Chapter 415

On the seventh night after returning from Returning Void, Wang Ping did not sleep.

Not that he didn't want to sleep, but he couldn't. His body was exhausted to the extreme; the newly absorbed chaos origin in his meridians was like a group of ants that had just moved into a new house, still seeking the position of each room, crawling through every passage, probing every corner. They were restless, wriggling, colliding, and merging in his flesh and blood, emitting an extremely faint sound, like ice cracking, like a seed breaking soil. Yet his mind was clear as a cup of ice water just drawn from a deep well, each drop transparent to the bottom, each drop revealing light.

He lay on the stone slabs of the training ground. The slabs were cold; the chill seeped in from his back, like countless fine needles pricking the skin, not painful but keeping him awake. Moonlight shone on him, casting his shadow on the ground; the shadow was long, stretching to the edge of the training ground, like a recumbent stone figure.

He gazed at the sky. The stars were many, thick and dense, like a tray of scattered pearls, like a handful of rice flung out, like countless eyes wide open. He counted the stars; when he reached over three hundred he forgot where he was, started again, counted over two hundred and forgot, counted again, and when he passed five hundred he noticed one star moving—not a shooting star, but alive, it weaving through the star cluster like a person carrying a lantern walking a night road. He watched that star for a long time until it vanished behind the silhouette of the Immortal Palace ruins.

He wasn't really trying to count exactly how many there were; he just wanted to find something to do so his mind wouldn't dwell on that voice.

That voice came again.

It was clearer than before. Previously it was like hearing someone speak through a wall—you couldn't make out the content, only a buzzing sound, like a swarm of bees, like distant war drums, like an undercurrent beneath deep water. Now it was like hearing through a gauze layer; you could catch some syllables but couldn't form sentences. The voice didn't enter through the ears; it arose from the heart, like a seed sprouting in the soil of the heart, its roots digging deep, its stem and leaves growing upward, its buds opening toward the light.

As if someone were calling him from a very deep place.

What was called was not his name, but his "existence." Not the two characters "Wang Ping," but his Dao, his soul, his root. Where he is, the sound is; where he is not, the sound is not. Therefore he cannot not be; he must be, must listen, must go. This is his fate, sealed from the moment he set foot on the fragments of the Immortal Realm.

Wang Ping sat up.

The moonlight was bright, bright enough that he could see every crack in each stone slab of the training ground, every branch of each withered tree, the outline of every speck of dust. Those cracks were silver in the moonlight, like lightning frozen on the ground. Those branches were black in the moonlight, like ink brush strokes on xuan paper. Those specks were gray‑white in the moonlight, like bone ash, like snow, like the residue of time.

He lowered his gaze to his own hand. In the moonlight the hand was bluish‑white, like jade, like porcelain, like not a living person's hand. Yet the fingers could move, bend, and clench. He clenched his fist; the joints cracked with a soft sound that carried far in the night sky, as if someone far away had tapped a stone. Within that palm lay chaos immortal lightning, the warmth left by the chaos azure lotus, and the traces of the chaos white tiger's origin fragments. That hand was no longer the same.

He rose to his feet and brushed the dust from his robe. The dust floated up in the moonlight like a swarm of tiny fireflies, drifting awhile before dispersing. When it settled back to the ground it made no sound, like snow falling on earth, like time falling upon time.

Cangxuan did not sleep.

He sat beneath a withered tree at the edge of the training ground, his sword laid across his knees, eyes closed. Moonlight fell on his face; his face was like a stone worn smooth by a thousand years of water flow, sharp‑angled, expressionless. Yet he was not asleep, for his sword was not asleep. The sword vibrated faintly in its sheath, a frequency so low that human ears could not hear it, but Cangxuan's body could. His bones resonated, his blood resonated, his heartbeat resonated. He was listening to the sword speak.

The sword was speaking—he moved.

Cangxuan opened his eyes. In the moonlight his eyes were amber, like two drops of pine resin sun‑bleached clear, holding within them a thousand years of years. He saw Wang Ping rise, brush off dust, look at his hand, gaze at the sky. He did not ask Wang Ping where he was going, for he knew. He too had heard that voice—not born in his heart but transmitted from the sword. The sword told him—something was calling him, not calling Cangxuan, but calling Wang Ping. But the sword had heard it, and having heard it would tell him. The sword was his ears, his eyes, his feelers reaching out to this world.

He followed Wang Ping, needing no question of where to go.

Yuliuli also did not sleep.

She leaned against another withered tree, her guqin resting on her knees, fingers pressed on the strings but not plucking. Moonlight shone on the instrument's surface; the lacquer reflected a dim light, like an ancient mirror that shows no reflection of a person, only light. Her guqin's core vibrated, resonating with that voice. The voice entered her guqin's core, and the core turned the voice into color.

It was not a single color, but many. There was chaos‑colored gray, moonlight‑colored silver, night‑curtain‑colored black, starlight‑colored white, azure‑lotus‑colored green, white‑tiger‑colored gold. They blended together, like an ink‑wash painting soaked in water, all the lines bleeding, all the colors merging. She could not tell what those colors were, but she knew what feeling they conveyed. It was the feeling of a "summons."

Someone was summoning Wang Ping—not with words, but with existence. That existence said—"I am here, come, come, come." Each "come" was heavier, deeper, more irresistible than the last.

Yuliuli's fingertip lightly plucked a string. The string emitted an extremely soft, faint sound, like a sigh, like a response, like saying—"He has come, he is on the way." That sound drifted on the night wind, sweeping over the training ground, over the corridors, toward the depths of the Immortal Palace. She knew that existence had heard it.

Youying stood at the entrance of the training ground.

She did not enter, merely standing there like a shadow's shadow. Moonlight fell on her, outlining her silhouette but not piercing through. In her hand she still held that fragment—white ground with blue‑flower pattern, a lotus painted upon it. In the moonlight the fragment was semi‑translucent; one could see the lines inside, like tree rings, ring upon ring, each ring a year, year after year, rings stacked upon rings.

She lowered her gaze to the fragment. The "An" character inside it glowed faintly, so weak that without close inspection it could not be seen. Yet it truly glowed, like a lamp about to run out of oil, its flame as tiny as a soybean but not extinguished. It swayed in the wind, having swayed for thirty thousand years and still swaying.

Youying pressed the fragment to her chest and closed her eyes.

Her heartbeat transmitted to the fragment—thump, thump, thump. The fragment's warmth passed to her heart—warm, warm, warm. She listened, listening to what the fragment was saying. The fragment said nothing else; it merely repeated that character—"An." An, an, an. Like a person chanting a sutra, having chanted for a long time, for thirty thousand years and still chanting. Chanting until stones weathered, until the Immortal Palace became ruins, until all people had gone, it still chanted.

Youying opened her eyes, gazing at Wang Ping's back.

She knew he was leaving—for the source of that voice, for the deepest part of the Immortal Palace, for that stele ahead. She did not know what that stele was, what was carved on it, or what he would see there. But she knew it was a place he had to go. From the moment he picked up this fragment in Returning Void, from the moment he heard the first remnant soul's voice, from the moment he took his first step onto the Immortal Realm fragments, he had already been walking toward that place.

Wang Ping walked out of the training ground.

He passed through the corridor. The corridor was long; both sides of its stone pillars were carved full of immortal markings, which in the moonlight gave off a dim light, like healed scars. His footsteps echoed in the corridor—tap, tap, tap. Each step landed solidly, leaving a faint imprint on the stone slabs—not a dust mark, but an imprint of chaos power.

He passed through the region eroded by the power of order. Those silver lines still lay on the ground, on the walls, in the air. They resembled blood vessels, like rootlets, like traces left by some enormous creature. In the moonlight they glowed faintly—not bright light, but a dying glow, like embers about to go out, like the last glint in a sick person's eye. Walking among them, Wang Ping elicited no reaction. It was not that they did not wish to react; they simply no longer recognized him. His aura had changed, no longer like before.

He walked through the Immortal Herb Garden. The withered immortal herbs still held their living poses—some bent at the waist, some heads held high, some arms outstretched. Moonlight shone on them, casting their shadows onto the ground, the shadows intertwining like a group of people dancing, their poses frozen at the final moment. As Wang Ping walked among them, his robe brushed a withered immortal herb; the herb's stem emitted a faint crack and snapped. The break was hollow, containing nothing. It had been empty for thirty thousand years.

He passed the dust heap formed from the remains of the Chaos White Tiger. In the moonlight the heap was silver‑gray, like a pile of bone ash, like a pile of snow, like a pile of forgotten time. When the wind blew, the dust rose, drifted in the air awhile, then settled back. As Wang Ping walked past the heap, his steps kicked up a wind; the dust rose, swirling behind him like a gray cloak, like a silent procession of mourners.

He walked not fast. Each step was firm, each step brought him closer to that voice.

His footsteps echoed in the empty Immortal Palace—tap, tap, tap. Like a pendulum, like a heartbeat, like a countdown.

He did not look back. For he knew someone was behind him. Cangxuan's sword in its sheath gave a faint sound, like a snake moving in darkness, flicking its tongue, sensing the road ahead. Yuliuli's guqin strings trembled slightly in the wind, like seven threads stirred by breeze, each singing a silent song. Youying's footsteps were very light, almost inaudible, but he knew she was there. Her presence clung to his back like a shadow—not heavy, but steady.

He needed not turn around. Their presence was too strong, strong enough that he could feel it at his back. Cangxuan's presence was like an unsheathed sword—cold, hard, silent. Yuliuli's presence was like a plucked guqin string—fine, soft, lingering. Youying's presence was like a leaf floating on water—light, shallow, soundless. The three presences stacked together, like three strands twisted into a rope, tied around his waist.

The deepest part of the Immortal Palace was a massive altar.

When Wang Ping first saw it, he stopped his steps. Not from fear, but from shock.

The altar was huge—so large that Wang Ping standing before it felt like an ant. No, smaller than an ant, like a speck of dust. Its base was square, each stone block taller than a person, the stone color blue‑black, as if burned by fire, soaked by water, gnawed by time. The stones were covered in immortal markings, which in the moonlight gave off a faint silver glow, like countless silver snakes crawling on the stone. They were not still; they moved, slowly writhing, entwining, separating.

The altar had many steps—so many that Wang Ping could not count them. He tried counting, got to a hundred before losing track, not because there were too many steps, but because the immortal markings on the steps disturbed his spiritual sense. Each step was high, up to the knee; he had to lift his leg to climb. The steps were made of the same blue‑black stone as the base, polished by ages to a mirror‑smooth finish that could reflect a person's silhouette. On the steps too there were immortal markings, but not silver; they were gold, bright as freshly poured molten gold, still flowing, still glowing, still breathing.

When Wang Ping stepped onto the first step, the immortal markings beneath his foot flashed once. Golden light seeped from the stone, shining on his foot, his leg, his face. The light was warm—not a scorching heat, but the warmth of sunlight on skin. The markings were confirming his identity, his bloodline, his Dao. Once confirmed, they dimmed, as if an eye had closed.

He stepped onto the second step. The markings flashed again, then dimmed. This time the flash lasted a little longer than before, as if examining him closely.

Third step, fourth step, fifth step. Each was the same—flash, dim, flash, dim. Like a signal light telling him—you're on the right path, keep going. The light flickered under his feet like a golden river flowing along the steps; he walked on the water, which parted beneath his feet and closed behind him.

He walked for a long time.

The steps were many, so many that his legs began to ache—not ordinary soreness, but a deep ache seeping from the marrow, as if his bone marrow were being squeezed. His breathing grew heavy, not from lack of strength, but because the higher he climbed, the denser the immortal spiritual qi in the air became—thick as water, as honey, as solidified time. Each breath required greater effort. Sweat began to bead on his forehead; in the moonlight the droplets were transparent, tracing down his cheeks, dripping onto the steps, onto the markings. The markings flashed, evaporating the sweat.

He did not stop. For he knew something awaited him at the altar's summit.

That voice grew ever clearer. From being heard through a gauze layer it became like hearing through a paper sheet, then like hearing with no barrier at all. He could hear every syllable of the voice, its rises and falls, the emotion in each fluctuation. But he could not understand it, for it was not language—it was the Dao. The Dao spoke, not in human words, but through existence itself. Wang Ping's existence and the Dao's existence conversed, needing no translation, no comprehension, no thought.

He merely listened, listened, listened.

Listening and listening, he arrived.

The summit of the altar was a platform.

The platform was not large—only ten zhang square. Ten zhang, neither more nor less, just enough to hold a person and a stele, and the moment of standing before that stele.

The platform's ground was black—black as ink, as night, as the abyss. Not ordinary black, but the kind that swallows all light; gazing at it feels as if your sight is seized and dragged down, deeper and deeper, to where you cannot see. Yet upon that black ground are countless points of light—white, gold, silver, chaos‑colored. They are densely arranged, like a star chart, like a map, like a page covered in writing. The points flicker, breathe, and move according to some ancient rhythm.

Wang Ping lowered his gaze to those points of light, staring at them for a long time.

He saw the pattern. They were not random; they were a formation. A huge, complex, precise formation. Every node of the formation was a star, every connecting line a law. The distance between stars was fixed, the relationship between laws was fixed. They formed a diagram, the center of the diagram was empty, like an open eye, the eye socket held nothing, but anything could appear in the eye socket.

The center of the formation was a circular depression. The depression was not large, just enough to hold a stone tablet. The edges of the depression were engraved with immortal patterns, the patterns denser, more complex, and older than those on the steps. They glowed, not gold, not silver, but chaos-colored. A hazy gray light, like the sky before dawn, like a valley before the mist clears, like the moment before waking from a dream.

A stone tablet hovered within the depression.

Chaos Immortal Stele.

The stele wasn't tall—only a person's height or so. Yet its presence was strong, so strong that Wang Ping, standing before it, felt like a speck of dust. Not humble, just a true sense of scale. The stele's presence was like a mountain, like a river, like a star, like a world. Wang Ping's presence was like a grain of sand, like a drop of water, like an instant. But the stele didn't press on him, didn't make him feel suffocated. It simply stood there, quiet and still, like an old man sitting by the gate, gazing at the distant road.

Its color was chaos-colored, gray and hazy, like mist, like clouds, like the scene when chaos first opened. It wasn't just one gray, but countless grays—dark gray, light gray, silver gray, bluish gray, black gray, white gray. They blended together, boundaries indistinct, yet each spot differed. Like a piece of cloth that had been kneaded, with light hidden in its folds.

Its surface was uneven, with protrusions, depressions, cracks, and holes. The protrusions resembled mountains, the depressions valleys, the cracks rivers, the holes wells. They were not flaws, but the patterns of the Dao. The Chaos Dao was inscribed in those protrusions, depressions, cracks, and holes—not carved with words, but etched into existence itself. Each crack was a law, each hole a realm, each protrusion a peak, each depression an abyss.

Where the stele stands, the Dao is; where the Dao is, the stele stands. They are one, inseparable.

Four large characters were carved on the stele.

They were not immortal markings, not ancient sigils, not any known script. Yet Wang Ping recognized them, for they had dwelt in his heart a long time—since he was a child, since he first opened the Chaos Scripture in that tattered Daoist temple, since he first manifested the Chaos Domain in the Azure Void Heaven Domain, since he merged the Primordial Chaos in the Law Corridor, since he beheld the Founder of the All-Symbol Stargazers in the Returning Ruins—these four characters had long resided in his heart.

They had no shape, no color, no sound. Yet they were there, like four pillars upholding his Dao. With every breakthrough, every epiphany, every brush with death, every rebirth, those four pillars remained. They never changed, never moved, never swayed. They stood firm in his heart, supporting everything he was.

Now he saw their form—not with his eyes, but with his heart. What the heart sees is truer than what the eyes see.

The first character is Chaos.

Chaos, the chaos character within the word chaos. The beginning of all things, the source of everything. Heaven and earth unopened, yin and yang undivided, clear and turbid undifferentiated. Nothing existed, yet anything could exist.

Chaos is not disorder; it is 'undetermined'. Like a blank sheet of paper, unwritten. Like a lump of clay, not yet shaped. Like an infant, unnamed. Chaos is possibility, infinite possibility. Within chaos you can be anyone, do anything, go anywhere, for nothing has yet begun, nothing has yet taken form, everything still slumbers.

Wang Ping gazed at this character and saw the scene when chaos first opened.

There was no heaven, no earth, no light, no darkness—only a mass of chaos, gray and hazy, like mist, like clouds, like a dream. That mass of chaos turned, slowly, so slowly that human eyes could not perceive it. Yet it did turn, completing one revolution, then another, then another. Each revolution spanned hundreds of millions of years, hundreds of millions stacked upon hundreds of millions, until one day it split. The clear rose to become heaven, the turbid sank to become earth. Heaven and earth opened, all things were born. The first sound rang out, the first light appeared, the first life opened its eyes.

All begins with chaos. His Dao also begins with chaos.

The second character is Chaos.

Chaos, the chaos component of chaos. Chaos is undetermined, the chaos component is unformed. Chaos is the seed, the chaos component is the sprout within the seed.

Invisible, intangible, yet it is there. It waits—for the right moment, the right conditions, the right person. When the time comes, it sprouts; when conditions are sufficient, it grows; when a person arrives, it blossoms. It is not impatient, for it knows that what is meant to come will come, and what is not meant to come will not, no matter how long one waits. So it simply waits, quiet and still.

Wang Ping gazed at this character and saw a blue lotus seed lying in the soil, lying there for thirty thousand years—not because it refused to sprout, but because the time had not yet come. It waited—for rain, for wind, for a person. When rain came, wind came, a person came, it sprouted, blossomed, and fulfilled its purpose. How long it waited does not matter; what matters is that it waited until the moment arrived.

Chaos is waiting, patience, faith. His Dao also needs to wait.

The third character is Immortal.

Immortal, not the immortal of immortals, but the immortal of the Immortal Dao. Immortal is not a realm, but a state. Heaven and man are one, Dao and I are one. You are not you, Dao is not Dao. You are Dao, Dao is you.

You walk, Dao walks. You eat, Dao eats. You sleep, Dao sleeps. You laugh, Dao laughs. You cry, Dao cries. You die, Dao does not die. Because Dao does not need to die, Dao merely changes its way of existing. When you are, Dao is. When you are not, Dao still is. Dao is in stone, in water, in wind, in light, in everything that exists.

Immortal is not eternal youth, not soaring through clouds and mist, not turning stone into gold. Those are arts, not the Dao. Immortal is 'one'. You and what you do are one, you and your thoughts are one, you and your body are one, you and this world are one. There is no distinction, no opposition, no self and other. When you sit in meditation, you are meditation itself. When you walk, you are walking itself. When you live, you are life itself.

Wang Ping looked at this character, and saw the progenitor of the Myriad Phenomena Star-Observers standing on the mountaintop of the fragments of the Immortal Realm, gazing at that distant silver light.

His eyes held no fear, no anger, no sorrow. Only calm. Like a pool of dead water, like an ancient mirror, like the moon in the night sky. Because he knew, he was the Dao. The Dao cannot be destroyed. The silver light can destroy his body, destroy his immortal palace, destroy his civilization. But it cannot destroy his Dao. Where the Dao is, he is. Where he is not, the Dao still is. The Dao will wait, waiting for the next person to bear it to appear.

The fourth character is "stele".

Stele, the stele of a stone stele. A stele is stone, stone is earth, earth is Dao. The stele bears characters, characters are Dao. The stele is a vessel, the characters are its content. Without a stele, characters have nowhere to be carved. Without characters, a stele is merely a stone. Stele and characters are one, inseparable.

Just like Wang Ping and the Dao of Chaos. He is the stele, the Dao is the character. His body is the stele, his Dao is the character. His life is the stele, his existence is the character. The stele may weather, but the character does not. The stele may shatter, but the character does not. The stele may turn to powder, but the character remains. Because the character is not on the stele; the character is in the heart of every person who sees the stele.

Wang Ping looked at this character, and saw this stele, saw the four characters on the stele, saw the Dao within those four characters. He also saw the person who carved these four characters. Not the progenitor of the Myriad Phenomena Star-Observers, but an even older existence, so ancient that even its name has vanished, leaving only these four characters. That person stood here, using a finger to inscribe characters on the stele, not carving into stone, but inscribing into the Dao. Stone will shatter, but the Dao will not.

He knew this stele was not an ordinary stone. It is the supreme treasure of the Immortal Realm, the ultimate secret of the Dao of Chaos, the last legacy left by the progenitor of the Myriad Phenomena Star-Observers. It has waited here for thirty thousand years, waiting for a person to read it. Not read with the eyes, but read with the heart. Not to understand the literal meaning of the characters, but to understand the Dao within the characters. The Dao within the characters is not in the characters, but in the reader's heart. Whatever is in your heart, you can read out.

Wang Ping extended his hand, his fingertip touching the surface of the stele.

The stele was cool. Not the cool of the Return to the Void, not the cool of the Sea of Laws, not the cool of time flowing backward. It was the cool of jade stone, warm and moist, tranquil, like an old person's hand. The coolness spread from his fingertip to his palm, to his wrist, to his arm, to his shoulder, to his chest, to his heart. His heart was enveloped by the coolness, not cold, but clear-headed. As if washed by ice water, it became clear-headed.

His fingertip slid over the stele, feeling the protrusions, the depressions, the cracks, the holes. They were not flaws, but the patterns of the Dao. His fingertip moved along the patterns, like a blind person reading Braille. He felt a mountain, felt a valley, felt a river, felt a sea. He felt a star, felt a cloud, felt a gust of wind, felt a beam of light. He felt the scene when Chaos first opened, felt the sound when Heaven and Earth separated, felt the breath when all things were born.

He read it—the ultimate secret of the Dao of Chaos.

It was not text, not image, not sound. It was a kind of 'knowing'. Just like when you learned to ride a bicycle as a child, once you learned, you knew. You didn't need to think about how to keep balance, how to pedal, how to turn. Your body knew. Your body remembered. Your bones remembered. Your blood remembered. It never forgets, even if you haven't ridden a bicycle for a hundred years, when you get on again, your body still knows.

Wang Ping's hand stroked the stele once, then again, and again.

His body was memorizing those patterns, not with his brain, but with his bones, his meridians, his dantian, his primordial spirit. His bones said—'I have remembered.' The protrusions became his mountains, the depressions became his valleys, the cracks became his rivers, the holes became his seas. His meridians said—'I have remembered.' Those patterns became his meridian map, and his chaotic power began to flow along those patterns, no longer as before, but in a more ancient way, closer to the source. His primordial spirit said—'I have remembered.' The primordial spirit opened its eyes, and within them were reflected the four characters on the stele: Hun, Dun, Xian, Bei. They took root in his primordial spirit.

He withdrew his hand, and the light on the stele dimmed.

It was not extinguished; it returned into the stele. Like a person who, after speaking, closes his mouth, like a lamp that, after lighting the way, is blown out. It has fulfilled its purpose, it has waited for the one who was meant to come, and he has read the Dao he was meant to read. It no longer needs to shine. But it remains there, because others will come, others will need to read it. The Dao of Chaos will not be severed; those who bear it will come one by one. It will continue to wait, waiting for the next person who ought to come, waiting for the next person who will touch its surface with a fingertip, waiting for the next person who will read it with the heart.

Wang Ping stood before the stele, standing for a long time.

He did not speak, because he did not know what to say. Thanks is too light, sorry is too heavy. He could only stand, stand, stand.

He stood until the moon moved from east to west, shifting its light from this side of the stele to the other. He stood until the stars winked out one by one, as if someone in heaven were blowing out candles, blowing one, extinguishing one. He stood until a glimmer of fish-belly white appeared on the horizon, white seeping out from the east like a drop of ink in clear water, slowly spreading. Dawn was approaching.

He turned around and walked down from the altar.

The immortal markings on the steps did not glow, for they already knew him. He had come before, he had read, he had remembered. No further confirmation was needed. As he walked on the steps, his footsteps sounded different from when he arrived. Then it had been 'tap, tap, tap', stiff, like knocking on a door. Now the sound was light and steady, like walking in one's own home. Indeed he was in his own home. The Dao of Chaos is his home, this stele is the doorplate of his home, these four characters are the address of his home. He has found his home, acknowledged the door, remembered the address. He will not lose his way again.

Cang Xuan waited for him beneath the altar.

He stood there, like a tree, like a stone, like a sword planted in the ground. He waited through the night. All night he did not move, did not sit, did not lean. He simply stood, his sword sheathed, silent. When he saw Wang Ping walk down, the sword in its sheath gave a slight tremor, not an alert, but a confirmation. The sword confirmed—it was him, it was Wang Ping, yet not the Wang Ping of before.

Cang Xuan looked at him, saying nothing.

He did not need to speak, for he saw that Wang Ping's eyes had changed. Not the color, but the depth. Before his eyes were deep, like two wells where one could see the water surface but not the bottom. Now they were deeper still, like two bottomless wells where even the water surface could not be seen. Inside the wells there was something, not water, but the Dao. The Dao flowed within the wells, soundless, scentless, lightless, colorless. You cannot see it, but it is there.

Cang Xuan's hand moved from the sword hilt to press against his chest. His heart was beating, fast, fast.

It was not nervousness, but reverence. He revered what Wang Ping had seen, revered the stele, revered the Dao of Chaos. He did not know what it was, but he knew it was something older, deeper, and closer to the source than his sword Dao. His sword Dao is a sword; the Dao of Chaos is the iron ore that forges swords. His sword Dao is a river; the Dao of Chaos is the river's source. He does not need to understand, he only needs to respect.

Yu Liuli held her ancient zither, standing in the distance.

She did not approach, for she knew Wang Ping now needed quiet. But she kept watching, kept listening, kept recording. Her fingers lightly plucked the strings, not playing, but recording. She recorded the change in Wang Ping's breath. When he arrived, his breath was like a rushing river, turbulent, surging, unstoppable. Now his breath was like a sea, calm, vast, bottomless. A river may dry up, but a sea will not.

She recorded the light in his eyes. When he arrived, the light in his eyes was chaos-colored, gray and murky, like the sky before dawn. Now the light in his eyes was still chaos-colored, but no longer gray and murky. Within the gray appeared other colors: white, black, gold, silver, cyan, red. All the colors mixed together, not in chaos, but in harmony.

She recorded the Dao within him. When he arrived, his Dao was the Dao of Chaos, but still incomplete, like a jigsaw puzzle missing a few pieces. Now the puzzle is complete. Hun, Dun, Xian, Bei. Four puzzle pieces, assembled into a whole picture. What is in the picture? She cannot see clearly, but she can feel it.

Her zither's heart turned those things into sound, sound into melody, melody into a tune. The tune had no name, no lyrics, no fixed mode. It simply existed, like a river flowing in Yu Liuli's heart. From her heart it flowed to her fingers, from her fingers to the strings, from the strings into the air, from the air into everyone's ears.

She will remember this tune, she will play it for others to hear. Not played with the zither, but played with the heart. The heart will hear it.

You Ying stood on the stone steps of the altar.

She did not go up, nor did she come down. She simply stood in the middle, on a certain step. The moonlight had faded, the dawn's light shone on her body, casting her shadow on the steps, a long shadow that stretched from the step she stood on down to the base of the altar. In her hand she still held that fragment, white background with blue flowers, painted with a lotus.

The 'An' character on the fragment was glowing. Not a faint light, but a bright light, bright as a lamp. Light shone out from the fragment, falling on her face; her face in the light was tranquil, like a statue. The light said—'He has found it. He has found what he was meant to find, he has read the Dao he was meant to read, he has walked the path he was meant to walk. The remaining road needs no one to point it out. He himself knows how to go.'

You Ying pressed the fragment to her chest and closed her eyes.

Her heartbeat and the fragment's heartbeat merged together. Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump. They beat at the same speed, with the same steadiness, with the same strength. Her heartbeat is her language, the fragment's heartbeat is the fragment's language. They are conversing, no translation needed.

The fragment said — I have completed. I waited for him, he found me, he understood me. My mission is over.

You Ying said — You are not finished. You are still here, in my heart, in my hands, in my dreams. Your 'An' character still glows, your lotus still blooms.

The fragment said — That is your light, not mine. Your heart is glowing, I reflected it.

You Ying said — No matter whose light it is, it is shining. Shining is good. Shining means there is a path.

She said — I know. I know he found it, I know he understood, I know he will not get lost again.

Wang Ping walked down the last step and stood on the empty ground of the Immortal Palace.

He raised his head and looked at the sky. The sky was about to brighten; the clouds in the east were dyed orange‑red, like burnt cotton, like ripe persimmons, like iron cooling down. The cloud layer was thick, but light still seeped through the gaps. One beam, two beams, three beams. Light shafts shot down from the cloud gaps, illuminating the Immortal Palace ruins, the withered trees, the piles of dust, and Wang Ping's face.

He took a deep breath. That breath carried the flavor of immortal spirit's Qi, rich as honey. It had the scent of grass, grass sprouting from the ruins' cracks, tender green and tender green. It had the scent of earth, damp, fresh, like after a rain. He swallowed it, then laughed.

It was not a happy laugh, but a laugh of relief.

He found the Chaos Immortal Stele and read the ultimate secret of the Way of Chaos. He no longer needed to search, no longer needed to ask, no longer needed to doubt. The Dao was there, in his heart, in his bones, in his blood. It was not he who found the Dao; the Dao found him. He had always thought he was seeking, but now he knew he was being awaited.

He only needed to walk, keep walking, walk to the end.

What is the end? He didn't know. But he knew that someone was waiting for him at the end.

Not the Lord of Order, not the Transcendent, not the Primordial Ancestor of the Myriad Phenomena Stargazers. It was himself. The himself who began cultivating the Dao at age seven, the himself who opened the first page of the Chaos Classic in the derelict Daoist temple, the himself who first manifested Chaos Power in the Azure Void Heavenly Domain, the himself who merged the primordial source of disorder in the Law Corridor, the himself who saw the Primordial Ancestor of the Myriad Phenomena Stargazers in the Return to the Ruins, the himself who refined the Chaos Blue Lotus and the Chaos White Tiger Origin Fragment in the Training Ground.

He was at the end, waiting for Wang Ping.

Wang Ping needed to walk up to him, look at him, and say to him —

I have come. I have finished. I have not let you down.