Chapter 409

At the moment his fingertip touched it, the world fell silent. Not the silence of no sound—there was no sound in the Return to the Void to begin with. It was a deeper silence—even the concept of 'silence' itself fell silent. You couldn't hear your own heartbeat, couldn't hear your own breath, couldn't hear the sound of blood flowing in your vessels. You couldn't even hear the fact that you couldn't hear. You became a person without ears, yet you felt no lack, because sound was never important.

Wang Ping's finger rested on the thing's surface—no temperature, no texture, no resistance. His finger passed through its surface, as if passing through water, through air, through nothingness. The thing's surface was not a membrane, not a wall, not a door. It was a 'boundary', a boundary between existence and non-existence. Wang Ping's finger crossed that boundary, entering a place that did not exist. Yet his hand remained; he could see his own fingers—five of them, joints distinct, nails neatly trimmed. The fingers were there, his body here. The fingers existed, the body existed, but their mode of existence differed.

His hand was pulled in. Not the thing pulling him; it was his own hand moving inward. Like someone who had walked a long way in a desert, spotting an oasis, his feet moving toward it against his will, his body lagging, his mind wondering if it were a mirage. But his hand had gone. His wrist hadn't crossed the surface, his forearm hadn't, his elbow hadn't. Wang Ping felt a force drawing him in—not pulling from outside, but sucking from within. Like a vortex, like a black hole, like an abyss that would never be filled. He did not struggle, for his Chaos Primordial Spirit told him—go in, go in, this is the way home.

His whole self was swallowed.

Cang Xuan saw Wang Ping vanish into that cluster of light at the pit's bottom; his foot twitched—not to follow, but instinctively to grab something. His fingers sliced the air, grasping nothing. Wang Ping was gone, and so was that light. The pit's bottom returned to darkness, only the radiating cracks remained, like a vast spiderweb waiting for the next prey.

Cang Xuan pressed his hand to the sword hilt, knuckles whitening. His sword let out a low hum from its sheath—not anger, not fear, but doubt. The sword knew nothing of what had happened; it was still asleep, yet it sensed its master's heartbeat quickening, his temperature rising, his palm sweating. The sword asked—what's wrong? Cang Xuan did not answer, for he did not know how. His eyes fixed on the spot where Wang Ping had vanished—nothing there, no light, no trace, no warmth. But he knew Wang Ping was still there, for his Chaos Divine Sense lingered. Faint, so faint it might gutter at any moment, yet it remained. Like a candle burning in the wind, its flame wavering but not yet out.

Yu Liuli cradled her ancient zither, crouching at the pit's edge. Her fingers lightly plucked the strings—not playing, but probing. The strings vibrated, emitting a faint sound; those sounds echoed in the pit, bouncing off walls, floor, ceiling, and back again. The echoes multiplied, grew chaotic, and finally became a buzzing white noise. Yet within that white noise, Yu Liuli heard a sound—soft, distant, as if someone far away were calling her name. Not the three syllables 'Yu Liuli', but her zither-heart calling her. The zither-heart is something cultivated by zither players of the Fallen Immortal Clan; it is not the heart, not the primordial spirit, not any organ. It is a 'resonance': when the zither sounds, the heart sounds too, and the two together form the zither-heart. Now her zither-heart resonated, faintly, but she heard it. The sound said—he is still here.

You Ying stood at the pit's edge, her eyes fixed on the radiating cracks. Those cracks were not random, not disordered; they had a pattern, a direction, a source. The source was the point where Wang Ping had vanished; all the cracks spread outward from that point, like ripples from a stone tossed into water. But these were not ripples—ripples spread outward, whereas these cracks contracted inward. They did not split outward from the center; instead, they converged from the periphery toward the center, as if something at the center drew them in, pulling them, pulling them, pulling them onto that point, where they vanished. You Ying's gaze followed the widest crack inward to its end, where she saw a tiny thing at the crack's edge, so small it would be missed unless looked at closely. She crouched and pinched it between her fingers—a shard of white‑blue porcelain bearing a painted lotus. The lotus petals were shattered, leaving only a solitary one. She turned the shard over; on its back was a single character—'An'. Her hand trembled.

Wang Ping stood in a place.

He did not know what place this was—no sky, no ground, no walls, no up, down, left, right, forward, or backward. He was not standing on anything; he was suspended within something. All around was chaos, not the chaos of chaotic force, but the chaos 'before the world was born'. No light, no darkness, no cold, no heat, no matter, no energy, no time, no space. Nothing at all. Yet Wang Ping was here; he existed, and he was the sole existence in this place. His presence made this chaos not chaotic. Because he was here, this place had a point—a point that could be located, referenced, called 'here'. From this point came 'there', distance, direction. He was the origin of this world.

In the distance, a point of light. It had not appeared suddenly; it had always been there, but Wang Ping had not seen it just before, because there had been no light, and a point of light needs light to be visible. Wang Ping's existence produced light, and that light let him see the point. The point pulsed, like a heart, like a lamp, like a life gestating. Wang Ping walked toward it—not with his feet, but with his awareness. To draw near, he simply became nearer; to see its details, they grew clearer. This was a world constituted by awareness; its appearance depended on how he looked.

The point of light became a cluster of light, which coalesced into a humanoid shape. The figure had no facial features, no robes, no gender, no discernible traits. Yet Wang Ping knew who it was—he was the progenitor of the Myriad Phenomena Stargazer, the old man who had gazed at silver light on the mountain peak, the one who had carved characters into a stone pillar, the one who had left his Dao upon the fragments of the Immortal Realm. He was here, in this place before the world's birth, waiting for Wang Ping.

The figure extended its hand—not to shake, but to show him something. In its palm lay a tiny cluster of light, as small as a sesame seed. Yet the light was brilliant, blazing to the point that Wang Ping's eyes could not stay open. He narrowed his gaze, watching the speck of light as it jumped, spun, and shifted. Its color cycled from white to gold, gold to red, red to purple, purple to black, black to white—over and over. Wang Ping watched and watched, then suddenly understood—this was not light, but lightning. Chaos Immortal Lightning. The Chaos Immortal Lightning of the Myriad Phenomena Stargazer's progenitor.

The figure's palm closed, and the light vanished. Wang Ping's eyes remained fixed on that hand—long fingers, distinct joints, neatly trimmed nails. Under his gaze, the hand began to change: fingers shortened, joints thickened, nails rounded. The hand became his own. Wang Ping lowered his eyes to his palm, where a tiny cluster of light lay, as small as a sesame seed. Yet it shone brightly, searing his eyes so he could not keep them open. He squinted at the speck as it jumped, spun, and shifted. His Chaos Primordial Spirit throbbed once in his dantian—not fear, not excitement, but acknowledgment. His Chaos Primordial Spirit said—yes, this is yours. Take it.

Wang Ping clenched his fist.

Light seeped from between his fingers, illuminating this chaos. He saw many things—the remnants of immortal souls, the obsessions that had wandered this Immortal Palace for thirty thousand years, bereft of consciousness, of body, of anything to cling to. They simply existed there, like dust in wind, like bubbles in water, like meteors in the night sky. They drifted past Wang Ping—some swift, some slow, some urgent, some calm. Some rushed straight at him, some circled him, some watched him from afar, unmoving. They were the remnants of immortals, the last traces left by those who fell when the Immortal Realm shattered.

The first immortal‑soul remnant drifted from the left. It moved slowly, like a falling leaf spinning in the wind—now up, now down, now left, now right. It had no fixed direction, for it had no purpose. It did not know where it was going, why it was going, or what it was doing. It simply drifted, drifting for thirty thousand years, from one end of the Immortal Palace to the other and back again, never leaving the palace. Wang Ping watched it; its shape resembled a person, but was very blurry, like a water‑soaked photograph: the human outline remained, but the features were indiscernible. It halted before him, ceasing its drift. It regarded him—not with eyes, but with 'existence'. It sensed Wang Ping's presence, sensed the chaos power within him, sensed the disordered origin within his body. It pondered, recalled, wondered—'I have seen this before. Long, long ago, I saw this.' Back then I still lived, still had a body, still had a name, still had friends, still had enemies. Now nothing remains but the feeling of having seen it.

It lunged at Wang Ping.

Not an attack, but an embrace. It wanted to hold Wang Ping, to knead him into its own body, to become one with him. For it was a remnant soul, and a remnant soul's instinct is to seek something to attach to. It had no body, no consciousness, no basis of existence; it needed a host. Wang Ping's Chaos Primordial Spirit was the perfect host. It moved with great speed—too fast for Wang Ping to react. Its form passed through his body without collision, without resistance, without sensation. A remnant soul is not matter, not energy, not anything that can interact. It is merely an 'obsession'. An obsession passes through your body; you feel nothing, but your heart does. Wang Ping's heart clenched tight, as if grasped by something. Countless images flashed in his mind—not his own memories, but those of the immortal. He saw the Immortal Palace as it still stood, immortals flying through the sky, cultivating in divine halls, enlightening beneath immortal trees. Those images were jumbled, fragmented, like a shattered mirror whose shards lay scattered, each reflecting a different scene. In some he laughed, in some he wept, in some he fought, in some he ate. Wang Ping could not tell which mattered; he only knew that among those images lay a common thread—a name. Not the immortal's name, but another's. He had been calling that name, incessantly, for thirty thousand years—since he was alive, until death, even after becoming a remnant soul, he still called it. He called a woman's name. Was she his wife? His daughter? His martial sister? Wang Ping did not know. He only knew that this name was that immortal's final obsession, the sole proof of his having existed, the last trace he left in the world.

The remnant soul passed through Wang Ping's body, finding no host—for it was too weak, lacking even the ability to cling. It simply slipped through, then continued drifting, fading into the darkness. Wang Ping stood there, his heart still beating, faster than usual. His palm still held that speck of light; though it no longer shone, it remained, like a seed buried in his palm, waiting to take root and sprout.

Cangxuan waited by the pit for a long time. He didn't know how long he had waited; there was no time here. He only knew his legs were numb, from his toes all the way up to the base of his thighs, as if countless ants were crawling in his blood vessels. He shifted his posture, from standing to squatting, from squatting to sitting, from sitting to kneeling. His knees knocked against the stone, it hurt, but he didn't move. His eyes stayed fixed on that point, the point where Wang Ping had disappeared; there was nothing there, yet he felt something was there. His sword vibrated faintly in its sheath, not a ringing, but a vibration, like someone far away striking a bell, the bell's sound reaching here, leaving only a faint vibration. Cangxuan placed his hand on the hilt; the vibration traveled to his palm, his palm went numb—not the numbness from poor blood flow, but the numbness you feel when you put your hand on a speaker and the bass shakes your hand. The vibration told him—he was over there, he was still alive.

The second immortal soul remnant floated down from above. It was not slow like the first one; it was fast, as fast as a bolt of lightning. It split out of the darkness and headed straight for Wang Ping's crown. Wang Ping lifted his head and saw that light—it was not white, but gold, blindingly gold. His eyes stung, but he did not close them, because he knew this remnant soul was not attacking him, but testing him. It wanted to know whether he was worthy to receive its inheritance.

The remnant halted before Wang Ping, its form much clearer than the first's. One could see a human shape, the outline of its robes, the sword at its waist. Its hand rested on the hilt, posture identical to Cangxuan's. Wang Ping stared for a moment, then laughed. This was the remnant of a sword immortal. Like Cangxuan, a sword fanatic who recognized only the sword in life and only the sword in death. Its obsession was the sword, the sword way, the sword that had accompanied it all its life.

The remnant drew its sword. Though there was no actual blade, it merely made the drawing motion, but Wang Ping felt it—a fierce sword intent sweeping over him, stronger, purer, and older than Cangxuan's sword intent. This was not an attack, but a display. It was showing Wang Ping its sword way, its sword technique, the insight it had gained over a lifetime. Wang Ping could not understand, for he was not a sword cultivator. But his primordial chaos spirit could comprehend it, for the primordial chaos spirit embraces all things, and the sword way is among all things. The sword intent left a trace in his primordial chaos spirit, like a knife carving grooves into wood. The grooves were deep, deep enough never to disappear.

The remnant sheathed its sword, turned, and walked away. It did not look back, for its obsession had been fulfilled. It had found someone who could comprehend its sword intent—though that person was not a sword cultivator, he would carry its sword intent away, to a place it had never been. The remnant's shadow faded in the darkness, like an ink painting soaked in water: the ink bled, the lines blurred, finally becoming a pale gray, and then even that gray vanished. Wang Ping stood there; his primordial chaos spirit now held an extra strand of sword intent—not his own sword, but one he could wield. His primordial chaos power could simulate any force, sword intent included. In his palm, that speck of light jumped once, as if saying—'Not bad.'

Yuliuli's lute strings snapped. Not broken by plucking, they broke on their own. Of the seven strings, three snapped; the remaining four went slack, hanging limp and drooping on the instrument like an old person's skin. She looked at the broken strings, feeling no pity, no panic, just watching. The strings were broken, yet the sound remained. In her lute's heart lay the sounds of those broken strings; they had not vanished, merely changed their mode of existence. Yuliuli closed her eyes, pressed her ear to the lute's body, and heard many sounds—not the strings' voices, but the voices of the remnant souls. They had drifted in the immortal palace for thirty thousand years, always speaking, yet no one listened. Her lute was the first willing to hear them speak. They surged forward, encircling her lute like a crowd of hungry children around an old man dispensing food. Their voices were chaotic, noisy, like a crowd arguing, nobody yielding, each wanting Yuliuli to hear them first. Yuliuli did not panic; her fingers lightly plucked the broken strings—though the strings made no sound, their vibration remained. The vibration traveled to the lute's body; the body vibrated, the heart vibrated, and the remnant souls vibrated as well. All the vibrations combined into a single sound, a very long tone, starting from the lowest note and slowly climbing upward, so slowly that you might think it would never reach the top. Yet it kept climbing, kept climbing, climbing for thirty thousand years, still climbing. Yuliuli's tears fell.

The third immortal soul remnant rose from underground. It drilled out of those radial cracks, like a snake, like a root, like a hand stretching up from the earth. Its shape was vague, vague to the point of being nearly invisible, but its obsession was clear—guardianship. It was guarding something, perhaps this immortal palace, perhaps this ruin, perhaps a place where nothing existed. It did not know what it was guarding; it only remembered that it ought to guard. It had guarded for thirty thousand years, with no foes coming, no friends arriving, no one at all. It simply stood there, standing, standing, standing until its body turned to dust, until its consciousness scattered, until only the act of 'standing' itself remained.

Wang Ping walked toward it, but it did not move. Wang Ping stood before it, yet it gave no reaction. Wang Ping reached out, his hand passing through its body, and still it did not react. It no longer remembered what an enemy was, nor what a friend was; it only remembered that it ought to stand here. Wang Ping withdrew his hand, turned to leave, and the remnant suddenly stirred. It extended its hand and seized the corner of Wang Ping's robe—not a true grasp, but its obsession latching onto Wang Ping's existence. It said—'Don't go. If you leave, no one will come. I waited thirty thousand years, finally got a visitor, and you just leave like that?' Wang Ping halted his steps, turned back to look at it. Its shape remained as vague as ever, but Wang Ping could sense its emotion—not sorrow, not anger, but a faint, faint sense of grievance. Like a child abandoned by the roadside by its parents, not crying or fussing, merely standing there, watching the direction its parents had gone. He waited a long time, waited until night fell, waited until dawn, waited until night and day cycled again. The parents never returned, the child remained there. Wang Ping reached out and lightly pressed his hand against its head—not a real press, but his consciousness touching its obsession. Under his touch, that obsession was like a block of ice placed in warm water, slowly melting, melting, melting. It had stood for thirty thousand years; at last it could lie down.

Cangxuan's sword was drawn. It wasn't he who drew it; the sword came out by itself. The sword sprang from its sheath, flew up into midair, hovered there, humming. The blade was bright, bright as a mirror; the mirror reflected a figure—not Cangxuan, but a person he had never seen. That person wore white robes, long hair flowing over the shoulders, a gaunt face, bright eyes. He stood on the sword's body, not stepping on it, but standing in the sword's light. His hand rested on the hilt, posture identical to Cangxuan's. Cangxuan looked at that person; that person also looked at Cangxuan. They gazed at each other across the swordlight, neither speaking. Cangxuan's sword told him—this was its first master. The one who carved characters on the stone pillar, the one who struck that sword in the immortal palace, the one who left his sword intent upon this ruin. He died, but the sword still remembers him. The sword etched his likeness onto its blade; thirty thousand years have passed, and it has not faded.

The figure in the swordlight moved slightly; he drew the sword. Not a real draw, he made the motion of drawing— the blade brightened in his hand for a moment, then dimmed. Cangxuan's sword hummed in its sheath; it recognized the motion, this was its master's opening stance. It had followed this opening stance countless times, learned it over thirty thousand years, and mastered it. Cangxuan's hand rested on the hilt; he too knew it. Not learned, but taught by the sword. The sword had engraved the master's sword intent into his bones—no need to practice, no need to comprehend; just grip this sword and you know it. Cangxuan gripped the sword; his hand stopped trembling. His sword in hand was steady as a mountain.

Yuliuli's zither sounded. It was not she playing; it was the remnant souls playing. They surrounded her zither, vibrating the strings with their existence. Every string vibrated, even the broken ones. Broken strings emit no sound, but their vibration transmitted to the zither's body; the zither's body vibrated, transmitting to Yuliuli's body; her body vibrated, transmitting to her heart; her heart vibrated. All vibrations combined into a melody. The melody had no name, no author, no words to describe it. But Yuliuli knew it was the immortal realm's requiem. It was the song the immortals sang to themselves before death, at the moment they closed their eyes, at the instant they turned to nothing— they sang this song. They sang for themselves, for comrades, for enemies, for this immortal palace, for the world. Thirty thousand years passed, and no one had heard it. Yuliuli heard it. Her tears fell onto the zither's body; the zither's body vibrated, turning that tear into sound.

The fourth immortal remnant shade appeared behind Wang Ping. It had no shape, no color, no perceptible feature. But Wang Ping knew it was there, because his Chaos Primordial Spirit was afraid. The Chaos Primordial Spirit does not feel fear; it has no emotion, it is merely chaos. Yet before this remnant shade, it shrank slightly, like a child seeing something far larger than itself. Wang Ping turned around, saw nothing. But his divine sense told him— it was right here. Before him, within arm's reach, there was something. That thing was huge, so huge that his divine sense could only perceive a small part of it. Its obsession was battle—not protection, not inheritance, not seeking a host. It was battle. While alive it fought; after death it still fights. It does not remember why it fights, does not remember where the enemy is, does not remember who it is. It only remembers battle itself.

Wang Ping felt that battle intent—it was not aimed at him, but at all living things. Anything with life was its enemy. It does not think, does not judge, does not hesitate; it only fights. A chill ran down Wang Ping's back, not from fear, but from his body telling him— run, you cannot defeat this thing. Yet Wang Ping did not run, because he could not run. Behind him were Cangxuan, Yuliuli, Youying, and those still waiting at the pit's edge for his return. If he ran, who would block it?

The Chaos Domain unfolded to its fullest. Here, in this world formed of consciousness, the Chaos Domain's form was different. It was no longer a gray mist, but a starry sky. Countless stars shone around him, each star representing a law he had comprehended— fire law, ice law, lightning law, space law, time law, order law, chaos law— they operated within his domain like a miniature universe. The remnant shade sensed this starry sky and became excited. Its battle intent surged like a starving wolf seeing prey. It lunged forward, shapeless, soundless, traceless. But Wang Ping felt his domain trembling, those stars swaying, some even extinguishing.

Wang Ping raised his hand; Chaos Immortal Lightning condensed in his palm. That speck of light, that seed, sprouted in his palm—not truly sprouting, but its power awakening. Wang Ping felt a current surge from his palm, crawling up his arm, to his shoulder, to his chest, to his dantian, to his primordial spirit. The Chaos Primordial Spirit snapped open its eyes; within them a bolt of electricity flickered.

Wang Ping thrust his hand forward; that bolt of lightning shot from his palm, not a straight line but a curve, like a snake slithering through the starry sky. It wound around those stars, passed through those laws, and headed straight for the remnant shade. The remnant shade did not dodge, for it cannot dodge; it only fights, never avoids. The lightning struck it, and its body trembled in the lightning—not from pain, but from excitement. It had been a long time since anyone had hit it; for thirty thousand years no one could strike it, because no one dared to fight it. Wang Ping dared; Wang Ping punched it, and it was delighted. Its battle intent grew stronger.

Wang Ping's second bolt of lightning was ready; his left hand also glowed, that speck of light splitting into two—one in his right hand, one in his left. He thrust both hands forward, two arcs of lightning crossing as they shot toward the remnant shade. The remnant shade did not dodge; it met the lightning and charged forward. The lightning struck its body, and the body began to dissolve—not destroyed, but purified. Its obsession dissipated bit by bit in the lightning—not disappearing, but returning home. It had fought for thirty thousand years, was weary, and wished to rest. Wang Ping's third bolt of lightning was not unleashed, because he saw that, in his lightning, the remnant shade revealed a smile—not a face smiling, but its obsession smiling. It said— thank you, letting me finally stop. The lightning faded, and the remnant shade vanished.

Wang Ping stood there, that speck of light still in his palm—no longer a seed; it had sprouted, grown roots, a stem, leaves. It grew in his palm, drawing on his chaos power, on the immortal spirit aura, on fragments left by the remnant souls. It was becoming something, something Wang Ping had never seen. It spun in his palm, faster and brighter. Finally it stopped. A lightning pearl hovered above his palm, silvery-white, tiny as a pearl. Yet it shone brightly, illuminating the entire starry sky. Chaos Immortal Lightning— achieved.

Wang Ping clenched his fist; the lightning pearl merged into his palm and vanished. But his Chaos Primordial Spirit now held a bolt of lightning, one that could be summoned at any moment. He needed no chant, no hand seal, no buildup— only a thought, and the lightning would come. This is Chaos Immortal Lightning—not a spell, not a divine ability, but an extension of his Dao. He is lightning; lightning is him.

Cangxuan's sword still hovered in midair; that figure was gone. The blade's glow had dimmed, but it remained there, waiting for Cangxuan to take it. Cangxuan reached out, gripped the hilt, and the sword trembled slightly in his hand—as if saying— you have taken it. Cangxuan sheathed the sword; the sound of the blade entering the sheath was crisp and loud, echoing long in the pit. His sword no longer slept; it had awakened. It had found a new master, a new direction, a new meaning.

Yuliuli's zither still sounded. The remnant souls surrounded it, unwilling to leave. They were listening to her play the zither— no, not playing; it was her zither singing for them. Singing their past, singing their present, singing their future. Their past was so long that thirty thousand years of singing would not finish it. Their present was so short, only this moment. Their future was so far, unseen. But they were not anxious, for they had finally been heard.

Yin Ying still crouched at the edge of the pit, still gripping that shard in her hand. The 'An' character on the back of the shard began to glow under her gaze. It was not the shard that glowed, but the character itself. The character was alive, responding to her. It recognized her, not her face, but her bloodline—the bloodline of the Wanxiang Stargazers. Thirty thousand years ago, the person who wrote the 'An' on the bottom of the bowl was also a Wanxiang Stargazer. He was her ancestor, a descendant of the Wanxiang Stargazers' founder, her kin from thirty thousand years ago. He had written an 'An' on the bowl's bottom, wishing his family safety. Thirty thousand years later today, his descendant found this bowl's shard. The 'An' he wrote was finally seen. Yin Ying pressed the shard to her chest and closed her eyes.

Wang Ping returned from the world of consciousness. His feet stood on the ground at the bottom of the pit—cold, hard, smooth. His palm still held the warmth of that thunder bead, hot, scorching hot. He looked around: Cangxuan was there, Yuliuli was there, Yin Ying was there. They were still there. He was still alive. He took a deep breath; the breath contained powder, immortal spirit aura, remnants of ordering power, the summons of the chaos primordial spirit, and the scent of lightning. He swallowed it, then smiled. He had returned, bringing the chaos immortal thunder back.

The point of light at the pit's mouth was gradually brightening. Nothing was blocking it; it was shining on its own. It told them—time had come, they should return. Wang Ping raised his head, gazing at that point of light for a long while. Then he lowered his head, looking at his palm. There was nothing in his palm, but he knew the thunder was there. He was there, and the thunder was there.

"Let's go," he said. Cangxuan nodded, Yuliuli nodded, Yin Ying nodded. Four figures rose from the pit's bottom, flying toward that point of light. Behind them, the pit's bottom was darkness; the radiating cracks remained, the lingering souls still wandered, and the shard inscribed with the 'An' character remained. But Wang Ping knew they would return again. For here, there remained an unfinished story.