Chapter 426: The Lord of Order Awakens

The passage of Return to the Ruins had become narrower than when they came.

It was not the passage itself that had become narrow.

The passage was still the same passage, the walls still those walls, the light still that light. What had become narrow was Wang Ping's feeling. Feeling is a strange thing; it does not depend on the thing itself, but on oneself. When one grows, the world becomes small; when one grows strong, the path becomes narrow.

When they came, he was an ant.

The ant crawled into a huge tube.

The tube was wide, wide enough that its walls could not be seen. Looking up was light, looking down was light, looking left was light, looking right was still light. Light wrapped everything, with no direction, no boundary, no end. The ant crawled inside the tube, not knowing how big the tube was, only knowing it was huge, huge enough to make itself feel tiny.

Now he is a flying insect.

The insect is larger than the ant and can see farther. It flies inside the tube and can see the walls. The walls are far off, grayish-white, like frosted glass. Something moves behind the glass, indistinct, unclear. But it knows something is there, because the light comes from there.

The walls are grayish-white.

Not pure white, but grayish-white.

Like the white of old clothes washed too many times.

The white is not thorough, leaving a hint of gray, a hint of age, a trace of time. Light flows along the wall, coming from the direction of the Immortal Realm fragments and heading toward the Spirit Realm. The light flows so slowly that if you stare at it, it seems unmoving; but when you look away, it moves, and when you look again, it has already flowed a segment ahead.

The light pursues them.

The light coming from the direction of the Immortal Realm fragments follows behind them like a river chasing a school of fish. The river is not in a hurry, for it knows the fish cannot swim faster than it. It simply follows, giving them a ride. 'Seeing off a friend a thousand miles, one must eventually part.' The river escorts them to the end of the passage, then stops, watching the fish swim into another body of water.

Wang Ping walked at the very front.

It was not they who let him walk in front; it was his own choice.

The leader walks at the front. When they came, Cangxuan was the leader, because back then Wang Ping was not strong enough. Now he is strong enough, so he walks in front. Strength is not capital for bullying; it is the responsibility to protect. If you are strong, you must walk at the front, shielding those behind from wind, rain, and anything that cannot be blocked.

In his arms he held the Chaos Immortal Stele.

It was heavy.

Like a piece of iron pressing on his chest.

Iron is cold, the Chaos Immortal Stele is warm. Iron is hard, the stele is soft. Iron is dead, the stele is alive. It breathes in his arms, inhaling and exhaling, expanding and contracting. When it exhales, it emits chaos-colored light; when it inhales, it draws the light back. The light flickers beneath his robe, like a lamp, like a heart, like an unborn infant.

But his steps were light.

Light as stepping on cotton.

Cotton is soft; stepping on it sinks, lifting up rebounds. The passage's ground is like that—not hard, but soft; not solid, but illusory. It lies between existence and non-existence: when you step on it, it is there; when you do not, it is gone.

His body floated in the passage.

Not walking, but gliding.

Walking is pushing off the ground with the feet to propel the body forward; gliding is the ground moving while the body stays still. The passage's ground moves like a conveyor belt, carrying them toward the Spirit Realm. Wang Ping need not exert himself; he only needs to stand, and the ground will carry him.

Like stepping on snow.

Snow is soft, and stepping on it makes a creaking sound. But there is no sound in the passage, because the snow is illusory.

Like stepping on sand.

Sand is loose; stepping on it sinks, leaving footprints behind. But there are no footprints in the passage, because the sand is illusory.

Like stepping in a dream.

A dream is the most illusory. When you walk in a dream, your feet touch the ground, yet the ground leaves no footprints, makes no sound, gives no sensation. You merely walk, not knowing why you walk, not knowing where you are going. The passage is like a dream: you walk inside it, but you are not sure whether you are really walking.

Cangxuan followed behind.

His hand rested on the sword hilt.

His knuckles were no longer white.

White means tension; not white means relaxation. But it is not complete relaxation; it is the relaxation of 'being ready.' Like a bowstring, when not drawn it is loose, but that looseness is not weakness—it is stored energy. It can be drawn full at any moment, and an arrow can be loosed at any moment.

His sword was quiet in its sheath.

When they came, the sword buzzed in its sheath, like a bee hitting a glass bottle. It longed for battle, longed to be drawn, longed to drink blood. Now it is quiet, not because it no longer longs, but because it longs to be suppressed. What suppresses it is not Cangxuan, but the Sword Intent of Slaying Immortals.

The Sword Intent of Slaying Immortals is too great.

So great that the sword blade cannot contain it.

The sword blade is a piece of iron, the sword intent is a mass of fire. The fire is larger than the iron; the iron cannot hold the fire. The fire burns inside the iron, heating it red-hot, making it hot, almost melting it. The iron cries—'I cannot contain it, I cannot contain it, I cannot contain it.'

The sword buzzes in its sheath, not from excitement, but from crying out in pain.

Now it does not cry.

Because it has swallowed the fire.

Not that it has contained it, but that it has swallowed it—into the deepest part of the blade, into the seam between the irons, into the sword's 'heart.' The sword also has a heart, the thinnest line on the blade. All the sword intent is hidden there, waiting for the moment the sword is drawn, waiting for the moment it leaves the sheath, waiting for the moment it strikes forth.

It is waiting.

Waiting to return, waiting to enter seclusion, waiting for Cangxuan to refine it into a new sword.

It is not in a hurry.

It has waited thirty thousand years.

The Sword Intent of Slaying Immortals had lain in the Immortal Realm fragments for thirty thousand years; it waited for Wang Ping to come, waited for Cangxuan to come, waited for the moment it was taken out. Having waited thirty thousand years, waiting a few more months is nothing. To the sword, a few months are but a blink. A blink, and it has arrived.

Yuliuli walked in the middle.

The middle is the safest position, with someone blocking ahead and someone guarding behind. The person in the middle only needs to walk, not needing to watch the road or guard against enemies. But Yuliuli is not someone who needs protection. She walks in the middle not because she needs protection, but because her zither's heart needs tranquility.

She embraced the ancient zither.

The zither is heavy.

An ancient zither is heavier than a ordinary zither. An ordinary zither is made of wood; an ancient zither is wood plus time. Time has weight. A hundred-year-old zither weighs twice as much as a new one; a thousand-year-old zither weighs twice as much as a hundred-year-old. She does not know how many years this zither has; she only knows it is heavy, holding it in her arms like holding a stone.

Her zither strings vibrated faintly.

Not from the wind.

There is no wind in the passage.

It is the immortal spiritual energy within the passage that pushes them.

Immortal spirit qi is a higher-level force than spiritual qi. Spiritual qi is air; immortal spirit qi is water. Water is heavier than air and stronger than air. It flows from the direction of the immortal realm fragments like an invisible river; the river water flows over the lute strings, pushing them, and they begin to vibrate.

Those qi chased them.

Like a river chasing fish.

The river is not in a hurry, because it knows the fish cannot swim faster than it. It simply follows, giving them a ride. To send someone a thousand miles, one must eventually part. When the river reaches the end of the passage, it stops and watches the fish swim into another body of water.

The lute strings emitted a very soft, very fine sound.

Like a swarm of mosquitoes buzzing near the ear.

Mosquitoes are small, but their sound is loud. A single mosquito's buzz can wake a person; a swarm's buzz can drive a person mad. But the lute strings' sound is not as annoying as mosquitoes'. It is soft and fine, like speaking—not human speech, but lute speech. Only a lute heart can understand lute speech.

She didn't bother with it.

Because she knew it was the immortal realm fragments saying goodbye.

Goodbye is one of the hardest things to say. Saying 'hello' is easy, because hello is a beginning. Saying 'goodbye' is hard, because goodbye is an end. You don't know whether you'll meet again after this goodbye. Maybe you will, maybe you won't. So goodbye is always spoken softly, so softly as not to startle anything. The immortal realm fragments say goodbye with the lute strings' sound. They say——You have left; I will miss you.

You Ying walked at the rear.

She always walked at the rear.

The one who walks at the rear can see everyone's back. The back is the most truthful. The front is for show; people adjust their expression, posture, and gaze to look better. The back is unguarded; since one cannot see one's own back, the back reveals what a person truly is.

You Ying watched the backs of the three people.

Wang Ping's back was steady, steady as a moving mountain. A mountain moves slowly, but no one can stop it.

Cang Xuan's back was straight, straight as a sword. A sword planted in the ground is unmoved by wind or rain.

Yu Liuli's back was light, light as a feather. A feather drifts in the wind, but the wind cannot control it; it has its own direction.

She still held that fragment in her hand.

The 'An' character on the fragment was no longer bright.

But it was still there.

As long as the character remains, its meaning remains. Meaning is not light; light is merely the manifestation of meaning. When the light goes out, the meaning remains. Like when a lamp goes out, the book beneath it is still there. With the book, the characters, the story endure.

She affixed the fragment to her chest.

It adhered to her skin.

The fragment was placed below her collarbone, where the skin is thin enough to see the veins. The veins are bluish, like a small river flowing beneath the skin. The fragment lay beside the veins and sensed the blood's flow. Blood flows, the heart beats, the person lives.

She felt its temperature.

It was the same as her body temperature.

Warmth is its own temperature; coolness is temperature loss; body temperature is when its temperature merges with hers. Now it is her body temperature. It is no longer just a fragment; it has become part of her. A person has many parts: hands, feet, eyes, heart. Now You Ying has one more part—a shard of an ancient mirror. It is not a burden, not an ornament, not a weapon. It is simply part of her, like a hand, a foot, an eye, a heart.

Her steps were light.

Light as a cat.

Cats walk without sound; their paw pads have flesh cushions that absorb all vibration when they step on the ground. Thus cats can approach prey silently and retreat from danger silently.

Light as a shadow.

A shadow is even lighter. A shadow is not a solid object; it is the absence of light. Where light cannot reach, there is a shadow. A shadow has no weight, no sound, no temperature. It simply exists there, following you, mimicking your movements, but you can never grasp it.

Light as non-existence.

Non-existence is the lightest, for it has no weight, no sound, no temperature, nothing at all. But You Ying exists. She found a place between non-existence and existence—a place called the Void.

The jade slip of Void Escape grew warm in her bosom.

The jade slip was tiny, only the size of a fingernail. Completely transparent, clear as glass, as crystal, as ice. Inside, something small and indistinct swam about, like a fish in water.

It was warming up.

Not hot, but warm.

Warmth and heat are different. Heat is a warning: 'Stay back, or you'll be hurt.' Warmth is an invitation: 'Come closer, I will teach you.' The jade slip invited her, urged her—'Practice, practice quickly.'

She was not in a hurry.

Because now is not the time to practice.

She was walking, heading home, waiting for that person to wake up. Cultivation requires the right moment; if the moment is wrong, practicing is pointless. Void Escape is a skill for fleeing danger; such skills must be practiced when danger is present. Now there is no danger, so practicing would not reveal its essence.

She was waiting.

Waiting for danger to come.

Danger will come.

She knew.

She had walked for an unknown length of time.

There was no time in the passage. Time had not stopped; it had slowed. The passage is a transitional zone between the immortal realm fragments and the spirit realm, where the laws have not yet stabilized. Time flows here very slowly, so slowly that you might think it has stopped. But it has not; it merely flows at a very slow pace.

Like honey dripping from a spoon.

Honey is thick and flows slowly. When you scoop it up, it stretches into a thin thread that slowly descends. You watch it and think it hasn't moved, but when you look away it does; when you look back, it has dropped a bit.

Time in the passage is just like that.

Wang Ping did not know how long he had walked—perhaps a few hours, perhaps a few days, perhaps a few months. His feet moved, his body advanced, but he felt no passage of time. Time flowed past him like water; he felt no wetness, only coolness.

The light in the passage began to dim.

Not suddenly, but gradually.

From milky white to grayish white.

Milky white is the color of milk. Milk is rich, nourishing, meant to be drunk. The light in the passage was milky white when it arrived, because it was meant to give them strength, warmth, and hope.

From grayish white to gray.

Gray is an intermediate color—neither white nor black, neither clear nor dark. It takes no side, favoring none. The light in the middle of the passage is gray, because it no longer needs to give them anything. They already have strength, warmth, and hope. It only needs to shine on them so they can see the way.

From gray to dark gray.

Dark gray is close to black. Black is the endpoint, the end, nothingness. The light in the passage turns dark gray as it nears the end, because it is telling them—'Soon.'

It is not the light that is disappearing.

It is the Immortal Realm fragments that are drifting away.

Light is emitted by the Immortal Realm fragments; the farther they are from it, the weaker the light becomes, just as the temperature drops the farther one is from a fire. They have walked a long time and are now far from the Immortal Realm fragments—so far that it takes time for the light to reach them from there, and so far that the light has lost most of its strength along the way.

They are getting closer to the Spiritual Realm.

Wang Ping could feel it.

The passage under their feet was hardening.

It changed from soft to hard. When soft, stepping on it felt like cotton; when hard, it felt like stone slabs. It changed from smooth to rough. When smooth, the soles felt as if oiled; when rough, the soles felt as if they had grown roots. It changed from dream to reality. Dream is illusory, reality is substantial. When illusory, you can pass through walls; when substantial, the walls will hurt you if you bump into them.

His footsteps now had sound.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Each sound landed on solid ground.

The solid ground was the effect of the Spiritual Realm's laws in action. The laws of the Spiritual Realm were more stable than the passage, more stable than the Immortal Realm fragments. They had gravity, friction, and sound. When the foot stepped on the ground, the ground responded. With a tap, the ground said—'You have returned.'

His heart was beating.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

Each sound struck his chest.

The heartbeat was always there, but when you didn't pay attention you couldn't feel it. It ran in the background, automatic like breathing. But when you noticed it, it grew louder. With a thud, it said—'I am still here.'

Suddenly, the passage shuddered.

It was not an earthquake.

An earthquake is the fracturing of underground rock, releasing energy and causing the ground to shake. The passage has no rock, no ground, nothing that can fracture. Therefore this is not an earthquake.

It was a tremor of space.

Space is like a sheet of paper. The paper is flat and stable. If you draw a line on it, that line is the road. You walk along the road while the paper stays still. Now someone flicked the paper with a finger. The paper moved, the whole sheet moved. The line on the paper moved, and you on the line moved. It is not you moving; it is the paper moving. But you cannot tell the difference, because you are on the line.

Like someone striking a large drum once.

The drumhead is skin; when struck, it vibrates. The vibration spreads from the center outward in rings, growing farther and weaker. But the center still vibrates, so the edge keeps vibrating.

The drum sound arrived.

It passed through the passage, through space, through everything blocking its way. It did not detour, because it needed no detour. It was a tremor of space, and space was its path. It propagated through space like a fish swimming in water.

It shook the air into ripples.

Air is invisible, but the ripples are visible—like a summer road scorched by the sun, where the air above it shimmers, forming layers of water‑like patterns. You can see the patterns, but you cannot grasp them; they are not water, they are heat. The ripples in the passage are not heat, but spatial tremors. You can see them, yet they are not water; they are fear.

Wang Ping stopped his steps.

It was not that he wanted to stop.

It was his feet that stopped on their own.

The body is more honest than the mind. The mind still wonders—what happened? —while the body has already reacted—stop. Stop, feel, judge, then decide whether to flee or fight. The body is quicker than the mind, for in danger the mind is a luxury. First survive, then ask why.

His body was swaying.

It was not him swaying.

It was the passage swaying.

He stood in the passage; as the passage swayed, he swayed with it—like a person on a boat that rocks with the waves, the person rocks too. It is not the person choosing to sway; it is the boat that must sway. The person can only follow.

The light on the walls was trembling.

The light had been steady, flowing slowly and evenly from the direction of the Immortal Realm fragments like a quiet river. Now the river was disturbed—someone had thrown a large stone into it. The stone splashed, sending up waves that churned the surface. The surface churned, and the light became unsteady.

Like a candle flame blown by a gust of wind.

A candle flame is very sensitive. If a crack opens in a door and wind blows in, the flame will tremble. It tilts left, then right, then returns to center. It returns, but it remembers that gust; when the wind comes again, it will tremble still.

Cangxuan's hand pressed tightly on the sword hilt.

Not a grip, but a press.

Gripping is curling the fingers around to form a ring; pressing is pushing the fingers down to form a point. Gripping readies one to draw the sword; pressing readies one to endure. Cangxuan is not preparing to draw his sword; he is preparing to endure. Endure what? Endure the thing that makes even his sword afraid.

His sword emitted a low hum from its sheath.

Not an excited hum, but a fearful hum.

Can a sword feel fear? Yes. The sword is iron; iron has no heart, but the sword has a spirit. The spirit is the sword's soul, its consciousness, its 'I'. The spirit can fear—fear of breaking, fear of rusting, fear of being forgotten in a corner.

But the sword's fear is not the same as a person's fear.

When a person fears, they run, hide, close their eyes. When a sword fears, it cries, trembles, hums. The hum is it saying—'I am afraid.' But it cannot run, for it cannot move. It is in its sheath, and the sheath is in Cangxuan's hand. If Cangxuan does not move, neither does it.

It was not a warning.

It was fear.

A warning says—'Be careful, there is danger.' Fear says—'I am afraid, I have never seen anything like this.' The sword fears what it has never seen before. How long has the sword lived? Unknown. But it has followed Cangxuan and seen many enemies—strong, weak, fast, slow. It fears none of them, for as a sword it does not fear enemies. It fears only one thing: that which cannot be cut.

Now it sensed that thing.

It cannot be cut.

Therefore it fears.

Yuliuli's zither string broke.

It was not broken by playing.

A string broken by playing wears down gradually. You play today, it loses a bit; you play tomorrow, it loses another bit. When worn to the extreme, the string becomes as fine as a hair, and a light touch snaps it. That is a playing‑break.

Her string was shattered by vibration.

The break was sudden. The string was fine, with no wear, no rust, no sign. Suddenly, a force burst from inside the string, pulling it apart at the middle. Like someone grabbing both ends of a rope and pulling hard. The rope broke, not from a worn spot, but from the strongest point.

The sixth string broke.

The sixth string is the civil string.

The civil and martial strings are the guqin's last two strings. The martial string is firm, the civil string is soft. The martial string governs war, the civil string governs harmony. The sixth string is the civil string among civil strings, the softest one. Its sound is the lightest, finest, softest. When it is present, the guqin's sound has a soul. When it breaks, the guqin's sound scatters.

It broke open from the middle.

It did not break at the zither's bridge, nor at the mountain; it broke at the exact center. The center is where the string's vibration amplitude is greatest, and also its most fragile point. Force tore the string there, ripping it into two segments.

The two string segments twanged in the air.

At the moment of breaking, the tension stored in the string was released. Tension is the string's life. When the string is tightened, it has tension. Tension lets it vibrate, and vibration lets it sound. When tension is released, the string dies.

The two string segments twanged in the air, like a severed snake still twitching. Then they fell to the ground, making a very light, fine sound.

Like a sigh.

A sigh is the lightest sorrow. Sorrow can be wept, shouted, howled. A sigh cannot. A sigh is swallowing sorrow, exhaling only a little breath. When that breath comes out, it carries the taste of sorrow. If you smell it, you know.

Like a farewell.

A farewell is the lightest parting. Parting can be an embrace, a handshake, saying goodbye. A farewell cannot. A farewell is just standing there, watching the other person go far away. Not walking, not pursuing, not calling. Just watching, until they disappear from sight, then turning and walking one's own path.

Her fingers pressed on the broken string.

The string broke, its break edge sharp. The zither string is made of steel wire; the wire's break edge is like a blade. When her fingers pressed on it, they felt pain. Not skin pain, but the zither's heart pain.

She felt residual heat.

The string heats when vibrating. When vibration stops, the heat remains. Heat dissipates slowly because she played for a long time, heating the string through. Now the string is broken, but the heat remains. She pressed her fingers on it and felt the residual heat.

Very hot.

Like freshly fired pottery.

Pottery fired in a kiln reaches up to a thousand degrees. When it comes out, it is red and too hot to touch. But it is pottery, not iron. Iron burns cause blisters; pottery burns cause shards. The zither string is iron, and its heat is iron's heat. Iron's heat is real: it reddens the hand, makes it swell, and blisters.

Her hand turned red.

But she did not move her fingers.

She felt that heat. The heat was the last thing the string gave her. It gave her its temperature, then cooled. She could not let it cool, so she held it, warming it with her body heat.

She lifted her head.

She looked ahead down the passage.

There, there was light.

Not the passage's light.

The passage's light is grayish-white, gray, dark gray. It is the light of the celestial realm fragments, a farewell light, a warm light.

The light there is silvery-white.

Silvery-white is a cool color. Silver is metal, white is snow. Metal is cold, snow is ice. Silvery-white is thus a color that is both cold and icy.

Ice-cold.

Ice is water's solid form. Water freezes below zero degrees; ice's temperature is zero or lower. Ice touching skin draws away heat. When heat is drawn away, the skin becomes cold. Extreme cold hurts.

Stiff.

Stiffness is a sign of death. Living things are soft, muscles elastic, skin warm, joints movable. Dead things are hard, muscles stiff, skin ice-cold, joints fixed. Stiffness is irreversible; once stiff, it cannot return.

Like winter frost.

Frost is ice crystals formed when water vapor condenses below zero degrees. It lands on leaves, leaving them stiff; on grass, killing the grass; on ground, hardening the earth. Frost is winter's messenger, telling all things: you should sleep.

Like a dead person's face.

The dead are the coldest. Living people have body temperature, 36.5 to 37 degrees. The dead have no body temperature; their temperature equals the environment's. The environment is cold, so they are cold. A dead person's face is white—not the white of the living, but the white of blood loss. Lips are purple, eye sockets sunk, skin dry and withered. No expression, no color, no vitality.

Youying's hand moved away from the fragment.

Not because she wanted to move it; the hand moved on its own.

The hand sensed danger and reacted on its own: it moved from the chest, hung at the side, fingers slightly spread. This is a posture ready for battle or flight. The hand said— I am ready.

She put the fragment into her bosom.

Pressed against her heart.

The fragment is part of her; she cannot abandon it. But she now needs both hands. Void Escape requires forming seals with both hands, needing finger signs and palm openings. She moved her hand away from the fragment, the fragment stayed against her heart, continuing to feel her heartbeat.

Her eyes fixed on that silvery-white light.

Her pupils contracted.

The pupil is the black circular opening at the eye's center. It controls how much light enters. Strong light makes it shrink; weak light makes it expand. This is instinct, not under conscious control.

Now her pupils are contracting.

The silvery-white light is not strong, but it is very cold. The pupils contract not because the light is strong, but because it is looking. That light is looking at her. The instinctive reaction to being seen is to shrink, become smaller, to make oneself less visible. Like a cat lowering its body, flattening its ears, tucking its tail when facing danger—not fear, but instinct.

Not fear.

It is instinct.

The Void Law tells her—

That thing is very strong.

Strong enough that your laws, before it, are like a paper lantern.

The lantern is paper-thin; a breeze breaks it. Inside, the candle is bright light; the light shining out makes the lantern useful. When wind comes, the paper tears, the candle goes out, and the lantern is useless. Youying's Void Law is that lantern. Before the Lord of Order's pressure, it is as thin as paper, as weak as a candle in the wind.

When the wind blows, the lantern will go out.

Not gradually, but in an instant.

When the wind comes, the flame tilts a bit. Tilting, it does not go out. Tilt again, still not out. You just let out a breath, then the wind suddenly grows strong. The flame is pressed down onto the wick and extinguished. It is not that the flame does not want to burn; it is that the wind will not let it.

Her fingers trembled.

Not because she wanted to tremble.

It's the body itself trembling.

The body is honest. Consciousness can pretend to be brave, but the body cannot. When the body senses danger, it reacts; trembling is one such reaction. Trembling generates heat, moves muscles, prepares for flight. One trembles when cold, and also when afraid. She is not cold; she is afraid.

Her body was telling her——

Run, run fast.

Running is the most primal survival strategy. If you can't beat them, run; if you can't run, hide; if you can't hide, fight desperately. This is an instinct etched into the bones, a shared memory of all creatures that have survived for hundreds of millions of years. The shadow's body remembered this, so it was urging her to run.