Chapter 411

When they came up from the pit's bottom, it was already the fourth day.

Wang Ping walked at the front, his steps much lighter than before going down—not because he had become lighter, but because his body had found a new balance. Chaos Immortal Lightning had taken residence inside him, like a seed taking root in soil, its rootlets spreading in all directions, entwining with his meridians, connecting to his dantian, and growing with his primordial spirit. When he walked, he could feel those rootlets trembling faintly—not uncomfortable, but a sign of life. Cang Xuan followed behind him; his sword no longer sounded in its sheath. It had awakened; an awakened sword needs no words, it only needs to be drawn when its master requires it. Now it was not needed, so it stayed quiet, like a traveler dozing in a carriage, knowing the road is still long, not in a hurry.

Yu Liuli walked in the middle; the guqin's strings had been replaced with new ones, but her fingers still remembered the feel of the broken strings. Broken strings differ from new ones: broken strings are elastic, they loosen after prolonged play, and a loosened string sounds softer, more glutinous, like congee simmered for a long time. New strings are tight, their sound hard, like freshly scooped rice from the pot, grain by grain, crunchy when bitten. Her fingers were adapting, and the guqin's heart was adapting too. You Ying walked last, still holding that shard in her hand—white base with blue flowers, a lotus painted on it. She had affixed it to her chest for four days; the shard's temperature had shifted from icy cold to warm, like a piece of jade warmed in the palms. Her heartbeat transmitted to the shard, the shard's vibration transmitted to her heart. She was listening to that word "An"; it no longer spoke, but it was still there. Like a person who closes their eyes—you know they aren't asleep, they just don't want to open them.

As they walked down the long corridor, Wang Ping noticed that the immortal markings on the stone pillars had changed. When they had come, those markings were dim, grayish, as if covered in dust. Now they glowed—not entirely, but certain strokes were bright, as if someone had drawn a few lines with a fluorescent pen in the dark. Those bright strokes connected, forming a path that stretched from the corridor's end deep into the Immortal Palace. Wang Ping stopped, looked at the glowing strokes for a while, then walked forward along them. He didn't tell anyone what he had seen; he simply walked, and the others followed. Trust works like that—no explanation needed, no reason, no proof. He walked, and they followed.

The Immortal Herb Garden lies in the deepest part of the Immortal Palace, deeper even than that collapsed hall.

When they passed through the region eroded by Order's Power, the stones underfoot no longer made a creaking sound. Those stones, riddled with holes, had been crushed under Wang Ping's feet when he arrived, turned to powder, and the powder blown away by the wind—the wind of Immortal Spirit Qi, which carried the powder far off to settle elsewhere. What they now stepped on was new stone, untouched by Order's Power. It was hard and solid, making no sound when stepped on—not silent, but the sound was too faint, drowned out by Wang Ping's footsteps. He walked quickly, his steps heavy, tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat, like a horse galloping. He didn't know why he walked so fast; his legs accelerated on their own, his body telling him—he was almost there.

The wall of the Immortal Herb Garden still stood.

The wall was very high, so high its top could not be seen, but the top of the wall was overgrown with dry grass, the grass long and hanging down like a person's hair that had not been combed for ages, tangled and messy, hanging on the wall. The wall surface was covered with vines, the vines had died, dried up, yet still clung tightly to the wall, like countless withered hands gripping the wall and refusing to let go. Wang Ping stood before the wall's gate, the gate was gone, the door panel missing, the door frame still there, the bronze nails on the frame still there, the bronze nails rusted to a greenish black. He stepped over the threshold and entered the Immortal Herb Garden.

The garden was huge, so huge that at a glance you could not see the edge—not truly invisible, but his line of sight was blocked by those withered trees. There were many withered trees, thick and dense, like a dead forest. The trunks were grayish-white, some still standing, some already fallen, the fallen trunks lying on the ground, supported by other trunks, like a bridge built of dead wood. The canopy was gone, the branches remained, bare and naked, like countless fingers stretching toward the sky, as if pleading for something. Wang Ping entered the withered woods; the ground beneath his feet was soft, not because the soil was soft, but because of the fallen leaves. A thick layer of leaves covered the ground, stepping on it made a rustling sound, like walking on snow. He bent down and picked up a leaf; the leaf was completely dry, thin as paper, crisp as a chip. He gently pinched it, and the leaf crumbled, fragments drifting from between his fingers like butterflies, like snowflakes, like ashes.

Most of the immortal herbs had withered.

Wang Ping passed a withered tree; on its trunk there was a scar shaped like a face, with eyes, nose, and mouth. The mouth was open, as if shouting something. He stopped, stared at that face for a long time, then reached out and touched the scar. The scar was hard and rough, like old bark. His finger traced over it, feeling a temperature—not cold, not hot, but the sense of 'once having warmth.' Like a stove just extinguished, if you put your hand inside, the chamber still holds residual heat, though you know the fire is out. Wang Ping withdrew his hand and continued on.

He walked over a dried-up pond; the soil at the pond's bottom had cracked into countless irregular fragments, like a map shattered and then hastily pieced together. The edge of each fragment curled upward, like withered lips. In the center of the pond lay a stone, carved with two characters—not immortal runes, but ordinary mortal writing, reading 'Lingquan' (Spirit Spring). Wang Ping crouched down, stared at those two characters for a long time. He recalled that as a child, his village also had a well, beside which stood a stone tablet engraved with the two characters 'Longquan' (Dragon Spring). Every day he went to fetch water, he would see those two characters, year after year, never pondering their meaning. Now he thought about it, but the well had long run dry, the tablet had fallen, and the village was gone.

He stood up and continued walking.

At the deepest part of the Immortal Herb Garden lay a clearing. The clearing had no withered trees, no withered grass, no fallen leaves—only soil, black and moist, exhaling a faint scent. It was neither fragrant nor foul, but a smell that made one feel at ease upon inhaling, like the quilt of childhood that carried the scent of sunshine, of mother, and of oneself. Wang Ping stood in the clearing and drew a deep breath; the air entered his nose, passed through his throat, trachea, lungs, heart, dantian, and primordial spirit. His chaos primordial spirit in the dantian stretched lazily, like someone just waking who stretches then curls back. It did not dislike this place because it was bad, but because it was too good—so good it made it want to sleep. Wang Ping did not sleep; he saw.

In the center of the clearing stood a stalk of azure lotus.

It did not grow in water but in soil. Its roots were embedded in the black earth, its stem green, thin and straight like a chopstick. It bore few leaves—only three, each tiny, as small as a copper coin. The flower had not yet bloomed; the bud was white, so translucent that the layered petals inside could be seen, stacked like a mille-feuille, like a thousand origami cranes, like a thousand words. It emitted light—not bright or glaring, but soft and warm, like candlelight. Around it formed a halo of light, just large enough to envelop it. Outside the halo lay withered immortal herbs, the dried-up pond, collapsed walls, the dead forest. Inside the halo was it—alive, growing, glowing. It was the sole living thing on this wasteland.

Youying walked up beside Wang Ping, her eyes fixed on the azure lotus, light in her eyes. The light was not the lotus's glow reflected in her eyes, but her own. The bloodline of the Myriad Phenomena Stargazers was awakening; her ancestors had once seen this azure lotus when the immortal realm still existed, when the Immortal Herb Garden had not yet fallen into ruin, when those immortals still gathered herbs and concocted pills here. Her ancestors had drawn the lotus's appearance in ancient texts, meticulously rendering every leaf's texture, every petal's vein, every ray of light's direction, clear as day. Youying had looked at that painting countless times since childhood, so much that she could sketch the lotus with her eyes closed. But she had never seen the real thing. Now she had.

"Chaos Azure Lotus." Her voice was soft, soft as if she were speaking in a dream, "The chief ingredient for refining the Chaos Boundary-Breaking Pill. With it, you can break through to Mid Soul Formation."

Wang Ping gazed at the azure lotus for a long time. He did not reach out to pluck it, because he felt it was looking at him—not with eyes, but with 'presence.' It stood there, having lived who knows how many years, perhaps thirty thousand, perhaps more. In the deepest part of the Immortal Herb Garden, amid this ruin, among the withered immortal herbs, it had survived. Not because its vitality surpassed others', but because it needed little. It required only a bit of soil, a bit of moisture, a bit of light. Soil remained, moisture remained, light remained. And so it lived.

Wang Ping crouched, bringing himself level with the azure lotus. Its bud trembled slightly—not from wind, but in response to him. It recognized him, not his face, but his chaos power. Chaos Azure Lotus, Chaos Boundary-Breaking Pill, chaos power—all bear the surname Chaos; they are a family. Wang Ping extended his hand, his fingertips slowly approaching. When his fingertip was still an inch away, he stopped. Not because he hesitated, but because he was waiting—for its consent.

The bud twitched, then twitched again, as if nodding. Wang Ping's finger touched its stem. The stem was very thin and soft, like an infant's finger. His fingertip could feel its pulse—not a heartbeat, but the pulse of growth. It grew ceaselessly, though so slowly that the human eye could not perceive it, yet it was indeed lengthening. Its roots dug downward, its stem pushed upward, its leaves unfurled outward, its bud drew inward. It was preparing to bloom, having prepared for who knows how many years. Perhaps it would bloom tomorrow, perhaps never. It was not in a hurry.

Wang Ping's finger slid from the stem down to the root. The root was embedded deep, so deep its bottom could not be seen. He did not pull it out, for he knew he could not. Its root had grown together with this land; to pull it would be to tear the root apart, snap the stem, and destroy everything. He could not pull. What he needed was the whole azure lotus—not its flower, not its leaves, not its stem, not its root—but the plant itself. He needed to take it away whole, roots and soil, together with everything on this clearing. He could not. In his palm he still held that thunder pearl; chaos immortal lightning could destroy everything, but could not preserve everything. He had not come to destroy; he had come to take away.

Youying walked to his side and squatted. Her fingers lightly brushed the soil around the azure lotus; the soil was soft, as if rain had just fallen. Her fingers felt something hard and round in the soil. She dug it out—a seed. Not the seed of the chaos azure lotus, but that of another immortal herb. It was tiny, as small as a sesame seed, black and glossy, like a black pearl. Youying placed the seed in her palm; it rolled once and then stopped. It sensed her body heat, her warmth transferred into the seed, and the seed responded. It said—'I am still alive.'

Wang Ping looked at the seed, then at the azure lotus. Suddenly he understood. He did not need to take the whole azure lotus; he only needed to take its seed. The lotus, while alive, would produce seeds. A seed falling to the ground, buried in soil, would sprout when the time was right and grow into a new azure lotus. That is life—you need not uproot it, need not bring it home, need not lock it in a jade box. It will go on its own. You only need to wait.

He searched around the azure lotus for a long time but found no seed. It had not yet seeded; perhaps it never would, perhaps it would tomorrow. He could not wait. He had no time. The Lord of Order would awaken in three years; he needed to break through to Mid Soul Formation, he needed the Chaos Boundary-Breaking Pill, he needed this azure lotus. He could not wait.

Wang Ping took a jade box from his bosom. The box was not large, just big enough to hold the azure lotus. Its lid bore runes engraved by a refiner of the Ninth Dao Institute, able to keep medicinal herbs fresh and prevent loss of potency. He opened the lid and placed the box beside the lotus. Then he reached out, his finger touching the lotus's stem again. This time he did not pause. His finger slid down the stem to the root, and his chaos power surged from his fingertip, enveloping the lotus's entire root system. The root was deep—so deep his chaos power could not probe its bottom. But his chaos power was not meant to probe; it was meant to 'speak.' It said to the lotus—'Come with me.' Here there is no one left; you have waited thirty thousand years with no visitor. I have come; I will take you away. I will plant you elsewhere, where there is sunshine, rain, wind, and people. You will not be alone.

The lotus's root twitched in the soil—not pulled out by Wang Ping, but moving of its own accord. It was retracting its roots. Those roots that had penetrated for thirty thousand years, one by one, withdrew from the earth like a person drawing a foot back from water. The roots were many, dense, fine, tangled together like a knotted skein. Yet they retracted swiftly, faster than Wang Ping's eyes could follow. He only saw the soil churn, the lotus rise, its roots exposed. Finally all the roots were gathered, bundled into a ball the size of a fist. The lotus's stem grew straight from the center of that ball, thin and fine. The three leaves unfurled along the stem, green and tender. The bud at the tip was white and bright. It lay in Wang Ping's palm like a newborn bird that had not yet opened its eyes, still trembling. He gently placed it into the jade box, closed the lid. The runes on the lid flashed once, then dimmed. It fell asleep.

Wang Ping slipped the jade box into his bosom, pressing it against his chest. He could feel its pulse—slow, faint, but steady. It was breathing, growing, dreaming. In its dream there was sunshine, rain, wind, and soil. There were the immortals it had seen thirty thousand years ago, laughing, speaking, gathering herbs. It did not know them, but it remembered them. They had come, looked at it, touched it, then left, never to return. It was waiting, having waited a long time, waiting for flowers to bloom and fade, for leaves to yellow and turn green again, for its roots to grow longer than its body. It did not know for whom it waited, but it knew that person would come. Wang Ping had come.

Youying also placed that seed into a jade box—not Wang Ping's, but her own. Her jade box was tiny, able to hold only a single seed. She put the seed inside, closed the lid, and pressed it to her heart. Her heartbeat transmitted to the seed; the seed's vibration passed to her heart. It said—'Thank you.' Not for her putting it into a jade box, but for her hearing it. For thirty thousand years no one had heard it. It had cried out for thirty thousand years, its voice hoarse, yet no one listened. She had listened.

Cangxuan stood at the entrance of the Immortal Herb Garden, not entering. His sword trembled slightly in its sheath, not from excitement but from vigilance. He sensed something in the garden's depths, farther than the Qinglian. There was a person there—not a living person, but a remnant soul. It stood there, motionless, watching them. It had no malice, no kindness, no consciousness. It merely stood there. Cangxuan's hand rested on the sword hilt, but he did not draw. He knew it would not come over; it only watched.

Yuliuli sat under a withered tree, her guqin resting on her knees. She did not play; she was listening. In the Immortal Herb Garden there were sounds, many sounds. The withered tree said— I am thirsty. The dried-up pond said— I am hungry. The collapsed wall said— I am in pain. The withered immortal herbs said— I am cold. Those sounds were tiny, fine, like mosquito cries. But Yuliuli heard them. Her zither-heart vibrated, resonating with those sounds. When they resonated, her heart also ached, also hungered, also felt cold, also thirsted. She came to know their feelings, and they knew she knew. They stopped calling, for they had finally been heard.

When Wang Ping walked out of the Immortal Herb Garden, the jade box in his bosom grew warm. It was not his body heat warming it; it was heating itself. It told him— I have awakened. Not awakened inside the jade box, but awakened in his bosom. His heartbeat transmitted to the jade box, the temperature inside the jade box transmitted to the Qinglian, and the Qinglian's pulse merged with his heartbeat. It said— I am here, I am with you, I am in your heart. Wang Ping placed his hand on his chest, feeling that faint throb. He smiled.

Cangxuan loosened his grip on the sword hilt, his palm slick with sweat. It was not nervousness; it was the sounds in the Immortal Herb Garden that made him uneasy. He could not hear those sounds, but his sword could. The sword told him— Many dead things remain here, they have not left. Not because they do not wish to go, but because they do not know where to go. They have lived here a long time, lived until death, and even after death they remain here. They do not know of any other place they could go besides this. Cangxuan moved his hand from the hilt to his chest. His heart beat fast, very fast. The sword fell silent; his heartbeat drowned out its vibration. He heard his own heartbeat— thump, thump, thump— like a drummer beating a drum. The drumbeat told those dead things— Here, here there is a living person. You can follow him; the place he is going is better than this.

Yuliuli rose from under the withered tree; the dust on her guqin was wiped clean by her. The instrument's body shone bright in the sunlight, like a mirror. The mirror reflected her face— her face was very white, not pallid, but pure white. Her eyes were very bright, not tearful, but radiant. She had heard those sounds in the Immortal Herb Garden, listened for a long time, until finally the sounds ceased calling. They began to sing. Not a lament, but a lullaby. They sang for themselves, for the seeds not yet sprouted, for this deadened land. They sang for a long time— they sang for thirty thousand years, and no one heard them. Yuliuli heard them. Her zither-heart learned that melody; she can now play it for others.

Youying pressed the jade box against her chest, holding it there for a long time. The seed in her bosom had ceased rolling. It had found a position, a comfortable spot, just left of her heart. It made its home there, like a heart, like a tiny being that does not beat but is alive. Youying does not know when it will sprout— perhaps tomorrow, perhaps next year, perhaps never. But she is not in a hurry. She has waited thirty thousand years; waiting a few more years is nothing.

When Wang Ping walked out of the Immortal Herb Garden, he glanced back. The garden was still the same garden— withered trees, withered grass, dried-up pond, collapsed walls. But it was different. Not because the garden had changed, but because his eyes seeing it had changed. He saw new buds on the trunks of the withered trees. Not living buds, but buds that had always been on the dead branches, dead yet still there. They had waited a long time, waiting for a rain, waiting for a gust of wind, waiting for someone to come and take them away. Wang Ping could not take them away; he could only look. He looked at those buds and thought in his heart— Someone will come. Someone will come.

He turned and walked away. In his arms, the jade box was warm. In his palm, the thunder pearl shone. In his primordial spirit, chaos swirled. He walked ahead, Cangxuan walked behind, Yuliuli walked in the middle, Youying walked last. Four figures, before the gate of the Immortal Herb Garden, under the gaze of the withered tree, amidst the flow of immortal spirit energy, slowly, slowly, walked away.