Chapter 423: The Immortal Stele Acknowledges Its Master

The light still remains.

That light was not shining from somewhere; it itself is the source. No direction, no boundary, no shadow. Wang Ping stood in the light; the ground beneath his feet was light, the sky above his head was light, the air he breathed was also light. The light was very light, light as a gauze layer, sticking to his skin, not weighing him down.

The figure of the Chaos Immortal Venerable has already dispersed.

It dispersed very slowly.

Like a block of ice melting under spring sunlight, the edges blurred first, then the outline, then the color, finally the very existence. Wang Ping watched the middle-aged man with a 'guo' character face fade bit by bit, become transparent bit by bit, merge into the light bit by bit. It was not disappearance, but return. He originally was part of the light; now he merely returned.

But his voice still remained.

The voice did not disperse. It clung to the surface of the light, like the lingering echo after wind passes, faintly vibrating. That vibration was so slight, almost inaudible, yet it truly existed. Like a guitar string plucked, the sound has stopped but the string still trembles. Such trembling can only be heard if one listens with heart.

Wang Ping stood there, motionless.

His hand grasped that cluster of light.

The primal light of the Chaos Immortal Stele.

The light was no longer hot. Just moments ago when he first took hold, it was hot, so hot he almost let go. That heat was not temperature heat, but essential heat—his hand resisting, his body resisting, his primordial spirit resisting. Because that light was chaos, unknown, uncertain. People instinctively fear the uncertain.

Now it is not hot.

Warm.

Like jade just taken from one's bosom.

Jade is strange. Place it on a table and it feels cool; press it to your chest and it gradually warms. It does not heat itself; it absorbs your body heat and then returns it to you. It exchanges temperature with you, establishing a connection.

This cluster of light also exchanges temperature with him.

Wang Ping lowered his head to look at it.

The surface of the light bore a fine pattern. Not carved, not painted, but grown from within. Like tree rings, one circle after another, tightly packed, growing outward from the innermost part. Each line had its own direction—some left, some right, some up, some down. They interwove to form a pattern.

Wang Ping stared for a long time and realized it was not a pattern but characters.

They were the two characters 'Chaos'.

But they were written extremely anciently, so ancient they did not look like characters but like a drawing. Like a person long ago, upon first seeing the scene before heaven and earth were separated, then sketching it with the simplest lines. Not drawn with a brush, but drawn with the heart—how the heart thinks, the line follows.

His fingertip slid over the pattern.

The pad of his finger felt the edge's undulation. That undulation was so minute, so minute that without deliberate attention it would go unnoticed. Yet it truly existed. Like the folds of the earth, like ripples on water, like wrinkles on an old man's forehead. Each line concealed time, thirty thousand years of it, the life of a transcendent being.

When his fingertip passed over the third line, he felt temperature.

It was not cold.

It was not hot.

It was his body temperature.

The light was adapting to him. It sensed his temperature in its own way, then adjusted itself to match his. Warmly, warmly, like two hands clasped together; after a long hold, one cannot tell whose hand is hot and whose is cold.

Like a dog just adopted.

Cautiously sniffing the new master's scent.

Dogs are best at recognizing people. They do not look at your appearance, your clothes, your wealth or power. They only smell your scent. Your scent is what you are; you cannot deceive them. After sniffing, if they think you are a good person, they will nuzzle their head into your palm, bump your fingers with their wet nose, letting you pet their head.

This cluster of light also sniffed Wang Ping's scent.

It was sensing his Dao.

Wang Ping's Dao is the Chaos Dao Foundation. Chaos spiritual power flows through his body; a Chaos nascent spirit sits cross-legged in his dantian; Chaos Immortal Lightning hovers above his head. His whole being is chaos. The light sensed this, and it gave a light jump in his palm, like a heartbeat, like a pulse, like a bird pecking the first crack in an eggshell.

It was recognizing him.

Stele Spirit.

Wang Ping silently recited those two words in his heart.

The Chaos Immortal Venerable said he was part of the Stele Spirit, but he was also the consciousness of the Chaos Immortal Venerable. Now that the Venerable's consciousness has dispersed, does the Stele Spirit still remain?

Wang Ping raised his head, gazing toward the deepest part of the light.

There was nothing there.

Only light.

Light welled up from the deepest place, like spring water rising from underground. Endless, boundless. The light was pure, pure to the point of having no impurities. No color, no temperature, no shape. It was light itself. Yet within the depth of the light, in the gaps between light and light, Wang Ping sensed something.

It was not seen.

It was felt.

His Chaos nascent spirit opened its eyes in his dantian, looking toward that direction. The Chaos Immortal Lightning spun above the nascent spirit's head, emitting a low rumble. The Chaos Dao Foundation spread beneath his feet like a gray plain stretching far away. His whole being was perceiving, perceiving what lay hidden in the depths of that light.

He sensed it.

He still existed.

Because the Chaos Immortal Stele still existed.

The Stele Spirit was still there.

The Stele Spirit is the will of the Chaos Immortal Stele, the 'I' of this stone. If the stone remains, he remains. This is his mode of existence—not life, not consciousness, not soul, but something more fundamental than these. It is 'being' itself. As long as the Chaos Immortal Stele exists, he exists. No reason needed, no conditions, no support. To exist is to exist.

"You still are."

Wang Ping's voice was very soft.

So soft he could barely hear it himself.

But the light heard it.

The sound traveled far within the light—not via sound waves but via light. The sound became a vibration, the vibration became a light undulation, the light undulation became ripples. Circle after circle, spreading from the edge of Wang Ping's mouth outward into the light's depths. Like a stone tossed into a lake, ripples spread outward, hit the shore, bounce back, spread again, bounce again.

The light trembled slightly within those ripples.

Not the entire light trembled.

Only a part.

At the deepest point of the light there was a point trembling. That point was tiny, almost invisible, yet its amplitude was large enough to make the whole light tremble with it. It trembled once, then again; on the third tremor it began to expand—from a point to a circle, from a circle to a humanoid shape.

A humanoid figure walked out from the depths of the light.

Step by step.

He walked very slowly.

Each step stepped on the surface of light, creating a ripple. The ripple spread outward, hit the boundary of light, bounced back, and fell beside his foot. He walked within his own ripple, within his own light, within his own existence.

Still that face.

Middle-aged.

Square face.

Thick eyebrows.

Large eyes.

But he was different now.

His eyes were different now. Before they were black, a deep black that couldn't be seen through. Like night, like an abyss, like a person standing at the edge of a cliff looking down, seeing no bottom, only black. That black made people fearful and also awe-inspiring, because within that black lay the unknown, lay secrets, lay the accumulation of a transcendent being over thirty thousand years.

Now it is not black.

It is gray.

It is chaos-colored.

It was a murky gray, like mist, like clouds, like the sky before dawn. That gray was not dead ash but living ash. Within the gray something moved, flowed, spun—like clouds tumbling in the wind, like mist drifting through the mountains, like the pre‑dawn sky brewing the first thread of light. If you stared long enough, you would feel it wasn't gray but the appearance of all colors mixed together.

He wore a gray robe.

No decoration.

No pattern.

No embroidery.

No trim.

It was just a piece of cloth wrapped around him. The cloth was old, old enough that the edges frayed, old enough that some spots wore thin, letting light leak from inside. It wasn't the cloth transmitting light; it was his body emitting light. His body was made of light, which the cloth could not conceal. Light seeped out through the gaps in the fabric, plating his outline with a faint glow.

His hair was still silver‑white.

It hung down to his waist.

It floated in the light.

Like a banner.

The banner had no wind, yet it floated—not because wind blew it, but because it moved on its own. Each strand of hair had its own consciousness; they spread out behind him, drifting slowly like waterweed swaying beneath the surface. His silver‑white hair stood out sharply against the gray light, like snow on gray stone, like moonlight piercing clouds.

Transcendent.

No, he should now be called the Stele Spirit.

He did not die.

He merely changed his mode of existence.

Death is a change—from one state to another, from one existence to another. The Chaos Immortal Sovereign's consciousness scattered, but the Stele Spirit's consciousness remains. For the Stele Spirit is not the Chaos Immortal Sovereign. The Sovereign is the true body; the Stele Spirit is a clone. The true body can dissipate, the clone can endure. This was set when the Chaos Immortal Sovereign created him.

The Stele Spirit is the child of the Chaos Immortal Stele.

The Chaos Immortal Sovereign created him, gave him consciousness, then departed. Not abandonment, but letting go—like a father who teaches his son to walk, then releases his hand and lets him walk on his own. The son will stumble, fall, and crack his head open, but that is what he must experience. Without leaving, he would never learn.

He stayed.

Because his mission was not yet finished.

The word 'mission' is strange. It is not a task, not an order, not a responsibility. It is lighter than those, light enough to be ignored; yet heavier than those, heavy enough to make one live thirty thousand years for it. A mission is a person's promise to themselves, the sentence they once told themselves—'I will do this.' Once spoken, they cannot retract it, because those words have been carved into their existence and cannot be separated from them.

His mission was to wait for a person.

To wait for someone who could make the Chaos Immortal Stele acknowledge him as master.

Thirty thousand years.

He waited thirty thousand years.

In this light, inside the inner world of the Chaos Immortal Stele, at the altar's center. He waited thirty thousand years. Over those thirty thousand years he watched the Immortal Palace rise from prosperity to decline, saw cultivators come in batches and die in batches. No one could reach this place. No one could see him. No one could make the Chaos Immortal Stele acknowledge a master.

He waited in great loneliness.

Loneliness is not having no company; it is having something to say but no one to hear. He had things to say. He wanted to tell the story of the Chaos Immortal Sovereign, the origin of the Chaos Immortal Stele, the great war thirty thousand years ago, the terror of the Lord of Order, the true essence of the Way of Chaos. But there was no one he could tell. He could only speak in his heart, speaking to himself. After speaking, he would forget and repeat.

Now there's no need to say it.

That person has arrived.

He could leave.

But he did not leave.

Because he wanted to watch that person—watch him take the Chaos Immortal Stele away, watch him use it to fight, watch him fulfill the Chaos Immortal Sovereign's unfinished undertaking. Not supervision, but companionship. He wished, in his final moments, to see his mission accomplished, to see the meaning of his wait realized.

The Stele Spirit looked at Wang Ping.

He did not speak.

His eyes held no expression—not coldness, but emptiness, like a mirror. When you look into a mirror, it reflects your face. Whatever expression is on your face appears in the mirror. If you don't smile, the mirror doesn't smile; if you smile, the mirror smiles. The mirror has no expression of its own; it merely faithfully reflects you.

The Stele Spirit's eyes are like that.

Wang Ping's face showed doubt.

His eyes were full of doubt.

Wang Ping furrowed his brows, and so did he; Wang Ping narrowed his eyes, and so did he; Wang Ping bit his lower lip, and so did he. He completely replicated Wang Ping's expression—not by imitation, but by reflection. His eyes became Wang Ping's eyes, his face became Wang Ping's face, his existence became Wang Ping's mirror.

Wang Ping's heart was speaking.

He heard it.

The Stele Spirit is the will of the Chaos Immortal Stele; he does not need to hear questions. He only needs to look at the heart. The heart is the source of all questions and the endpoint of all answers. Wang Ping's heart was beating—each beat a question; two beats, two questions; when it raced, the questions piled up, tangled together, indistinguishable.

The Stele Spirit looked at those questions.

He examined them one by one.

He examined them very carefully.

"Who am I?" This is the first question.

"You are Wang Ping." He answered in his heart. "You come from Little Cold Mountain, your master is the Azure Yang True Person. You cultivate the Chaos Dao Foundation, your dantian contains the Chaos Primordial Spirit, the top of your head has the Chaos Immortal Thunder. You are the person chosen by Chaos, and also the one who chose Chaos."

"Who am I?" This is the second question.

"I am the Stele Spirit." He answered in his heart. "I am the will of the Chaos Immortal Stele, an incarnation created by the Chaos Immortal Venerable. I have waited for you for 30,000 years, in this light, on this altar. My mission is to find you, then hand over the Chaos Immortal Stele to you."

"Did he leave?" This is the third question.

"He left." He answered in his heart. "The Chaos Immortal Venerable's consciousness scattered. He completed his mission, left the inheritance for you, and then departed. It is not disappearance, but return. He returned to the source of Chaos, where he watches you. You cannot see him, but he can see you."

"Will you also leave?" This is the fourth question.

The Stele Spirit looked at this question for a long time.

This question is different. The previous questions were all about "what is", while this question is about "will or won't". "What is" has a definite answer, but "will or won't" does not. Because the future is uncertain, possibilities are infinite. He could say "will", or he could say "won't". But whatever he says, it is not true. Because the future has not yet happened.

He did not answer.

He merely looked at Wang Ping.

Wang Ping opened his mouth.

Wanting to ask something.

But he did not know how to ask.

There were too many questions, clogging his throat. Like a pile of rubble blocking a river channel, the water could not pass. The water swirled among the stones, piling higher and higher, becoming more urgent, yet still could not flow past. His lips twitched, a muffled syllable sounded in his throat, and then it was gone.

He wanted to ask—

Are you the Stele Spirit?

Are you the Chaos Immortal Venerable?

Will you still leave?

Can you still help me?

After the Chaos Immortal Stele recognizes its master, will you disappear?

If I use the power of the Chaos Immortal Stele, will it hurt you?

Does the Lord of Order know what is happening here?

What exactly happened thirty thousand years ago?

Why did the Chaos Immortal Venerable leave the inheritance here?

Why choose me?

Am I worthy?

Questions surged forward one after another, like a tide. When the tide surges, you cannot stop it. It comes from the depths of the sea, bearing irresistible force, rushes onto the beach, and floods everything. Wang Ping's heart is that beach, the questions are the tide. When the tide recedes, the beach leaves behind shells, seaweed, foam, and trash. His heart is the same: after the questions recede, doubt, unease, anticipation, and fear remain.

The Stele Spirit looked at those shells and seaweed.

He looked at those doubts and anxieties.

He looked at those anticipations and fears.

He saw them all.

Because he was not seeing with his eyes.

He was seeing with his heart.

The Stele Spirit's eyes changed.

From gray it turned into a deeper gray. Not that the color darkened, but that the contents increased. Patterns appeared in the gray pupils, like tree rings, like water ripples, like clouds in the sky. Those patterns slowly turned; each turn revealed a question. After completing all the turns, he saw all the questions.

Then he spoke.

"I am the Stele Spirit."

His voice was very soft.

So soft it was like a feather falling on the water's surface.

But very clear.

So clear that each character seemed like a carving in stone, stroke by stroke, perfectly distinct. The sound propagated through light, not via sound waves but via light. Each character turned into a tiny cluster of light that drifted from his mouth, floated to Wang Ping's face, and landed in his ears.

The light dissolved in the ears.

The words emerged in the light.

"The Chaos Immortal Venerable created me, gave me consciousness, gave me a name, gave me a mission."

"My mission is to wait for a person."

"To wait for a person who can let the Chaos Immortal Stele recognize him as master."

"When that person arrives, my mission is complete."

He paused.

The pause was very brief.

So brief it lasted only a single heartbeat.

But within that single heartbeat lay many things: the wait of thirty thousand years, countless disappointments, the image of cultivator after cultivator collapsing midway, and his solitary vigil in the depths of the light watching all this. One heartbeat contained thirty thousand years.

Then his gaze softened somewhat.

Not deliberately softened.

It softened naturally.

Like winter ice melting in spring—not because the ice decides to melt, but because the temperature rises and it naturally thaws. The Stele Spirit's gaze was the same. He looked at Wang Ping, at this young person who had emerged from countless others, at the fatigue and determination on his face, at the doubt and expectation in his eyes. When the temperature arrived, his gaze naturally softened.

"You are that person."

Five characters.

Very light.

Very heavy.

It was light, like an ordinary statement.

It was heavy, like the end of thirty thousand years.

Wang Ping's hand clenched that ball of light.

It wasn't a deliberate clench.

It was instinct.

When a person hears important words, their hand clenches involuntarily. It's not the hand wanting to clench; it's the heart clenching. The heart bears the weight of those words; if it can't bear it, it transfers strength to the hand, letting the hand help bear it. When the hand holds something, the heart feels at ease.

The light jumped once in his palm.

Like a heartbeat.

Thud.

Like a pulse.

Thud.

Like a butterfly struggling in a cocoon.

The wings fluttered inside the cocoon, hitting the cocoon wall, bouncing back, then hitting again, bouncing back again. Each impact was very weak, so weak you couldn't feel it. But all the impacts together made the cocoon start to vibrate. The vibration transmitted from the inside of the cocoon to the outside, from the inside of the light to its surface.

The light was vibrating.

Because it sensed his tension.

It was responding to him.

When people get along for a long time, they develop tacit understanding. One person tenses up, and the other knows without looking, because they feel it. Feeling is a wonderful thing; it is not sight, not hearing, not touch, but the sum of all senses. A person standing there, their breathing, heartbeat, body temperature, and aura all tell others their state.

The light also has feeling.

It is not human, but it is more sensitive than humans. Because it is the primordial light of chaos, the first ray of light before heaven and earth were separated. It has experienced Pangu splitting heaven, the birth of all things, the birth and demise of countless lives. It has experienced everything, so it understands everything.

It sensed Wang Ping's tension.

So it jumped once.

It used the jump to tell him — I am here, I am responding to you, you are not alone.

Wang Ping took a deep breath.

The air entered through the nose, passed the throat, entered the chest cavity, filling the lobes of the lungs. The lobes expanded, pressing the diaphragm; the diaphragm descended, and the abdomen bulged. This was a complete breath, proof of his being human. Humans breathe; stones do not. Humans feel tension; the Chaos Immortal Stele does not. When a person is tense and takes a deep breath, the air enters the body, carries away tension, and leaves calm.

But this time was different.

When the air entered the body, it carried away not just tension.

It also carried away that ball of light.

The light was drawn into his body.

It did not enter through the nose.

It entered through the pores.

All the pores on his body opened at that moment. Not the kind of opening from thermal expansion and contraction, but a conscious opening. Each pore was like a tiny mouth, opening, inhaling, drawing the surrounding light into itself. The light entered through his arms, his chest, his back, his legs, and the top of his head.

His body was glowing.

Chaos-colored.

Gray and hazy.

Like the sky before dawn.

Light seeped out from beneath his skin—not blinding light, but soft light. Like candlelight inside a lantern, shining through paper, becoming warm and blurred. His arms glowed, his chest glowed, his face glowed. His whole body became a luminous object, standing in gray light, emitting gray light.

His eyes were glowing.

Chaos-colored.

Gray and hazy.

Like the twilight after dusk.

Twilight is the most complex color. It is not black, not gray, not blue, but a mixture of all colors. The last glow of daylight and the first darkness of night meet in the sky, forming an indescribable color. You look at it and think it beautiful, but you cannot say wherein its beauty lies. Because its beauty lies not in the color itself, but in its change. Every moment it changes, becoming deeper and darker, until it finally turns completely into night.

Wang Ping's eyes were also changing.

The gray in his pupils flowed, like twilight flowing across the sky. From light gray to dark gray, from dark gray to dim gray, from dim gray to a gray almost black. It flowed until it stopped, not because it could no longer flow, but because it had reached the point where it should stop.

His primordial spirit was glowing.

Chaos-colored.

Gray and hazy.

Like the blank interval between dream and waking.

When a person dreams, they do not know they are dreaming. When they wake, they know they were just dreaming. But between dream and waking there is a very brief moment. In that moment, you do not know whether you are awake or still dreaming. You open your eyes, see the ceiling, but your consciousness is still wandering in the dream. That moment is blank, with no dream, no reality, only existence itself.

Wang Ping's primordial spirit was in that state.

Not awake.

Not asleep.

It was between the two.

The Chaos Immortal Stele was recognizing its master.

It was not him actively taking it.

It was the stele coming to him on its own.

Recognizing a master has never been a person collecting a treasure; it is the treasure choosing the person. People may misjudge people, but treasures do not. Treasures have their own will; they know whom they should follow. They watch the people coming and going, waiting for the right person to appear. When that person appears, the treasure goes to them on its own. No need for the person to ask, to beg, or to painstakingly refine it. It goes by itself.

The Chaos Immortal Stele is like that.

That stone tablet, more than a person tall, stood on the altar for thirty thousand years. Over thirty thousand years, countless people tried to move it, tried to refine it, tried to monopolize its power. No one succeeded. It was not that they were not strong enough; it was that the stele did not acknowledge them. The stele regarded them as if looking at a crowd of ants crawling under its feet. The ants strive hard, but they do not know that they are climbing a mountain. The mountain does not move, so the ants can never climb to the top.