Chapter 407

The threshold of the immortal palace is a dividing line.

When Wang Ping lifted his leg and stepped over, he felt the soles of his feet as if stepping into a pool of warm water—not real water, for there was none inside or outside the threshold. It was a tactile illusion, a feedback generated when immortal spirit energy was compressed between boot sole and stone slab. The sensation was subtle, like walking from the cold outdoors into a warm room in winter: first a chill on the skin, then heat, then neither cold nor hot—just right.

His left foot landed. The stone slab was perfectly flat, flat as a mirror. But its surface was not smooth—not rough unevenness, but a pattern. Those lines were exceedingly fine, nearly invisible to the naked eye, yet the soles could feel them. They resembled an ancient anti-slip design, or the sword-practice scars left by some immortal on the slab. Thirty thousand years later, the patterns remained. Stepping on them, the pattern and boot sole produced an extremely faint rubbing sound—"si"—like an old man sighing in his throat.

His right foot followed. The threshold was high, up to the knee. Crossing it required lifting the leg, an action nearly nonexistent in the Return to the Void. There, you need not lift your leg, for there is nothing beneath your feet. You merely "move" through the void, like a leaf blown by the wind, drifting wherever it goes. But on a fragment of the immortal realm, you must lift your leg. You must exert force. You must oppose gravity—not the gravity of the immortal realm, but that of the earth itself. That gravity is not great, roughly akin to the spirit realm's. Yet after walking so long in the Return to the Void, your body has long forgotten what "weight" feels like. Now weight returns, and your muscles must readapt.

Wang Ping stood within the threshold, pausing a moment.

His body was recalibrating. Muscles tightened, bones hardened, blood accelerated—not by his conscious control, but by the body's own response. Like a long-bedridden patient taking his first steps, his legs would tremble, his waist ache, his lungs gasp. But after the patient's body stops shaking, it gradually, bit by bit, rediscovers the feeling of walking. Wang Ping's body too was rediscovering sensation: the feeling of standing on earth, of being pulled by gravity, of "I am here."

Then he felt it—pressure.

Not pressing down from above his head; there was nothing above, only the palace's high dome, so high its details were indistinct. Not squeezing in from the surrounding walls; those walls were far off, requiring a good while to reach. The pressure surged simultaneously from every direction, as if the air itself had suddenly grown heavy. You stand in the air, the air pressing on your skin, on your pores, on every breath. You feel no pain, but you feel diminished—like an adult standing before a great mountain that speaks not, moves not, looks not at you, yet you feel small.

This is the lingering will of the immortals.

Wang Ping does not know what an "immortal" truly is. He has read of them in ancient texts, heard of them in legends, guessed at them in the fragmentary words of transcendents. But he has never seen a true immortal. When the immortal realm shattered, he was not yet born. When immortals fell, even his ancestors' ancestors had not been born. He is too far from the immortal realm—separated by an entire age. Yet now, standing in the immortal palace, those lingering wills surround him, and he suddenly feels—the immortal realm is not distant. It is here, on these stone slabs, on these walls, in this air. It has not vanished completely; it merely sleeps. Waiting for someone to come and wake it.

Cangxuan was the second to cross the threshold.

His movement was more decisive than Wang Ping's: lift leg, cross, land—one fluid motion, as clean as drawing his sword. But the instant his foot landed, his sword rang.

"Ong—"

That sound was very brief, too short to hear unless in silence. Yet it was deep, deep as a temple bell, its echo resonating in the chest cavity. The sword vibrated in its sheath; blade and scabbard rubbed, producing that metallic, fine, tooth-grating resonance.

Then the sound stopped.

Not fading gradually, but abruptly cut off—as if someone clapped a hand over the sword's mouth. The sword struggled in the sheath—Cangxuan could feel it, the blade twisting slightly, like a held-back child straining to break free. But that hand was too strong; the sword twisted a few times, then stilled. Not from surrender, but from knowing struggle was futile. It lay quietly in the sheath, like a beast caged, eyes still open, teeth still bared, but silent.

Cangxuan's hand rested on the sword hilt. His fingers were long, knuckles distinct, nails trimmed neat. This hand had gripped the sword for hundreds of years; the hilt's wrapping had been worn through countless times, then rewound by his own hand countless times. The wrapping's color had shifted from its original dark brown to the present grayish white—not faded, but leached by his sweat and palm warmth. He knew this sword as well as his own palm lines.

Yet now, his hand trembled.

Not a violent, obvious tremor, but a fine one, only he himself could feel. His fingertips quivered slightly, as if someone lightly plucked his nerves. He tried gripping the hilt tighter, fingers tightening, palm pressing against the wrapping—the hilt's warmth remained, its pattern remained, its weight remained. But the sword itself was gone. Not that the sword had vanished, but its "soul" was suppressed. The sword remained in the sheath, still that sword: iron-forged blade, copper-cast guard, hemp-wrapped hilt. Yet it was no longer "his sword." It had become an ordinary iron sword, one placed in a blacksmith's shop, hung on a wall, dust-covered, anyone could take.

Cangxuan tried to draw the sword.

He used the slightest force—not because he did not wish to exert force, but because he wanted to test the sword's response. Like reaching to touch a sleeping person: you extend your hand slowly, gently, cautiously, lest you wake him. His fingers hooked the hilt, wrist exerting slight force, elbow sinking slightly, shoulder withdrawing slightly. This was the first motion of drawing the sword, practiced countless times, so many that his body needed no brain command to execute it.

The sword moved slightly in the sheath.

Very slightly, like a person turning over in bed. The blade slid out less than an inch, revealing a small sliver of silvery white metal at the root of the blade. On that sliver were fine scratches—from collisions with other weapons, mementos of Cangxuan's every battle. The scratches were thick as a spiderweb.

Then the sword stopped. Not jammed, but it stopped itself. It had been moving outward, reached halfway, then suddenly halted—like a person hesitating at a crossroads, then turning back. The blade retracted into the sheath; that sliver of silvery white metal vanished into the sheath's darkness. The hilt gave a light tremor in Cangxuan's hand, as if saying—no.

Cangxuan released his grip.

He did not try again. A swordsman does not force his sword. If the sword says "no," that is no. He trusts his sword as he trusts his own hand. If the hand says no, he will not force the hand to act. He withdrew his hand from the hilt, letting it hang at his side. Fingers still twitched slightly, but he ignored them. He looked ahead; Wang Ping had already walked a dozen paces, his back appearing thin in the palace's faint light. Yet thin as he was, he had not fallen.

Cangxuan stepped forward and followed.

When Yuliuli crossed the threshold, her zither sounded.

Not Cangxuan's dull hum, but a sharp, piercing sound, like someone crying. That sound was very high, nearly beyond human hearing range. But though you cannot hear it, your body can feel it—your scalp tingles, your teeth sour, your heart skips a beat.

That sound was very brief, lasting only the span of one breath. Yet in that breath, Yuliuli understood what the zither was saying. The zither said—I have found her.

"Her" refers to that immortal realm zither master, the source of the Fallen Immortal Clan's zither Dao, whom Yuliuli has never met, her ancestral teacher. Thirty thousand years have passed; the Fallen Immortal Clan has passed down the zither generation after generation, each master carving her name on the back of the ancient zither. Names multiply, from head to tail, from face to back, thick as a clan genealogy carved with a knife. Yuliuli's name lies at the end, small, tucked in a corner, like a newly sprouted seed.

The names on the zither's back begin with that immortal realm zither master. Her name is at the top, the first. But that name was not carved—it grew from the zither itself. The Fallen Immortal Clan's ancient zither is made of a special spirit wood. That wood has memory; it remembers who first plucked it. When a zither master's fingers first pluck the strings, the zither retains her breath and then "grows" her name on the back. Not carved, but grown—like tree rings, like fingerprints, like the imprint left by every living thing between heaven and earth.

At this moment, the zither in the immortal palace sensed the owner of that imprint. She is here, somewhere in this palace. Not her body—her body has long since shattered. But her zither soul. A zither master's zither soul is the sum of all the tunes she played in her life, all emotions, all insights. The zither soul does not break, scatter, or vanish. It only attaches to a certain place, awaiting another zither to claim it.

Yuliuli's zither has claimed it.

The zither strings trembled—not from wind, not from plucking, but from the zither itself moving. The broken strings leapt on the zither body like a fish hauled from water, twisting desperately. The intact strings produced sound—not from Yuliuli's plucking, but from the zither itself playing. It played a tune Yuliuli had never heard, an ancient melody whose notes she could not comprehend. Those notes were not human tonality, but immortal realm tonality. They do not belong to twelve-tone equal temperament, nor to pentatonic modes, nor to any musical system Yuliuli has studied. They are the "Dao" of sound. The Dao's vibration needs not follow human rules.

Yuliuli clung to the zither, fingers lightly touching the strings. She was not playing; she was "feeling." Using fingertips to sense string vibration, palm to sense body resonance, heart to sense the zither soul's call. She could feel—that immortal realm zither master, in her final moment, played a tune. That tune had no name, no score, no listener. For she played it in battle, amid silver light, as her body shattered. After she finished, the zither broke, and she too broke. But that tune remained, left in the zither soul, left in the immortal palace, left in every inch of air her zither sound touched.

Thirty thousand years have passed. That tune has waited. Waited for a listener, waited for a zither to claim it, waited for a descendant of the Fallen Immortal Clan to take it away.

Yuliuli's tears fell silently. Not from sorrow, but because the tune contained something—something she could not describe in words, only express through tears. That was the immortal realm zither master's love for the Fallen Immortal Clan, her devotion to the zither Dao, her perseverance in guardianship. In her final moment, she thought not of herself, not of the immortal realm, not of the Purification Court. She thought of the Fallen Immortal Clan's children—those gathered around her, calling her "master," pestering her to learn new tunes. She did not know if they could survive, if the clan could endure, if the zither Dao would not be severed. She could only play—pouring all her love, all her concerns, all her reluctance into that tune. Then hope—someday, some year, some Fallen Immortal Clan child would hear it.

Yuliuli heard it.

She clung to the zither, tears streaming down her face, yet made no sound. For a Fallen Immortal Clan zither master does not weep aloud before the zither. Because the zither remembers. If the zither remembers her weeping, it will carry that weeping into every tune she plays thereafter. She does not want the zither to weep. The zither has wept for thirty thousand years. It is time to rest.

When Youying crossed the threshold, her body swayed slightly.

Not that she swayed on purpose. At the instant her foot landed, she felt she had stepped into emptiness. Though beneath her foot was solid, hard, cold stone slab, she felt as if stepping into an invisible pit. The pit was deep; her body sank, her heart rose, her ears buzzed, her vision darkened.

Then she stepped firmly. The stone slab remained; she had not fallen. But the feeling of "stepping into emptiness" did not fade—it turned into another feeling. A feeling of "weightlessness." Not bodily weightlessness, but Dao weightlessness. Having cultivated the void laws for countless years, at the moment she crossed the threshold, she became "light." Not weakened, but light. Like a feather blown by the wind, drifting in midair, without direction, without weight, without landing.

Youying stood within the threshold, eyes closed.

She did not panic. As an heir of the Void lineage, she would not panic from Dao weightlessness. For the essence of the void laws is precisely "weightlessness." In the void, there is no up/down, left/right, front/back, near/far, light/heavy, slow/quick. All is level, all is empty, all is nothing. Void cultivators train from childhood to maintain balance in weightlessness. Not balance in "being," but balance in "non-being." No fulcrum, no reference, no reliance. You can rely only on yourself.

Youying relied on herself.

She drew a deep breath, no longer trying to "grasp" the void laws. Ungraspable. The void laws are not something you can seize. Like water: clench your fist, and it slips through your fingers; open your palm, and it rests in your hand. Not because you grasped it, but because it chose to stay in your palm. The void laws are the same. The harder you try to control them, the less they obey. Release your grip, and they return.

Youying opened her hand. Her hand was very white, white as porcelain. Fingers long, nails neatly trimmed. The palm bore a thin callus—from cultivating the void laws, fingers tracing the void left these traces. Though the void has no substance, the laws have resistance. Tracing fingers in the void is like paddling in water; it requires force. Prolonged force produces calluses.

She opened her hand, feeling the flow of the void laws. In the Return to the Void, the void laws are chaotic, violent, elusive—like a wild horse: you mount, it throws you off; you ride steady, it gallops you wildly; you tire, it stops, waiting for you to rest enough before running again. The wild horse has its virtues—it runs fast, far, wild. But it does not heed you. You want it east, it goes west. You want it slow, it goes fast. You want it stop, it goes run.

In the immortal palace, the void laws differ. They are tranquil, peaceful, orderly—like a tamed old horse standing in the stable, head low, eyes closed, tail gently swaying, shooing flies. You need not ride it, need not tend it, need not contend with it. It simply stands there, quiet. When you need it, you approach, pat its neck, it opens its eyes and looks at you. You mount, and it walks slowly, steadily, step by step. Not fast, not slow, not hurried, not agitated.

Youying opened her eyes.

Her eyes were brighter than before. Not that light shot out from within, but the bloodshot lines had faded, the redness subsided, the fatigue dispersed. Her eyes returned to their natural state—deep, dim, like two bottomless wells. The wells hold no water, but the bottom holds wind. Wind blows up, carrying the scent of earth from deep below.

She looked ahead; Wang Ping had already walked far off, his back faint in the palace's faint light. Cangxuan and Yuliuli followed behind him, one left, one right, like two guards. Youying stepped forward and followed. Her steps were light, light as a cat's. On the stone slab, no sound. Not because she used void laws to conceal herself, but because she was inherently light. Void cultivators have bodies lighter than ordinary people's—not thin, but light. Light bones, light muscles, light blood. Like a feather.

Wang Ping led the way.

His steps were slow, but not from hesitation. He was adapting. Before each footfall, his foot would pause momentarily in midair, as if testing the ground's hardness. Not because he distrusted the ground—the ground was solid, more solid than any place he had walked. But his body needed time to process the act of "walking." After walking so long in the Return to the Void, his body had forgotten how to walk. Not truly forgotten, but muscle memory suppressed.

In the Return to the Void, you need not walk; you only need to "move." Moving requires no lifting the leg, no planting the foot, no balancing.

You merely think "forward," and the body goes forward. Simple, direct, efficient. But walking is not. Walking requires lifting the leg, planting the foot, balancing. Each step is a micro-adventure—you do not know whether the foot will slip, twist, or step on something upon landing. Your brain must process this information, your muscles execute the commands, your bones bear the impacts.

Wang Ping's body was relearning to walk. His brain rebuilt the neural pathways for walking, his muscles reactivated walking memory, his bones readapted to walking impacts. This process takes time. He has time. The immortal palace is vast, large enough for him to walk a long while.

As he walked, he sensed the changes in the chaotic force.

In the Return to the Void, the chaotic force is "contracted"—like a person curled in a corner, knees hugged, head low, minimizing presence. Not because it is weak, but because the Return to the Void's environment is hostile to chaotic force. The Return to the Void devours all existence; chaotic force is a form of existence. To avoid being devoured, it can only contract. Contracted, it shrinks. Shrunk, it is less easily detected.

But in the Immortal Palace, the power of Chaos is "unfolded". Like a person rising from a corner, stretching, yawning, then opening their arms to greet the sunlight. It is not because the environment of the Immortal Palace is friendly to the power of Chaos—the Immortal Palace has no concept of "friendly". Rather, it is because the power of Chaos has found "home" here. Not a physical home, but a home on the Dao. The source of the Dao of Chaos is right here. In the inheritance of the Primordial Star-Gazer of Myriad Phenomena, in the memories of the Immortal Realm fragments, in the lingering wills of the Immortals. The power of Chaos here is like a fish in water, a bird in the sky, a tree in the earth. No need to adapt, no need to adjust, no need to struggle. It was always meant to be here.

Wang Ping could feel that the speed of the power of Chaos circulating within his body had increased. Not because he actively drove it, but because it was accelerating on its own. Like someone who had slept for a long time finally waking up, sitting up on the bed, moving their limbs, then beginning to walk. First slowly, then briskly, then jogging, then striding forward. The power of Chaos ran through his meridians like a wild horse that had broken free of its reins. But Wang Ping did not panic. He did not need to chase it, pull it, or control it. When it grew tired from running, it naturally returned.

His Chaos Primordial Spirit was also changing.

In the Return to the Void, the Chaos Primordial Spirit was "closed". It closed its eyes, curled its body, breathed very slowly, and its heartbeat was very faint. Like a hibernating animal reducing all energy consumption to the minimum, just to endure the long winter. Now winter has passed, spring has come. It opened its eyes, stretched out its limbs, and took a deep breath. That breath was full—so full that its chest cavity expanded, so full that its ribs emitted faint cracking sounds, so full that its entire body swelled by a circuit.

The Chaos Primordial Spirit was swelling, not becoming larger, but becoming "solid". In the Return to the Void, it was insubstantial, like a mist. When the wind blew, the mist would disperse halfway. Blow again, and the mist would vanish completely. In the Immortal Palace, it was solid, like a stone. When the wind blew, the stone did not move. No matter how strong the wind, the stone did not move. Not because the stone was heavy, but because the stone knew who it was. The mist did not know it was mist, so the wind blew it away. The stone knew it was a stone, so when the wind came, it remained still.

Wang Ping's Chaos Primordial Spirit knew who it was.

Not "the inheritor of the Dao of Chaos", not "the successor of the Origin of Disorder", not "the hope of the Spirit Realm". Those were merely labels others had given him. After wearing those labels for a long time, he came to believe he was that label. But the label was not him. Who was he? He was Wang Ping—a cultivator who walked out of a small mountain village in the mortal world, a young person who had cultivated the Chaos Art, an ordinary person walking through the Return to the Void, standing in the Immortal Palace, facing countless unknowns and challenges. He was not a great figure, not a savior, not a Child of Destiny. He was merely an ordinary person who did not want the ones he cared about to die.

This is him. This is his Dao. The Dao of Chaos is not lofty, illusory, or detached from the world. It lies in every breath he takes, every heartbeat, every lifting of a leg, every setting down of a foot, every step forward. It is not complex, not profound, not difficult to understand. It is simply—keep walking.

Six, Between the Courtyards

Wang Ping walked ten or so steps, then stopped.

He looked back. Cangxuan stood three steps behind him, hand resting on the sword hilt, his expression very calm. But Wang Ping had known Cangxuan for a long time, and he knew that when Cangxuan appeared calm, he was actually at his most unrest. True calmness needs no outward display. To appear calm is to make others not worry. Cangxuan was making others not worry.

Yuliuli stood behind Cangxuan, holding an ancient zither. There were tear stains on her face, but they had dried, leaving only two faint white traces. Her eyes were still red, but she had stopped crying. Her fingers moved lightly across the zither strings—not playing, but "feeling". Like a blind person reading Braille, using fingertips to read the information on the strings.

Youying stood beside Yuliuli, her eyes gazing deep into the Immortal Palace. Not that she was looking—it was her eyes that were looking. Wang Ping followed her gaze, but saw nothing. Only darkness, and occasional faint glimmers flashing deep within the darkness. But Youying saw something. In her eyes was something—not curiosity, not vigilance, but "confirmation". Like someone holding a map checking direction, glancing at the map, then at the road, nodding, yes, this is it.

Wang Ping turned around and continued forward.

The first courtyard of the Immortal Palace was vast. How vast? So vast that Wang Ping walked over a hundred steps before reaching the center of the courtyard. The ground was paved with blue stone slabs, and in the cracks between them grew grass—not living grass, but withered grass. The withered grass was very short, so short that only a tiny bit of the stone slab showed. Their roots were still in the soil beneath the slabs, but the above-ground parts had died. They had died completely—crumbled to dust at a touch, and the dust scattered when blown by the wind. Not wind—it was the Immortal Spirit Qi flowing. The Immortal Spirit Qi flowed from one end of the courtyard to the other like an invisible river. The withered grass, under the river's scouring, gradually peeled, crumbled, and dissipated. After tens of thousands of years, these withered grasses would vanish completely, leaving only the stone slabs and the empty soil in the cracks.

The courtyard was surrounded by a cloister. The cloister's pillars were very tall—so tall that one had to look up to see the tops. The pillars were carved with Immortal markings, but these markings were not carved with a knife; they were "written" by the Dao. Knife-carved traces wear away with time, but Dao-written ones do not. The Dao is eternal, and what is written by the Dao is also eternal. Thirty thousand years have passed, yet those Immortal markings remain as clear as if they had been written yesterday. But Wang Ping could not understand them. Not because he was illiterate—he knew the Immortal script, and the Transcendents had taught him some. It was because these markings were too profound. They were not surface patterns, but "projections" of the Dao. When you look at an Immortal marking, you are not seeing a symbol, but an entire law. The law is vast, and your eyes cannot contain it. You can only see a corner, a side, a projection. Like looking at a mountain—you can only see the front, not the back. You know the back is there, but you cannot see it.

Wang Ping walked to the end of the cloister and turned a corner.

The second courtyard was somewhat smaller than the first. In the center of the courtyard stood a tree. The tree was very tall—its treetop pierced the Immortal Palace's dome. The dome was very high—so high that its top could not be seen. The treetop pierced the invisible place, like a needle thrust into a piece of black cloth. The cloth was thick, the needle fine. The needle had gone in, leaving no hole on the cloth. But the needle remained inside, unable to be pulled out.

Wang Ping walked to the base of the tree and looked up. The trunk was very thick—so thick that it would take over a dozen people to encircle it. The bark had peeled off, revealing the grayish-white wood inside. The wood had many cracks, deep enough to insert a finger. Wang Ping extended a finger and probed into one crack. The inner wall of the crack was very dry and rough, like sandpaper. His fingertip rubbed against the inner wall, scraping off some wood shavings. The shavings were very fine—like flour. He held the shavings under his nose to smell them, but there was no scent. Not that there was no scent, but his nose could not detect it. The scent of Immortal wood is not in the nose, but in the Dao-heart. His Dao-heart smelled it—the wood was saying, I am thirsty. I have not drunk water for thirty thousand years.

Wang Ping withdrew his finger and rubbed his hand on his robe. Some grayish-white wood shavings had stuck to the robe; he brushed them off a few times, and they fell to the ground, mixing with the dust on the stone slabs, indistinguishable from one another.

He walked around the tree and continued forward.

The third courtyard was the core of the Immortal Palace. There were no trees, no stone slabs, no Immortal markings. Only a great hall. The hall's doors stood open, and beyond them lay deep darkness. This darkness was different from that of the Return to the Void. The darkness of the Return to the Void was "alive"—it had weight, temperature, texture. It moved, breathed, devoured. The darkness of the hall was "dead". It did not move, did not breathe, did not devour. It simply was there, like an empty room. The room was empty, but you knew it had not always been empty. It had once held people, things, stories. Now the people had left, the things had been moved, the stories had ended. Only emptiness remained.

Wang Ping stood before the hall doors, silent for a long time.

Cangxuan walked to his side and stood still. His sword in its scabbard was as quiet as an ordinary iron sword. Yuliuli walked to his other side, holding the ancient zither, her fingers resting on the strings without plucking. Youying stood behind him, her eyes gazing at the hall's darkness, her gaze deep.

Four people stood before the hall doors, none speaking.

The hall doors were very tall—so tall that one had to look up to see the lintel. Carved on the lintel were two characters—Chaos. These two characters were not carved in; they had "grown" out. Like tree rings, like fingerprints, like the imprint left by all living things between heaven and earth. The two characters faintly glowed in the darkness, the light very weak—so weak as to be almost invisible. But they were there. They were saying—Come in.

Wang Ping took a deep breath and stepped into the hall.

His footsteps echoed in the empty hall. Tap, tap, tap. Each sound was clear, clear as a bell. The bell-like echoes bounced off the walls, the dome, the floor. Echo upon echo, one after another, like someone striking a bell. Struck for a long time, a very long time. So long that the bell sounds became heartbeats. Wang Ping's heartbeat. Thud, thud, thud.

Darkness surrounded him. Not devouring, but accepting. Like a silent elder opening their arms to embrace a lost child. The child does not know where they are, where they should go, or whether they can find the way home. But they know—they are being held. They will not fall.

Wang Ping stopped his steps and closed his eyes.

He could feel his Chaos Primordial Spirit violently revolving in his dantian. Not a slow acceleration, but a sudden, violent, unstoppable surge. Like a car with the pedal floored—the engine roaring, wheels spinning, body trembling. The pressure of the Immortals here had reached its peak. Those lingering wills had gathered here into a flood. The flood struck his body, his primordial spirit, his Dao-heart. Not an attack, but a baptism.

In the flood, the Chaos Primordial Spirit was like a stone being scoured by rushing water. The stone was hard, the water swift. The water's impact wore away the stone's edges, its roughness, its impurities. The stone became rounder, smoother, brighter. Not that the stone had become smaller, but that it had become "pure". Pure down to nothing but its original essence—the stone itself.

Wang Ping's Chaos Primordial Spirit was also becoming "pure". Those impurities—deviations in cultivation, damage from battle, fluctuations in mind—were being peeled away, washed away, worn away bit by bit under the Immortals' pressure. Not disappearing, but "purified". Like iron ore refined into iron at high temperature, then iron refined into steel. The higher the temperature, the fewer the impurities, the purer the material. The Immortals' pressure was that high temperature. Wang Ping was that ore being refined.

His breath was slowly rising. Not an increase in cultivation level, but an elevation in "quality". His Chaos Power became thicker, like water turning to oil. His Chaos Domain became denser, like a net turning into cloth. His Chaos Divine Sense became sharper, like a blade that has been honed. His Dao of Chaos became closer. Closer to the source, closer to the "Dao", closer to "himself".

Wang Ping opened his eyes.

In the darkness, there was a light. Not shining in from outside, but emanating from within his own body. Chaos Light. That light illuminated the darkness, illuminated the void, illuminated the hall. He saw—on the hall's walls, countless characters were carved. These characters were not Immortal markings, not ancient symbols, not any known writing system. They were the characters of the Dao of Chaos. What the Primordial Star-Gazer of Myriad Phenomena had comprehended in a lifetime, what he had left behind as inheritance here, what the heavenly book that only one who had waited thirty thousand years could read.

Wang Ping gazed at those characters, reading them one by one. His eyes glowed in the darkness, his lips moved slightly, his fingers traced in the air. He was learning. In the Immortal Palace, in the Chaos Light, under the gaze of the Primordial Star-Gazer of Myriad Phenomena—he was learning.

Seven, The Heavenly Book

Those characters were not written on the wall.

They were "grown" on the wall. Like tree rings, like fingerprints, like the imprint left by all living things between heaven and earth. The characters slightly protruded from the wall surface, their outlines detectable by touch. Wang Ping reached out and touched them—his fingertip touched the surface of the characters, and there was a warm sensation. Not the temperature of stone, but the temperature of the Dao. The Dao was heating up. Not because it had temperature, but because it was operating. Operation produces heat, just as a beating heart generates heat. The Dao's operation also produces heat. That heat was not physical heat, but existential warmth. You stand beside the Dao, and you feel—warm. Not that your body warmed, but that your heart warmed.

Wang Ping read those characters, one by one. Some he recognized, some he did not. Those he recognized, he understood. Those he did not recognize, he also understood. Not because he had suddenly learned the Immortal script, but because those characters were not "speaking"—they were "manifesting". They were not telling you a principle, but directly manifesting that principle before you. Just as you do not need someone to tell you what red is—you see red, and you know. The characters are the same. You see them, and you know. No translation, no explanation, no intermediary needed. The Dao directly manifests itself to you.

The first character he saw was "Beginning".

This did not mean "beginning". The Immortal script has no concept of "beginning", for the Immortal Realm has no beginning. It has always been there, emerging from Chaos, manifesting from the Void, transforming from the Dao. No beginning, thus no end. No end, thus eternity. In the Immortal script, "Beginning" means "emerging from Chaos". Like a tree sprouting from a seed, like a river flowing from a spring, like a melody played from a musician's heart. Not "beginning", but "giving rise". The Dao gives rise to the Immortal Realm, the Immortal Realm gives rise to Immortals, Immortals give rise to all things.

Wang Ping gazed at that character, feeling his Chaos Primordial Spirit tremble slightly. Not fear, not surprise, but resonance. "Beginning"—Chaos also gives rise. Chaos gives rise to myriad laws, myriad laws give rise to myriad things, myriad things give rise to myriad beings. Chaos and the Immortal Realm, in the character "Beginning", are the same. Not that Chaos learned from the Immortal Realm, nor the Immortal Realm from Chaos. The Dao is inherently like this. The Dao gives rise, so it gives rise. Whether you are Chaos or Immortal Realm, you must give rise. If you do not give rise, you are not the Dao.

The second character he saw was "Guard".

"Guard" does not mean "protect". The Immortal Realm's "protect" is another character, far more complex. "Guard" here means "not to depart". Not to leave, not to abandon, not to forsake. Why can Immortals live so long? Not because their lifespans are long, but because they "do not depart". Not from the Immortal Realm, not from the Great Dao, not from their original hearts. They have always been here, cultivating here, living here, fighting here. They have never left. Therefore, the Immortal Realm has never departed from them. When the Immortal Realm shattered, those Immortals were still here. They did not flee, did not hide, did not surrender. They remained here, shattering together with the Immortal Realm.

Wang Ping gazed at that character, recalling the Mountain-Moving Old Ancestor. The Mountain-Moving Old Ancestor also never departed. Outside the Law Corridor, he could have chosen to flee. His Mountain Core was still there, his cultivation still there, his life still there. He fled, and no one would blame him. But he did not. He stood there, turned around, faced those silver guards, and said with a smile: "Brother, take care." Then he self-destructed. He did not depart. He "guarded" to the end.

Wang Ping's eye sockets grew hot again. But no tears fell. He held them back. Because the Primordial Star-Gazer of Myriad Phenomena was watching him. In those characters, in that light, in that space. He did not want the elder to see him cry. The elder had waited thirty thousand years, not to see him weep.

The third character he saw was "Forget".

"Forget" does not mean "to forget". The Immortal Realm's "forget" is another character, meaning "to vanish from memory". "Forget" here means "to let go". To let go of obsession, to let go of hatred, to let go of regret. When the Immortal Realm shattered, many died. Those who died had friends, fellow disciples, masters, relatives. Those who survived bore their memories, bore their expectations, bore their last wishes. Those things were heavy—so heavy as to prevent one from walking. The Primordial Star-Gazer of Myriad Phenomena had let go. Not that he had forgotten, but that he had let go. He remembered every person, every event, every detail. But he did not carry them. He placed them on the Immortal Realm fragments, in the Return to the Void, in the river of time. Then he walked on. Alone, lightly equipped.

Wang Ping gazed at that character, recalling those who had died along his journey. The Mountain-Moving Old Ancestor, Jiang Mingyuan, Lei Wantiang, Bing Yue Xianzi. And many others he could not name, who had fallen one by one in the Law Corridor, in the Return to the Void, in the Time Reversal. Their faces, Wang Ping remembered. But he could not always carry them. Carrying them too long, he would be unable to walk. Unable to walk, he would fail them. They had given their lives to pave his path—he could not stop because the burden was too great. He had to let go. Not to forget, but to let go. Keep them in the heart, but not on the shoulders.

He continued reading. One character, then another. Each character was like a key, opening a locked door in his heart. The door opened, and what was inside surged forth. Some were memories, some were emotions, some were insights. When they surged forth, Wang Ping's body would tremble slightly, his breathing would become slightly rapid, his heartbeat would slightly accelerate. But after each tremor, he would become a little steadier. After each rapid breath, he would become a little slower. After each acceleration, he would become a little heavier.

He reached the final page.

On the wall, only a blank space remained. In the blank, no characters, no Immortal markings, no trace. But Wang Ping knew there were characters there. There was written the final sentence. Not written in characters, but "written" by the Dao. The Dao was saying—You have finished reading. You have understood. You may go.

Wang Ping stood there, gazing at the blank space.

The Chaos Light within him shone brightly, illuminating his face, his eyes, the tears in his eyes. The tears did not fall, but swirled in his eye sockets. They swirled a few times, then returned. Not that he had held them back, but that they had returned. The tears knew—now was not the time to cry. The time to cry had not yet come. Wait until all is over, wait until the Spirit Realm is safe, wait until the Lord of Order is defeated, then—then cry. Cry one's fill. Cry for three days and three nights. Cry out all the grievances, fears, fatigue, and sorrow of this journey. But now is not the time. Now one must still walk. The road is still long.

Wang Ping took a deep breath, turned around, and walked toward the hall doors.

His steps were much steadier than when he had entered. Not because he had become stronger, but because he had become lighter. The burdens on his shoulders had been lifted somewhat by the characters. Not entirely, but partially. Some was enough. Some was enough to let him walk faster, farther, more steadily.

Outside the hall door, Cangxuan, Yuliuli, and Youying stood there. They saw Wang Ping emerge from the darkness, saw the tear tracks on his face, saw the light in his eyes, saw the slight upward curve at the corner of his mouth. They did not ask. Because there was no need to ask. The answer was written on his face—I found it. I understood. I can continue on.

Wang Ping walked up to them and stopped.

He looked at Cangxuan, at Yuliuli, at Youying. Three people, three expressions. Cangxuan's calm, Yuliuli's anticipation, Youying's silence. But in their eyes, there was the same thing—trust. Not blind trust, not unconditional trust, not trust without expectation of return. It was a trust that said, "We have walked this far together, so I believe you." This trust was walked into, not spoken into. Walked with feet. Walked with lives. Walked with blood and tears.

"Let's go," Wang Ping said.

His voice was very soft, soft as wind. But in the Immortal Palace, in the Gui Xu, at the end of time—that voice weighed as heavily as a mountain. Cangxuan nodded, Yuliuli nodded, Youying nodded. Four people turned and walked deeper into the Immortal Palace. Their figures vanished into the darkness. Behind them, on the walls of the great hall, those characters gradually faded. Not extinguished, but asleep. They had waited thirty thousand years, and finally waited for the ones who were meant to come. They were tired. It was time to rest.

In the darkness, only those two characters still glowed—"Chaos." They would keep glowing. Glowing until the next thirty thousand years, until the next one who was meant to come, until the end of the Dao. Because the Dao has no end.