Chapter 424: Immortal Stele (2)

The mountain moved.

It wasn't ants moving the mountain.

The mountain moved itself.

It flew up from the altar.

Very slowly.

Very steadily.

No sound.

A stele taller than a person flew up; it should have made a huge noise. Stone rubbing air, wind whistling over its surface, airflow forming vortices behind it—these are all sources of sound. But there was none. Not a sound at all. Because it wasn't flying through air; it was flying through light. Light has no resistance, light only transmits. The stele passed through light, light supported it and carried it to Wang Ping.

Passing through that light.

Light is its sea, it is the fish in that sea.

Passing through that invisible gate.

The gate is its own will; it opened the gate.

Flying to Wang Ping's front.

Hovering there.

One head taller than him.

This height is deliberate. Too low seems servile; too high seems arrogant. One head higher is just right—he can raise his head to see the stele's face, and the stele can lower to see his face. It is a posture of equality, the stele telling him: I acknowledge you as master, but I am not your servant. We are partners, comrades, fellow Dao.

The four characters on the stele's face were glowing.

Hun, Dun, Xian, Bei.

One stroke, one line.

Bright enough to sting the eyes.

Those four characters were not written on; they grew there. They sprouted from inside the stone, pierced the surface, and were exposed to the air. Each stroke is vigorous and powerful, like an axe chopping or a blade splitting. Yet on close inspection, they are not axe or blade marks. They are the marks of time. Time is the sharpest blade; it used thirty thousand years, stroke by stroke, to carve these four characters.

Hun.

Water plus Kun.

Water is flowing; Kun is multitude.

Hun Dun is the gathering of countless water currents, the sum of infinite possibilities.

Dun.

Water plus Tun.

Tun means gathering, stockpiling.

Hun Dun is water massing together, indistinguishable from one another.

Xian.

Person plus Mountain.

A person on the mountain is close to heaven, far from earth.

Xian is transcending human existence while retaining human essence.

Bei.

Stone plus Bei.

Bei means low, humble.

A stele is a stone bowing its head, a humble existence.

The four characters together—Chaos Immortal Stele. It illuminates itself with its own name, proves its own existence by its own being.

Wang Ping reached out his hand.

The moment his finger touched the stele's face, the stele shrank.

Not gradually.

Instantly.

Like a lump of ice thrown into hot water.

Swish.

Gone.

Ice in hot water does not melt slowly; the surface ice instantly turns to water, then the inner ice slowly melts. The stele is the same: its surface light instantly contracted, from taller than a person to half a person tall, from half a person tall to arm length, from arm length to palm size.

It shrank to a palm-sized small stele.

It landed in Wang Ping's palm.

Warm.

Heavy.

Like a river-worn pebble smoothed over many years.

River pebbles are the most interesting stones. They start as angular rocks, roll down the mountain, fall into the river. River water batters them—for a hundred years, a thousand, ten thousand—until the edges wear off, the surface polishes, becoming smooth ovals. Hold one in your hand and it fits your palm perfectly—not because it conforms to your hand, but because your hand conforms to it. For its shape is decided by water, water being the gentlest yet most resolute force in the world.

The Chaos Immortal Stele is now such a river pebble.

Thirty thousand years of waiting wore away its edges.

Countless cultivators' attempts polished its surface.

Finally landing in Wang Ping's palm, it fit just right.

Chaos Immortal Stele, recognized its master.

Wang Ping lowered his head to look at the small stele in his palm.

He gazed for a long time.

He was not looking at its shape.

He was looking at its surface.

After the stone tablet shrank, its surface became extremely smooth. Smooth as a mirror. The mirror reflected his face. His face showed fatigue, vicissitudes, and a hint of age. Not age from years, but age from experience. A person who has experienced too much will have something settled in their eyes, like silt at the riverbed, sinking there, unmoving. That is what old age is.

He looked at himself in the mirror.

His reflection in the mirror was also looking at him.

The two of them stared at each other for a long time.

Then he put it into his bosom.

Not placed in his robe.

But placed inside his body.

The human body is a vessel. Inside are blood, bones, organs, meridians, and dantian. The dantian is a space deep within the body, not located in any specific part yet present throughout the body. It exists at the interface between the body and the primordial spirit, the point where matter and spirit converge.

The stone tablet merged into his palm.

It did not sink in.

It merged in.

Like sugar dissolving in water, like ink dissolving in water, like a drop of rain falling into a lake. His palm had no wound, no crack, and the stone tablet simply entered like that. During the process it became smaller and smaller, small enough to pass through the meridians. The meridians are the finest channels inside the human body, finer than a hair. The stone tablet wandered through the meridians, moving along the direction of spiritual power.

Spiritual power flowed from the palm to the arm, and it swam toward the arm.

Spiritual power flowed from the arm to the shoulder, and it swam toward the shoulder.

Spiritual power flowed from the shoulder to the chest, and it swam toward the chest.

Spiritual power flowed from the chest to the dantian, and it swam toward the dantian.

The dantian is a gray expanse.

The Chaos Dao Foundation was laid at the bottom, like a gray expanse of land. On the land there were mountains and rivers, clouds and mist, everything the world should have. But all were gray. Not lacking color, but all colors mixed together to become gray.

The Chaos Primordial Spirit sat cross-legged in the center of the land.

Its body was gray, its eyes gray, its hair gray. It sat there like a mountain sitting on the earth—motionless, unmoving, silent, soundless. Yet you know it is alive, for its eyes are open, gazing forward. Above its head floats the Chaos Immortal Thunder, which slowly rotates, emitting a low rumble.

The stone tablet fell from above.

It landed before the Chaos Primordial Spirit.

The Chaos Primordial Spirit opened its eyes.

Wasn't it always open?

No.

Before, it was open, but that was a vacant stare—like a person in a daze, eyes open but seeing nothing. Now it is different: it truly opened its eyes, pupils focusing, gaze falling on the stone tablet.

The stone tablet was also looking at it.

They stared at each other for a long time.

Not the kind of looking that a person does at an object.

It was two beings confirming each other.

The Chaos Primordial Spirit is Wang Ping's "self".

The Chaos Immortal Stele is the Chaos Immortal Venerable's "self".

The two "selves" met in the dantian.

One is an ordinary cultivator from Little Cold Mountain.

One is a transcendent from thirty thousand years ago.

They originally should have had no connection. But now, their "selves" are in the same dantian, gazing at each other—not because one is higher or lower, stronger or weaker, but because of Chaos. Chaos has linked them together, turning their "selves" into "us".

The mutual gaze lasted a long time.

Then the stone tablet began to rotate slowly.

Not turning on its own.

It was turned by some force.

That force came from the Chaos Primordial Spirit and also from the stone tablet itself. Between them arose a gravity, like that between the sun and a planet. The stone tablet was captured by the Chaos Primordial Spirit's gravity and began to revolve around it. Not quickly, but slowly—so slowly that completing one full turn takes a long time.

It found its place.

To the right of the primordial spirit.

To the left of the Chaos Immortal Thunder.

The Chaos Immortal Thunder is above the primordial spirit's head, responsible for attack.

The Chaos Immortal Stele is to the right of the primordial spirit, responsible for defense.

The Chaos Dao Foundation is beneath the primordial spirit's feet, responsible for bearing.

Three-in-one.

It made its home there.

Not a temporary stay.

It is permanent residence.

The tablet spirit watched all this.

In his eyes there finally appeared a hint of expression.

Not relief.

Not pride.

It was a faint sense of "being at ease".

The word "being at ease" is interesting. "To let go" means to put something down. "Heart" is the heaviest thing. To let go of the heart is to put down the heaviest thing. While alive, one's heart always holds something—worry, anxiety, anticipation, regret. The heart constantly holds on, which is exhausting. Yet one dares not let go, fearing that if they let go they will never be able to pick it up again.

The tablet spirit's heart had been held for thirty thousand years.

Now it has been let go.

He watched Wang Ping, watched the Chaos Immortal Stele take up residence inside him, watched the Chaos Primordial Spirit accept this new companion. He knew his mission was fulfilled—not the fulfillment of completing a task, but the fulfillment of meaning. When a task is completed, you breathe a sigh of relief; when meaning is fulfilled, you feel your life was worth it.

A faint sense of reassurance appeared in his eyes.

Like a father watching his son learn to walk.

The father taught his son to walk, bending over, holding the son's hand, moving forward step by step. The son's calves still lacked strength; he would fall after two steps. The father helped him up, patted the dirt off his knees, and they continued. After many falls, the son finally walked a step on his own. Only one step, but it was his own. The father let go of his hand, straightened his back, and watched him.

After that step, the father knew the son wouldn't fall too badly from now on.

Not that he wouldn't fall.

But that he wouldn't fall badly.

Because he now knew how to walk. Knowing how to walk, when he fell he understood how to brace himself with his hands, how to curl his body, how to protect his most important head. These are all part of walking. Learning to walk means learning not to get hurt when falling.

The Stele Spirit looking at Wang Ping felt exactly like that.

He knew Wang Ping would still face many difficulties, get hurt, fail, and feel lost. But he wouldn't collapse. Because he now had a trump card. The trump card doesn't make him invincible; it gives him a chance to turn the tide in the most dangerous moments. Having a chance is enough. In cultivators' struggles, they fight for that sliver of opportunity.

His figure faded somewhat in the light.

He hadn't disappeared.

He had retreated.

He retreated into the depths of the light.

Light has depth. The surface is one layer, beneath it another, and beneath that yet another. There's no clear boundary between layers, but you just know one is deeper than the other. The Stele Spirit retreated from the surface to a deeper layer, from that deeper layer to an even deeper one, and from there to the deepest layer.

That is the core of the Chaos Immortal Stele.

It is where the Stele Spirit was born.

It is where the Chaos Immortal Venerable created him thirty thousand years ago.

He stood there.

Watching him.

His body had almost merged into the light. Only his outline remained faintly visible, like a painting soaked in water. The ink had bled, the lines blurred, the colors faded. But you could still tell what the painting depicted: a middle‑aged man with a square face, thick eyebrows, large eyes, and silver‑white hair hanging to his waist. He stood there, like a mountain standing in mist.

His voice came from the depths.

Very soft.

Very clear.

"The Chaos Immortal Stele contains countless immortal pills, immortal artifacts, and immortal techniques, all collected by me over thirty thousand years."

The sound traveled through the light, not coming from outside but from within. Each word was wrapped in a layer of light, drifting up from the deepest point, passing through layer after layer of space, and finally reaching Wang Ping's ears.

"Immortal pills include the Nine‑Revolutions Soul‑Returning Pill—if there is even a breath left, it can save a life; the Calamity‑Clearing Golden Core, which can resolve any misfortune; the Breakthrough Pill, which aids in breaking through bottlenecks; the Life‑Extending Pill, which prolongs lifespan; and many other varieties of pills that cannot be found outside, because their formulas have been lost and their ingredients have vanished. Only the Chaos Immortal Stele still possesses them."

The voice paused, giving Wang Ping time to digest.

"Immortal artifacts include the Chaos Bell—striking it can freeze spacetime; the Heaven‑Opening Axe, once used by Pangu, a single blow can cleave heaven and earth; the Creation Furnace, which can forge any magical treasure; and the Myriad Heavens Star Chart, which when unfolded can lay out a great stellar array. Each of these artifacts has a great provenance and immense power, but they also have fierce tempers. If they do not acknowledge you, you cannot use them; even if they do, you must handle them with care."

The voice paused again.

"Immortal techniques include the Chaos Secret, the chief cultivation method of the Chaos Immortal Venerable; the Grand Chaos Technique, which can devour everything; the Minor Chaos Technique, which can resolve everything; the Chaos Escape Technique, which allows travel through spacetime; and the Chaos Body Forging Technique, which can temper the body into a chaos body. These techniques are all powerful, but also difficult—not because they are hard to comprehend, but because they are hard to control. The power of chaos is difficult to master; misused, it will backfire on the user."

Wang Ping lifted his head and gazed into the depths of the light.

The Stele Spirit's figure had already blurred.

Like a painting soaked in water, the ink had bled and the lines blurred. Yet his voice remained, like a river flowing in the darkness. The water does not stop because of darkness; it simply continues to flow where you cannot see.

"You can use them."

"But you must not abuse them."

The character "làn" in "abuse" was spoken with great weight.

Not the weight of volume.

But the weight of tone.

"The power of the Immortal Stele is too great; except in matters of life and death, it must not be used lightly. Because power comes at a cost—each use consumes it once. Use it too often and it will be gone. It is not inexhaustible."

Wang Ping's heart tightened a little.

He had not considered this before.

He had thought that once the Chaos Immortal Stele acknowledged him as its master, he could draw on its power without limit. Now he sees otherwise. The power is finite—each use diminishes it. Like a lamp with limited oil: you can make it burn brightly, but the longer it burns, the faster the oil is spent. When the oil runs out, the lamp goes out.

The Stele Spirit's voice continued.

"Thirty thousand years ago, when the Chaos Immortal Venerable created the Chaos Immortal Stele, he poured most of his power into it. That great portion became the world within the stele, becoming those immortal pills, artifacts, and techniques. They are manifestations of the Chaos Immortal Venerable's power, and they are finite—each use reduces them by one."

"So you must use them sparingly."

"Unless absolutely necessary, do not draw on the stele's power."

"Your Dao is your foundation."

The voice grew softer as it spoke these words.

It was not deliberately softened.

It softened naturally.

Like a person's footsteps descending from a mountain peak—at first clear, each step audible. As he walks on, the footsteps grow fainter. Not because he stops walking, but because he walks farther away; distance makes the sound smaller.

"Remember."

"The Chaos Immortal Stele is your strongest trump card."

"But it is not your lifeline."

"Your Dao, however, is your foundation."

"The stele is merely an aid, not a dependence."

"Those who rely on external things cannot go far."

"Cannot go far."

Three words landed in Wang Ping's heart.

Very light.

Very heavy.

He recalled his journey from Xiao Han Mountain all the way to now. He had seen too many people who relied on external things—those who relied on magic treasures, on elixirs, on family background, on their masters. They seemed powerful, but when faced with true adversity, they collapsed. Because external things eventually run out, only one's own Dao is endless.

Wang Ping did not speak.

He kept it in his heart.

Not with his mind.

But with his bones.

Human memory comes in many kinds. What the mind remembers will be forgotten. What the heart remembers will also fade. But what the bones remember will never be forgotten, because bones are the hardest part of a person and also the deepest place. What is carved into the bones will follow you for a lifetime, until you turn to dust.

He carved the stele spirit's words into his bones.

Each character was a stroke of the blade.

Every stroke reached the bone.

It hurt.

But it was worth it.

The stele spirit's voice grew fainter.

And grew more distant.

Like a person walking down from a mountain peak, his footsteps grew softer and finally vanished in the wind. He had not left; he had retreated to the deepest part of the Chaos Immortal Stele. That place was his home, where he was born, where he had waited for thirty thousand years. Now he could rest.

"When Wang Ping needs him, he will awaken."

That sentence was not spoken by the stele spirit.

It surfaced in Wang Ping's heart.

It was not something he came up with himself.

It was something he suddenly knew.

Like when you suddenly recall a person's name—you've tried for a long time, can't remember, you give up; then, unbidden, the name pops into your head. It's not you remembering; it's the name coming to you. Wang Ping knew it that way—the stele spirit hadn't left, he had merely slept, sleeping in the deepest part of the Chaos Immortal Stele, sleeping in the core of light.

When Wang Ping needs him, he will awaken.

Not awakened by sound.

But awakened by the heart.

When the heart calls him, he will come.

No incantations, no gestures, no rituals are needed—only the heart. If the heart is sincere, he will come; if the heart is not sincere, even shouting until your throat breaks will be useless. This is the pact between the stele spirit and the Chaos Immortal Stele, and also the pact between him and Wang Ping.

Wang Ping turned around.

He walked out of that light.

The light closed in behind him.

Behind him, the inner world of the Chaos Immortal Stele was shrinking, like a scroll being rolled up. When the scroll unfurls, you see mountains, rivers, figures, pavilions, flowers and birds—everything lifelike. When the scroll is rolled up, those things do not disappear; they are simply gathered into the roll. When it is unfurled again, they will still be there.

The inner world of the Chaos Immortal Stele is just such a scroll.

The light was closing in.

Not from outside inward.

But from inside outward.

The deepest part contracts first, then the middle, then the surface—layer by layer, like the reverse of peeling an onion. Light surges from all directions toward the center, rushing into that palm-sized stone tablet. The tablet trembles lightly in the dantian, and each tremor lets a portion of light enter it.

Space was folding.

The inner space of the Chaos Immortal Stele is vast—large enough to hold an immortal palace, a stretch of sky, thirty thousand years of waiting. But now it must shrink. The space does not vanish; it is folded. Like a sheet of paper: unfolded it is this big, folded it is only this small. Yet the writing on the paper remains; folding does not erase it. When unfolded again, the writing is still there.

The sound was dissipating.

The stele spirit's voice still echoed in the air, but grew weaker and weaker—like a bell tolling in a temple, one ring after another, each a little softer than the last. Eventually it became so faint you could not tell whether it was the bell or the wind. Fainter still, you could not even distinguish the wind, leaving only silence.

Finally, everything returned to tranquility.

Wang Ping stood on the altar.

Before him lay an empty platform.

The Chaos Immortal Stele was gone.

That stone tablet, more than a person tall, had stood on the altar for thirty thousand years, gazed upon by countless people, a stele containing an immortal's lifetime accumulation—now it was gone. The altar was empty, nothing but a gray stone floor. Four depressions marked the surface, imprints left by the stele's base—the sole proof that the Chaos Immortal Stele had once existed.

Wang Ping placed his hand on his chest.

Through skin, flesh, and bone he sensed the presence of that small stone tablet. It lay in his dantian, to the right of his primordial spirit, to the left of the Chaos Immortal Thunder. It was utterly still, still as a genuine stone. Yet it was not stone; it was alive. He could feel its breath.

Yes.

It was breathing.

Not lung breathing.

It was the breath of existence.

Existence expands and contracts. When it expands, it emits a faint light; when it contracts, it draws the light back. With each inhale and exhale, its power flows through Wang Ping's dantian like a tide—rising, receding, rising again, receding again. Each surge scours his dantian, his primordial spirit, and his Dao foundation.

It felt heavy.

Like a stone pressing on the heart.

Not the pressure of a burden.

But the pressure of weight.

A person needs some weight in life. Too light, and one drifts; drifting, one loses direction. With weight pressing down, one knows one stands on the ground, knows one is alive, knows which way to go. The Chaos Immortal Stele is Wang Ping's weight. It presses on his heart, letting him know that from now on he is no longer just an individual—he bears the legacy of the Chaos Immortal Venerable, the expectations of the stele spirit, and the wait of thirty thousand years.

With weight, he knows he is alive.

Cang Xuan waited for him beneath the altar.

He stood there, like a sword plunged into the ground.

Not a metaphor.

It is truly like.

His body is straight, shoulders level, head slightly raised. Wind blows from the side, stirring his robe but not his body. His body is a sword; a sword fears no wind. No matter how strong the wind, the sword remains a sword.

His hand rests on the sword hilt.

Not to draw the sword.

It is habit.

A sword cultivator's hand always rests near the hilt. Not always ready for battle, but always ready to feel the sword's presence. The sword is in its sheath, the hand on the hilt, between them a subtle connection. Like two people holding hands, not speaking, yet aware of each other's existence.

Cangxuan felt something.

Not seen with the eyes.

Felt with the sword-heart.

The sword-heart is the second heart of a sword cultivator. The first heart is for being human, the second for being the sword. The sword-heart does not think, does not speak, does not feel human emotions. But it feels everything of the sword—the sword's existence, its breath, its joys and sorrows. Does the sword have joys and sorrows? Yes. Sword cultivators believe all things have spirit, and the sword is no exception.

Cangxuan's sword-heart is beating.

Fast.

Fast.

Not nervous fast.

It is happy fast.

Happy for Wang Ping.

The sword-heart does not speak, but it beats. Beating fast means happiness; beating slow means worry; not beating means the sword is broken, the person dead. Now it beats very fast, fast like a drum. It senses the changes in Wang Ping's body, senses the existence of that small stone tablet, senses that the chaotic aura has become denser.

Cangxuan will not speak.

His heart will beat.

His hand moved from the sword hilt to his chest, palm over the heart, feeling the heartbeat. Thump-thump-thump-thump, one after another, quick and strong. He lowered his head, looking at his hand, the corner of his mouth twitched. Not a laugh, but the prelude to laughter. He wanted to laugh but didn't know how. It had been too long since he laughed; he forgot how.

In the end he did not laugh out loud.

But his eyes now held laughter.

Sword cultivators' eyes rarely have laughter. Their eyes are usually cold, sharp, like a sword's edge that makes one dare not stare directly. But Cangxuan's eyes now have laughter. Not a boisterous laugh, but a very faint one. Like a crack in the ice through which water below can be seen. The water is warm.

Yu Liuli holds a guqin, standing far away.

Very far.

So far that one cannot see Wang Ping's expression.

But she does not need to see clearly.

She has a qin-heart.

The qin-heart is her second pair of ears. The first pair hears sounds; the second hears heart-voices. Heart-voice is not the sound of the heartbeat, but the sound emitted when the heart feels the world. A person standing there, his heartbeat, his breath, his spiritual power flow, his primordial spirit fluctuations, all emit sound. Those sounds mixed together constitute his heart-voice.

Yu Liuli's qin-heart heard Wang Ping's heart-voice.

Not the same.

Completely not the same.

Before his heart-voice was complex. It contained doubt, unease, anticipation, fear, resolve, hesitation. Various sounds mixed together, like a piece without a main melody. You could hear many notes but could not tell what they were meant to express. Because the player himself did not know what to express.

Now it is not the same.

Doubt remains.

Unease remains.

But they are no longer the main melody.

The main melody became "steadfast".

"Steadfast" is not certainty. Certainty is knowing the answer; steadfast is believing one can find the answer. Wang Ping's current heart-voice is like that. He still has many things he does not know, many roads not yet traveled, many enemies to face. But he is no longer afraid, because he has a trump card, the Chaos Immortal Tablet, and thirty thousand years of accumulation as backing.

Yu Liuli's fingers lightly plucked the strings.

Not playing.

Is recording.

The qin is her pen, the strings her paper. She uses her fingers to write on the strings, writing Wang Ping's heart-voice. Not with notes, but with heart. Her qin-heart turns Wang Ping's breath changes into sound, sound into melody, melody into her fingertip motions.

The index finger plucks the thinnest string.

Zheng.

The sound is very soft.

So soft that only she herself can hear it.

That is "du".

The middle finger presses lightly on the middle string and rubs.

Hum.

That is "ding".

The ring finger hooks the thickest string.

Dong.

That is the sound of the two characters "du ding" combined.

She mentally ran through this piece from start to finish. Very quiet, quiet as midnight. No intense fluctuations, no ornate decoration, no showy passages. Just one note after another, like a person's breath, even, prolonged, never ceasing.

She will remember this piece.

Not memorized with the brain.

Memorized with the qin-heart.

What the qin-heart remembers will never be forgotten.

She will play it for others to hear.

Not played with a qin.

Played with the heart.

The heart will hear it.

You Ying stands on the stone steps of the altar.

The stone steps are wide, each step one zhang wide; she stands on the third step, a position neither too high nor too low—standing too high seems ostentatious, too low seems humble; the third step is just right, allowing her to see what's above without being conspicuous.

She holds that fragment in her hand.

A fragment of the ancient mirror.

The fragment is only the size of a fingernail, its edges very sharp; a moment's inattention would cut her finger. But she grips it tightly, so tight the edge sinks into the flesh of her palm. It doesn't hurt. Not that it doesn't hurt—she simply doesn't mind the pain. Pain is one way she exists, as natural as breathing.

The character "An" on the fragment is glowing.

Very weak.

So weak that without close inspection it cannot be seen.

But it is indeed glowing.

Like a lamp about to run out of oil. The oil is almost burnt out, the flame as small as a soybean. When the wind blows, the flame sways, looking as if it will go out at any moment. But it hasn't gone out; it is still burning, still glowing, still emitting a faint warmth.

You Ying places the fragment on her chest.

Not through clothing.

It is placed directly on the skin.

She opens her collar and presses the fragment below her collarbone, the spot nearest her heart. The moment her skin touches the fragment, a chill spreads from the point of contact—not a chill of temperature, but an essential chill. The fragment is part of the ancient mirror; the ancient mirror is part of order. Order is cold, hard, and without temperature.

But the chill is quickly replaced by body heat.

The fragment absorbs You Ying's body heat and begins to warm—not because it warms itself, but because her body heat flows into the fragment. Body heat carries power; it flows into the fragment, into the character "An", into the lingering consciousness of the ancient mirror.

Her heartbeat transmits to the fragment.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

With each heartbeat the fragment trembles slightly—so slight the eye cannot see it—but her skin can feel it. Like a butterfly resting on a petal, its wings lightly fluttering; the petal cannot feel the butterfly's weight, but it can feel the airflow from the wings' motion.

The fragment's warmth transmits to her heart.

Not physical warmth.

It is the warmth of existence.

Inside the fragment lingers the consciousness of the ancient mirror. That consciousness is already very faint, faint enough to dissipate at any moment—but it remains. It senses You Ying's heartbeat, her body heat, her existence. Thus it responds to her in its own way.

It is glowing.

The character "An" is glowing.

She is listening.

Listening to what the fragment says.

The fragment says nothing else.

It merely repeats that character.

An.

An.

An.

Like someone chanting sutras.

Chanted for a long time.

Chanted for thirty thousand years.

Still chanting.

The meaning of the sutras is unimportant; the act of chanting is what matters. One chants day after day not to understand the sutras' meaning but to calm the mind. When the mind is calm, the world becomes calm; when the world is calm, all is well.

The fragment is doing the same thing.

It spends thirty thousand years chanting the single character "An"—not for any reason, just to chant. Afterward it becomes that character itself: "An" is no longer a character but its mode of existence. It exists, therefore "An" exists; "An" exists, therefore it exists.

You Ying opens her eyes.

Her eyes are black, a deep, bottomless black. But now there is a hint of light in that black—not her own light, but the fragment's light reflected in her eyes. The light is tiny, pinpoint-sized; yet in those utterly black eyes, a pinpoint of light is already bright enough.

She gazes at Wang Ping's back.

Wang Ping stands on the altar, his back to her. His back is straight, like a tree—not a large tree but a small one. The small tree has not yet endured much wind and rain; its trunk is not yet thick, its canopy not yet large. But it has taken root and knows which way to grow.

You Ying knows he has obtained it.

He has obtained the Chaos Immortal Stele.

He has obtained the complete inheritance of the Chaos Immortal Venerable.

He has obtained the trump card to oppose the Lord of Order.

She gazes at his back for a long time. Then she lowers her head and glances at the fragment in her palm. The character "An" still glows, flickering, as if speaking to her. She grips the fragment again, feeling its warmth, feeling its tremor.

He will not abuse it.

He is not that kind of person.

Wang Ping walks down from the altar.

Step by step.

Very slowly.

Not that he cannot walk quickly.

He does not want to walk fast.

Fast is a state, slow is another state. When one is fast, attention is on the goal, overlooking the process. When one is slow, attention is on the process, each step being the goal itself. Wang Ping now does not want to overlook the process, because the process holds many things—his changes, his feelings, all the details of his transformation from one person to another.

His steps are steady.

Stepping on the stone steps, there is no sound.

It is not deliberately lightening his steps.

It is naturally soundless.

Cultivators walking inherently make no sound. Spiritual power forms a thin film on the soles, separating foot from ground. Walking feels like stepping on clouds—soft, light, soundless. But Wang Ping's current soundlessness is different. It is not the effect of spiritual power, but of chaos. Chaos merges into his steps, swallowing sound. The moment sound is produced, it is dissolved by chaos into nothingness.

His robe floats in the wind.

The altar is tall, the wind is strong. Wind blows from all directions, colliding to form turbulence. The robe flutters in the turbulence, without a fixed direction, sometimes left, sometimes right. No matter how it drifts, it eventually returns to its original position. Like a kite, the string is in his hand; no matter how far it flies, it will come back.

His hair floats in the wind.

His hair is long, spread over his shoulders. The wind lifts his hair, spreading it behind his head. Black hair stands out especially in the gray light, like ink drops in water slowly diffusing. Each strand has its own trajectory, drawing complex curves in the wind. Those curves intertwine, forming a flowing picture.

His eyes glimmer in the light.

It is not reflected light.

It is himself emitting light.

Light seeps out from deep within his eyes, passes through the pupils, and spreads into the air. It is the light of chaos—gray, hazy. The light is not strong, but steady. Like a lamp whose wick has just been lit, the flame is still small, yet it can already illuminate the surroundings.

He walks down.

He stands before Cangxuan.

He stands for a while.

He does not speak.

It is not that he has nothing to say.

He simply does not need to speak.

The two stand facing each other. Cangxuan looks at Wang Ping's eyes, Wang Ping looks at Cangxuan's eyes. In each other's eyes they see many things. Cangxuan sees chaos, sees the immortal stele, sees the resoluteness of an ordinary cultivator after obtaining a great opportunity. Wang Ping sees a sword, sees the sword heart, sees the clumsiness of a sword cultivator rejoicing for a friend.

Then Wang Ping turns around.

Facing the direction of the Immortal Palace.

The Immortal Palace is in the distance.

Very far.

So far that only a blurry outline can be seen.

But the outline is already awe-inspiring. It is a vast complex of countless palaces, pavilions, towers, and corridors, built against the mountain, layered upon layered, extending from the foot to the summit. At the summit stands the largest palace, its glazed tiles glittering with golden light.

That is the core of the Immortal Palace.

The Scripture Pavilion.

No.

Not merely the Scripture Pavilion.

It is the place with the most secrets of the entire Immortal Palace.

The Chaos Immortal Stele is the key of the Immortal Palace and also its core. Now the key is in his hand, the core within his body. The entire Immortal Palace opens to him, awaiting his exploration, discovery, and inheritance. There lie more things left by the Chaos Immortal Venerable, more secrets of the Way of Chaos, and more means to oppose the Lord of Order.

But he is not in a hurry.

Because he knows he now has time.

Time is the most precious thing.

Cultivators contend for time in their practice. Win a day, gain a day; win a year, gain a year. Every day and year won are borrowed from heaven. But heaven is stingy, lending little and demanding interest. The stronger you are, the higher the interest it collects. In the end you will find that you spent a lifetime contending, and all the time you won was taken back by heaven.

But Wang Ping now has a different kind of time.

Not time given by the Lord of Order.

It is time given by the Chaos Immortal Stele.

The inner world of the Chaos Immortal Stele is an independent timeline. Inside, a day may pass while outside only an hour elapses; inside, a year may pass while outside only a day passes. This is the nature of chaos—chaos knows no before or after, time within it is disordered.

He can cultivate inside the Chaos Immortal Stele, staying there for a long while while only a short time passes outside. This is one of his greatest trump cards. With this trump card, he can calmly walk the remaining path, without racing against time, without fearing running out, without making mistaken choices in panic.

The trump card is in hand.

His heart is settled.

He steps forward.

Forward.

His feet land on the ground without raising dust. It is not that the ground is clean, but that his steps are too light—so light that even dust cannot be bothered to move. Dust has a temper: it only flies up when you are heavy; when you are light, it ignores you.

Behind him.

Three people follow.

Cangxuan's hand returns to the sword hilt. He is not guarding against anything; he has simply returned to the most comfortable posture. A sword cultivator's hand resting on the hilt is like a fish returning to water, a bird to the sky—not deliberate, but natural.

Yuliuli cradles the guqin, her fingers still lightly plucking the strings. She continues to record, noting every change in Wang Ping, his manner of walking, the rhythm of his breath, the aura he exudes. She writes a diary with her guqin heart, recording not events, but the person.

Youying moves her hand away from her chest, the fragments still held in her palm. The character 'An' still glows, but she no longer needs to look at it. She only needs to hold it, feel its warmth, feel its tremor. She knows it is not a burden, but companionship.

Four figures.

In the ruins of the Immortal Palace.

Slowly.

Slowly.

They have walked away.

Not disappeared.

They have gone far.

Going far away is not the same as disappearing. Disappearing is suddenly gone; going far away is gradually becoming smaller. When it becomes small enough, you can no longer see it. But not being visible does not mean they are not there. They are still there, in the ruins of the Immortal Palace, on the way to the next stretch of the road.

The wind blew from behind.

It blew past the altar.

It blew across the empty platform.

It blew over the depression left by the stele base.

Inside the depression, the wind swirled, making a wooing sound. The sound was faint, so faint that only careful listening could hear it. It sounded like someone sighing, and also like someone humming. The sigh was of the past, the hum of the future.

The past was thirty thousand years of waiting.

The future is the path of four people.

The road is still long.

But we are not afraid.

Because someone walks together.

Wang Ping walked in front, Cangxuan on his left, Yuliuli on his right, and Youying behind him. The four positions were not deliberately arranged; they formed naturally. Wang Ping led because he knew where to go. Cangxuan took the left because that was his sword position. Yuliuli took the right because she could see more clearly from there. Youying walked at the back because she was accustomed to walking behind.

Habit is a strange thing.

It is not innate.

It is cultivated gradually.

Youying stayed in the ancient mirror for thirty thousand years. Throughout those thirty thousand years, she had always been in the role of a follower. When the mirror existed, she was there; when the mirror shattered, she remained. She had grown accustomed to following behind something—behind light, behind shadow, behind duty. Now she follows behind Wang Ping, not because she is forced, but out of habit.

But habit can be changed.

She does not yet know that, one day in the future, she will walk to the front—not ahead of Wang Ping, but beside him. That will be far in the future. For now, she simply walks behind, holding the fragment, feeling the light of the character 'An'.

The four figures grew smaller and smaller.

Finally they merged into the ruins of the Immortal Palace.

The ruins were gray, and their clothes were gray too. Gray merging into gray is like a drop of water falling into water—you can't tell which is the water and which is the drop that fell in.

But the water knows.

The drop that fell in also knows.

It has not disappeared.

It has become part of a larger body of water.

The ruins of the Immortal Palace are vast—so vast that you cannot walk them all in a day. Everywhere lie collapsed palaces, broken corridors, and fallen towers. Stones are scattered across the ground, covered in moss. The moss is green, standing out vividly against the gray. Green is the color of life; where there is green, there is life.

As Wang Ping passed a ruin, he saw a blade of grass growing from a crack in the stone.

The grass was slender, with only two leaves. The leaves were tender green, swaying gently in the wind. The crack was narrow—narrow enough only for the grass's stem. How did it grow there? Probably the wind blew a seed into the crack, rain seeped in, sunlight shone in, and the seed sprouted. Simple, yet not easy.

Wang Ping crouched down and gazed at that grass.

He watched for a long time.

Cangxuan stood behind him, also looking at the grass. He did not understand why Wang Ping would stare at a single blade of grass for so long. What was there to see? Grass is everywhere. Yet he did not ask, because he knew Wang Ping was not looking with his eyes, but with his heart.

Yuliuli was looking too. Her heart, attuned to the qin, heard the grass's sound. It was not the grass speaking; it was the grass growing. The sound of growth was tiny—so tiny only her qin-heart could hear it. It was the voice of life, a sound reaching upward, toward light, toward growth.

Youying stood at the rear, not looking at the grass. She was watching Wang Ping's back. His hunched figure was much smaller than before, not as tall as when he stood on the altar. Yet she felt that Wang Ping crouching was more real than Wang Ping standing, because when one crouches, one is closer to the ground.

Wang Ping stood up.

He continued forward.

He did not touch that grass.

There was no need to touch it.

Seeing it was enough.

Having seen it, he understood—life will find its own way out. No matter how narrow the crack, grass can still grow. No matter how harsh the environment, something can still survive. This is the tenacity of life, and also the tenacity of the Dao. His Dao is the same. No matter how the Lord of Order suppresses him, no matter how difficult the road ahead, he will be like that grass: find his own crack in the stone, grow, and live on.

The four figures continued onward.

They passed through the ruins.

They passed broken walls.

They passed stones covered in moss.

They passed waterlogged depressions.

They passed everything that blocked their way.

The sun emerged from behind the clouds. It was not the real sun, but a sun simulated by the Immortal Palace's formation. Yet its light and heat were indistinguishable from the real sun. Light fell on the four people, casting their shadows on the ground.

The shadows were long, trailing behind them. The four shadows overlapped, making it impossible to tell whose was whose.

That's fine too. If you can't tell them apart, there's no need to. For those who walk together, why bother—