Chapter 417

Then it turned into a body, a dragon's body. Very long, very thick, with scales.

The scales were dark blue, each as big as a thumb, arranged neatly like fish scales, like armor. The edges of the scales were silver-white, as if inlaid with a silver edge. The body wound through the cold tide like a river flowing in a valley. On the body there was a dorsal fin, extending from the crown to the tail; the dorsal fin was transparent, like ice, like crystal, like glass. The edge of the dorsal fin was very sharp, like a blade.

The dragon's limbs. Each leg had three claws, the claws silver-white, sharp and bright, like four hooks. The claws had pads, the pads deep blue, soft, making no sound when stepping on the ground.

The dragon's tail. The tail was long and thin, like a whip. At the tip of the tail was a tuft of fur, silver-white, soft and dense, like a fan.

An ice dragon, coiled before Wang Ping, looking at him.

Its body was huge, taking up half of the altar. Its head hovered before Wang Ping, higher than him by a head. Its eyes were dark blue, like two sapphires, without pupils, but Wang Ping knew it was looking at him. Its gaze was cold, but not the kind that makes you shiver; it was the kind that makes you calm. Like a winter midnight, you stand alone in the snow, looking up at the stars. The stars are cold, but you don't feel cold, because your heart is colder than the stars.

Yuan opened its mouth, revealing its teeth. The teeth were transparent, like ice, like crystal, like diamond. The teeth were sharp and long, densely packed in two rows. Its tongue was dark blue, thick and soft, with barbs on it. The barbs were silver-white, tiny and dense, like many hooks. Yuan licked its teeth with its tongue, making a 'hissing' sound. It was checking its weapon, wanting to know how formidable it was.

Wang Ping thought——Yuan, don't be afraid. You don't need to check your weapon; you have no enemies. Here it's safe, no one will harm you. Yuan closed its mouth, its tongue retracting. It looked at Wang Ping, tilting its head like a child listening to a story. It didn't understand what 'safe' meant, but it understood Wang Ping's intent. Wang Ping's intent was 'you don't need to be afraid'. Yuan wasn't afraid; it was merely curious. It was curious about this world, about itself, about the person who gave it its name.

Wang Ping reached out his hand; Yuan lowered its head and brought its nose to his hand. Its nose was cool and moist, like a dog's nose. It was sensing Wang Ping's scent, not with its nose but with intent. It was feeling Wang Ping's intent, his temperature, his heartbeat. Its eyes closed, it focused on feeling. Its body swayed slightly in the cold tide, like a fish resting in water. It felt comfortable, for it had found someone it could trust.

Wang Ping touched Yuan's nose; there were scales on Yuan's nose, tiny and fine, like sand grains. The scales were cool but smooth, like polished jade. Yuan's nose rubbed against Wang Ping's hand, like a dog, like a cat, like a child. It was being affectionate, because it was happy. It was happy to be alive, happy to have a name, happy to have someone who could touch its nose.

The third day ended.

Yuan coiled in the corner of the altar, its body curled into a ball like an iceberg. Its eyes were closed but still faintly glowing, dark blue, like a lantern in the deep sea. It was sleeping, yet not asleep; it was dreaming. What did it dream of? It dreamed of Wang Ping, of his hand, of the shape of his lips when he said 'Yuan'. It didn't know what lips were, but it remembered. Memory needs no understanding, only existence.

On the fourth day, Wang Ping comprehended the Gravity Technique.

Earth system, possessing the magic treasure Overturning Heaven Seal. The Overturning Heaven Seal is Wang Ping's natal magic treasure, mainly for defense and suppression. At the fourth realm, the Overturning Heaven Seal can transform into a mountain to suppress everything. But it is merely a mountain, lifeless. A mountain is dead, there, motionless, not breathing, not thinking, not choosing. Wang Ping wanted it to become alive, to become a stone beast, or a stone person, or any living thing. He wanted his Overturning Heaven Seal to know what 'I am' means.

He sat cross-legged before the stone tablet; this time he did not form seals. The Overturning Heaven Seal flew out from his dantian, needing no seals, for it was his natal magic treasure. Between him and it there was a connection, not via divine sense but via 'life'. His life is its life, its life is his life. They are one.

The Overturning Heaven Seal hovered before him, large, like a square seal. Its side length was about one chi, its height also about one chi. Its color was gray-white, like stone, but not ordinary stone. Its surface was very smooth, as if polished, covered entirely with runes. Those runes were the patterns of Chaos Suppression Seal, which Wang Ping learned from the Chaos Immortal King's refining notes. The runes were dense and fine, like a spiderweb covering the whole seal face. The runes glowed with a pale gray-white light, faint and dim, like a fire about to go out.

Wang Ping looked at the Overturning Heaven Seal and spoke to it with intent: 'You are alive. You are not a stone; you are a life. You can become any shape you wish. You are earth; earth can become mountain, stone, dust. You can be a turtle, a tiger, a dragon. You are free. Your name is 'Hou', the 'hou' of thick earth.'

The Overturning Heaven Seal trembled slightly.

It was just a slight tremor, light and brief. But Wang Ping felt it, because the Overturning Heaven Seal is linked with his life. Its tremor, he could also feel. The Overturning Heaven Seal was listening, listening to his intent. It heard the word 'Hou', and knew that was its name. Hou. Very thick, very thick earth; stepping on it won't sink, it's solid, real, safe. Hou is not hard; Hou is heavy. Heavy enough that wind cannot move it, rain cannot strike it, time cannot wear it down.

The Overturning Heaven Seal began to change.

Its shape changed, no longer a square seal. It became round, like an egg. Cracks appeared on the egg's surface, starting at the top and branching outward like tree branches. The cracks grew more numerous and dense, like a spiderweb. The eggshell shattered, small pieces falling off and hitting the ground with a 'pop-pop' sound, like someone tapping a table. When the shell fell away, a small creature crawled out.

Very small, only as big as a fist. Round and plump, grayish-white, like a pangolin. It had scales, grayish-white, overlapping like armor. It had claws, black, short and thick, like four tiny shovels. It had a tail, long and thin like a rope, the tip bare of scales, pink flesh, tender and soft. It had eyes, tiny, black and shiny, like two black beans.

The little thing lay on the ground, motionless.

Wang Ping looked at it, and it looked at him. They stared at each other, neither moving. Wang Ping thought, 'Hou, come over.' The little thing twitched, not crawling but rolling over. It curled into a ball like a sphere and rolled to Wang Ping's feet. Then it unfolded, belly up, its four claws flailing in the air like a turtle unable to right itself. Wang Ping laughed, reached out, and flipped the little thing over. It lay in his palm, rubbing its head against his fingers. Its head was hard from the scales, but its movements were gentle and careful, afraid to hurt Wang Ping.

Wang Ping gently stroked its back with his finger. The scales on its back were cool and smooth, like polished stone. The edges of the scales were thin like a blade, but not sharp, not cutting skin. Its tail curled around his wrist like a belt. Its claws gripped his fingers tightly, afraid of falling. Its eyes looked at him; within the black-bean eyes was a tiny bright light, like a star.

Wang Ping thought, 'Hou, you don't have to be afraid; I won't let you fall.' Hou blinked, its claws loosening a little but not fully. It was learning, learning to trust. Trust isn't learned instantly; it takes time, many experiences of being caught. Wang Ping would catch it, again and again, until it no longer feared. Wang Ping placed Hou on his knee; Hou lay there, curled into a gray furball. It closed its eyes but wasn't sleeping. It felt Wang Ping's body heat, his breath, his heartbeat. It wanted to remember these, for they were the reasons it trusted him.

The fourth day ended.

On the fifth day, Wang Ping contemplated the White Tiger Slaughter God Sword Gang.

Metal element, condensing Geng Metal Sword Qi with chaotic power, peerlessly sharp. In the Fourth Realm, his White Tiger Slaughter God Sword Gang could cut through anything, even laws. But that was merely 'cutting,' not 'alive.' Cutting is an action, a tool, a means. Cutting has no will of its own; you make it cut and it cuts; you stop it and it stops. It doesn't know why it cuts, what it cuts, or what happens after. Wang Ping wanted it to become alive, to become a white tiger, or a sentient sword, or any living thing.

He sat cross-legged before the stone tablet, forming seals with both hands. The White Tiger Slaughter God Sword Gang welled up from his palms, silvery-white, like a blade of light. It was razor‑sharp, sharp enough to cleave the air. When the air was split, it emitted a short, sharp 'hiss,' like a snake flicking its tongue. The sword light hovered before him, so bright Wang Ping's eyes narrowed. It did not move, tremble, or breathe; it was merely a beam of light.

Wang Ping regarded it and spoke to it with his 'intent.' He said, 'You are alive. You are not a beam of light; you are a life. You can be a tiger, a sword, any shape you desire. You are sharp, but you can also be gentle. You need not kill every time; you can simply stand and watch the world. Your name is "Rui," the Rui of sharpness.'

The sword light paused.

It was only a brief pause, but Wang Ping sensed—it was listening. It listened to his intent, understood, digested. It heard the word 'Rui' and knew that was its name. Rui: extremely sharp, pointed, bright, able to cut anything—light, shadow, even time. Rui is not a tool; it is an existence. Its existence is sharpness, yet it can choose when to be sharp and when not.

The sword light began to change.

Its shape changed; it was no longer a beam of light but a form. First came a head, a tiger's head. On the head were ears, pointed like two leaves, standing upright on the crown. The ears swiveled like radar, catching sound. There were eyes, golden like two pearls; within the pearls light pulsed like flame, lightning, life. There was a nose, black and moist like a dog's nose; it sniffed, sniffing Wang Ping's scent. There was a mouth, inside which stood teeth, white, sharp, long, like a row of daggers.

Then came the body, a tiger's body. Sturdy, with muscles. The muscle lines were pronounced, like a small hill. The body was covered in a coat of fur, silvery-white, bright as moonlight. The fur was short, dense, smooth, like silk. The body bore stripes, dark gray, line after line, like a zebra crossing but finer, denser, irregular. Then came four legs, a tiger's legs. Thick and powerful, like four pillars. At the end of each leg were claws, silvery-white, sharp and bright, like four curved blades. Beneath the claws were pads, pink and soft, making no sound when walking.

Then came the tail, a tiger's tail. Long and thick, like a whip. At its tip was a tuft of fur, dark gray, dense and thick, like a brush. The tail swung back and forth rapidly, making a 'whoosh' sound. The tail is the white tiger's weapon and also its balance aid. When running, it helps steer; when jumping, it helps maintain balance; when attacking, it can lash like a whip at foes.

A white tiger crouched before Wang Ping, gazing at him.

Its body was huge, taller than Wang Ping. Its head hovered before him, its nose almost touching his face. Its breath blew onto his face, cool, dry, odorless. Its eyes were golden like two pearls; within the pearls reflected his tiny, clear image. It looked at him—not to recognize him, but to 'see' him: his face, his eyes, his expression. It wanted to know what he thought, whether he was good or evil, whether he was worthy of trust.

Wang Ping remained still, letting it look. He knew trust is not demanded but earned. He needed Rui to know he was trustworthy. How to make Rui know? Not with words, but with intent. His intent was: 'I am your friend; I will not harm you. I will protect you and also teach you. You can trust me.'

Rui's eyes narrowed slightly.

From Wang Ping's intent it sensed something—not language, not logic, but a feeling. Like smelling a flower and knowing it's fragrant without being told. Rui's feeling was—this person can be trusted. It had no reason, yet it trusted. Trust needs no reason; it is intuition, instinct, the heart's choice.

Rui crouched, not from fear but relaxation. It lowered its body and head, lying on the ground like a great cat. Its tail stilled, resting on the ground like a rope. Its eyes closed, not sleeping, but savoring. It savored the moment of ease, the place needing no vigilance, the person who made it feel safe.

Wang Ping reached out and touched Rui's head. Rui's head was huge, his palm covering only a small patch. Its fur was smooth and soft, like silk. His fingers glided over the fur, feeling its temperature—neither cold nor hot, about human body temperature. Rui's ear twitched, not from hearing a sound but from sensing the warmth of Wang Ping's fingertip. It felt with its ear, sensing his warmth, his presence. Rui is metal—metal is hard, cold, sharp. Yet it is alive, and a living thing can have warmth, can be soft, can be dull. It can choose.

Wang Ping's finger slid from Rui's forehead to its nose. Rui's nose was wet and cool, like a dog's nose. The nose bore no fur, only smooth black skin. Wang Ping traced a circle on Rui's nose with his fingertip; Rui's nose wrinkled and it sneezed. The sneeze blew out a gust strong enough to lift Wang Ping's hair. Wang Ping laughed; Rui opened its eyes and looked at him. In its eyes shone a light—not golden, but the light of life. It said, 'Hello, I am Rui.'

The fifth day ended.

That night of the fifth day, Wang Ping sat before the stone tablet, five spirit beasts surrounding him.

Qing coiled around his wrist, its body thin like a cyan‑white rope. It lifted its head to look at Wang Ping's face, its eyes twinkling like two small stars. It waited for Wang Ping to speak, waiting for him to say 'Qing, hello.' Yang perched on his shoulder, wings folded like a golden fist. Its head tilted, its red eyes gazing at Wang Ping's ears, curious why they were two holes. It wanted to peck, but restrained itself, remembering it must not peck a friend.

Yuan lay coiled at his feet, its body large, occupying half of the altar. Its head rested on the ground, its nose pointing toward Wang Ping's knee. Its eyes were closed but still faintly glowing, a deep azure. It listened—to Wang Ping's breath, his heartbeat, the sound of his blood flowing. It liked these sounds because they were alive. Hou lay on his knee, curled into a gray furball. Its tail wound around Wang Ping's wrist, its claws scratching in its dream, unaware of what it grasped—perhaps a fish, perhaps a dream.

Rui squatted before him, its body so large it blocked his view of the stone tablet. But it didn't care; it cared nothing for the tablet, the altar, or anything else. It cared only for Wang Ping. It was his metal, his sword, his white tiger. Its golden eyes fixed on Wang Ping, focused and earnest, like a person listening to an important tale. Wang Ping said nothing; he felt—their breaths, their heartbeats, their warmth.

Qing's breath was light and fine, like a needle dropping to the ground. Yang's breath was heavy and hot, like a bellows being pulled. Yuan's breath was slow and long, like a winter wind. Hou's breath was short and quick, like a small rabbit. Rui's breath was steady and deep, like a mountain. Five breaths, five rhythms, five lives. Together they formed a quintet—dissonant yet pleasant.

Wang Ping thought to them, 'You are alive, you are free. You may go, you may stay, you may do whatever you wish.' Qing's tail wagged like a dog's. Yang's wings flicked once, as if saying 'I won't leave.' Yuan's eyes opened, glanced at Wang Ping, then closed again. Hou's claws scraped his trousers, tearing a few small holes. Rui's tail swished once, hitting the ground with a 'pop.' None of them left; they stayed. Because they knew they were part of Wang Ping—if he goes, they go; if he stays, they stay; as long as he is there, they are there.

The sixth day.

Wang Ping rose and walked toward the stone tablet. His steps were steady, slow, heavy. Qing clung to his wrist, Yang perched on his shoulder, Yuan lay at his feet, Hou rested on his knee, Rui followed behind. Five spirit beasts, five dao arts, five lives. They were all there, watching him, waiting for him.

He reached the stone tablet and extended his hand. This time nothing blocked him. His fingertip touched the tablet's surface; the tablet was cool, but his hand was warm. Cool and warm meeting was like two people shaking hands. The four characters on the tablet blazed—not just a stroke of the 'tablet' character, but every character, every stroke. The light made the whole altar shine like midday. The broken stone pillars in the light turned transparent, like glass, crystal, ice. The rubble floated up in the light, like dust, pollen, dreams.

Wang Ping pressed his hand onto the tablet; his dao arts circulated within him—Lightning Summoning, Metal Yang Blazing Heaven, Great Yin Extinction Cold Tide, Gravity Technique, White Tiger Slaughter God Sword Gang. Five dao arts, five attributes, five lives. They rejoiced inside him, for they knew he had broken through. Fifth Realm, Spirit Endowment Realm. It was not his breakthrough alone; it was theirs together with him. They are his dao; he is their father. As the father grew stronger, so did the children.

Qing's lightning grew brighter, blazing like a cyan‑white sun. Yang's flame grew hotter, blazing like a golden star. Yuan's cold tide grew colder, like a patch of deep azure void. Hou's body grew heavier, like a gray‑white mountain. Rui's sword light grew sharper, like a beam of silvery‑white light. They were changing, growing, becoming better versions of themselves. Wang Ping too was changing, growing, becoming a better self.

Wang Ping withdrew his hand, and the light on the stone tablet dimmed. But that light did not disappear; they flowed into his body, into his dantian, into his primordial spirit. His primordial spirit glowed, chaotic-colored, hazy gray, like the sky before dawn. His Dao arts glowed, cyan-white, gold, deep blue, gray-white, silver-white. Five colors, five lives, five existences. They wandered within Wang Ping's body, cheering, singing.

Wang Ping stood there, listening to their song, and smiled. The fifth realm, achieved.