Chapter 422: The True Face of the Transcendent (2)

Now he knows that at that moment, his fate was verified. Not verified by the Chaos Immortal Venerable, but verified by the Dao itself. The Dao said, this person can. Can endure more, can go farther, can become the successor of the Chaos Immortal Venerable.

The Chaos Immortal Venerable's voice stopped.

He no longer spoke, only looked at Wang Ping. In his gaze was something very complex. Not relief, not pride, not anticipation. It was a sense of release from a burden. Like someone who had carried a heavy load for a long time finally set it down. His shoulders relaxed, his waist straightened, his breathing grew light. That burden was his Dao.

He raised his hand, palm facing up.

In his palm was a cluster of light. This light differed from the surrounding light. The surrounding light was chaos-colored, gray and murky, diffuse, boundless. This cluster of light was also chaos-colored, but it was denser, thicker, brighter. It rotated in his aged palm, slowly, very slowly—so slowly that Wang Ping thought it had stopped.

But it had not stopped.

It had been turning, for who knows how many years. Since the day the Chaos Immortal Venerable fell, it had been turning. Thirty thousand years ago, the Chaos Immortal Venerable's body fell, his cultivation dissipated, his immortal palace collapsed. At the moment he sealed his consciousness into the Chaos Immortal Stele, he took this cluster of light from his own Dao Fruit.

This was his lifetime of learning.

It was not a book, not a cultivation method, not a set of Dao techniques. It was the sum of his understanding from when he began cultivation to attaining the Chaos Dao Fruit—how each step should be taken, how each obstacle overcome, how each insight arise. Those things he distilled from thirty thousand years of memory, condensing them into this cluster of light.

He placed it in his palm, waiting for someone to come and take it.

For thirty thousand years, this cluster of light turned in his palm. It did not grow larger or smaller, brighter or dimmer. It merely turned. Its turning was its breath, its wait, its life. It waited for a hand, a hand capable of bearing it.

Now that hand has come.

The Chaos Immortal Venerable's hand reached toward Wang Ping. That aged, transparent hand, inscribed with countless Dao patterns, bore the cluster of light and extended it before Wang Ping's consciousness. His hand was very steady, steady as a mountain. Thirty thousand years of waiting had not made his hand tremble in the slightest.

"Take it."

Two words. No extra words. No "you must use it well", no "do not disappoint my expectations", no "avenge me". Only "Take it". Because there was no need to say those. He knew Wang Ping would use it well, knew Wang Ping would not disappoint, knew Wang Ping would avenge him. He had waited thirty thousand years, chosen this person, and believed in his choice.

Wang Ping's consciousness extended a hand.

It was not a real hand, but a tendril of consciousness. Consciousness itself has no shape, but he so desired to receive that cluster of light that his consciousness took the form of a hand. That hand reached out from the sea of light toward the cluster in the Chaos Immortal Venerable's palm. Its fingers were transparent, its palm transparent, and on the back of the hand were memories of his body—the tiny mole, the scar left from sword practice.

His hand touched the light.

At the instant of contact, the cluster of light twitched lightly beneath his fingertips. Like a heart sensing another heart approaching, its rotation paused for a moment, then continued, but now it turned a little faster. Not because it wanted to speed up, but because it felt that the one it had been waiting for had finally arrived.

Wang Ping's hand closed, clutching the cluster of light in his palm.

The cluster of light exploded in his palm. Not an explosive burst, but a blossoming. Like a flower opening, its petals unfurled one by one. The first petal unfolded, revealing a Dao technique. Not an ordinary technique, but a Chaos Dao Technique. Chaos initially opens, yin and yang begin to separate. The name of this technique is "Chaos' Initial Opening". It teaches him how to open chaos within his own body, how to let chaos give rise to yin and yang.

The second petal unfolded, revealing another cultivation method. The method had no name, only a single line: "The Dao is not in cultivation, but in awakening." Below it were countless characters, dense as ants, crawling in his consciousness. Each character that passed left a trace of light. The traces grew more numerous, eventually merging into a sheet—a sea, the Sea of Chaos Cultivation Methods.

The third petal unfolded, revealing a realization. The realization had no words, only a feeling. He felt he had become the Chaos Immortal Venerable, sitting at the highest point of the immortal palace, gazing down at the sea of clouds. The cloud sea surged, within it countless beings struggled. He wanted to reach out to help them, but he did not. For he knew that was the path they must walk. He had walked it; they too must walk it. He could only watch, waiting for them to finish.

The fourth petal unfolded, revealing a star chart. The chart did not mark the positions of stars, but the veins of the Dao. The Chaos Dao flows from its source, splitting into yin and yang; yin and yang give rise to the five phases; the five phases give rise to the eight trigrams; the eight trigrams give rise to all things. All things return to the five phases; the five phases return to yin and yang; yin and yang return to chaos. It is a circle with no beginning, no end. Every point is both a start and an end.

The fifth petal unfolded, revealing a principle. The Chaos Principle. Not a concrete principle like the five phases, but a more fundamental principle than they. It is the mother of all principles; all principles arise from it. To grasp the Chaos Principle is to grasp the source of all principles. Not to grasp, but to return. Return to the source, and set out anew from there.

Petal after petal unfolded.

He could not count how many petals there were. He only felt his consciousness expanding—not in size, but in depth. Like a well being dug deeper: one zhang, two zhang, three zhang. When they reached groundwater, water welled up. The water was clear, cool, sweet. He tasted the flavor of the Dao.

That was not knowledge, not information, not memory. It was "becoming". Those Dao techniques, cultivation methods, realizations, star charts, principles did not enter his consciousness; they became his consciousness. He need not memorize, practice, or comprehend. He only needed to "be". To be, and the Dao is there; where the Dao is, he is.

His consciousness stretched within the Dao.

Like a tree planted in soil, its roots spread in all directions. The main root went downward, penetrating the soil layer, the rock layer, the crust, and reaching deep into chaos. The feeder roots spread outward, penetrating the five phases, yin and yang, time and space, extending into the essence of all things. His consciousness was the tree's crown, unfolding in the sea of light, each leaf a Dao technique, each branch a cultivation method.

The Green Snake swam within his consciousness, moving into the Dao technique of Chaos' Initial Opening. Within that chaos it saw the source of the Azure Wood Dao—a first wisp of azure qi. The azure qi merged with it, its scales becoming more verdant, green as the first leaf that sprouts in spring.

The Golden Crow flew into the Dao technique of Chaos' Initial Opening, beholding the source of the Flame Dao—a first spark. The spark fused with it, its feathers turning more golden, golden as the first ray of sunlight when the sun first rises.

The Ice Dragon swam into the Dao technique of Chaos' Initial Opening, beholding the source of the Ice Dao—a first ice crystal. The crystal fused with it, its scales turning more silver-white, white as the first snowfall in the polar regions.

The Pangolin burrowed into the Dao technique of Chaos' Initial Opening, beholding the source of the Earth Dao—a first speck of dust. The dust fused with it, its scales turning more yellow-bright, yellow as the first nugget of gold deep in the earth.

The White Tiger walked into the Dao technique of Chaos' Initial Opening, beholding the source of the Slaughter Dao—a first blade's edge. The edge merged with it, its fur turning more snow-white, white as the first blank sheet of paper.

Within Wang Ping's consciousness, they completed the transformation from Dao techniques to embodiments of the Dao. No longer were they his Dao techniques; they were incarnations of the Dao. Their lives no longer depended on his life-soul, but were directly linked to the source of the Dao. They were freed, and in turn they freed him.

The Chaos Immortal Venerable withdrew his hand.

He watched Wang Ping's consciousness unfurl in the sea of light, watched the five spirit beasts transform within the Dao, watched the great tree whose crown was Wang Ping's consciousness take root deep in chaos. On his face, the expression of "release from a burden" became even more evident.

His figure faded in the light.

It was not a sudden fade, but a gradual one. Starting from his robe's hem, the edges of his silver-white light robe began to blur, like ink meeting water and spreading. The spreading was slow, moving from the hem to the collar, from the collar to the sleeves. His body was dispersing, turning into light, into Dao, into a part of this sea of light.

Wang Ping saw it.

He wanted to call out to him, to ask many questions. He wanted to ask where the Lord of Order's weakness lay, what the secret of the Void Refinement stage was, whether the progenitor of the Myriad Phenomena Stargazer still lived, and whether he still remembered his own name. But he had no mouth; he could not make a sound. His consciousness was stretched within the Dao, unable to retract.

The Chaos Immortal Venerable watched Wang Ping, knowing what he wanted to ask.

He did not answer. Not because he did not want to, but because it was unnecessary. The answers to those questions were all within that cluster of light. When Wang Ping fully absorbed it, he would naturally know. Everything the Chaos Immortal Venerable knew, he would know; everything the Chaos Immortal Venerable had walked, he would walk.

Including the name of the Chaos Immortal Venerable.

The Chaos Immortal Venerable's figure grew ever fainter. From his robe to his body, from his body to his limbs, from his limbs to his head. At last only his eyes remained—a pair of black, bottomless eyes. Within those eyes were reflected Wang Ping's consciousness, the growing great tree, and the five spirit beasts undergoing transformation.

Then the corner of his mouth twitched.

It was not a smile, but something lighter than a smile. It was a farewell. Like the last sliver of sunlight at dusk, sliding from the windowsill, it would pause there for an instant—not reluctance to leave, but a composed departure.

His lips opened.

There was no sound, yet Wang Ping heard it. He heard the final words spoken. Not perceived by consciousness, but sensed by the Dao-heart. Those words landed directly upon his Dao-heart, like a leaf falling on water, sending out ripples one after another.

"My Dao, I give to you."

The leaf sank. The ripples remained.

"My life, I also give to you."

Another leaf fell. The ripples overlapped, indistinguishable whose was whose.

"The remaining path, you walk it yourself."

The third leaf fell. Three leaves floated on the water's surface, slowly drawing near, leaning together, merging into one leaf. On that leaf were three veins. The first vein was called "Dao", the second "Life", the third "Path". The three veins converged at the leaf's center; at the junction stood a single character—"Live".

His eyes began to fade.

Those black eyes, those eyes that had gazed upon emptiness for thirty thousand years, those eyes that reflected Wang Ping's eyes. Their color grew lighter, from black to dark gray, from dark gray to light gray, from light gray to transparent. Within the transparency lingered something—a final point of consciousness. That point regarded Wang Ping, as if saying—"Walk on in my stead."

Then it extinguished.

It was not a sudden extinction, but a gradual one. Like an oil lamp whose oil has run out, the wick burning down to the last. The flame grew smaller and weaker, finally becoming a single spark. The spark lingered on the wick for an instant, then rose, drifting into the air. Drifting on, it merged into the sea of light.

He left.

Not dead, but "not there." His consciousness scattered, turning into countless points of light, merging into this chaos light. From now on, this sea of light is his body, Wang Ping's consciousness is his eyes, the five spirit beasts are his limbs. He is no longer the Chaos Immortal Venerable; he has become the Dao. Where the Dao is, he is; where he is not, the Dao remains.

Wang Ping's consciousness remained silent in the sea of light.

He did not cry, because he had no eyes. He did not shout, because he had no mouth. He simply was there, in that sea of light, feeling the scattered points of light from the Chaos Immortal Venerable flow through his consciousness. Each point that passed left a trace in his heart. The trace was light, as light as a feather skimming the water surface. But as traces accumulated, the water surface was no longer calm.

His consciousness began to tremble.

Not the tremor of receiving inheritance, but a deeper tremor. Like the earth trembling when winter ends, beneath the ice‑sealed river something stirs. Not ice breaking, but water beginning to flow. Slow, slight, but it is indeed moving.

That was his Dao heart moving.

In his Dao heart a seed fell. It was not placed there by the Chaos Immortal Venerable; it drifted out from his own Dao heart when the Venerable scattered. The seed landed in Wang Ping's Dao heart, into the deepest crack. That crack was left by his master's death and never fully closed. The seed settled there, fitting just right—neither too big nor too small.

After the seed settled, the crack began to close. Not healing, but "being filled." The crack remained, but it was no longer empty. It now held a seed, lying quietly in the crack. Not rushing to sprout, not rushing to grow. It simply lay there, turning the crack from a wound into soil.

Wang Ping felt it.

That seed was the Chaos Immortal Venerable's final gift. Not a dao art, not a cultivation method, not an insight. It was his "heart." He had waited thirty thousand years, not for someone to inherit his dao, but for a heart to receive his heart. Wang Ping's heart received it.

The sea of light began to contract.

Not shrinking, but "returning." Chaos light flowed back from all directions into Wang Ping's consciousness. His consciousness had been dispersed, like ink drops in water turning into threads, then filaments, then mist. Now the water began to reflux, the ink threads gathering, the filaments coalescing, the mist condensing.

His body was being reformed.

First the skeleton. Chaos light condensed into bones—not white bones, but chaos‑colored bones. Light flowed within the bones, that of the Chaos Immortal Venerable, now become his marrow. Then came the meridians, growing from the bones like a tree's root system. What flowed in the meridians was not blood, but chaos light. Light was his blood, and his blood was light.

Then came the flesh, wrapping the bones and meridians. The flesh was warm and elastic. He felt temperature, he felt touch. His heartbeat returned—thump, thump, thump, thump. With each beat, chaos light circulated once through his meridians. The heartbeat was a pump, the light flow was water. His body had become a miniature sea of chaos light.

Then came the skin. The skin covered the flesh, encasing his body as a whole. Patterns appeared on the skin—not natural, but dao patterns. The markings from the Chaos Immortal Stele: the characters for chaos, immortal, and stele. They emerged on his skin like tattoos, like brands. Then they sank, sinking beneath the skin, into the flesh, into the marrow. Invisible, but forever there.

Finally, his face.

His face took shape in the light—forehead, brow bone, eyes, nose bridge, lips, jaw. One by one they formed, as if someone were carving. The carver's hand was light and steady. Wang Ping felt no pain, only the sense of "being shaped." Those hands sculpted his face, not to make him someone else, but to make him himself.

The moment his eyes formed, he saw.

He saw the scattered points of light from the Chaos Immortal Venerable gathering at the deepest part of the sea of light. They coalesced into a tiny point of chaos‑colored light, bright and steady. The point hovered in the depths like a period, like a fermata, like the final note of a song.

That was the last trace of the Chaos Immortal Venerable.

Not consciousness, not soul, not lingering thought. Merely a "trace." Like a person walking on sand, leaving footprints. The footprints will be washed away by the tide, but until then they remain. That point of light is the Chaos Immortal Venerable's final footprint. It glows quietly in the depths of the sea of light. Wang Ping stared at it for a long time. Then he reached out—not with a real hand, but with his consciousness. He touched the point; it trembled slightly under his touch, then merged into his fingertip.

Wang Ping stood in the light.

His body had returned, completely returned. No, not returned—reborn. His body was reborn once in the chaos light, no longer his former body. His former body was a mortal fetus, a fleshly form born from a mother. Now his body is a dao body, a luminous form born from chaos.

He raised his hand and looked at his palm. The markings on his palm remained, as did the scar left from sword practice. But beneath the markings and the scar, chaos‑colored light flowed. His hand was still his hand, yet no longer merely flesh. It was a hand of flesh and light combined. Flesh bore it; light was its essence.

He lowered his gaze to his chest.

At his chest, a heart beat. He could see it beating—not through the skin, because the skin had become transparent. The heart throbbed in his chest cavity, red and warm. Yet deep within the red was chaos‑colored light. That light was pumped from the heart, flowing along the meridians throughout his body. When it reached his fingertips, they glowed; when it reached his soles, they glowed; when it reached the crown of his head, it glowed.

His body was a lamp. The chaos lamp.

Five spirit beasts walked out of the sea of light. Their bodies, too, had been reformed—just like Wang Ping, reborn in the chaos light. The azure snake's scales flowed with green light; the golden crow's feathers burned with golden flame; the ice dragon's scales condensed with silver frost; the pangolin's scales were inlaid with yellow crystals; the white tiger's fur was covered with white awn.

They came to Wang Ping's side. The azure snake coiled around his right wrist, the golden crow perched on his left shoulder, the ice dragon coiled around his waist, the pangolin lay on his right shoulder, the white tiger crouched behind him. Their positions had not changed, but their existence had. They were no longer his spirit beasts; they were his limbs. Not incarnations of dao arts, but embodiments of the dao. Together with him they formed a single whole.

The sea of light continued to contract.

From all directions it contracted to his surroundings, then from his surroundings into his body. His body resembled a vortex, drawing in all the chaos light. The sea of light grew smaller, denser, brighter. Finally all the light gathered into his dantian.

In his dantian lay a chaos‑colored elixir—not a golden core, not a nascent infant, but a chaos elixir. It rotated slowly within his dantian. Each turn sent a strand of chaos light flowing out to permeate his whole body; each turn also drew a strand back from his body into the elixir. The outflow and inflow constituted his breath—the elixir's breath.

The inner world of the Chaos Immortal Stele was empty.

Not an empty void, but a "completed" emptiness. It had fulfilled its mission, transmitting the Chaos Immortal Venerable's final dao to the destined recipient. Now it stood empty, quietly empty—like a mother who has seen her last child off, sitting in a bare room. Not sorrow, but tranquility.

Wang Ping stood at the center of the emptiness. His body contained an entire sea of light, within which lay thirty thousand years of a person's existence. He stood there for a long time. Then he lifted his head and gazed at the highest point of the void. There was a rift, the entrance and also the exit.

The rift was closing.

He ought to go.

Wang Ping stepped forward. His footfall landed in the void, sending ripples across it. Each step produced a ripple. The ripples spread outward, hit the boundary of the void, bounced back, and met other ripples. The whole void was activated by his steps—no longer a waiting space, but a farewell space. It saw him off.

He walked to beneath the rift, which was slowly closing—closing from top to bottom, from the ends toward the middle. The speed was not fast, giving him time. He stood beneath the rift and glanced back.

There was nothing in the void.

But he saw. He saw the Chaos Immortal Venerable standing at the deepest part of the void, back turned to him, robes fluttering in the light. That figure gradually faded, grew distant. Not walking away, but "retreating far." Retreating into the depths of the dao, to the source of chaos, to where existence had not yet begun. There he remained, waiting. Not waiting for the next successor, but waiting for Wang Ping to finish the remaining road, waiting for the day Wang Ping would walk to his presence.

Wang Ping turned his head and stepped out of the rift.

The Chaos Immortal Stele on the altar split open. A crack began at the top of the stele and extended downward, passing through the characters for chaos, immortal, and stele. The crack was not a shattering mark, but the mark of a door opening. The stele's surface became like two doors swinging slowly outward. Beyond them lay chaos‑colored light, soft and warm.

A figure walked out of the light.

He still carried the warmth of the sea of light on his body, and his robes bore its traces. His hair had been dyed silver‑white by the sea of light—not from age, but from light. In his eyes, stars turned and galaxies flowed—not illusion, but reality. In his dantian lay a chaos elixir containing an entire sea of light, within which resided thirty thousand years of a person's existence.

Wang Ping had walked out.

Behind him followed the five spirit beasts. The azure snake lifted its head from his right wrist, the golden crow spread its wings from his left shoulder, the ice dragon poked its head from his waist, the pangolin leapt down from his right shoulder, the white tiger stepped out from behind him. In their eyes each glowed a small cluster of chaos‑colored light—a living light that pulsed within them.

Wang Ping stood on the altar, lifted his gaze. The rift in the dome remained, sunlight still poured down as before. But this time he saw more than sunlight. He perceived the chaos qi within the sunlight, the dao flowing in the air, the earth's meridians, the sky's breath. He saw all things, and also the cluster of light behind them.

Beside the altar, the old guardian of the Immortal Palace stood. He did not know when he had arrived, nor how long he had stood. He saw Wang Ping emerge from the stele, saw the stele close behind him, and saw a line of characters appear on the stele—not carved, but written by light.

"The living, Wang Ping."

The old man stared at those four characters for a long time. Then he stepped back three paces and bowed to Wang Ping—not a dao salute, but a full kowtow. His forehead touched the ground and remained there a long while. Wang Ping approached, helped him up. When his hand touched the old man's arm, the old man felt a wave of warmth.

The chaos qi within the old man's body awakened. How many years had he lived? Ten thousand? A hundred thousand? He had thought he had lived enough, reached his limit. Now he knew he had only just begun to live. Something stirred in his dantian—tiny, light. It was the first fetal movement of life.

Wang Ping released his hand and nodded to the old man.

Then he turned and walked toward the outside of the Immortal Palace. Behind him followed the five spirit beasts. His shadow stretched long in the sunlight, falling on the altar and on the stele. The stele had already closed, returning to its original appearance—grayish, chaos‑colored. Yet on its face now lay an additional line of characters: "The living, Wang Ping."

Those four characters rested quietly on the stele's surface.

They were not positioned where the chaos, immortal, or stele characters lay, but in the small blank space between the four characters. There they were, tiny and faint—like a person writing his name in a great book. Not to leave a mark, but to check in. To tell chaos: I have come. To tell chaos: I am alive. To tell chaos: I will remain alive.

When Wang Ping exited the Immortal Palace's great gate, the outside sky had been bright for a long time. Over the wasteland, wind swept across broken walls and ruins, ruffling his robes and the fur of the spirit beasts. He stood at the doorway, gazing into the distance. There were mountains, waters, clouds, and roads—many roads, each leading to a different place.

He did not know which road to take.

But he was not in a hurry. Because he had already walked the most important road. That road from chaos to self, from self to chaos. The other roads are merely extensions of this road. He casually picked one and stepped forward. Behind him, five spirit beasts followed him. Their footsteps merged together, like a song.

Not a beginning, but a continuation. The continuation of life.

Wang Ping walked away. The wind on the wilderness smoothed his footprints and blew away his aura. The Immortal Palace behind him grew smaller and farther. Finally it became a dot on the horizon, the dot flickered once and vanished.

On the altar, the stone stele crouched silently. The small line of characters on its face emitted a faint light in the sunlight: "The living, Wang Ping." The light was weak, weak enough to be almost invisible. But it was there. As long as the stele exists, it exists. As long as chaos exists, it exists. As long as the Dao exists, it exists.

Inside the Chaos Immortal Stele, in that already empty space. At the deepest point, there is a light point. Very small, very bright, very steady. It is the last trace of the Chaos Immortal Venerable. It shines quietly in the void, like a period, like a rest, like the final note of a song. It is not an end. It is the silence before the beginning.