not coming from his ears——it arose from his heart. Like his own thought, but this thought is too old, too deep, too vast to be his. He is merely an early-stage Nascent Soul cultivator; how could he utter "the will of the Immortal Realm"? So it must have been placed in his heart by someone else. That old man placed this sentence in his heart thirty thousand years ago, waiting for this moment, waiting for him to speak it.

"Although chaos has subsided, the power of chaos remains."

Wang Ping could feel the chaotic power surging within him. Not him actively invoking it; it was moving on its own. As if awakened by those words, as if responding to the old man's summoning, as if saying——I am here. I have always been here. I have not died, not disappeared, not slept. I am merely waiting. Waiting for you to come find me.

"Although order is strong, order is not eternal."

Wang Ping recalled everything in the Return to the Ruins: the Devouring Beast, the Sea of Laws, reverse time flow, the Dao Heart Tribulation. Are they products of order? Or of chaos? He cannot tell. But he knows one thing——they are not eternal. The Devouring Beast will die, the Sea of Laws will disperse, reverse time flow will vanish, the Dao Heart Tribulation will subside. Nothing is eternal. Not order, not chaos. Only "change" is eternal. Today order is strong, tomorrow chaos is strong. The day after tomorrow order is strong again, and the day after that chaos returns. They are like two people sawing wood: you pull a bit this way, I pull a bit that way. The saw never reaches the end.

"Only chaos is the source."

Chaos is the beginning of everything. Before heaven and earth opened, Chaos was a single expanse. Before Yin and Yang were separated, Chaos was a single expanse. Before all things were born, Chaos was a single expanse. Before anything existed, Chaos already was. It is not the 'first' thing that exists—it existed before the concept of 'existence' itself. You cannot describe it with language, because language itself only came after existence. You cannot think about it with thought, because thought itself only came after existence. You can only 'be' it. Wang Ping is it. Not 'he is the inheritor of the Way of Chaos', not 'he cultivated the power of Chaos', not 'he has the source of disorder within him'. He is Chaos. From the moment he opened the first page of the Chaos Classic in that dilapidated Daoist temple, he was. It was not he who chose Chaos; Chaos chose him.

"Only Chaos is home."

Everything will return to Chaos. The dust of the mortal world will return to the earth, the earth's spiritual energy will return to the Void, the Void's energy will return to the Return to the Void, and the Return to the Void's existence will return to Chaos. It is not death—death is merely one kind of change. It is returning home. After wandering outside for a long time, experiencing much, suffering many wounds, finally one can return home. Home does not ask what you bring back, does not ask whether you have achieved fame and success, does not ask whether you have brought honor to your ancestors. Home simply says—'You're back?' If you're back, that's good. Rest a while.

He turned around.

That movement was very slow. Not because he was old—the founder of the Myriad Phenomena Star Observer from thirty thousand years ago, his cultivation profound and immeasurable, impossible to be troubled by aging. It was because—he was saying farewell. He was bidding farewell to the Immortal Realm, to the Return to the Void, and to this world. He knew he would not return. This phantom is the last trace he left in this world. When it dissipates, he will completely cease to be. Not death—death is a concept of the living. He is 'gone'. From existence he became non-existence. From being he became nothing.

He looked at Wang Ping.

That gaze crossed thirty thousand years of spacetime. How long is thirty thousand years? A mortal lives a hundred years, so thirty thousand years is the lifespans of three hundred mortals. From the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties to the Tang, Song, Yuan, Ming, and Qing, then to the Republic of China, then to the People's Republic of China, and to the era when Wang Ping was born—thirty thousand years is enough for a civilization to rise from birth to fall, and from fall to rebirth, many times over. That gaze crossed the darkness of the Return to the Void. The darkness of the Return to the Void can devour everything, but it cannot devour a gaze. Because a gaze is not light, not sound, not existence. A gaze is the act of 'seeing' itself. You cannot swallow an act. You can only wait for it to end.

That gaze crossed the cycle of life and death. Between life and death there is a wall. The wall is very high, so high that its top cannot be seen. The wall is very thick, so thick that it cannot be pierced through. The wall is very long, so long that its end cannot be reached. Most people's gazes stop at the foot of the wall. Because what lies beyond the wall cannot be seen by the living. But the founder of the Myriad Phenomena Star Observer stands on top of the wall. He is neither a living person nor a dead person. He is one who has 'transcended' life and death. He stands on the wall, with life on his left and death on his right. He can see both sides. He sees Wang Ping on the side of life. He sees the Lord of Order on the side of death. He sees the outcome—not a single fixed outcome, but all possibilities. Like a tree, from the trunk branches split, branches split into smaller branches, and those split into even smaller branches. Each fork is a possibility. Some branches are short, breaking after not growing far. Some branches are long, reaching up to the sky. Some branches twist and turn, winding around, eventually returning to the trunk. He sees all the branches. He knows which branch Wang Ping will walk.

"You've come."

That voice was very light, light as a leaf falling from a tree. But in Wang Ping's heart, that voice was heavy as a mountain. Not oppression, but weight. The weight of time, the weight of existence, the weight of 'having been waited for thirty thousand years'.

"I have waited for you a long time."

Wang Ping's eye sockets grew hot.

Not crying. He did not cry. The heating of the eye sockets is a bodily instinctive reaction—when a person bears too much emotion, the body uses heat to 'evaporate' those emotions, just as an overheated engine needs to dissipate heat. His eye sockets were dissipating heat. Warm and toasty, like a warm towel had been placed on them.

He didn't know what to say. Calling him 'senior' felt too distant. Calling him 'Mister' felt too polite. Calling him 'you' (formal) felt too formal. Between him and that old man lay thirty thousand years of spacetime, the boundary of life and death, and the chasm between existence and nothingness. They were not master and disciple, not friends, not family. What were they? They were—people on the same road. The old man had walked very far along that road, reaching its end. Wang Ping had only just set out not long ago, still midway. After the old man reached the end, he did not leave; instead, he turned back, walking along the way he came. He walked thirty thousand years, found Wang Ping, and then stood there waiting for him. Waiting for him to say—'I have come. I have received your waiting. I have not let you down.'

Wang Ping opened his mouth, wanting to say something. But his throat felt as if a clump of cotton had been stuffed in it, blocked completely. Not sorrow—he had already passed the stage of sorrow. It was emotion. A feeling of being understood, accepted, and acknowledged. Like when you have walked a long, long time in the dark, cold, hungry, and exhausted, feeling you can barely hold on. Then someone lights a lamp and places it before you. He did not speak, did not ask where you came from or where you were going, did not tell you how far the road ahead still was. He simply lit a lamp and placed it before you. That light is faint, but it is there. It tells you—you are not alone. Someone is waiting for you.

The old man gave a faint smile.

That smile was faint, so faint it was hardly noticeable—just a slight twitch of muscles—the corners of the mouth turned up a little, the wrinkles at the corners of the eyes deepened a little, the arc of the eyebrows flattened a little. But that tiny change made the whole face look different. All the lines on that face—the forehead's horizontal lines, the crow's-feet at the eye corners, the nasolabial folds, the smile lines—became soft in that instant. Like a charcoal sketch that someone lightly smudged with a finger. The lines remained, but the edges blurred, becoming something hazy, gentle, and indescribable.

"Go. The secret of the Immortal Realm fragments is at the highest point. There, you have everything you need."

His phantom began to fade.

Just like when the Mountain-Moving Old Ancestor dissipated—starting from the feet. Those feet wearing cloth shoes became transparent. The texture of the cloth shoes, the way the laces were tied, the stitching on the soles—all became blurry, as if seen through frosted glass. Then came the calves, thighs, waist, chest, shoulders. Unlike the Mountain-Moving Old Ancestor's dissipation—which was 'leaving', 'going far away'—his dissipation was 'returning home'. It was like having stood outside for a long time and finally being able to go inside. His face showed no reluctance, no lingering, no regret. Only one feeling—like a burden lifted.

The moment his smile finally froze, Wang Ping saw what was in those eyes. Those eyes contained stars—not a metaphor, but real stars. Countless stars flowed within the eye sockets like a galaxy. Each star was a world, each world had its story. Those stories were too many, too many to tell in a single lifetime. The old man did not speak. He merely watched. He watched those stars be born, grow, age, and die. Then new stars were born, new stories began. Again and again, endless and unceasing.

Then those eyes also faded. The stars went out one by one—not suddenly extinguished, but gradually dimming, like an oil lamp about to run out of oil. The brightest few went out first, then the medium ones, then the dim ones. The last to vanish was a very small, very dim star, barely visible. When it went out, it flashed once. Not a last flicker, but a farewell. It was saying—'Goodbye.'

The phantom dissipated.

The mountaintop was empty. Only wind—not wind, but immortal spirit qi flowing. It surged from all directions, flowed to the place where the old man had stood, swirled there, then dispersed. Like a pack of dogs without an owner, turning in circles where they stood, whimpering, then leaving.

Wang Ping stood at the foot of the mountain, head raised, gazing at the summit.

His neck was craned high, so high that his chin and chest formed a straight line. His eyes stared unblinking at the summit, even though there was nothing there anymore. His lips were slightly parted, as if still waiting for the old man to speak the next sentence. But the next sentence would not come. The old man had left. He had gone home.

After a long while, he lowered his head.

Not a quick dip and rise—it was a slow, slow lowering, like a bow. But his waist did not bend; only his neck moved. His gaze shifted from the summit to the mountainside, from the mountainside to the foot of the mountain, from the foot to the ground. He looked at the dirt beneath his feet; there were his footprints. Beside his footprints were another person's footprints. Those footprints were very faint, almost invisible, but they were there. Thirty thousand years ago, the old man walked through here. After he passed, his footprints were filled in by wind and sand, rain, and time. But when Wang Ping came, those filled-in footprints reappeared. It was not that the old man had returned; it was that Wang Ping's footprints overlapped with the 'memory' of the old man's footprints left in the soil. Two sets of footprints, separated by thirty thousand years, stepped on the same spot.

Wang Ping took a deep breath and stepped forward.

He walked for an unknown length of time.

On the Immortal Realm fragments, time began to have meaning again. Not because there were sun and moon on the Immortal Realm fragments—there weren't; here only the land itself emitted a faint glow. But because the land was breathing. Its breath was very slow—one inhalation lasted a long time. Wang Ping did not know exactly how long, but he could feel that rhythm. When inhaling, the land's glow brightened a little; when exhaling, it dimmed a little. One bright, one dim, one bright, one dim, like a heart beating, like a pulse throbbing, like life continuing. Time flowed within that breath.

They walked on the land of the Immortal Realm fragments.

Underfoot was dirt, gravel, broken stone, and dust. Some places were soft, stepping in would sink a little, like treading in a freshly plowed field. Some places were hard, hard enough to make boots slip, like walking on ice. Some places were crumbled; stepping down would send gravel rolling underfoot, making a clattering sound. Those sounds were not loud, but in the silence of the Return to the Void, having lingered so long, any sound seemed loud. Cangxuan walked ahead—he had moved to the front, because his sword intent had recovered somewhat, allowing him to help Wang Ping block sudden dangers. A swordsman's intuition is very useful here, more so than divine sense. Because divine sense can be interfered with, can be deceived, can be devoured by the Return to the Void. But a swordsman's intuition does not. Intuition is etched into the bones, deeper than divine sense, older than law.

Yuliuli walked in the middle, holding a guqin. Three of its strings were still broken, but she did not replace them. Not because she didn't want to, but because there were no strings left. The spare strings in her storage bag had all been used up in the Sea of Laws. She could now play only seven strings. But seven strings can still be played. A musician of the Fallen Immortal clan, even with only one string left, can play a complete piece. Because the music is not on the strings, but in the heart.

Yuying walked at the rear, her eyes had recovered considerably. The bloodshot threads had mostly faded, and the swelling had mostly gone down. She could once again see the gaps in the laws—although there was no sea of laws here anymore, similar 'cracks' existed on the fragments of the immortal realm. Those cracks were left behind when the immortal realm shattered; they are wounds of the earth. They are narrow and hidden, but if you can see them, you can avoid them. Yuying can see them.

They passed over a plain. The plain was vast, vast to the point that its edge could not be seen. The ground was covered with grass—not living grass, but withered grass. The grass was tall, tall up to the knees. The grass was dense, dense enough to hide the ground. When the wind blew, the grass made a rustling sound—not the wind, but the immortal spirit qi flowing. Those grasses had been dead for thirty thousand years, yet they still stood there, not fallen. Not because they were strong, but because they did not know which way to fall. They had grown accustomed to standing, accustomed to swaying in the wind, accustomed to growing in the sunlight. The sun was gone, the wind was gone, growth was gone. But the habit of standing remained. So they still stood. Thirty thousand years, still standing.

They passed by a river. The riverbed was wide, wide enough that a person on the opposite bank looked like a dot. The riverbed was deep, deep enough that the bottom could not be seen. But there was no water in the river. Only a dry riverbed, and the stones on it that had been worn by water. The stones were round and smooth, as if polished by countless years of flow. Wang Ping bent down and picked up a stone; it was light, light as foam. It was not that the stone had become light, but that immortal spirit qi had leaked from within the stone. Immortal spirit qi is the stone's "soul"; when the soul is gone, the body becomes light. He placed the stone back where it was; the stone rolled a few times on the riverbed and stopped at another spot. It will lie there for another thirty thousand years, perhaps longer, until someone comes again to pick it up and set it down.

They passed by a city. The city was huge, huge to the point that one could not see its end at a glance. The streets were wide, wide enough for ten carriages to travel side by side. Along the streets stood shops, taverns, inns, and dwellings. The walls of those buildings still stood, but the roofs had collapsed. Doors and windows remained, but they were rotted. Signs remained, but the characters were blurred. You could tell the city had once been prosperous—wheel ruts could be seen on the streets, depressions where steps had been trampled at shop entrances, and stone hitching posts at tavern doors. Those traces were left by people. When people were present, the traces remained; when people left, the traces remained. The traces outlasted the people.

They passed by a cemetery. The cemetery was vast, vast enough that tombstones covered the hills and fields. Some tombstones were tall, tall as a tower. Some were short, short enough to reach only the knees. Some were new—new as of thirty thousand years ago—the characters on them could still be read. Some were old—old enough that the stones had cracked, the characters had faded, and the tombstones themselves were almost turning to soil. The writing on the stones, Wang Ping did not recognize. It was the script of the immortal realm, immortal markings, the patterns of the Dao. But he could sense what lay within those writings—not meaning, but emotion. Each tombstone sealed a person's lifetime: they had loved, hated, laughed, cried, fought, and died. Then they were buried here, remembered by a stone. Thirty thousand years have passed. The stone remains. Where are the people?

They crossed a bridge. The bridge was old, old enough that the stones on its body were weathered, crumbling to dust at a touch. The bridge was long, long enough that the opposite bank could not be seen. Beneath the bridge lay a dry riverbed, its bed covered with withered grass. Wang Ping walked on the bridge, his footsteps echoing on the surface—thud, thud, thud—as if someone were knocking on a door. Whose door? The bridge's? The river's? Or time's? He did not know. He simply walked on, walked on, walked on. The bridge trembled slightly under his feet—not about to collapse, but responding to his steps. The bridge still remembered that thirty thousand years ago, many people had walked across it. Their footsteps had been light or heavy, fast or slow, some hurried, some leisurely. The bridge remembered them all. Now, footsteps sounded again. Thud, thud, thud.

They finally arrived before an immortal palace.

This immortal palace is one of the best-preserved structures on the fragments of the immortal realm. Its main structure still stands—walls not collapsed, pillars not broken, roof not caved. Its formation still operates—Wang Ping can feel a thin layer of spiritual power circulating around the palace, like an invisible gauze. That power is weak, weak enough to fade at any moment, yet it keeps turning. For thirty thousand years it has kept turning. Its immortal spirit still circulates—not rising from the earth, but emanating from the palace itself. The palace itself is a treasure, a huge, complex, precise treasure. It has its own energy circulation system, needing no external reliance. Even if the earth died, the palace would live; even if the immortal realm shattered, the palace would remain whole.

Its gate stands open. Not blown open by wind—there is no wind. Not pushed open by someone—there is no one. It opened itself. It waits. It has waited a full thirty thousand years for a person to come. The gate stayed closed; when that person arrived, it opened. The gate knew the one it waited for had arrived.

Wang Ping stood before the gate and looked up.

On the lintel, two large characters were carved. They are not the script of the spirit realm—which consists of square, level, upright strokes with strict structure. Nor are they ancient sigils—which are pictographs, each resembling a picture. They belong to no known writing system—not written by humans, immortals, or gods. They are the trace left by the Dao itself. The Dao left the mark of two characters on the lintel, as if someone had drawn with a finger in sand. After the writing was done and the hand lifted, the traces remained. Those traces have no fixed shape—when you look at them, they appear as that shape; when he looks, they appear as that shape. Each person sees them differently, yet each can read them.

Wang Ping understood them.

Those two characters are—'Chaos'.

It was not that he 'recognized' the characters; the characters 'told' him. They projected a concept into his mind, one that perfectly matched 'Chaos'. It is like someone placing a cup of water before you—you know it is water without drinking, because your body knows the taste of water, remembers it from the time you were an embryo.

He drew a deep breath and stepped into the palace.

The threshold was high, reaching his knees. As he lifted his leg to step over, he felt a resistance—not someone pushing him, not something blocking him, but the palace 'feeling' him. The resistance came from all directions, like countless hands gliding over his body. It was not malice—malice is sharp, pointed, painful. This resistance was gentle, warm, curious, like an old man stroking a child's head to see if he has grown.

The resistance lasted a moment, then faded. The palace had finished 'feeling' him. It now knew who Wang Ping was—the inheritor of the Dao of Chaos, the heir of the primal source of disorder, the hope of the immortal realm's fragments. It had waited so long, and this was the person it awaited. The two characters on the lintel glowed faintly, as if nodding, as if saying—come in.

Wang Ping crossed the threshold and entered the palace.

Behind him, Cangxuan, Yuliuli, and Youying followed closely. When Cangxuan stepped over the threshold, the palace also 'felt' him—on the sword at his waist. The resistance lingered on the blade for an instant, then eased. The palace knew this sword was a friend's sword, a guardian's sword, a trustworthy sword.

When Yuliuli crossed the threshold, the palace 'felt' her guqin. The resistance lightly plucked a string, producing an extremely low hum. That hum was not sound, but resonance. The palace said—your qin, and my qin, are the same.

When Youying crossed the threshold, the palace 'felt' her eyes. The resistance lingered before her gaze, as if examining the legal gaps in her sight. Then it released. The palace said—you see what others cannot see; you will be able to use it.

Their silhouettes vanished into the palace's light.

That light was not from lamps, not fire, not sorcery. It was the palace's own radiance, the radiance of the Dao of Chaos, the light of thirty thousand years of waiting. It was not blinding, not scorching, not overbearing. It simply shone there, warm, quiet, steadfast.

Before them lay the ultimate secret of the Dao of Chaos—the thing the progenitor of the Myriad Phenomena Stargazers comprehended in a lifetime, everything he left on the immortal realm's fragments, the secret he guarded for thirty thousand years in the Return to the Abyss.

Behind them was the spirit realm—those waiting for their return, those who believed they would come back.