Chapter 421

That mass of light engulfed Wang Ping.

It was not 'encirclement', not 'envelopment', but 'engulfment'. Encirclement is external, surrounding him from all sides while he remains in the middle. Envelopment is from above, covering him while he stays beneath. Engulfment is not like that. Engulfment means he is inside the light and the light is inside him, with no boundary between them. Like water engulfing a drop of ink, the ink disperses in the water, becoming threads, then wisps, then mist, finally merging with the water until you can't tell which is water and which is ink.

Wang Ping was that drop of ink.

His body dispersed in the light. It was not shattered; it was transformed. Shattering involves sound, pain, and edges. When his body transformed, there was no sound, no pain, no edge—like an ice cube melting in warm water, shifting from solid to liquid, from defined shape to formless. He could feel his boundaries vanishing: the edges of his fingers, his palms, his arms disappeared. They were still there, but no longer part of him.

His fingers turned into five strands of chaos-colored light. The strands were extremely fine, almost invisible. They drifted around his consciousness like five tiny snakes—no, not snakes, but the memory of his fingers. They remembered having been fingers, remembered gripping a sword, forming seals, touching a stele. Those memories flowed within the light strands, slowly and gently.

His palms became two masses of light mist. The mist was denser than the strands but still faint. As they drifted, they retained the posture of palm facing upward—the posture he used when reaching out to touch the stele, a posture the mist remembered. Within the mist lingered traces of palm lines, of temperature, of touch.

His arms became two streams of light. The streams began at his shoulders and stretched outward slowly, like two rivers flowing across a plain. The water was chaos-colored, with ripples on its surface—these were the memories of his arm muscles, his meridians, his blood flow.

His torso became a lake of light. From chest to abdomen, from abdomen to dantian, every organ, every meridian, every bone was dissolving. The heart dissolved slowest, because it was still beating. It beat in the light—once, twice, thrice. Each beat turned a portion of heart muscle into light. By the ninth beat, the whole heart had become light. That light was red, not blood-red, but a warm red.

His skull became the sky of light. From crown to forehead, from forehead to brows and eyes, from brows and eyes to nose and mouth, from nose and mouth to jaw. Skin, muscle, bone all dissolved. Finally his eyes dissolved. When his eyes dissolved, he perceived the process of his own dissolution—not with eyes, but with consciousness. His consciousness remained.

As long as his consciousness remained, he remained.

His consciousness drifted in the light like a leaf on a river, with no direction, no purpose, just drifting. The river surface was wide—so wide the banks were invisible. The water flowed slowly—so slowly it seemed still. The leaf turned in circles on the surface, one circle, two, three. Each turn left a water trace on the leaf. The traces were chaos-colored, drawing patterns on the leaf.

He recognized those patterns. They were the markings on the Chaos Immortal Stele: the strokes of the character 'hun', of 'dun', of 'xian', of 'bei'. They surfaced on his consciousness like tattoos, like brands, like sigils written deep in life. His consciousness flowed through the patterns, and the patterns extended through his consciousness—it was impossible to tell whether consciousness carried the patterns or the patterns carried consciousness.

He drifted in this sea of light.

The sea of light had no borders, no depth, no temperature. It simply existed, enveloping him, sustaining him, also penetrating him. He felt no body, yet no emptiness. He felt no weight, yet no lightness. He felt he had become part of the light sea, and the light sea had become part of him.

This state lasted a long time.

It might have been an instant, or ten thousand years. In the light of chaos, time lost meaning—not because time stopped, but because the concept of time itself did not exist. In chaos there is no before/after, no length, no speed. All time is stacked together like a pile of paper: past below, future above, present in the middle. They are stacked so tightly that you cannot tell which sheet is which.

Wang Ping's consciousness moved through the layers of time.

He saw the moment he entered the Chaos Immortal Stele, and the moment he left it. He saw the moment he tore open his fate-soul in Return to the Ruins, and the moment he listened to a spirit beast's heartbeat in the Rear Hall of the Immortal Palace. He saw the moment he gazed up at the silver stone gate outside the Azure Void Heavenly Domain, and the moment, as a mortal, he listened to stories under the old locust tree.

All moments were stacked together, occurring and existing simultaneously. He was no longer a person walking through time; he had become time itself. His consciousness was time, and the flow of time was his breath. When he inhaled, time moved forward; when he exhaled, time moved backward. With each inhale and exhale, all past and future flowed in and out of his chest.

Then he saw the depths of the sea of light.

There was something there. It was not light, for there was no light. It was not darkness, for there was no darkness either. It was something older than both light and darkness. No name could call it, because names came later; it predated names. He could only sense that it was there, in the deepest part of the sea of light, waiting silently.

He began to drift toward it.

It was not that he chose to drift; his consciousness was drawn to that thing, like iron filings to a magnet. The closer he drifted, the clearer it became. It was not an object, but a place. Not a place, but a state. Not a state, but a person.

That person stood in 'emptiness'.

It was not an empty void; it was the emptiness before 'existence' had begun. Heaven and earth had not yet been split, yin and yang had not yet differentiated, all things had not yet been born. Nothing existed, not even the concept of 'nothingness.' That person stood in such emptiness, like a tree standing where soil had not yet formed, like a river standing where a riverbed had not yet existed.

His robe floated in the emptiness, silvery-white, not made of cloth but of light. Light flowed down from his shoulders to the hem, then back up to the shoulders. Those streams of light moved so slowly they seemed to be congealing, yet they never solidified; they kept flowing, for who knows how many years. His hair was also silvery-white, very long, hanging to his waist. Each strand carried a flow of light, from scalp to tip and back to scalp.

His face — Wang Ping saw it clearly.

It was the face of a middle-aged man: a square face, broad bone structure, distinct contours. His forehead was wide, with three horizontal lines across it — not deep but long, extending from the left sideburn to the right. His eyebrows were thick, like two knives slantingly inserted into his brow ridge. His eyes were large, with deep sockets; his eyeballs were like two black gems set in the sockets. His nose bridge was high, rising straight from the space between his brows and slightly hooking at the tip. His lips were thin, pressed together, with the corners slightly turned down.

There were wrinkles on his face.

They were not the wrinkles of old age, but the wrinkles of experience. The three horizontal lines on his forehead came from three major decisions. The vertical line between his brows was from long-term frowning, like a knife cut. At the corners of his eyes were faint but deep crow's-feet, from countless gazes into the distance. The lines from the corners of his nose to his mouth were deep, from countless silences.

His hair was black — black as ink, black as night, black as an abyss. That black was not a color; it was the black of 'existence.' Light that struck his hair was not reflected but sucked in. His hair flowed loose in the emptiness like a black banner — not a banner of sorrow, but a banner of waiting.

His eyes were black.

Black without bottom, black without edge. Yet within the black there was something. Not stars, not galaxies, not the birth and death of the universe. He had seen such things before in the eyes of transcendents, but now they were gone. In those black eyes now there was only one person — a tiny figure standing in a sea of light, drifting toward him.

That person was Wang Ping.

Wang Ping saw himself in those black eyes — not a reflection, but 'existence.' He existed within those black eyes, and those black eyes existed within his consciousness. They were within each other, each within the other. Between them there was no distance, no barrier, no distinction.

Wang Ping looked at that face and felt it familiar.

It wasn't that you had seen him somewhere; you had 'dreamed' of him. That dream was not a sleeping dream but a waking one. You walk down the road, see a stranger's back, and your heart gives a sudden jolt — you feel you know that person, have known him for a long time, longer than you have known yourself. You want to catch up to see his face, but he turns the corner and disappears.

Now that face was right before him, having neither turned the corner nor vanished. He could stare at it as long as he liked. He looked at that square face, at the thick brows, the large eyes, the high nose bridge, the thin lips. Something in his consciousness was stirred, like a string buried deep underground being lightly plucked by a hand.

The string vibrated.

The vibration rose from the depths of his consciousness, passing through the layers of time, through the waves of the sea of light, through his dissipated body. His consciousness began to tremble — not from fear, but from 'recognition.' Like a child who had left home and traveled far, far away, who one day suddenly, on a foreign street, sees a person. That person stands there, looking at him, saying nothing. Yet the child recognizes him — it is his father.

Not a father by blood, but a father of life — the one who existed before he was born, the one from whose source his life flowed. He had never seen that person, yet that person had always been in his heart. In the deepest part of his heart there was a place that had always been empty. He did not know why it was empty, nor how long it had been empty. He only occasionally, in the stillness of night, felt that there was a vacancy there. The vacancy did not hurt; it was simply empty.

Now that vacancy was filled.

That person stood there, and that place was full. It was not occupied; it was returned. That place originally belonged to that person, was left by that person for himself, waiting for the day when Wang Ping would come before him and recognize him. Now Wang Ping has recognized him.

His consciousness produced a sound amid the trembling.

It was not language, but something older than language. It was the first sound in chaos, the first pulse of existence itself. That sound passed through the sea of light, through the emptiness, and reached that person's ears. He heard it.

His lips moved.

There was no sound, yet Wang Ping heard it — not with his ears, but with 'existence.' The voice rang directly in his consciousness, like a bell tolling in an open mountain valley, echoing off the cliffs, bouncing back and forth. Layer upon layer of reverberations coalesced into a sentence.

"You guessed it."

Wang Ping's consciousness trembled in the light. He had no mouth, no vocal cords, no breath, yet he could 'speak' — not with sound, but with consciousness. The words of consciousness are more direct than spoken words, unblocked by grammar, unrestricted by vocabulary. Whatever he wished to express, the other received exactly that.

His consciousness uttered a sentence.

"You are the stele spirit."

The spirit of the Chaos Immortal Stele. It is the consciousness that has existed since the day the Chaos Immortal Stele was born. The Chaos Immortal Stele is not a mere stone; it is a life. It has its own heartbeat, its own breath, its own memory, its own waiting. It waits for a person, one who can enter its interior. When a person comes, it gives itself to him.

Wang Ping thought so.

The corner of that person's mouth twitched. It was not a smile, but the movement before a smile reaches the lips — like the first breeze of spring that has not yet opened the blossoms, merely making the buds tremble slightly. In his black eyes, something glowed. It was not light, but a black deeper than light. That black gazed at him, responding to him.

Then his voice sounded again. This time it was not silent; it had sound.

His voice was soft and slow. Each word sounded like water drawn from a deep, deep well, carrying the earth's warmth, the minerals of rock, the taste of time. Between the words were long pauses. Those pauses were not empty; they held unspoken meaning. It was like someone telling a very old story, stopping when it grew poignant, gazing into the distance, at the place where the story happened.

"I am not the stele spirit."

The first word 'I,' as it left his lips, caused the surrounding emptiness to tremble. It was not a sound's tremor, but a tremor of 'existence.' That word carried his existence, striking the boundary of the emptiness, rebounding, then striking again. The emptiness rippled outward in circles from his impact; the ripples reached Wang Ping's consciousness, making it tremble as well.

The second word 'not' was heavier than 'I.' When it fell, it was like a stone dropped onto a still lake — not raising splashes, but sinking. It passed through the surface, through the water layers, through the silt, and sank to the lakebed. The lakebed held ten million years of sediment, which was a person's entire past.

The third word 'yes' rose upward. From the lakebed it ascended, passing through the silt, through the water layers, through the surface. It lifted the lakebed's contents — those substances that had settled for ten million years — and they rose with the word, dispersing on the surface. Wang Ping saw those things. They were memories, the memories of the Chaos Immortal Sovereign.

Fourth character "Stele". This character is hard, like stone. No, it is stone itself. The stone of the Chaos Immortal Stele is grayish, chaos-colored. It stands in the void, like a stele. There are characters on the stele, not carved but grown. The characters breathe on the stele's surface, alive.

Fifth character "Spirit". This character is light, light to almost no weight. It floats out of that person's mouth, like a feather. The feather drifts in the void, floats to the stele and lands on its top. At the moment it lands, the stele and spirit become one. The stele has spirit, the spirit has stele.

After the five characters were spoken, the void remained silent for a long time.

That person's gaze moved away from Wang Ping's body, looking upward into the void. There was nothing there, but he stared intently, as if looking at something very important. His lips moved again.

"The stele spirit is part of me."

He raised his hand, pointing to his own chest. That hand was very white, almost translucent. The fingers were long, joints distinct, nails trimmed short. The palm had markings, not palm lines but Dao patterns. Those markings flowed on his palm like rivers, like mountain ranges, like star charts. He pressed his hand to his chest; at that spot, a heart beat.

"I am the Chaos Immortal Venerable."

Six characters. Each character is heavier than the last. The first character "I" is opening the door; the second "is" is entering the door; the third "chaos" is seeing the courtyard; the fourth "void" is seeing the main hall; the fifth "immortal" is seeing the plaque hanging above the main hall; the sixth "venerable" is seeing the name written on the plaque.

That name is Chaos Immortal Venerable.

Wang Ping's consciousness shuddered violently. Not a shudder of fear, but of shock. Like a person walking on a road, suddenly struck by lightning. Not killed, but awakened. He originally thought he was walking toward a truth; now he realizes he hasn't even touched the door of that truth.

Chaos Immortal Venerable.

The last Chaos Immortal Venerable of the Ancient Immortal Realm. The master of the ancestor of the Myriad Phenomena Stargazer, the arch-enemy of the Lord of Order, a witness to the shattering of the Immortal Realm. These titles, he had read in ancient texts, heard from Yinying's mouth, felt in the remnant souls of Gui Xu. Each title is a mountain; the name Chaos Immortal Venerable is a mountain range.

He had read ancient texts about the Chaos Immortal Venerable. That was in the Sutra Pavilion of Medicine King Valley, a damaged silk scroll. The scroll's cover bore no characters, only a clump of chaos-colored mist. Opening the first page, it read: "The Chaos Immortal Venerable is a great power who, in the Ancient Immortal Realm, attained the Chaos Dao Fruit. His Dao cannot be named, his law cannot be transmitted, his trace cannot be sought."

The silk scroll recorded the deeds of the Chaos Immortal Venerable. It said that in the Ancient Immortal Realm he stood at the highest existence. Not the highest cultivation, but the deepest Dao realm. His Dao was not the Five Elements Dao, not the Yin-Yang Dao, not the Spacetime Dao, but the Chaos Dao. The Chaos Dao is the source of all Daos and also their ultimate destination. He stood between source and destination, watching myriad Daos arise and perish, without joy or sorrow.

The silk scroll also recorded his battle with the Lord of Order. No one knows how long that battle lasted. Some say three thousand years, some say thirty thousand years, some say the battle never ended but continues in some unseen dimension. No one knows the result either. Some say the Chaos Immortal Venerable fell, and the Lord of Order also suffered irreparable wounds. Some say the Chaos Immortal Venerable did not fall; he merely hid himself somewhere, waiting for someone.

Wang Ping had heard this name from Yinying's mouth. That was in the passage of Gui Xu, with Yinying clinging to his ear, speaking in a voice only he could hear: "Heir of the Chaos Immortal Venerable, you have finally come." At that time he did not know what Yinying meant, thinking Yinying had mistaken the person. Now he knows Yinying was not mistaken.

He had felt this name in the remnant souls of Gui Xu. Those remnant souls drifted in the Sea of Laws, some weeping, some laughing, some chanting scriptures, some calling out names. One remnant soul, the hoarsest-voiced, kept repeating four characters: "Chaos Immortal Venerable." When he chanted those four characters, he was not shouting; he was waiting, waiting for someone to respond to him.

Now Wang Ping knows who that remnant soul was waiting for.

It was him.

The Chaos Immortal Venerable looked at Wang Ping, seeing through all the thoughts surging in his consciousness. In his black eyes there was a very faint, very faint smile. Not a happy smile, but a "as expected" smile. He had waited so long; the one he waited for has finally come. Not just anyone, but one who has walked the path he walked, endured the hardships he endured, and comprehended the Dao he comprehended, before arriving.

His voice continued to sound.

"I have not died."

These four words are light but firm. Not an argument, not a proclamation, merely a statement. Like a person saying "the sky is blue" — no need for emphasis, no need for proof. The sky is blue; he simply has not died.

"What has fallen is my body."

He moved his fingers away from his chest, pointing to his own body. From the crown of his head to the soles of his feet, from front to back. Wherever his fingers traced, the body became transparent. Not a vanishing transparency, but a "see-through" transparency. Wang Ping saw through his skin the muscles, through the muscles the bones, through the bones the meridians.

The muscles were withering, the bones weathering, the meridians drying up. This was not a living person's body, but a body in the process of dying. Yet it had not completely died; it was sustained by some force, kept in the state of "in the process of dying." That state persisted for thirty thousand years.

"What has fallen is my cultivation."

He moved his fingers away from his body, pointing to the dantian. At the dantian's position there was a cluster of chaos-colored light. That light was very weak, weak to the point of being barely visible. It slowly rotated; each turn made it a little dimmer. But it had not extinguished, because it kept turning. The act of turning itself was its mode of existence.

Wang Ping looked at that cluster of light and understood. It was the Chaos Immortal Venerable's Dao fruit, the Chaos Dao Fruit. It had withered for thirty thousand years, shrunk for thirty thousand years, consumed for thirty thousand years. Yet it remained, because the Chaos Immortal Venerable's consciousness still remained. Consciousness present, Dao fruit present; Dao fruit present, he remains.

"What has fallen is my immortal palace."

He moved his fingers away from the dantian, pointing to the crown of his head. Above the crown appeared an illusion of an immortal palace. That palace was far larger and far more splendid than the one Wang Ping currently inhabits. Its walls were built of chaos stone, its roof paved with stars, its pillars forged from the Milky Way. Inside the palace dwelled countless immortals, discussing Dao, cultivating, laughing.

Then the illusion changed. The sky split open, and a shaft of white light pierced through the crack. Wherever the white light passed, the walls collapsed, the roof shattered, the pillars snapped. The immortals scattered and fled; some were overtaken by the white light and turned to ash. Some escaped the palace, but outside was also white light. The entire palace became ruins.

That was the day thirty thousand years ago when the Lord of Order descended upon the Chaos Immortal Palace.

"What has fallen is my disciples."

He moved his fingers away from the crown, pointing to his heart. At the heart's position were countless tiny points of light. Each point of light was a disciple. They lived in his heart, and also died in his heart. When his heart beat once, they lit up once; when his heart paused, they dimmed once. They beat for thirty thousand years, lit for thirty thousand years, dimmed for thirty thousand years.

Wang Ping saw those points of light, and a sour feeling welled up in his heart. Not sorrow, but "understanding." He understood the feeling of losing disciples. His master died before his eyes, his comrades died at his side, his fellow sect members died in places he could not see. He understood the feeling of having a hole in one's heart that nothing can fill.

"What has fallen is my civilization."

He moved his fingers away from his heart, pointing to the surroundings. The surroundings were empty, nothing there. But Wang Ping saw, saw in that emptiness a civilization that once existed. It was the civilization founded by the Chaos Immortal Venerable, with the Chaos Dao as its core. That civilization contained countless cultivators, countless Dao arts, countless scriptures, countless legends. On that day thirty thousand years ago, they all fell. Not destruction, but falling. Like stars falling from the sky into the sea, never to be found again.

The Chaos Immortal Venerable's voice paused for a moment.

That pause was long, long enough for Wang Ping to think he had finished speaking. But the Chaos Immortal Venerable spoke again, this time his voice even lighter, slower. Each word sounded as if drawn from a deeper well.

"But my consciousness remains."

His fingers returned to his own glabella. At the glabella's position there was a point of light. Very small, very bright, very steady. That was his consciousness, the core of his existence. Body can fall, cultivation can fall, immortal palace can fall, disciples can fall, civilization can fall. But as long as consciousness remains, he remains.

"I have sealed my consciousness within the Chaos Immortal Stele."

He moved his fingers away from his glabella, pointing to the void beneath his feet. In the depths of that void appeared an image of the Chaos Immortal Stele. Not the stone stele Wang Ping saw from outside, but the stele's interior. The interior of the stele is a world, exactly this sea of light where Wang Ping now finds himself. This sea of light is the Chaos Immortal Venerable's consciousness. Consciousness turned into light, light turned into sea, and the sea bears the Chaos Immortal Venerable's final wait.

"Waiting for one person to come."

His gaze fell again upon Wang Ping. Those black eyes looked at Wang Ping's consciousness. Not inspecting, not sizing up, merely looking. Like a person looking at his own shadow, at the reflection on water, at himself in a mirror.

"Waited for a long time."

His voice carried the weight of time. Thirty thousand years — not a number, but each day, each watch, each moment. Thirty thousand sunrises, thirty thousand sunsets. Thirty thousand springs, thirty thousand winters. He waited, and waited so long that he forgot many things. He forgot what kind of immortal palace he once lived in, forgot how many disciples he had once taken, forgot whom he had once loved.

But he had not forgotten that he was waiting.

That was the only thing he still remembered: wait. Wait for a predestined person, wait for one who can enter the Chaos Immortal Stele, wait for one who can bear his Dao. While he waited, countless people came to the fragments of the Immortal Realm. Some were swallowed by the Sea of Laws, some were swept away by the Time Reversal, some were trapped by the Dao Heart Tribulation. Some reached the stele's front but could not enter.

Because they were not qualified. Not insufficient cultivation, but insufficient Dao. Not insufficient Dao, but insufficient heart. Not insufficient heart, but insufficient fate.

"Your Dao is pure."

The Chaos Immortal Venerable's voice became a little clearer, like a person finding a clear fragment in his memories. He looked at Wang Ping, his gaze penetrating Wang Ping's consciousness, seeing the path Wang Ping had walked.

"You began in the Qingming Heavenly Domain, cultivating the Qing Wood Dao Technique. You could have cultivated a more powerful Dao technique, but you chose Qing Wood. Not because it is strong, but because it suits you. Your spiritual root is a wood spiritual root, your nature is a wood nature. You are like a tree, growing slowly. Not contending, not rushing, not restless. When others bloom, you are taking root. When others bear fruit, you are growing leaves. When others wither, you remain green. This is purity."

Wang Ping's consciousness drifted silently in the light. He had never thought of himself this way before. He merely felt himself stupid, unable to learn those profound Dao techniques, only able to learn Qing Wood Dao Technique. Now he knew that was not stupidity, but purity. Pure to the point of doing only one thing, pure to the point of walking only one path.

"Your heart is steadfast."

The Chaos Immortal Venerable's gaze moved to the deepest part of Wang Ping's consciousness, where his Dao heart resides. A Dao heart is not the shape of a heart, but a cluster of light. That cluster is not large, but very steady. It throbs in the deepest part of Wang Ping's consciousness, not with heavy thuds but with light beats — one, one, one. The intervals between beats are completely identical.

"When your master died, your Dao heart did not break. When your comrades died, your Dao heart did not break. When you passed through Gui Xu, your Dao heart did not break. When you faced the Time Reversal, your Dao heart did not break. Your Dao heart is not forged iron, which would rust. Your Dao heart is made of water, which does not shatter. You scatter it, and it flows back. You dry it, and it falls again from the sky. This is steadfastness."

Wang Ping recalled the day his master died. The sky was gray, the wind cold, his heart ached as if someone had gripped it with a hand. He thought his Dao heart would shatter, but it did not. It merely cracked a seam, which later healed. After healing, that seam remained, becoming a line. That line no longer hurt, but was forever there.

"Your fate is hard."

The gaze of the Chaos Immortal Venerable shifted to the deeper part of Wang Ping's consciousness, where his life-soul resided. The life-soul was not light; it was something more essential than light. It was there, like a seed. The seed had an outer shell, and the shell was covered in cracks. Those cracks were left by Wang Ping each time he hovered on the brink of death. In the Return to the Void, his life-soul was torn open; in the Sea of Laws, it was washed by the laws; in the Reverse Flow of Time, it was pulled apart by time. Each time left cracks on his life-soul, yet each time he did not die.

"Return to the Void, you tore your life-soul into five pieces. An ordinary person would die from tearing just one piece, but you tore five and still lived. It's not luck; it's that your fate is hard. Hard to the point of being undying, hard that even Yama won't take you, hard that even the Heavenly Dao can do nothing about you. I've been waiting for you, waiting for exactly this kind of fate. Only such a fate can bear my Dao."

Wang Ping recalled that moment in the Return to the Void. He forced the azure lotus out of his dantian and tore it into five petals. At that time he didn't know what he was doing; he only knew he had to do it. His spirit beasts had just been born; without his life-soul, they could not survive. He had to give it to them. When giving it, he didn't think about whether he could live. He only wanted them to live.