Chapter 425: The Road of Return

When Wang Ping walked down from the altar, the sky had already grown dark.

It wasn't really dark.

On the Immortal Realm fragment there is no sun, no moon, no stars; light does not shine down from the sky but seeps up from deep within the earth. The earth is like a glowing stone, brighter by day, dimmer by night. No one knows why it glows, nor when it will go out.

Now it is dark.

Dark as twilight, as dusk, as when a person closes their eyes.

Twilight is the most complex light. It is neither bright nor dark, but the transition between bright and dark. Day departs, night arrives; they mingle on the earth, forming an indescribable color. Looking at the twilight sky, you feel it beautiful, yet you cannot say wherein its beauty lies, for its beauty lies not in the color itself but in its change. Every moment it shifts, growing darker and deeper until it becomes night completely.

The light of the Immortal Realm fragment is also changing.

But it is not shifting from bright to dark; it is shifting from one darkness to a deeper darkness, like a person's breath—inhale a little brighter, exhale a little darker. The difference between bright and dark is tiny, so slight you won't notice unless you look closely. Yet it truly changes, breathing, alive.

Wang Ping's footsteps echoed in the empty Immortal Palace.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Each sounded like stepping on stone slabs.

And like stepping on the bones of time.

The sound of breaking bone is crisp, but the bones of time are different—tough; when you step on them they do not snap, only bend, and when you lift your foot they spring back, so stepping on the bones of time makes no sound. The tap-tap-tap is his own footsteps, the stone slabs responding to his steps.

He carried the Chaos Immortal Stele in his bosom.

That palm-sized stone tablet pressed against his chest, against his skin, against his heart; he could feel its weight, heavy as an iron slab on his chest—iron's density is 7.8, heavier than stone, far heavier than flesh—and a palm-sized iron pressing on the chest would make one gasp for air.

But it did not hurt.

Weight comes in two kinds. One is the burden's weight, pressing on you, making you feel tired, breathless, as if living is hard. The other is the weight of existence, pressing on your heart, letting you know you are alive, who you are, what you are doing. The weight of the Chaos Immortal Stele is the second kind.

Only with weight does one have a sense of presence.

Light, floating things have no sense of presence. A feather is light; a breeze blows it away. You cannot hold it, nor remember it, for it leaves no feeling in your palm. But stone is different: heavy, when you grasp it your hand aches, your muscles tense, your body remembers its shape.

Wang Ping's body remembered the shape of the Chaos Immortal Stele.

Not remembered by the hand, but by the heart.

What the heart remembers is never forgotten.

Cang Xuan stood beneath the altar.

His position was deliberate. Not directly below the altar, but three steps to the left. Left is yang, right is yin; sword cultivators belong to yang, so he stood on the left. Three steps is the distance of a sword step—drawing, thrusting, and sheathing the sword are all completed within that span. He stood beneath the altar not to guard it, but to wait for Wang Ping.

His hand rested on the sword hilt.

His knuckles whitened.

Not the white of tension, but the white of overexertion. His hand had pressed the hilt for a long time, from when Wang Ping entered that light until now. He did not know how long had passed; time on the Immortal Realm fragment is chaotic—sometimes fast, sometimes slow, sometimes stopping altogether. He only knew he had waited a long time, long enough for his legs to go numb.

The numbness began at the toes.

First the left big toe, then the second toe, then the third. The numbness crawled up like ants along the top of the foot, past the ankle, the calf, the knee, all the way to the thigh root. His entire left leg went numb, then the right leg—its numbness came slower but climbed just as high.

He did not move.

Because he was waiting.

Waiting for Wang Ping to come out, waiting for Wang Ping to tell him—he had obtained it.

While waiting he must not move; if he moved, the breath of waiting would dissipate, and with the breath gone he could not stand. So he stayed still, even if his legs felt prickled by ten million needles. A sword cultivator's body is made to endure—enduring the weight of the sword, the wounds of battle, the torment of waiting. Only if he can endure is he a true sword cultivator; if he cannot, he is unworthy to hold a sword.

Now Wang Ping walked out.

His legs were still numb, but his heart was no longer numb.

Numbness is a strange feeling. When it is present you feel uncomfortable, irritable, as if you wanted to chop off your legs. When it fades you can barely recall what it felt like. Cang Xuan's leg numbness was receding—from the thigh root to the knee, from the knee to the calf, from the calf to the ankle, finally withdrawing from the toes, like tidewater retreating from a beach.

He released the sword hilt.

His fingers moved slightly in the air.

His joints cracked.

Like a rusty hinge oiled.

The hinge is part of a door. As the door swings open and shut, the hinge constantly turns and grinds. After long use the oil between the iron parts dries, producing rust. Rust is the iron's tears, saying it is tired. Oiling it loosens the rust, the hinge turns again, the door opens again.

Cang Xuan's fingers were the hinge. He had gripped the sword too long, wearing rust into his joints. Now he loosened his grip, blood flowed back to the fingertips like oil into a hinge. The joints cracked, saying—I can still hold, I can still strike, I can still wait.

"Got it?"

He asked.

Two words.

Very softly.

As if afraid to disturb something.

Wang Ping nodded.

He did not speak.

Some words need not be spoken; a nod suffices. A nod is the world's simplest language. It means—yes. It also means—I am here. It also means—thank you for waiting for me.

He placed his hand on his chest.

There was a cluster of light there.

Chaos-colored.

Murky gray.

Visible through his robe.

His robe was dark; the light shone through, turning the dark hue pale, the fabric sheer. The light writhed beneath the robe like a newly hatched chick. The chick lay in its nest, wings not yet fully grown, eyes not yet open. Yet it knew it was in the nest, knew something warmed it, knew that was not itself.

That cluster of light resembled a lamp.

The wick is the Chaos Immortal Stele, the oil is Wang Ping's vital energy. It glows not because someone lit it, but because it shines of its own accord. Chaos light needs no fuel; it only needs to exist. To exist is to shine.

That ball of light was like a heart.

It was not the heart of the heart, but the essential heart. People have two hearts. One is in the chest, responsible for beating. One is deeper, responsible for living. If the heart in the chest stops, the person dies. If the deeper heart stops, the person also dies. But the manner of death differs. The former is bodily death, the latter is spiritual death.

That ball of light was like an unborn infant.

The infant was in the mother's belly, curled up, eyes closed, fists clenched. It had not yet been born, but it already existed. It was waiting for the moment of birth. When that moment came, it would open its eyes, unclench its fists, draw its first breath, and let out its first cry. The Chaos Immortal Stele was also waiting for that moment. That moment had not yet arrived, but it knew it would come.

Cang Xuan gazed at that ball of light.

He gazed for a long time.

He did not look with his eyes, but with his Sword Heart.

What the Sword Heart sees differs from what the eyes see. The eyes see the light; the Sword Heart sees what is inside the light. Inside the light there is chaos, there is the Immortal Stele, there is the Stele Spirit, there is the will of the Chaos Immortal Venerable, there is the waiting of thirty thousand years. The Sword Heart saw all of these. It also saw one thing—Wang Ping's change.

Wang Ping had changed.

It was not his appearance that changed.

His appearance had not changed. It was still that face, those eyes, that height. But the Sword Heart saw his 'inside.' His inside had changed. Formerly, Wang Ping's inside was empty. Not truly empty, but having few things, like a room containing only a table, a chair, and a bed. It could be lived in, but was crude.

Now Wang Ping's inside is full.

Not a crammed fullness, but a sense of fulfillment. The room is still the same room, but pictures hang on the walls, a vase sits on the table, bedding is laid on the bed. A potted flower sits on the windowsill, a carpet covers the floor, a lamp stands in the corner. The lamp is lit, the flowers bloom, the bedding is neatly folded. There is the air of someone living in the room.

The Chaos Immortal Stele is that lamp.

When the lamp is lit, the whole room becomes bright.

Cang Xuan's sword made a sound in its sheath.

It was not a hum.

It was a sigh.

A hum is the sword excited, craving battle. A sigh is the sword relaxed, saying—finally. The sword has waited a long time. Since the moment it entered the Immortal Realm fragments, it has been waiting. Waiting for Wang Ping to obtain the Chaos Immortal Stele, waiting for Cang Xuan to set his heart at ease, waiting for the four of them to leave together. Now the wait is over, it sighed.

The sword's sigh was faint, so faint only a sword cultivator could hear it. Cang Xuan heard it. His hand returned to the sword's hilt, not tense, but in response. He told the sword—I have heard. The sword told him—we should go.

Yu Liuli walked over from afar.

She walked slowly.

Not because she could not walk fast, but because the zither is too heavy.

The ancient zither is heavier than a sword. A sword can hang at the waist, but the zither must be held in the arms. Holding it long makes the arms sore, shoulders ache, waist tire. Yet Yu Liuli never complains of fatigue. Because the zither is her Dao; to walk while embracing the Dao makes any hardship worthwhile.

She held the ancient zither, which had seven strings on its body. The thickest is the gong string, the thinnest is the yu string. Gong, shang, jue, zhi, yu, civil and military—seven strings, seven sounds; together the seven sounds constitute all things in heaven and earth. Her fingers lightly plucked the strings, not playing, but tuning.

The strings had loosened.

Having lingered long on the Immortal Realm fragments, the immortal spirit aura in the air caused the strings to expand. Immortal spirit aura is a higher force than spiritual qi; it seeps into the strings, stretching them, raising the pitch, destroying the tuning. The gong string is no longer gong, the shang string no longer shang. What is played is not a melody, but noise.

She tuned while walking.

She placed her ear against the zither's body.

The zither's body is made of wood, which transmits sound. With her ear against the body, she heard the strings' vibrations. If the vibration was off, she would turn the tuning peg slightly. The tuning peg is the mechanism that adjusts string tension; tightening it a little makes the string taut and the pitch rise; loosening it a little makes the string slack and the pitch fall.

She was seeking a 'standard'.

Not the standard of pitch, but the standard of the heart.

Pitch standard is heard by the ears. When two strings are played together and their sounds do not clash, that is standard. Heart standard is perceived by the zither's heart. What the zither's heart hears is not sound, but what lies behind the sound. That thing has no name, but it has a feeling. If the feeling is right, that is standard; if the feeling is wrong, it is not standard.

When she walked up to Wang Ping, all seven strings were tuned.

The gong string was deep, like the earth breathing.

The shang string was clear and bright, like an autumn wind blowing through a bamboo grove.

The jue string was full of vitality, like the first spring rain.

The zhi string was fervent, like the midsummer sun.

The yu string was lofty and distant, like the stars in a winter night.

The civil and military strings, one firm and one yielding, one yin and one yang, resembled the union of heaven and earth.

With the seven strings tuned, her heart was also tuned.

She lifted her head and looked into Wang Ping's eyes.

Wang Ping's eyes held light. Not reflected light, but light emanating from within. That light was chaos-colored, grayish, like the sky before dawn. The pre‑dawn sky is the most complex. It is not black, not blue, not gray, but a mixture of all colors. Night still lingers, yet begins to fade; day has not arrived, but is already on the way.

Yu Liuli gazed at those eyes for a long time.

Within them she saw many things.

She saw chaos, saw the Immortal Stele, saw the Stele Spirit, saw the path Wang Ping had walked. From the Returned Ruins to the Sea of Laws, from Reverse Time to the Dao Heart Tribulation, from the altar to the deepest part of the light. Each road left a trace in his eyes. The traces were faint, but deep.

She smiled.

It was not a happy smile.

It was a relieved smile.

A happy smile lifts the corners of the mouth, narrows the eyes, and sends a sound bursting from the throat. A relieved smile is different: the mouth corners lift only slightly, the eyes do not narrow, and no sound escapes. It is merely a feeling, a feeling of being at ease.

She was saying—'As long as you're all right, that's good.'

There was no sound, but Wang Ping heard it.

Heard by the heart.

Youying stood at the farthest point.

She always stood at the farthest point. It was not others who placed her there; she chose it herself. She was accustomed to standing afar. Afar is safe, afar is quiet, afar allows her to see everyone while no one notices her. She observes from afar, waits from afar, guards from afar.

She held that fragment in her hand.

A fragment of the ancient mirror.

The 'An' character on the fragment no longer glowed. It had not gone out; it was weary. It had shone for thirty thousand years, ever since the moment the Immortal Realm shattered. It shone until the ancient mirror broke, until Youying stepped out of the mirror, until she found her own Dao, until Wang Ping arrived, until he understood that character, until he entered the Chaos Immortal Stele.

Thirty thousand years.

It had shone for thirty thousand years.

One lamp lit for a night, and the lamp oil burned dry. It had been lit for thirty thousand years; the lamp oil should have been exhausted long ago. But it had not dried out, because what it burned was not oil, but obsession. Obsession cannot be burned dry. The more you burn it, the more it grows. It is like weeds: cut one batch, another grows; you can never finish cutting it.

Now it is tired, wanting to rest.

Fatigue is not bodily fatigue, but heart fatigue. When the heart is tired, one wants to do nothing, think nothing, see nothing; one only wants to close the eyes and stay quietly. The fragment's heart is tired, so it does not glow. Not because the lamp oil is exhausted, but because it wants to rest.

Youying placed it against her chest.

Not stuck over clothing, but stuck directly to the skin.

The fragment was attached below her collarbone. The skin there is thin, thin enough to see the blood vessels. The vessels are bluish, like a small river flowing beneath the skin. The fragment lay beside the vessels, feeling the flow of blood. Blood flows, the heart beats, the person lives.

Its temperature changed from warm to mildly warm.

From mildly warm it became body temperature.

Warmth is its own temperature. It dwelt in the ancient mirror for thirty thousand years, absorbing thirty thousand years of immortal spiritual energy, accumulating its own temperature. Mild warmth is the temperature dissipating, like a cup of hot water left on a table, gradually cooling. Body temperature is its temperature merging with Youying's.

It became as hot as her body.

It is no longer a fragment.

It is part of her.

People have many parts: hands are parts, feet are parts, eyes are parts, hearts are parts. Now Youying has one more part—a fragment of the ancient mirror. It is not a burden, not an ornament, not a weapon. It is simply part of her, like a hand, like a foot, like an eye, like a heart.

She looked at Wang Ping.

She did not speak.

She knew he had obtained it.

Because his eyes now held something extra.

Not light.

Not shadow.

It was a feeling of "completion".

"Completion" is a weighty word. In a lifetime, most things remain unfinished. The book one wanted to write is left unwritten; the road one wanted to walk is left untraveled; the words one wanted to speak remain unspoken. At death, one clutches a handful of unfinished business, closing one's eyes with regret.

But some people can accomplish some things.

Having written the last character, he set down the brush. With the brush set down, the characters remain; as long as the characters remain, his writing was not in vain. Having finished the final step, he set down the hammer. With the hammer set down, the steps remain; as long as the steps remain, his mending was not in vain. Having walked the final step, he stopped. With his footsteps stopped, the road remains; as long as the road remains, his walking was not in vain.

Wang Ping's eyes held "completion".

It was not the pride of completion, but the calm of completion. Pride is holding one's head high, telling everyone I did it. Calm is lowering one's head, telling oneself I did it. The former is for others to see; the latter is for oneself to see.

Youying saw that calm.

In her heart she said—You did it.

There was no sound, but Wang Ping heard it.

Heard by the heart.

Wang Ping stood before the three.

He stood for a while.

It was not that he did not want to speak, but that he had too much to say.

He wanted to tell them what was inside the Chaos Immortal Stele: the inheritance of the Chaos Immortal Venerable, the existence of the stele spirit, thirty thousand years of waiting, countless immortal pills, immortal artifacts, immortal arts. There were the Nine-Revolutions Reincarnation Pill, the Calamity-Passing Golden Core, the Realm-Breaking Pill, the Life-Continuing Pill. There were the Chaos Bell, the Heaven-Opening Axe, the Creation Furnace, the Myriad Heavens Stars Chart. There were the Chaos Method, the Great Chaos Technique, the Small Chaos Technique, the Chaos Evasion Technique.

Too much to say.

It was lodged in his throat.

Like a pile of rubble jammed in the middle of a riverbed, the water cannot flow past.

Water is alive, stone is dead. When living water meets dead stone, it cannot pass; it swirls before the stone. The more it piles up, the higher and more urgent it becomes, yet still it cannot pass. His throat is the riverbed, the words are the water, the stone is what? The stone is his not knowing what to say.

He opened his mouth.

Then closed it again.

When he opened his mouth, his lips twitched and a muffled syllable issued from his throat. But before it could take shape it scattered, because he did not know which direction to take. Should it go toward "joy" or toward "calm"? Toward "excitement" or toward "composure"?

Then he laughed.

That smile was faint.

So faint it was hardly visible.

Only the corners of his mouth lifted a little, a little. Like a feather falling on water, the surface depresses just a thread, hardly any ripple. But he laughed. Not a forced laugh, but a natural one. A natural laugh needs no reason, like flowers blooming need no reason, like rain falling need no reason, like a heartbeat need no reason.

But Cangxuan saw it.

A sword cultivator's eyes miss no detail. If an enemy's eyelid twitches, he knows the opponent will draw his sword. When Wang Ping's mouth corner lifted a thread, he knew Wang Ping was laughing. Not seen with the eyes, but perceived with the sword-heart. The smile perceived by the sword-heart is truer than that seen by the eyes.

Yuliuli saw it.

The zither-heart is the most sensitive heart. It hears the sound of flowers opening, the sound of snow falling, the faintest stir in a person's heart. When Wang Ping's mouth corner lifted a thread, the zither-heart heard the wind stirred by that lift. The wind sound was tiny, so tiny that only the zither-heart could hear it. Yet it was there, like the sound of a butterfly's wings beating.

Youying saw it.

She stood farthest away, but her eyes were the sharpest. Having dwelt in the ancient mirror for thirty thousand years, she had learned to see: to see the refraction of light, the shift of shadow, the minute movements of every muscle on a person's face. Wang Ping laughed, his mouth corner lifted 0.3 fen, two fine lines appeared at the corners of his eyes, the muscles of his cheeks relaxed by half a millimeter. She saw all of these. The result of what she saw was—he was laughing.

They were waiting for him to speak.

Waiting for him to say—Let's go.

They had waited a long time, waiting since the Return to the Void, waiting since the Sea of Laws, waiting since the Reverse Flow of Time, waiting since the Dao Heart Tribulation. Waiting was not sitting there; it was walking over. Step by step they walked over, foot by foot they walked over. At the moment they arrived, the waiting ended.

Wang Ping spoke.

"Let's go."

Not "Let us go."

It was "Let's go."

Two words, very light.

"We" refers to more than one person; "Let's go" refers to everyone. Whether or not "we" is included changes the meaning. "Let us go" is a proposal, a discussion, asking—Are you ready? "Let's go" is a decision, a departure, saying—I am ready, how about you?

He knew they were ready.

No need to ask.

Asking is distrust of them. Distrust that they are ready, distrust that they are willing to follow him, distrust that they have been waiting. He trusts them, so he does not ask. He only says 'Let's go,' then steps forward.

Cangxuan nodded.

Yuliuli nodded.

Yinying nodded.

Nodding is the simplest answer. Its meaning is — good. Its meaning also is — I will follow you. Its meaning also is — no matter where we go.

They turned around.

They walked toward the exit of the Immortal Palace.

Turning is a simple action. Feet turn, waist turns, shoulders turn, head turn. Turning changes the direction faced. Just now they faced the altar, the past, the Chaos Immortal Stele. Now they face the exit, the future, the road home.

Wang Ping walked at the rear.

It was not them letting him walk at the rear; it was his own choice.

The person leading walks in front, responsible for opening the way. The followers walk in the middle, responsible for support. The person bringing up the rear walks at the back, responsible for guarding. Guarding is not blocking pursuers, but watching those ahead — watching their backs, watching them step forward. If they fall, the rearguard must help them up. If they cannot walk, the rearguard must carry them. If they get lost, the rearguard must point them the direction.

Wang Ping is the person bringing up the rear.

Because he is the strongest.

The strongest walks at the rear, this is what the Chaos Immortal Stele told him. Before sleeping, the Stele Spirit left him a sentence — not spoken with voice, but conveyed heart‑to‑heart. That sentence is — 'The strong guard the rear.' Four characters, light, but he remembered it. Remembered in his bones.

He glanced back at the altar.

The altar was empty.

The Chaos Immortal Stele was gone, but its traces remained. The immortal markings were still there, carved on the stone slab — deep and shallow, thick and thin. Some resembled clouds, some water, some fire, some wind. They intertwined, forming a complete pattern. The center of the pattern was the four characters that spell 'Chaos Immortal Stele'.

Those steps remained.

Step by step, from ground to platform, each step bore immortal markings, but they differed from those on the stone slab. The slab's markings were complete; the steps' markings were scattered. Each step only bore a small portion; only after walking all steps could the full pattern be seen.

Those points of light remained.

They floated in the air, like fireflies, like stars, like scattered pearls. The points of light were tiny — as small as a needle tip — but bright enough to be visible even in daylight. They were not fixed, but moving: drifting slowly, floating slowly, turning slowly. Some drifted upward, some fell downward, some spun in place.

They were there, waiting for the next person to come.

Perhaps no one would ever come.

The Return to the Ruins was too deep, the Sea of Laws too fierce, the Reverse Flow of Time too chaotic, the Heart Trial too perilous. Those who could reach this place might not appear even once in ten thousand years. The one who had reached this place before was Wang Ping; the next to reach it might never appear.

Perhaps someone would come tomorrow.

The fortunes of the Dao are unpredictable. Sometimes tens of thousands of years pass without a genius; sometimes batches after batches emerge. Like wheat in a field — this year no harvest, next year abundant. It is not controlled by people, but by heavenly will. Heavenly will is inscrutable, so we do not speculate.

They were not in a hurry.

The altar was not in a hurry, the immortal markings were not in a hurry, the points of light were not in a hurry. They had waited thirty thousand years; what was another thirty thousand years? Thirty thousand years is eternity to mortals, but an instant to them. When that instant passed, those who were meant to come would come.

Wang Ping turned around and caught up with the person ahead.

His steps were steady and light.

Walking on the stone slab, there was no sound.

It was not deliberately lightening his steps; it was naturally soundless. His body had become lighter — not in weight, but in existence. The Chaos Immortal Stele within him did not add to his weight; it subtracted from it. Because Chaos embraces all things, it also embraces gravity. Gravity entering his body is resolved by Chaos into nothingness.

As he walked, he recalled the Stele Spirit.

The Stele Spirit slept in the deepest part of the Chaos Immortal Stele. He slept so deeply that even thunder could not wake him. But he was not dead asleep; he was living asleep. A living sleeper knows everything happening outside. Wherever Wang Ping went, his heart gave a jump. When Wang Ping encountered danger, his brow furrowed slightly. When Wang Ping was happy, the corners of his mouth lifted slightly.

He was accompanying him.

By means of sleep.

Cangxuan walked in the lead.

His hand again rested on the sword hilt — not from nervousness, but from habit. A sword cultivator's hand is always near the hilt, ready to draw the sword. Not always ready for battle, but always ready to protect: to protect oneself, one's companions, and whatever ought to be protected.

His sword was quiet in its sheath.

Just now it had made a sound, sighed, and now it was quiet — because it was listening. The sword also has ears; its ears are the sword blade. The blade feels air vibrations, feels the flow of spiritual power, feels the approach of killing intent. Now the air is quiet, the spiritual power is calm, and there is no killing intent. So it remained quiet.

Cangxuan's finger lightly tapped the sword hilt.

It was not intentional; it was subconscious.

Like a person sitting in a chair, fingers unconsciously tap the tabletop. When tapping, there is no awareness; only after tapping do they realize they have tapped. Cangxuan's finger tapped the sword hilt, emitting an extremely faint sound. Ding. Like a drop of water falling into a pond.

The sword responded to him in its sheath.

It also emitted an extremely faint sound. Hum. Like the water in a pond rippled by a water droplet.

They were conversing.

They were not speaking with words, but with sound. Cangxuan said — I am here. The sword said — I am here too. Cangxuan said — We will soon return home. The sword said — I know. Cangxuan said — After returning, I will go into seclusion to practice Slay Immortals. The sword said — I will wait for you.