Chapter 418

He understood.

Then he spent seven days making his Dao come alive. It wasn't raising from the Fourth Realm to the Fifth Realm—he had already done that. It was making his Dao arts "know" they were alive.

The Green Snake needed to know it was a snake, not a mass of green light. The Golden Crow needed to know it was a bird, not a blade of golden flame. The Ice Dragon needed to know it was a dragon, not a wisp of cold breath. The Pangolin needed to know it was a beast, not a surge of earthly power. The White Tiger needed to know it was a tiger, not a flash of killing intent.

During those seven days, he wasn't cultivating; he was teaching them to recognize themselves.

He sat in the rear hall of the Immortal Palace, placed the Green Snake in his palm, and said to it, "You are a snake. Snakes have scales, eyes, a tongue, and fangs. You can crawl, shed your skin, hibernate, and lay eggs. You are not my Dao art; you are yourself." The Green Snake lifted its head, looked at him with its pair of green eyes for a long time. Then it flicked its tongue and nodded.

He said to the Golden Crow, "You are a bird. Birds have feathers, wings, beaks, and claws. You can fly, sing, build nests, and migrate. You are not my flame; you are yourself." The Golden Crow spread its wings; its golden feathers glittered in the sunlight. It cried out—not the hum of a spell, but a bird's call.

He said to the Ice Dragon, "You are a dragon. Dragons have horns, whiskers, scales, and claws. You can rise on clouds, bring rain, dive into depths, and ascend to heaven. You are not my cold breath; you are yourself." The Ice Dragon coiled tighter around his arm, its icy scales touching his skin. It exhaled a breath of white mist, which condensed in the air into a tiny snowflake that fell onto the back of his hand and melted.

He said to the Pangolin, "You are a beast. Beasts have shells, tails, claws, and teeth. You can dig earth, burrow mountains, trace veins, and guard dens. You are not my earthly power; you are yourself." The Pangolin scraped its claws against the floor tiles, making a squeaking sound. It lifted its head, its small eyes shining, and looked at him.

Finally he said to the White Tiger, "You are a tiger. Tigers have stripes, whiskers, claws, and majesty. You can roar, pounce, hunt, and guard. You are not my killing intent; you are yourself." The White Tiger remained still, lying before him, staring with its pair of white eyes. After a long while, it spoke.

"I've always known."

That voice didn't come from its mouth; it rang in his heart. It wasn't language, but thought. Yet Wang Ping understood. The White Tiger had always known it was a tiger, from the moment it was born in the Returning Ruins, from the moment that petal fell upon it. It knew it was alive, knew who it was. It didn't speak because it didn't need to. A living tiger need not tell others it is a tiger.

Wang Ping looked at the White Tiger and suddenly laughed.

It wasn't a happy laugh, but a relieved one—like someone who had searched long for something, only to find it always in his own pocket. He had been teaching the spirit beasts to know themselves; in the end, it was the White Tiger that taught him. They had already known themselves since that day in the Returning Ruins. The one who didn't know them was himself. He had always regarded them as Dao arts, as tools, as the embodiment of spells. Even when he divided his life soul among them in the Returning Ruins, he had never truly treated them as lives.

Now he knows. He learned late, but it's not too late.

He closed his eyes and stopped speaking. The spirit beasts also fell silent. In the rear hall of the Immortal Palace, only his breath and theirs could be heard—not five breaths, but six: his, the Green Snake's, the Golden Crow's, the Ice Dragon's, the Pangolin's, and the White Tiger's. Six breaths rose and fell in the quiet hall like tides, like wind, like the pulse of chaos.

When Wang Ping stood before the Chaos Immortal Stele again, it was the morning of the seventh day.

Sunlight leaked through the cracks in the Immortal Palace's shattered dome—not a single beam, but many. Some were thick, some thin; some fell straight onto the altar, while others were refracted by the remaining glazed tiles, scattering across the ground in variegated splashes. That light fell on the stele, highlighting its uneven patterns in clear contrast. The stele remained as it was: gray and hazy, chaos-colored, like a silent old man crouched in the center of the altar, waiting for someone.

Seven days ago he first came, standing at the edge of the altar, gazing at this stele, his heart filled with awe and dread. Back then he didn't know what was inside the stele, whether he could enter, or whether he could exit after entering. Now he knows. He knows there is a person inside the stele, waiting for him. He has met that person three times: first in the Azure Void Heavenly Realm, second when the Silver Stone Gate opened, and third before the passage of the Returning Ruins closed. Each encounter was brief, each left behind a sentence, a question, a direction.

Wind poured in through the cracks in the dome, carrying the outside air.

It wasn't floral fragrance, nor the scent of plants, but the breath of the wasteland. Outside the Immortal Palace lay a long-abandoned wasteland. Crumbling walls and collapsed pillars were overgrown with moss, wild grass grew between the broken columns, and the former plaza was covered in rubble. No one knows who built this Immortal Palace, when, or why it was abandoned. Wang Ping doesn't know either, and he doesn't need to. He only needs to know that the Immortal Palace holds the Chaos Immortal Stele, inside the stele is a path, and at the path's end stands a person waiting for him.

He stood there, his robes still dusted with the powder left from yesterday's training.

Those specks were not ordinary dust, but the residue left after his Dao arts burned. Yesterday he trained in the rear hall of the Immortal Palace, summoning all five of his spirit beasts and letting them dance in the hall. The green light spat by the Green Snake illuminated the ceiling murals; the Golden Crow's flames traced golden arcs in the air; the Ice Dragon's cold breath frosted the ground with a thin layer; the Pangolin's scales scraped the floor tiles, throwing sparks; the White Tiger's roar made the window lattices hum.

He trained for a long time, from afternoon until deep night.

He wasn't practicing Dao arts; he was practicing "listening." Listening to the Green Snake's heartbeat, the Golden Crow's breath, the Ice Dragon's pulse, the Pangolin's mood, and the White Tiger's will. Those lives born from his Dao arts are not dead objects, not tools, not byproducts of spells. They are alive. They have their own heartbeat, breath, mood, and will. They have dwelled in his body for many years, yet he had never truly listened to them speak.

Yesterday he listened. He heard a great deal.

He heard the Green Snake longing for the Azure Void Heavenly Realm, where it was born and where its familiar spiritual fluctuations linger. He heard the Golden Crow yearning for the sun, a place it had never visited but always remembered. He heard the Ice Dragon missing the glacier—a white expanse deep in its memory. He heard the Pangolin curious about the earth's depths, where countless secrets await its probing. He heard the White Tiger craving battle, its blood flowing with the lust for slaughter.

He also heard their feelings toward him.

Not gratitude, not loyalty, not dependence. It was "recognition." They recognized him, not because he was their creator, not because his Dao arts surpassed theirs, not because they couldn't leave his body. They recognized him because he had once, in the Returning Ruins, traded his life for theirs. At that time they had not yet possessed true life; they were merely the embodiment of his Dao arts, forged when he refined the Green Lotus, refined himself, and divided his life among them.

He remembered that day. The passage of the Returning Ruins was closing, space collapsing, time twisting. He stood in the center of the passage, surrounded by shards of fractured law, like floating glass shards. He forced the Green Lotus out of his dantian—that lifelong Green Lotus he had refined for over a hundred years—tore it open, ripped it into five petals, and infused each petal with a strand of his life soul.

Pain. Not flesh pain, not heartache, but the very act of existence hurting. Like pulling a tree's roots from the soil, like cutting off a river at its source. His life soul was torn into five parts—one given to the Green Snake, one to the Golden Crow, one to the Ice Dragon, one to the Pangolin, and one to the White Tiger. From that moment on, they were no longer Dao arts; they had become lives.

After that day he was weak for a long time. He fell from Nascent Soul back to Golden Core, then from Golden Core down to Foundation Establishment, almost dropping to mortal. It was his master who used his own cultivation to extend his life, the old valley lord of Medicine King Valley who used a thousand-year-old herbal remedy to heal his wounds, and the white-haired old man in the Returning Ruins who used his Dao to mend his life soul. He survived, and the spirit beasts survived as well. From then on they each had their own heartbeat.

He had always known this, but never truly grasped its meaning.

Until yesterday, in the Immortal Palace's rear hall, he closed his eyes, sank his consciousness into his dantian, then deep into the spirit beasts' awareness. He saw their memories—not visual memories, but felt memories. The Green Snake remembered the instant it was torn open, the moment the petal landed on its body, feeling a temperature—not heat, but the warmth of being alive. The Golden Crow remembered when that strand of life soul entered its body; its flame first gained color, not the gold of spellcraft, but the red of life. The Ice Dragon remembered the soft sound of the petal landing on its scales, like snow falling, yet it heard it—that was the first sound it ever heard.

They all remember.

They remembered the pain of that day, the warmth of that day, and how he stood in the Returning Ruins' passage, drenched in blood, his face as pale as paper, yet his hand steady. He placed the five petals upon them one by one, like a father covering a child with a blanket. His lips moved, saying something, but they couldn't hear—because at that time they had no sense of hearing. Now they do, and recalling it, they realize he was saying the same thing.

"Live."

Just one word. He said it to the Green Snake, to the Golden Crow, to the Ice Dragon, to the Pangolin, and to the White Tiger. He also said it to himself. Because he had divided his life among them, he must live; they too must live. From that day on, an invisible thread linked them—not a Dao arts connection, not a dantian tie, but a bond of life. As they live, he lives; as he lives, they live.

When Wang Ping opened his eyes, the sky had already darkened.

In the Immortal Palace's rear hall, the five spirit beasts surrounded him. The Green Snake coiled on his knee, the Golden Crow perched on his shoulder, the Ice Dragon wrapped around his left arm, the Pangolin lay at his feet, and the White Tiger reclined before him. They made no sound, but they all watched him. Five pairs of eyes, five colors—green, gold, silver, yellow, white. Within those eyes lay the same thing: not loyalty, not gratitude, but "recognition."

He gazed at them for a long time, then said, "Tomorrow I will enter the Chaos Immortal Stele."

The spirit beasts showed no reaction, for they had long known. Since the day he first stood before the Chaos Immortal Stele seven days ago, they had known. They sensed what lay within that stone, sensed the person waiting for him, sensed the cluster of light calling. They also knew he would bring them along—not that he was bringing them, but that they were meant to go. Because their origin is chaos.

Chaos gives birth to myriad things. The green of the azure snake, the gold of the golden crow, the silver of the ice dragon, the yellow of the pangolin, the white of the white tiger—all these colors are born from the gray of chaos. Their forms, their attributes, their Dao are all differentiated from chaos. Their lives are born from his life-soul. And his life-soul comes from chaos.

All of this was destined from the day of the Return to the Void.

From the moment he tore the azure lotus into five petals, from the moment he infused a thread of his life-soul into each petal, from the moment he spoke the word 'live' to the five newly born lives, chaos buried a seed in his body and also buried seeds in the bodies of the spirit beasts. Those seeds kept growing, growing for over a hundred years, until his cultivation recovered from Golden Core to Nascent Soul, broke through from Nascent Soul to Spirit Transformation, and until the spirit beasts' Dao arts rose from the fourth realm to the fifth realm.

Now the seeds are about to bloom. The place where they bloom is the Chaos Immortal Stele.

Wang Ping walked out of the rear hall of the immortal palace and passed through the long corridor. On the walls on both sides of the corridor were murals depicting what this immortal palace once looked like. Immortals discussed the Dao here, auspicious clouds swirled, auspicious beasts danced, immortal cranes cried long. Those images have faded, become mottled, and in some places the wall plaster has peeled off. But one can still make out a rough idea, can still see that this place once was glorious.

He did not know where those immortals had gone.

Was it that they ascended to a higher heaven, or perished in some catastrophe, or, like those transcendents in the Return to the Void, stepped onto an unknown path and never returned? No one could tell him the answer. The immortal palace was empty and desolate; besides him, only the wind. The wind blew through the corridor, making a wailing sound, as if many people were crying.

He walked to the end of the corridor and pushed open a stone gate.

Beyond the gate was a small courtyard. In the center of the courtyard stood a well; the water was clear enough to see the stones at the bottom. He sat by the well, drew a bucket of water, washed his face and washed his hands. The water was cold, cold enough to make his fingers feel slightly numb. He splashed the water on his face, and the droplets ran down his cheeks, seeping into his collar. He did not wipe them off, letting them dry on their own.

There was a tree in the courtyard. I do not know what kind of tree it is; its bark is gray, and its leaves are gray as well. It grows very tall, its canopy spreading out to shade half the courtyard. Wang Ping raised his head and gazed at the tree for a long time. Dew clung to the leaves—morning dew rolling back and forth like teardrops. No, not teardrops. It was the tree breathing. It exhaled the night's chill, condensing it into dew that hung from the leaf tips, waiting for the sun to rise.

Wang Ping suddenly understood.

This tree, too, grew from chaos. Not the chaos of the Chaos Immortal Stele, but an earlier chaos—the chaos of heaven and earth, the chaos of all things. The tree had already existed back then; it was a seed that slept in chaos, waiting for heaven and earth to be split apart, waiting for light to appear. Later heaven and earth opened, light came, it awoke, sprouted from the soil, and grew into this tree.

How long has it lived? Ten thousand years? A hundred thousand years? Or even longer?

It watched the immortal palace being built, watched the immortals cultivating here, watched them leave one by one, watched the palace fall into ruin. It has always been here, never leaving. Because its roots are too deep, they have sunk into chaos and cannot be pulled out. Nor does it need to be. Being here is being in chaos; chaos is not some other place—it is right beneath its feet.

Wang Ping stood up, walked to the tree, and reached out to touch its bark.

The bark was rough, covered with many fissures like an old person's skin. His palm pressed against it, and he felt the tree's heartbeat—slow, heavy, taking a long time between beats. It was not a sloth; it was simply that its time flowed differently. One second for the tree equals a year for a person. One minute for the tree equals a lifetime for a person. Standing here touching it for this little while, to the tree it was merely an instant.

He withdrew his hand and made a bow to the tree.

It was not the salute of a junior to an elder, but a salute of life to life. As he bowed, the tree's leaves rustled softly, as if returning the gesture. Wang Ping turned, left the courtyard, and walked toward the altar. His steps were light, treading on the gravel and making faint sounds. The morning light stretched his shadow long upon the ground, like that of a person walking toward his destiny.

He walked slowly, not because he was hesitating, but because he wanted to remember this road.

From the courtyard to the altar, one must cross a square. The square is vast, able to hold several thousand people cultivating at once. Now the square holds nothing but rubble and weeds. His foot stepped on the weeds, and the dew on the blades soaked his boots. He lowered his head and glanced; he saw the blades glinting in the morning light, each blade bearing a dewdrop, each dewdrop reflecting a small patch of sky.

He hadn't looked like this in many years.

Since he first stepped into the cultivation realm, he has never stopped walking. He walked the Azure Void Heavenly Realm, the Returned Ruins, the Sea of Laws, the Reverse Time Flow. His eyes always looked ahead, at the goal, at the enemy, at the realm he sought to surpass. He had no time to glance at the roadside grass, at the dew on the grass, at the sky within the dew. It was not that he did not want to look; he dared not look. For fear that a single glance would make him unable to move. For fear that a single glance would reveal how much he had missed.

Now he dares to look. Because he knows that after looking, he will still have to go on—but not rushing, just returning home.

The Chaos Immortal Stele stood at the altar's center, waiting for him.

He crossed the square and climbed the altar's steps. There were many steps; he had counted them—ninety‑nine. Each step bore carvings: cloud patterns, beast shapes, the dance of immortals. Those carvings had been worn smooth by time; in places only a vague outline remained. His foot stepped on them, feeling the stone's chill rise from the sole of his boot up his leg bones to his heart.

When he reached the top of the altar, the sun had risen to the height of the vault's fissure.

Light poured down from that crack, shining straight onto the stele. The stele glowed all over; on its dull gray surface the patterns became clear. Wang Ping stood at the edge of the altar, gazing at the stele for a long time. Seven days ago, when he first saw those patterns, he thought they were mere decoration, meaningless lines. Now he knew they were not lines but characters—not written by men, but by the Dao itself. Each pattern is a law, a manifestation of a Dao technique.

Chaos divides into yin and yang; yin and yang give rise to the five phases; the five phases transform into all things.

Those patterns are the process by which chaos differentiates all things. Starting from a vague mass at the top, it gradually splits into two lines, one upward, one downward. The upward line branches into five streams; the downward line also branches into five streams. The ten streams split again, becoming hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands. Finally they converge, forming a dense network of lines that covers the entire stele surface.

He understood.

It was not understood with the eyes, but with the Dao-heart. His Dao-heart throbbed, beating fast, like someone suddenly recalling something from long ago—not of this lifetime, but earlier. It was what he experienced in chaos, before he became human, when he was merely a mass of chaotic qi. Where was he then? In chaos. What was chaos like? Just like this stele.

He drew a deep breath and stepped forward.

This time there was no wall. He reached out; his fingers moved through the air with no resistance. Air was air, stele was stele, nothing lay between them. He took three steps, stood before the stele, and could reach out to touch it. The four characters on the stele did not glow; they simply sat there, carved into the stone, quiet and still, like something asleep.

Wang Ping did not rush to touch it. He stood there, gazing at the stele for a long time.

He recalled that seven days earlier, an invisible wall had blocked his hand outside, his fingertips still three chi from the stele, unable to push further. Back then he did not know what the wall was. He tried every method: blasting with magical power, permeating with Dao techniques, striking with his nascent soul. The wall did not budge an inch. He even had the White Tiger ram it; the tiger's claws struck the wall, leaving no mark. He had the Golden Crow burn it; the fire blazed for half a day, yet the wall remained cold.

He asked the people inside the Immortal Palace what that wall was.

There was only one person in the Immortal Palace: an old guardian whose age was unknown, his wrinkles like old tree bark. The old man said, that is not a wall, but a 'distance'—the character for distance. Not spatial distance, but Dao distance. How far your Dao is from chaos determines the wall's thickness; how near your Dao is to chaos determines its thinness. When there is no distance between you and chaos, the wall disappears.

He asked the old man how to eliminate that distance.

The old man said, make your Dao 'come alive.' Not the liveliness of activity, but the vitality of life. When Dao technique is cultivated to the extreme, it gives birth to spirituality. But spirituality is not enough; it is merely the shadow of the Dao. To let the Dao truly come alive, to become life—not taking the form of living beings, but embodying the essence of life: able to breathe, to have a heartbeat, to be born, to die, to reproduce, to evolve. When your Dao comes alive, you have no distance from chaos, for chaos itself is alive, the source of all life.