Chapter 427: Slumbering Ground

She did not run.

The silver-white light came from the Primordial Chaos Sea, from the old nest of the Purification Court, from the Slumbering Ground of the Lord of Order. It passed through the Returning Ruins, through the Immortal Realm Fragments, through the Passage, through the Void, through everything blocking it. Its speed was not speed, but 'arrival'. It arrived whenever it wanted, and wherever it wanted.

It was impossible to escape.

So she did not run.

She stood there, watching that light. Her fingers trembled, her legs trembled, her heart raced. But she did not run. Not running was not due to bravery, but because she could not escape. Since she could not escape, she chose not to run, conserving her strength to face it.

Wang Ping stood there, motionless.

It was not that he did not want to move.

But he could not move.

His body was locked by that aura. Not by chains, but by pressure. The pressure was invisible, yet stronger than tangible chains. Chains lock the body; pressure locks the heart. When the heart is locked, the body cannot move.

In his arms lay a Chaos Immortal Stele.

In his dantian dwelled a Chaos Primordial Spirit.

In his palm rested Chaos Immortal Lightning.

His Dao art was of the Fifth Realm.

His cultivation was at mid Soul Formation.

He felt himself strong.

In the Spirit Realm, mid Soul Formation cultivators were top-tier experts. There were hardly any Soul Formation cultivators in the whole Spirit Realm. Soul Formation cultivators could found sects, hold a region, and be revered by tens of thousands. He had achieved that, rising from a mortal to Soul Formation. He felt himself strong, strong enough to face any foe.

Now, he sensed that aura.

That aura was silver-white, icy, stiff, like frost and a dead person's face.

He felt his strength was like a sandcastle built by a child.

A child on the beach built a sandcastle. He dug sand with a small shovel, filled a small bucket, turned the bucket over to pile the sand, packed it down, forming walls, towers, and gates. He spent an afternoon, building a very beautiful sandcastle. He felt proud, having built such a beautiful castle.

The waves came.

Sea water surged from afar, drawing nearer and rising higher. It struck the sandcastle's walls, which collapsed. It hit the towers, which toppled. It reached the gates, which vanished. One wave passed, and the sandcastle was gone—not gradually, but instantly. Where the castle had stood, only a flat beach remained.

Wang Ping's strength was that sandcastle.

The Lord of Order's pressure was the waves.

When the waves came, the sandcastle disappeared.

The aura came from far away.

From the direction of the Primordial Chaos Sea.

The Primordial Chaos Sea is the source of chaos, the state before heaven and earth were separated. There is no time, no space, no matter, no energy—only chaos. Chaos embraces all existence and also all nothingness. It is the origin of all that is possible, and the graveyard of all that is impossible.

The old nest of the Purification Court lies there.

The Purification Court is the force of the Lord of Order. They believe order is the sole truth of the universe, chaos its enemy. They spent thirty thousand years trying to erase chaos's traces, to bring all Myriad Worlds under order's rule. They nearly succeeded. The Chaos Immortal Venerable died, chaos cultivators were hunted to extinction, the chaos Dao lineage nearly severed. Only Wang Ping remained.

The Slumbering Ground of the Lord of Order is also there.

The Lord of Order did not die. In that battle thirty thousand years ago, the Chaos Immortal Venerable merely made him slumber, not kill him. It was not unwillingness, but inability to kill him. The Lord of Order is the embodiment of order; as long as order exists in the Myriad Worlds, he is undying and indestructible. The Chaos Immortal Venerable sealed him for thirty thousand years at the cost of his own life.

Now the seal has expired.

He has awakened.

Like a tide, it surged forward.

The tide is the sea's way of breathing. The moon draws the seawater, and the seawater follows the moon. At high tide, seawater surges from afar, spreading over beaches, over rocks, over every low place. It does not rush; it simply spreads. Slowly, steadily, irresistibly it spreads.

The Lord of Order's pressure is just like that.

It is not in a hurry.

Because he knows no one can stop him.

It surged over the Returning Ruins.

The Returning Ruins are the destination of all things. Dead worlds, dissipated laws, extinguished existences all go to the Returning Ruins. It is a dead silence, without light, without sound, without life. The Lord of Order's pressure surged over the Returning Ruins, and the dead silence there was roused. Those dead things trembled—not alive, but afraid. Even in death they fear; what do they fear? They fear that even death cannot find peace.

It surged over the Immortal Realm Fragments.

The Immortal Realm Fragments are the ruins of the Immortal Palace. The Immortal Palace once was the most splendid place in the Myriad Worlds, a holy land countless cultivators yearned for. Now it is shattered, broken into countless fragments floating in the Returning Ruins, wrapped in immortal spirit energy. On the fragments still live beings—the immortal beasts, immortal plants, immortal spirits that survived. They sensed the Lord of Order's pressure, curled up, closed their eyes, and awaited death.

It surged over the Passage.

The Passage is the transitional zone between the Immortal Realm Fragments and the Spirit Realm. Here there are no living things, only space and light. Under pressure, space trembles, light flickers. The walls of the Passage are cracking—not truly splitting, but 'existence' itself splitting. The very fabric of existence is torn by pressure, leaving cracks through which nothingness seeps out.

It surged over the Spirit Realm.

The Spirit Realm is Wang Ping's home. There lies the Ninth Dao Institute, the Establishing Tree Sapling, Jiu Er, and his friends. When the pressure swept over the Spirit Realm, the realm's defensive grand array flared for a moment. That array was left by the Ice Moon Immortal, the lifelong painstaking effort of a Void Refinement cultivator. The array flared like a person in darkness saying, 'I am here.' Then it dimmed—not broken, but because the opponent was too strong, strong enough that even a single flare was its limit.

It surged over the Myriad Worlds.

The Myriad Worlds are a collection of countless worlds. There is the Spirit Realm, the Heavenly Wing Clan's Wind-Thunder Star Domain, the Vajra Clan's Metallic Planet, the Returning Ruins Clan's Void Cavern, and innumerable small worlds, secret realms, and cave heavens. The pressure swept over them like a great hand brushing the water surface. Ripples arose on the surface, each ripple a world trembling.

It overlooked no corner.

It overlooked no existence.

Corners are hiding places. Small worlds lurk at the edge of star domains, secret realms hide in the folds of space, cave heavens dwell in the crevices of laws. They thought being deep enough would keep them unseen. But pressure does not search with eyes; it blankets existence. It covers all, so it finds all.

Existence is everything that 'is'. Humans are, beasts are, plants are, stones are, air is, light is, space is, time is. Everything that 'is' was covered by the pressure. Covering is not seeing, but 'knowing'. The Lord of Order knows their existence because he is more 'is' than they are.

It wanted all living things to know——

I have awakened.

Knowing is not the kind that comes from hearsay. Hearsay is one person telling another, who then knows. The Lord of Order's knowing is not like that. He does not speak; he merely awakens. His awakening itself is a statement. That statement makes no sound, yet all living things hear it. Not with ears, but with fear.

Wang Ping's knees were trembling.

The knees are the body's support. When a person stands, the knees bear the full weight. Steady knees mean a steady stance; trembling knees mean instability. Wang Ping's knees trembled—not because he wanted them to, but because they themselves insisted. The knees said—'I can't hold up.'

He gritted his teeth.

His teeth were clenched tightly.

His gums ached, his temples throbbed, and he could hear the creak of his teeth grinding. He clenched his teeth, refusing to let his knees shake, but his knees wouldn't obey. No matter how tightly he clenched his teeth, his knees still shook.

But his teeth were trembling.

Creak creak creak.

Like a person shivering from the cold in winter.

When it's cold in winter, people shiver. Shivering is the body generating heat. Muscles contract rapidly, producing heat to maintain body temperature. Chattering teeth are part of shivering, the facial muscles contracting. Wang Ping's teeth were chattering, not from cold but from fear. When afraid, one also shakes, also chatters. The body can't distinguish cold from fear; it only has one response—shaking.

His fingers were clenched into a fist.

His nails dug into his palm.

Nails are keratin, hard. The palm is skin, soft. When something hard pierces something soft, the soft thing hurts. Pain is a signal saying—here is injured, treat it. Wang Ping let himself feel pain, using pain to suppress fear.

It hurt a lot.

Pain spread from his palm up to his wrist, arm, shoulder, neck, and the base of his skull. Pain surged through his body like a snake. The snake bit him, bit his nerves, his will, his fear.

But the pain couldn't stop his shaking.

Fear is deeper than pain. Pain is in the skin, muscles, bones. Fear is in the heart. The heart is deeper than skin, deeper than muscles, deeper than bones. When pain reaches the bones, it's reached the limit. Fear reaching the heart hasn't reached the limit yet; it can go deeper, into the soul. Fear in the soul cannot be suppressed by pain.

His body was telling him—

You are too small.

Small not in age, but in existence. An ant sees a person as huge; a person sees a mountain as huge; a mountain sees the sky as huge; the sky sees the Lord of Order as huge. Before the Lord of Order, Wang Ping is smaller than an ant before a person. Ants and people are at least both alive; Wang Ping and the Lord of Order are two entirely different kinds of being.

You are too weak.

Weak not in strength, but in level. A Qi Refining cultivator sees mortals as weak; a Foundation Establishment cultivator sees Qi Refining as weak; a Spirit Transformation cultivator sees Nascent Soul as weak. The Lord of Order sees Spirit Transformation as nothing. He is a Void Refinement cultivator, and the foremost among them. Standing at the peak of Void Refinement, looking down, everything is small.

You are too young.

Young not in years, but in accumulation. How many years has the Lord of Order lived? Unknown. Thirty thousand years ago he was already a Void Refinement cultivator. Thirty thousand years ago Wang Ping had not been born, nor had his master's master's master. He spent thirty thousand years tempering his Dao, his law, his power. Wang Ping has cultivated for how many years? A few decades. A few decades compared to thirty thousand years is not a fraction; it's a fraction of a fraction.

You can't defeat him.

This is the truest statement. Not being able to defeat means not being able to defeat. It's not that a little effort will let you win, not that risking your life will let you win, not that seeking an opportunity will let you win. Being unable to defeat is truly, truly, undeniably unable to defeat.

Run, run as far as you can.

This is his body's final advice: if you can't win, run; it's not shameful. To survive is better than anything. Dead, you have nothing. Alive, you still have a chance. No matter how small the chance, it's still greater than zero.

He did not run.

He stood there, facing that silvery-white light.

Like a tree standing in the wind.

A tree cannot run. Its roots are in the soil; as long as the soil remains, it stays. When the wind comes, it cannot flee, only endure. In a light wind, the leaves sway. In a strong wind, the branches bend. In a stronger wind, even the trunk bends. When the wind reaches its extreme, the tree breaks.

But until it breaks, it remains standing.

Wang Ping's roots are planted in Chaos.

Chaos is his Dao foundation. Starting from a mortal, he cultivated the Chaos Dao. Chaos embraces all things, and also embraces fear. When fear comes, Chaos swallows it, making it part of himself. It does not eliminate fear; it turns fear into strength.

Rooted in the Dao.

The Dao is the path he walks. From a mortal body to mid Spirit Transformation, he stepped forward step by step. Each step trod on the Dao, each step left a footprint on the Dao. The footprints are his proof, proof that he has passed, proof that he continues onward.

Rooted in the things given to him by those who have died.

Banshan Laozi's smile. When the old ancestor smiled, his eyes narrowed to slits and his mouth stretched to the base of his ears. His smile was warm, like the winter sun. He gave his life to Wang Ping, smiling as he did. He said—'Little fellow, live on for me.'

Jiang Mingyuan's eyes. Mingyuan's eyes were bright, like stars. Looking at Wang Ping, his eyes held no resentment, only expectation. He said—'I believe in you, you can do it.' He gave his eyes to Wang Ping, so that Wang Ping could see the world for him.

Lei Wan ting's lightning. Lightning is violent, destructive, frightening. But Lei Wan ting's lightning is different. His lightning is protective, guarding, unleashed for others. He gave his lightning to Wang Ping, so that Wang Ping could guard what ought to be guarded in his stead.

Bingyue Xianzi's ice. Ice is cold, hard, unfeeling. But Bingyue Xianzi's ice is different. Her ice is gentle, sacrificial, freezing herself for others. She gave her ice to Wang Ping, so that Wang Ping could protect the Spirit Realm in her stead.

Those things are his roots.

As long as the roots remain, he will not fall.

Cangxuan's hand moved away from the sword hilt.

It was not him letting go.

His hand was shaken open.

The shaking open was not active, but passive. His hand was pressed tightly on the sword hilt, but that overwhelming pressure came, like an invisible hand, prying open his fingers. Not one by one, but all at once. His fingers were forced to straighten, forced to leave the sword hilt.

The sword screamed wildly in its sheath.

Not a hum.

It was a shriek.

A hum is low, muffled inside the sheath. A shriek is high, piercing the sheath. The sword shrieked, not because it wanted to, but because it could not control itself. The overwhelming pressure was so strong it made its spirit tremble. Trembling to the extreme became a shriek.

The sword said—

Go.

Go.

Go.

Three 'go's, each more urgent than the last. The first is a reminder, the second a urging, the third a plea. The sword begged Cangxuan to go. It didn't fear its own breaking; it feared Cangxuan's death. A sword can break and be reforged; a person dies and cannot be revived.

Cangxuan did not go.

He stood there, gazing at that silvery-white light.

His face showed no expression.

It wasn't a pretended lack of expression; it was genuine. His face had frozen under the overwhelming pressure, muscles unresponsive, unable to move. Having no expression was fine—no expression meant no fear, no weakness, no thought of fleeing would show.

But his eyes held fire.

Not the fire of anger.

Anger is hot, burning outward. It burns enemies and also burns oneself. An angry person acts impulsively, makes mistakes, dies. Cangxuan is not angry.

It is the fire of unwillingness.

Unwillingness is cold; it burns inward. It burns only itself. It burns its own weakness, its own inability, its own lack of strength. It asks itself—why am I so weak? Why does my sword not even have the courage to be drawn? Why can I only stand here, waiting for that pressure to pass?

He is unwilling.

His fingers grasped at the air.

He seized an invisible sword.

The sword is invisible, because it is sword intent. Sword intent is not iron, not steel, not any material thing. It is the condensation of will, the embodiment of the sword way, the total understanding of the sword that Cang Xuan has gained in this life. He pulled it out from his heart and grasped it in his hand.

That is his sword intent.

It is the sword intent he comprehended from the Slaying Immortal Jade Slip.

The Slaying Immortal Jade Slip grew hot in his bosom. The slip was black, black as ink, as night, as the abyss. Inside it lay the Slaying Immortal sword intent, a gift from the fragments of the immortal realm. He had not yet practiced it, because his sword was not ready. But the sword intent was already in his heart. Where the heart is, the sword intent is.

Sword intent condensed in his hand into a sword.

Formless.

Transparent.

Like ice, like glass, like non-existence.

Ice is transparent; you can see it and see through it. Glass is also transparent; it exists, but you overlook it. Non-existence is the most transparent; you cannot see it at all. Cang Xuan's sword is like that. It is in his hand, but besides him, no one can see it.

He gripped it.

His hand stopped trembling.

His hand trembled because there was nothing to hold. Once he held something, his hand stopped trembling. The heavier the thing, the steadier his hand. Sword intent is heavy—heavy enough that his fingers sank into it. His knuckles whitened, just as they had when he pressed against the sword hilt earlier. But this whiteness was different. Before, the whiteness was tension, fear. Now it was exertion, it was grip.

Yu Liuli's broken string reconnected beneath her fingers.

Not glued together.

Glue sticks things together; it can stick paper, wood, plastic. But it cannot stick a violin string. A violin string is steel wire; when steel wire breaks, glue won't hold. It needs welding, high heat, melting the ends and fusing them.

She joined it with her qin-heart.

The qin-heart is her second heart. The first heart is in her chest, responsible for beating. The second heart is in the qin, responsible for listening. The qin-heart heard the sound of the broken string, heard the two segments falling to the ground, heard the string's residual warmth dissipating in the air. Having heard it, it then acted.

Her qin-heart pulled the two ends of the broken string together.

The string is soft; after breaking, both ends curl. Straightening them and bringing them together requires strength. The qin-heart has strength, but its strength is not muscular; it is the strength of will. Will says—join. And the string joins.

She welded them with sound.

Sound is vibration. Vibration can generate heat, and heat can melt metal. Her qin-heart emitted a sound that vibrated back and forth between the two ends of the broken string. The vibration produced friction, friction produced heat, and the heat melted the ends just a little. The molten steel touched, cooled, solidified, and became one.

That sound was very high and sharp.

Like a needle tip scraping across glass.

The needle tip is hard, and glass is also hard. Hard striking hard creates a screech. That screech makes one's teeth ache, scalp tingle, and makes one want to cover one's ears. But Yu Liuli did not cover hers; she listened, listening for the information in the screech.

The broken string was rejoined.

Rejoined, but it is no longer the original string.

The original string was intact, never broken. Now it has been broken and rejoined. At the joint there is an extremely fine scar, invisible to the naked eye but visible to the qin-heart. The scar is a weak point; if stressed again, it will break there. But not now. Now it is joined.

The pitch is off.

The length of the string determines its pitch: the longer the string, the lower the note; the shorter, the higher. A string that has broken loses a tiny bit of length at the joint. The length changes, so the pitch changes. The six strings are no longer the original six; their pitch is slightly sharp by a few hundredths. A few hundredths are imperceptible to the ear, but the qin-heart notices.

But it can still sound.

Being able to sound is enough. Pitch can be adjusted, practiced, gradually restored. If it can sound, the qin lives; if the qin lives, she lives.

Her finger lightly plucked the string.

The string emitted an extremely low, deep tone.

So low it was almost inaudible.

The human hearing range is twenty hertz to twenty kilohertz. Below twenty hertz is infrasound, inaudible to people. The note she played lay at the edge of twenty hertz. It could be heard, but only with intense concentration.

Like a cello's C string being plucked.

The cello's C string is its lowest string. Its sound is deep, thick, like the earth itself. Plucked, the sound does not leap out; it wells up. Like groundwater springing from a source, not rushed, not violent, but continuous.

That sound reverberated in the passage.

The passage is long, narrow, and enclosed. Sound in an enclosed space reflects: off the walls, off the floor, off the dome. One bounce adds one sound; two bounces add three; countless bounces make the sound too numerous to count.

It struck the wall and bounced back.

The walls are grayish-white and matte. When sound hits them, it does not fully rebound; part is absorbed. The rebounding sound is smaller than the original, softer, cooler.

It struck the ground and bounced back.

The ground is soft, lying between the virtual and the real. Sound striking it sinks in slightly before rebounding. The rebounding sound carries the ground's softness, becoming supple, prolonged, like a sigh.

It struck the dome and bounced back.

The dome is very high, high enough to be invisible. Sound striking it takes a long time to rebound. The rebounding sound carries the dome's height, becoming distant, hollow, like it comes from the heavens.

The echoes grew more numerous.

More and more.

Denser and denser.

So dense that one could no longer tell which was the original sound and which was the echo. They mingled, interwove, fused. No longer sound, it became a thin mist.

It enveloped her.

The mist is water vapor, tiny droplets suspended in the air. The mist is white, cool, damp. It envelops you, obscuring distant sights and muffling distant sounds. You can only be in the mist, in the present, within yourself.

Heavenly sound.

Not an attack.

It is protection.

Heavenly sound has many uses. It can be used to attack enemies, cleanse their hearts, and make them lose their will to fight. It can also be used to protect oneself, cleanse one's own heart, and rid oneself of fear. Yu Liuli is now using the latter.

She is protecting herself.

Her qin-heart felt that pressure. The pressure surged like a tide, rushing into her ears, into her qin-heart, into the softest part of her heart. There lay her memories, her emotions, her fears. The pressure stirred them, making them churn and turn into fear.

She used Heavenly Sound to suppress them.

Not elimination, but suppression. Like pressing a lid on a boiling pot. The water inside boils, steam pushes up, the lid jumps. She presses the lid with her hand, preventing it from lifting. The steam is held down, the water still boils, but it won't overflow.

She was also protecting others.

The mist formed from Heavenly Sound spread out, enveloping her, Wang Ping, Cang Xuan, and You Ying. The mist was cool and damp, like morning dew. It landed on their skin, seeping in, into the blood vessels, into the heart.

Wang Ping felt the coolness. The coolness seeped from his skin into his heart. His heart was hot, burning hot. The coolness entered, slightly neutralizing the heat. It was less scorching, less urgent, less fearful.

Cang Xuan felt the dampness. The dampness seeped from his skin into his hand. His hand held sword intent, which was dry and hard. The dampness entered, making the sword intent a little moist. It was less dry, less hard, less prone to breaking.

You Ying felt warmth. Warmth? Heavenly Sound is cool, but when coolness reaches an extreme it turns warm. Like well water: in summer touching it feels cool; in winter touching it feels warm. The water temperature hasn't changed—your body temperature has. You Ying's body temperature is low, so the coolness entering makes her feel warm instead.

You Ying closed her eyes.

Not fear.

She was feeling.

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

Hot to the point of burning.

The jade slip had merely been warm, like body temperature. Now it was hot, as if burned by fire. It urged her—practice, practice quickly, practice now. For now is the best time to practice Void Escape. Danger has come, fear has come, death has come. Void Escape is a life‑saving art; only by practicing it while fleeing for one's life can one truly grasp its essence.

Her body dispersed in the light.

It was not shattered.

Shattering is the work of external force. A stone struck and broken becomes many pieces. Shattering is destruction, annihilation, something that can never be restored.

She had melted.

Melting begins from within. Ice in warm water melts, turning from solid to liquid, from shaped to shapeless. It is not destroyed; it changes itself. After changing, it can still return.

Like an ice cube melting in warm water.

The ice cube is hard and has shape. It has edges, faces, volume. Placed in warm water, its surface begins to melt. The edges disappear first, becoming rounded. The faces start to sink, becoming uneven. The volume shrinks, growing smaller. Finally it completely turns into water, merging with the surrounding water.

Her body was just like that.

From solid to liquid, from shaped to shapeless.

She felt no pain.

Because melting is not destruction but transformation. Her body still exists, merely in a different form. As a solid it is the body; as a liquid it is still the body. Just as water can become ice or vapor, the form changes while the essence remains the same.

Because she still had consciousness.

Consciousness is the core of 'I'. The body can change, consciousness cannot. The body melted, but consciousness remains. With consciousness, she is there. She cannot feel her body's presence, yet she can sense her own existence—in the Void, in Chaos, in the depths of the Dao.

Her consciousness drifted in the Void.

Like a leaf drifting on a river.

The leaf is light, the water heavy. The leaf lands on the water's surface and does not sink. The water carries it along; it follows the water. Wherever the water flows, the leaf drifts there. It does not struggle, does not resist, it simply follows.

You Ying's consciousness is just like that.

The Void is the river, she is the leaf. Wherever the Void flows, she drifts there. She does not struggle, does not resist, she simply follows. Following on, she realizes she is no longer merely passive. She can slightly influence the direction of her drift—a bit left, a bit right, a bit down, a bit up.

She is learning.

Learning how to escape.

Escape is not running. Running uses the feet to push off the ground, propelling the body forward. Escape merges into the Void, letting the Void push oneself. Running is active, escape is passive. Running requires force; escape needs none. Running has speed; escape has none. Escape is 'arrival', not 'movement'.

Not fleeing.

It is escape.

Fleeing leaves danger; escape enters safety. Fleeing runs outward; escape goes inward. The farther one flees, the better; the deeper one escapes, the better. The Void is infinite—no one knows how deep it goes. You Ying walks into the depths of the Void, to places where enemies cannot find her, cannot catch her, cannot strike her.

Escaping into the Void.

The Void is not emptiness. Emptiness is nothing at all. The Void has substance, yet is invisible. It is another form of existence, like air, like light, like time. You know it is there, but you cannot grasp it. You Ying is now in the Void. She can sense the Void's presence, and the Void can sense hers. They are adapting to each other.

Escaping into Chaos.

Chaos is the source of all things and also the origin of the Void. The Void is a form of Chaos. Entering Chaos from the Void is like going from a tributary into the main current—more water, a swifter flow, a wider river. You Ying's consciousness drifts from the Void into Chaos, sensing Chaos's aura. It is the aura on Wang Ping's body, the aura of the Chaos Immortal Stele, a familiar aura. Chaos embraces all things and also embraces her. In Chaos she is like a fish in water.

Escaping into the depths of the Dao.

The Dao is deeper than Chaos. Chaos is the manifestation of the Dao; the Dao is the root of Chaos. The Dao is the source of all things and of all laws. Order is part of the Dao, Chaos is also part of the Dao. You Ying's consciousness moves toward the depths of the Dao. There is no Void, no Chaos, no order—only the Dao itself. She cannot reach that place, but she is approaching. Each step closer deepens her understanding of Void Escape by one layer.

The enemy cannot find you.

The Void is infinite. Finding a person in infinite space is harder than finding a needle in an ocean. The ocean has boundaries; the Void has none. The enemy searches for her in the Void, like looking for a non‑luminous speck of dust in endless darkness. The chance of success is zero.

They cannot catch up to you.

The Void has no distance. Distance is a property of space. The Void transcends space, so it has no distance. The enemy pursues from behind using spatial movement. She escapes in the Void using the Void's mode of existence. The enemy chases the her in space, but she is already in the Void. They cannot catch up.

They cannot hit you.

An attack needs a target. A target has a position and coordinates in space. She is in the Void, with no position, no coordinates. The attack lands in space, where she once was. But she is no longer there. Striking empty air means missing her.

You are the Void's shadow.

A shadow is the absence of light. Where there is light, there is a shadow. The Void is the absence of space; where there is space, there is the Void. She is the Void's shadow—wherever there is a gap, she is there. The enemy may seal space, but they cannot seal the gaps. Gaps are more fundamental than space, omnipresent.

You are Chaos's wraith.

A wraith is a departed existence whose consciousness still lives. Chaos is the destination and source of all things. She is Chaos's wraith, coming from Chaos and returning to Chaos. In Chaos she wanders, observing the outside world, the enemy, herself. She is gone, yet everywhere.

You are a passerby of the Dao.

The Dao is eternal. Before the Dao, a person is merely a passerby—arriving, passing through, leaving without taking anything. You Ying wanders in the depths of the Dao; she is not the master of the Dao, just a passerby. A passerby enjoys the benefits: no responsibility, no need to linger, no risk of capture. Simply passing through, just passing through.

The passage's vibrations grew stronger.

The lights on the walls trembled, like candle flames blown east and west by the wind. The wind came from that pressure. The pressure is not still; it flows. It streams from the Primordial Chaos Sea, passes through Return to the Ruins, passes through the Immortal Realm Fragments, passes through the passage. Wherever it flows, the lights there tremble.

Some went out.

The lights went out one by one. Not all at once, but one after another. Like when night falls and streetlights come on one by one—now the reverse, lights extinguish one by one. The extinguished lights will not relight, for the wicks have been snuffed by the pressure.

Some are still shining.

The shining ones are also shaking, shaking violently, as if about to go out. They are holding on, using their last strength to hold on. If they hold on, they can continue to shine; if they cannot hold on, they go out. Such is the life of light: shining is alive, going out is dead. There is no half-dead state in between.

The shining ones are shaking.

The shaking grows more violent. Light was originally a steady cluster of brightness, but now it has been stretched, flattened, and twisted. It is no longer a cluster of light; it has become a ribbon of light, whipping back and forth against the wall. When it swings left, it hits the wall and bounces back; when it swings right, it hits again and bounces back.

The ground is cracking.

It is not splitting open.

To split open is to appear a fissure. The ground was originally whole, now a fissure has appeared. The fissure is black, bottomless. It is the wound of the passage, a mouth torn open by pressure.

It is "looseness".

Looseness is not a split. A split is broken apart; looseness is not broken, but the connection has weakened. Like soil softened by water, the soil is still soil, but the connection between soil particles has loosened. Stepping on it will cause one to sink. Not sinking into a crack, but sinking into the soft soil.

Like soil softened by being soaked in water.

Water is pressure, soil is the passage. Pressure soaks the passage, and the passage becomes softened. It goes from hard to soft, from solid to void, from walkable to impassable.

Stepping on it will cause one to sink.

Wang Ping's foot sank in. It was not sinking into a crack in the ground, but into the ground's "looseness". The ground still exists, but its existence has weakened. When his foot stepped on it, the ground's existence was insufficient to support his weight, so his foot sank.

It was not sinking into the ground.

It was sinking into fear.

Fear is the softest thing. It has no substance, yet it makes one less stable than any substance. Wang Ping's foot sank into fear; fear submerged his ankle, his calf, his knee. He felt himself sinking down, into a bottomless abyss.

His body was telling him——

You cannot, you cannot, you cannot.

The three "you cannot"s, each heavier than the last. The first is a reminder, the second an emphasis, the third a judgment. His body was judging him—you cannot. Not just now cannot, but always cannot. Past cannot, present cannot, future cannot. Because you are an ant, the other is an elephant. No matter how strong an ant is, it cannot defeat an elephant. This is an essential difference, not something effort can change.

He gritted his teeth.

In his heart he said——

I can, I can, I can.

The three "I can"s, each lighter than the last. The first is a shout, the second a statement, the third a chant. Shouting out is disbelief, speaking out is belief, chanting out is faith. Faith does not need to be loud; it only needs to be in the heart. As long as the heart is there, faith is there.

The silvery-white light grew brighter and brighter.

It was not the light approaching.

The light's position had not changed. It was still ahead of the passage, still in the direction of the Primordial Chaos Sea. Its light source had not moved, its intensity had not increased.

It was its sense of presence that was increasing.

Sense of presence is not an attribute of light; it is the observer's feeling. The light is still that cluster of light, but Wang Ping's feeling toward it has changed. Before he merely felt it was bright; now he feels it "is there". It is looking at himself, examining himself, judging himself. The feeling of being seen makes the light appear brighter.

The Lord of Order awoke.

Awakening is not opening eyes. He has no eyes. He is Order itself; Order needs no eyes. Order observes the world not with light, but with rules. Wherever the rules reach, that is where he sees.

His consciousness was spreading.

Consciousness is his tentacles. He has countless tentacles, each a rule. The rules extend from his place of slumber, reaching out to all heavens and myriad worlds. Some rules govern gravity, some temperature, some time, some space. All the rules are part of him, they are his consciousness.

Like ink dropping into water.

Ink is black, water is clear. At the moment it drips in, the ink disperses in the water. Not all at once, but strand by strand. The ink strands meander, twist, and spread in the water. Wherever they go, that place becomes stained black.

Spreading in all directions.

All directions are every direction—above no top, below no bottom, left no edge, right no boundary. The ink spreads simultaneously in all directions, forming an ever-expanding black sphere. Everything inside the sphere becomes stained black.

The water became stained black.

Not completely black.

It is patches of black.

The distribution of ink in the water is uneven. Some places are thick, some are thin. The thick places are black as night; the thin places are gray as an overcast sky. Between thick and thin there is no clear boundary; it is a gradient.

Some places are thick.

The thick places are the gaze of the Lord of Order. Wherever his gaze reaches, the rules are strengthened. Gravity becomes heavier, temperature colder, time slower, space harder. All things tremble under his gaze, for they have been seen. Being seen by the Lord of Order means being drawn into order, meaning loss of freedom.

Some places are thin.

The thin places are the breath of the Lord of Order. Wherever his breath reaches, the rules are disturbed. Gravity alternates heavy and light, temperature alternates cold and hot, time alternates fast and slow, space alternates soft and hard. All things are at a loss under his breath, for they do not know which set of rules to follow.

Where his gaze reaches.

All things fall still.

Stillness is not death. Death is an end; stillness is a pause. The things seen by the Lord of Order's gaze will stop. Not because they want to stop, but because the rules command them to stop. Gravity says—do not move. Temperature says—do not change. Time says—do not flow. Space says—do not shift. All the rules say—do not. Thus all things fall still.

Where his breath reaches.

All things tremble.

Trembling is not fear; it is resonance. The Lord of Order's breath has a frequency, which is the frequency of the rules. Where his breath reaches, the rules there begin to vibrate at his frequency. All things are made of rules; when the rules vibrate, all things vibrate with them. When the vibration becomes intense, it is trembling.

Spirit Realm.

The rear mountain of the Ninth Dao Institute.

The rear mountain is where the saplings of the World Tree grow. The World Tree is the world tree, a bridge connecting heaven and earth. Its roots are planted in the earth veins of the Spirit Realm, absorbing the earth's power. Its leaves stretch toward the sky, absorbing stellar power. It is still very young, only a few people tall, its trunk only as thick as a bowl's rim. Yet its aura is already ancient, ancient enough to feel every heartbeat of the Spirit Realm.

The World Tree saplings sway in the wind.

The wind is the wind of the rear mountain, the wind of the Ninth Dao Institute, the wind of the Spirit Realm. The wind is not strong, merely a breeze. The breeze brushes the leaves of the World Tree, and the leaves sway slightly, as if nodding, as if beckoning, as if breathing.

Now it is trembling.

Not swaying, but trembling.

Swaying is rhythmic, like dancing. Trembling is without rhythm, like shivering. Its leaves are shivering, the leaf edges vibrating at an extremely high frequency, producing a rustling sound. That is not the sound of the wind blowing; it is the leaves themselves sounding.

It is not the wind blowing.

The wind is still that wind, neither strong nor weak, neither hurried nor slow. But the World Tree's response is different. Earlier it was enjoying the wind's caress; now it feels as if pricked by a needle, its whole body trembling. It is not the wind that changed; it is that it sensed something else.

It is fear.

Established Tree sensed that aura. The pressure of the Void Refinement stage came from the direction of the Primordial Chaos Sea, passing through Returning Void, through the Void, through the Spirit Realm's defensive grand formation. The defensive grand formation flashed once, as if saying—I did my best. Then it dimmed. The pressure passed through the formation and fell upon the rear mountain, falling upon Established Tree's leaves.

It sensed.

Established Tree is sentient. It is a descendant of the World Tree, a bridge connecting heaven and earth. Its spirit is very ancient, having been passed down through countless generations. It knows order.