Chapter 413

Wang Ping stood on the carcass's chest.

There was a deep wound there, the wound extending from the shoulder all the way to the abdomen, like a canyon, like a dried-up river, like a torn piece of paper. The flesh at the wound's edges had dried up, turning dark brown, like old tree bark, like burnt bread, like dried mud. Inside the wound, bones could be seen. The bones were white, white as snow, white as paper, white as nothing. There were no cracks, no notches, no marks of being struck by anything. It was intact, but it was broken. Not broken by a blow, but broken by itself.

When the Chaos White Tiger died, its body could not bear its death, and the bones broke themselves. Not because they were fragile, but because they were too heavy. Its entire life had been too heavy. The roads it had walked, the enemies it had slain, the wounds it had suffered, the blood it had shed, the chaos it had devoured, the things it had guarded, the things it had lost—all of it weighed upon its bones. The bones had borne it a lifetime, borne it to the end, and could bear no longer. With a crack, they broke.

The sound of the bones breaking was loud, loud enough to be heard throughout the immortal realm. Everyone who heard it wept. Not because it had died, but because it had endured for too long. So long that everyone forgot it could also grow tired. It grew tired, it no longer wanted to endure. It wanted to lie down, close its eyes, want nothing, do nothing. It lay down. Thirty thousand years had passed, and it had never risen.

Wang Ping took a deep breath and walked into that wound.

The wound was deep, deep enough that he walked for a long time without reaching the end. His boots trod on the dried muscle, making a creaking creaking sound, like stepping on snow, like stepping on dry leaves. Those muscle fibers were thick, thick as tree roots, extending from the head down, from the feet up, from the left side across, from the right side across, interlacing to form walls upon walls. The walls were soft, but not the softness of elasticity; they were the softness of the dead, deprived of moisture, like leather.

Wang Ping pushed the wall ahead with his hand; the wall swayed but did not fall. He pushed again, the wall swayed but did not fall. He stopped pushing and walked around the wall. The wall was very long, so long that after walking several tens of steps he still had not reached its end. He stopped, caught his breath. The air carried a scent—not of rot, but of dryness, antiquity, like the smell inside a museum.

Those muscle fibers swayed slightly in the immortal spirit qi, like seaweed swaying in water. They were still moving, not because they were alive, but because the immortal spirit qi was blowing them. The immortal spirit qi surged in from outside the wound, blowing on those muscle fibers, causing them to move. Like wind blowing on a flag, the flag moved. The flag is dead, the wind is alive. The flag cannot move on its own, but the wind can make it move.

Wang Ping stood there, watching those muscle fibers sway in the immortal spirit qi for a long time. He wondered, if one day he died, would his muscles also sway like that? Would someone walk into his wound and stare at his muscle fibers in a daze? Would someone take the chaos primordial source fragments from within his body? Would someone, before leaving, say thank you to him? He did not know. He only knew that he was still alive. Being alive means moving forward.

He continued walking.

He had walked for a long time, long enough that his legs began to ache, his breathing grew heavy, his forehead began to sweat, his back became soaked in a large patch, sand got into his boots and rubbed his heels raw. He did not know how far he had gone; he only knew that he had already entered the body of the Chaos White Tiger, entered its muscles, entered its blood vessels, entered its bones, entered its deepest place.

The surroundings grew darker as the dried muscles blocked the outside light, and even the immortal spirit qi could not enter. All he could see was the thunder pearl in his palm, its silvery-white light illuminating a small patch ahead, like an oil lamp, the flame not large but sufficient. The path was narrow, narrow enough for only one person to pass. On either side of the path were bones, white as white, like walls, like two rows of white columns. The bones bore fine, dense patterns, like fingerprints, like leaf veins, like river tributaries.

Wang Ping reached out and touched those patterns. The patterns slightly protruded under his fingertips, like braille. He could not read them, but he knew they were the Chaos White Tiger's Dao. It had carved the Dao into its own bones, so that even if it died, the Dao would not be lost. Bones remain, Dao remains. Dao remains, it remains. It had not died; it had merely changed its mode of existence—not a living existence, but a deceased existence. Death is also a form of existence. Like a stone, which has no life yet exists. Like wind, which has no shape yet exists. Like time, which cannot be seen or touched yet exists. The Chaos White Tiger died, yet it exists. Existence does not require life; existence only requires being remembered.

Youying's voice came from behind, soft but clear: "We have arrived."

Wang Ping stopped his steps and lifted his head.

Ahead, there was a cluster of light.

It was not the silvery-white light of the thunder pearl, not the golden light of the sun, not the silver light of the moon. It was chaos-colored light, gray and hazy, like mist, like clouds, like the scene when chaos first opened, like the state before heaven and earth had separated. The light pulsed, like a heart, expanding and contracting. Like a lamp, when wind blows, the flame jumps; when the wind passes, the flame steadies. Like a life gestating in a mother's womb, kicking, turning, yawning. The light was warm, not the warmth of Qinglian, but the warmth you feel standing beside a bonfire—your face hot, your back cool.

Wang Ping walked toward it, his steps light and slow, as if approaching a sleeping infant, afraid to wake it yet also afraid not to wake it. His chaos primordial spirit in his dantian jumped, jumping very fast, as fast as a startled rabbit, as fast as a drum being struck, as fast as a heart about to explode. It was excited, because it had found its kind.

The thing within that cluster of light was the same as it. Both were chaos primordial source, both were the origin of the Dao, both were the beginning of all things, both were that "One". One gives rise to two, two to three, three to myriad things. It was that "One". They had been separated for a long time, so long that they had forgotten each other's existence. Now they met again. They needed no words, no embrace, no ritual. They simply were there, in the same place, at the same time, within the same existence. That was enough.

Wang Ping reached out, and his fingers touched that cluster of light.

The light was warm and soft, like a mother's hand, like spring breeze, like a freshly sun‑warmed quilt. His fingers passed through the light's surface and felt what lay inside. It was grain after grain of fragments, tiny, as small as sand grains, yet there were many of them, as many as a beach. They floated, rotated, and collided within the light, emitting an extremely faint, delicate sound—like wind chimes, like raindrops, like a heartbeat, like those sounds you hear alone in the deep night, unable to tell whether they are real or illusion.

Wang Ping's finger touched a fragment; the fragment lingered on his fingertip for a moment, as if examining him, as if confirming his identity, as if asking—Who are you? Are you here to take me away? Are you reliable? Will you treat me well? Then the fragment merged into his skin. It was not absorbed; it was going home. It was originally primordial chaos, and Wang Ping's chaotic power is also primordial chaos. They are the same; they should not be separated.

Like a drop of water and the sea, the water left the sea, became cloud, became rain, became river, became well water, became tap water. It had traveled a long way, over a long time, and almost forgot it came from the sea. Then one day it returned to the sea. The sea said—You have returned. The water said—I have returned. No more words needed.

The fragment wandered through Wang Ping's meridians, moving slowly, like a fish swimming in water, looking east and west, as if touring a new place. It passed his wrist, forearm, elbow, upper arm, shoulder, chest, dantian, and arrived before his primordial spirit. The chaotic primordial spirit opened its eyes and gazed at the fragment. Under the primordial spirit's gaze, the fragment melted, turning into light, which merged into the primordial spirit's body. The primordial spirit's aura grew a little stronger—not a rise in cultivation, but an improvement in "quality."

Like a pot of soup, adding a spoonful of broth makes the flavor richer, fresher, more mellow. The soup is still the same soup, but it tastes better. Like a piece of iron, after one hammer strike it becomes denser, harder, brighter. The iron is still the same piece, but it is better. Wang Ping could feel that change, not with his spiritual sense, but with his body. His body was saying—Hmm, yes, just like that, again, again.

He reached his hand into the light, and more fragments surged forward, sticking to his hand like a school of hungry small fish surrounding a breadcrumb. They clung to each finger, the back of the hand, the palm, the spaces between fingers, anywhere they could attach. They attached, merged, attached, merged. Wang Ping felt a warm current flow from his fingertips to his palm, from his palm to his wrist, from his wrist to his arm, from his arm to his shoulder, from his shoulder to his chest, from his chest to his dantian, from his dantian to his primordial spirit.

His body was heating up—not the heat of fever, but the warmth of drinking a bowl of hot soup in winter, the heat of the whole body feeling cozy after exercise, the heat of being tightly embraced. Warmth spread from inside to outside, from heart to limbs, from bones to skin. His chaotic primordial spirit was expanding—not growing larger, but becoming brighter. It had been like an oil lamp with a small flame, flickering, easily blown out. Now it was like a kerosene lamp: the flame was larger, steady, bright, bright enough to illuminate his entire dantian.

The law fragments that had lain dormant in darkness for a long time were awakened by the light. They floated, rotated, and collided in his dantian, emitting a tinkling sound like wind chimes, like glass beads, like the marbles you played with as a child. Wang Ping heard those sounds—not with his ears, but with his primordial spirit. His primordial spirit said—I am growing, I am becoming stronger, I am becoming what I ought to be. Not what I want to become, but what I ought to become.

"Should" and "want" are different. Want is what you choose; should is what the Dao chooses for you. The path the Dao chooses for you, you must walk even if you don't want to. If you walk it, you are right; if you don't, you are wrong. Wang Ping walked. He is walking, he is on the road, he is becoming.

Cangxuan stood outside the wound, his sword vibrating in its sheath. Not the vibration of fear, but of resonance—like two tuning forks, when one is struck, the other echoes. The remains of the Chaos White Tiger vibrated; the vibration traveled to the ground, to his feet, up his legs, to his waist, to his chest, to his hands, to his sword. The sword responded. It said—I have seen you. Not seen Cangxuan, but seen his sword.

When the Chaos White Tiger was alive, it had seen many swords—those of immortals, of mortals, of enemies, of friends, the swords that killed it, the swords that saved it. It did not fear swords, for it was larger than any sword. But it respected swords, because swords were the only things daring to swing at it. A mortal, holding an iron sword, stood before it, the blade pointed at it. One kick could crush that mortal; one bite could shatter that iron sword. Yet that mortal did not flee, did not kneel, did not weep. He stood there, holding the sword, the sword trembling, his hand trembling, his leg trembling, his heart trembling. But he did not lower the sword, for the sword told him—You must not let go. If you let go, you are no longer human. To be human is to stand, to raise the sword, to face something greater than yourself.

The Chaos White Tiger respected that mortal and also respected that sword. Because it knew that in the mortal's hand, the sword was no longer just iron—it was courage. Courage need not be great; it need only be present. Cangxuan's sword learned this in its vibration—respect. Not respect for the strong, but respect for those who dare to swing their swords at the strong. Regardless of whether that person could win, regardless of whether the sword is sharp, regardless of whether that strike lands, as long as he swung, he deserves respect. The sword stilled in its sheath, having found its purpose. The purpose of a sword is not to kill, but to give people courage.

Yuliuli's zither was sounding—not her playing, but the Chaos White Tiger's remains resonating. The withered muscles, the hardened blood vessels, the snow-white bones, the soft fur, the curved claws, the heavy eyelids, the long lashes, the sharp teeth—all vibrated together, emitting a low, deep tone. This was not music; it was the earth's heartbeat.

The Chaos White Tiger is the earth; when it was alive, its heartbeat was the earth's heartbeat. With each step, the earth trembled; with each breath, the wind rose; with each roar, the earth shuddered. It died, yet the earth still beats, because it has grown together with the earth. One cannot tell where it ends and the earth begins. Its bones have grown into the earth's bones, its flesh into the earth's flesh, its heartbeat into the earth's heartbeat. The earth will not die, therefore neither will it.

Yuliuli's zither's heart listened, and heard that heartbeat. It was very slow, very weak, but steady—like an old clock that runs slowly but still runs; like an old river whose flow has diminished but still flows; like an old person whose breathing is weak but still continues. One beat, another, another. Thirty thousand years have passed, and it has been beating all along. No one heard it, because no one came. This place is too remote, too obscure, too broken. No one wishes to come. Yuliuli came. She heard it.

Her fingers lightly plucked the zither strings—not playing, but responding. She told the Chaos White Tiger—I have heard you. You are here, and I am listening. You are not a person. No, you are not a tiger. You are a Chaos White Tiger, you are a king, you are the Dao, you are existence. Existence does not need to be heard, but being heard makes it better. The Chaos White Tiger's heartbeat quickened a little—not because it came back to life, but because it was heard. The feeling of being heard is wonderful.

Youying stood atop the remains, her feet resting on the Chaos White Tiger's skull. The skull was huge—large enough for a hundred people to stand on. Its shape was round, like a hill, like a great drum, like half an eggshell placed upside down on the ground. There were some protrusions on the skull, those were the bone's joints, like small mounds, one connected to the next. Youying stepped between those protrusions, as if stepping in a valley. She walked a few steps, arriving before a depression. That depression was the Chaos White Tiger's eye. The eye had dried up; the eyeball was gone, only the eye socket remained. The eye socket was deep—so deep its bottom could not be seen.

Youying crouched and inserted her hand into the eye socket. Inside it was cool—not icy, but the coolness of a deep well, damp and moist. Her fingers felt something on the inner wall of the socket—smooth, cool, like glass, like ice, like jade. She pried it loose; it fell out and landed in her palm. It was a crystal. Not large, about the size of a fist, its shape irregular—like a shard of broken glass, like a smashed gemstone, like a piece of glazed tile that had been melted by fire and then cooled.

Its color was white, but not ordinary white—it was the kind of white you stare into and cannot look away from, like snow, like clouds, like mist, like a dream, like those beautiful things you can no longer recall. Youying held the crystal up to the light. There was no light above; the surroundings were dark, only her thunder pearl glowing. The light of the thunder pearl passed through the crystal; inside, something moved—tiny, indistinct, like a fish swimming in water, like a butterfly fluttering among flowers, like a shadow walking in a dream.

She stared for a long time, her eyes grew sore, until she finally saw clearly—it was a white tiger. Tiny, small enough to perch on her fingernail, small enough to be pinched between two fingers, small like a toy. Inside the crystal it ran, from one end to the other and back again. It leapt, from ground to air, from air back to ground. It pounced and bit at an unseen enemy, opening its mouth, baring its teeth, swiping its claws. It played, chasing its own tail in circles, spinning round and round until dizzy, falling, getting up, and spinning again.

It did not know it was inside the crystal, did not know anyone outside was watching it, did not know it had been dead for thirty thousand years. It simply repeated the actions it had done when alive, over and over, forever. Because it is a white tiger. A white tiger must run, must leap, must pounce and bite, must play. That is its Dao. The Dao does not die; the Dao only does what it ought to do. Keep doing, keep doing, until the ends of the earth.

Youying pressed the crystal against her chest and closed her eyes. The crystal warmed against her chest—not heat, but the warmth of life. It was alive. Not the crystal itself, but the white tiger inside it was alive. It lived in its own world, in its own time, in its dream. Youying did not want to wake it. She wanted it to keep running, keep jumping, keep pouncing and biting, keep playing. She wanted it to remain unaware that it had died. Not knowing death is to be alive.

When Wang Ping walked out of the wound, the sky had already brightened.

It was not the sky of the spirit realm that had brightened; it was his sky that had brightened. Light shone in his eyes—chaotic in hue, grayish and misty, like the sky before dawn, like the moment when the sun has not yet risen but light is already visible. Light filled his body, seeping from every pore like a lantern, like a star, like a firefly. Light filled his primordial spirit, bright enough that his entire dantian was like daylight, like the midday summer sun, like the reflection off winter snow, like those things you dare not stare at directly.

He stood before the remains of the Chaos White Tiger and bowed deeply. This time deeper and longer than before—his forehead nearly touched his knees, his fingertips almost brushed the ground. His body arched like a bridge, a bridge connecting life and death, a bridge connecting past and present, a bridge connecting mortals and divine beasts.

In his heart he said—Thank you.

You are here, so I can come. You died, so I could take your fragments. You gave me hope; I owe you a life—not a real life, but the Dao. You gave me the Dao, and I will carry your Dao forth, to places you have never been—to the spirit realm, to the mortal world, to places you never even dreamed of. Your name will be remembered. Your existence will not vanish. You will not die twice. The first death was when you closed your eyes. The second death will be when the last person who remembers you forgets you. I will not forget you. I know you; I have touched your claws, walked through your wound, taken your fragments. You are my memory now. Memory does not die.

He straightened up, turned around, and walked away.

Behind him, the remains of the Chaos White Tiger, in the wind, slowly, slowly, turned to dust.

It did not scatter all at once, but bit by bit. First the fur—each strand floated up like dandelion seeds, like willow fluff, like snowflakes. They spun in the wind, turning and turning until they broke, breaking into finer fur, which broke again, becoming powder; the powder drifted on the wind and vanished. Then the muscles—each piece split like cracked dry earth, fissures spreading from the center outward, across the whole muscle, the muscle crumbling into chunks, chunks into granules, granules into powder; the powder blew away and disappeared.

Then came the bones, breaking one by one with crisp, loud crackling sounds—crack, crack, crack—like someone snapping twigs. After the bones broke, the marrow inside flowed out, but it wasn't liquid; it was a fine, white powder that scattered at the slightest breeze. Then came the nails, peeling off sheet by sheet like leaves falling from a tree, landing on the ground and shattering into amber-colored powder that blew away and vanished.

Then came the teeth, falling one by one, hitting the ground with a dull thud—thump, thump, thump—like someone beating a drum. The teeth shattered into white powder that blew away and vanished. Then came the claw, the very claw Wang Ping had touched. It gradually turned transparent, like melting ice, shifting from amber to light yellow, to white, to transparent, and finally to nothing. It was gone.

Finally came the wound, the gash that ran from shoulder to abdomen. The dark brown at the edges of the wound faded slowly, like ink diffusing in water, shifting from dark brown to light brown, to yellowish brown, to pale yellow, to white, to transparent. The wound disappeared. The remains were gone. Nothing remained—only a thin layer of ash on the ground, white, fine and light like flour. When the wind blew, the ash rose like mist, like clouds, like a dream. When the dream woke, nothing was left.

Wang Ping did not turn back. He knew what had happened behind him, yet he did not turn back. He continued walking, his steps steady, slow, and heavy. In his chest glowed a warm, azure‑lotus light. In his palm lay a hot fragment of Chaos Origin. Over his heart lingered a living White Tiger shadow. Carrying them, he walked out of the Immortal Palace, out of the Immortal Realm shards, out of the Return to the Void. He arrived at the Spirit Realm, at the Ninth Dao Institute, at the back mountain, and at that little hut.

He placed the azure lotus on the windowsill, the fragment beside his pillow, and the shadow in his heart.

Then he sat down and began to cultivate—not because he wanted to, but because his body was calling for it. The body said—'I've eaten a lot; I need to digest.' Wang Ping replied—'Alright.' He closed his eyes; his primordial spirit shone in his dantian like a sun. The fragments rotated around his primordial spirit like planets around a sun. They were merging, growing, changing. Wang Ping could feel his cultivation rising, not in leaps but gradually, like water seeping over a dam, bit by bit, drop by drop.

At the peak of early Nascent Soul, the middle stage was no longer a single step away but a half‑step. A half‑step—just lift a foot and you could cross. Yet he did not lift his foot. He was waiting—for his body to finish digesting, for his primordial spirit to stabilize, for the Dao to come of its own accord. If the Dao came, he would cross; if it did not, he would not. He was not in a hurry. He had plenty of time. Time was his friend, not his foe.

He sat together with Time, drinking tea, chatting, watching the sun outside the window rise and set, rise and set. Time said—'You have changed.' Wang Ping replied—'I have not.' Time said—'Your cultivation has changed.' Wang Ping said—'Cultivation is not me.' Time pondered, then said—'You are right.' Then Time departed, going elsewhere. Wang Ping sat alone, smiling, eyes closed, feeling the light within his body.

The fragments of the Chaos White Tiger had made their home inside his body.