Chapter 428

The end of the passage is the sky of the spirit realm.

It is not blue.

The sky of the spirit realm should be blue. That blue is not ordinary blue; it is blue washed by sunlight, clear blue, blue that makes you want to take a deep breath just by looking at it. Wang Ping remembers that blue. When he first came to the Ninth Dao Institute, he stood at the mountain gate, looked up at the sky. The sky was very blue, blue like a gemstone, blue like a sea hung upside down overhead. He stood there for a long time, until his neck ached, before lowering his head.

Not anymore.

The sky is gray.

Gray like a dirty rag.

The rag was originally white, clean, able to wipe tables, wipe bowls, wipe anything that needed wiping. After long use, it turned gray. Not dyed gray, but an ingrained gray that won't wash out. Soap won't wash it out, detergent won't wash it out, scrubbing hard won't wash it out. The gray has seeped into the fabric, becoming part of it. The spirit realm's sky is this rag. Gray has seeped into every inch of the sky, and it won't wash out.

Hanging overhead.

Pressed down low.

So low you feel you could reach up and touch it.

The sky should be high. High enough that you cannot see its top, high enough that clouds look small, high enough that birds flying halfway must turn back. But now the sky is very low. Not because clouds are low, but because the sky itself is low. It presses down, pressing on your head, your shoulders, your heart. You reach up, feeling you could touch it. But you dare not touch. Because you fear what you touch might be wet, cold, alive.

Not clouds.

Clouds have shapes. Some like horses, some like fish, some like human faces. Some thick, some thin, some white, some black. You can see the outline of clouds, see them moving, changing. Now there are no clouds in the sky. Not that there are no clouds, but that the clouds have melted. The clouds have dissolved into the gray, like sugar dissolving in water. The water is still water, but sweet. The sky is still sky, but gray.

This is a kind of "color" itself turning gray.

Color should be diverse. Red, orange, yellow, green, cyan, blue, purple—each color different. Red is fire, is blood, is passion. Blue is sea, is sky, is tranquility. Green is grass, is trees, is life. Now these colors still exist, but their "color" is gone. Red is still red, but red tinged with gray. Green is still green, but green tinged with gray. All colors have been stained with gray, like a painting splashed with dirty water—the pigments remain, but the image is ruined.

Like someone mixed all the paints on the palette together.

Stirred into a muddy mess.

The palette had several compartments, each holding one color. Red in the red compartment, blue in the blue compartment, clearly separated. You dip your brush in a bit of red, paint a flower. Dip in a bit of blue, paint a patch of sky. But someone knocked over the palette. All the paints mixed together—red mixed with blue became purple, purple mixed with yellow became brown, brown mixed with green became an indeterminate muddy color. That is not color; it is mud. Mud is turbid, lifeless, dead.

Sunlight cannot get through.

Not because it is blocked.

Clouds can block sunlight, mountains can block sunlight, a wall can block sunlight. But there are no clouds, no mountains, no walls in the sky. Sunlight cannot get through, not because it is blocked, but because it is swallowed. The gray sky is like a mouth, open, waiting for sunlight to fall. Sunlight falls, falls into the mouth. The mouth closes, and sunlight is gone.

Like a stone thrown into a swamp.

The swamp's surface has a layer of water, beneath which is mud. A stone thrown in goes *gulugulu*, breaking the surface with a small hole. The stone sinks, the water closes over it, and the stone is gone. You can no longer see it. It is still there, deep in the mud, but unseen. Sunlight is just like that. It is still there, somewhere in the gray sky, but unseen. We can no longer see it.

*Pfft*.

Gone.

That sound is very soft. So soft that if you don't pay attention, you won't hear it. But it is there. It sounds in your ear, echoes in your memory, sounds every time you look up at the sky. *Pfft, pfft, pfft*—each sound is a thread of sunlight being swallowed. The sounds grow denser, because more and more sunlight is swallowed. Finally, there is no sound, because sunlight has been completely swallowed.

Wang Ping stands on the Questioning Dao Platform of the Ninth Dao Institute.

The Questioning Dao Platform is the highest place in the Ninth Dao Institute. It is not built on the mountain peak, but on the clouds. The clouds are condensed from the spirit veins' outflow of immortal spiritual aura—white, soft, like stepping on cotton. The Questioning Dao Platform stands on this expanse of cloud, four pillars supporting a dome, the dome painted with the pattern of the heavenly stars and constellations. Normally, standing here, you can see the whole Ninth Dao Institute, see the rear mountain, see the young fusang tree, see the distant, continuous mountain ranges.

Now nothing can be seen.

The gray sky presses down too low, low enough to swallow the distant view. The rear mountain is in the gray, the fusang tree is in the gray, the mountain ranges are in the gray. The Questioning Dao Platform is like an island, floating on the gray ocean. Gray in all directions, you cannot tell where is sky and where is ground. Sky and ground have merged into a gray wall.

He lifts his head to gaze at that expanse of gray sky.

His robe still bears the dust of Gui Xu.

The dust of Gui Xu is not ordinary dust. It is the residue left after countless worlds were annihilated, the powder scattered after laws collapsed, the iron filings shed after time rusted and corroded. It clings to his robe, cannot be brushed off, cannot be washed away. It leaves a gray mark on his robe, like a scar, like a brand, like proof of having attended a funeral.

His hair still carries the wind of the immortal realm fragments.

The wind of the immortal realm fragments is not ordinary wind. It is the wind formed by the flow of immortal spiritual aura, the wind raised by the drifting of shattered immortal palaces in the void, the final sigh uttered when the Chaos Immortal Stele acknowledged its master. The wind is in his hair, blowing his hair into disarray. He cannot be bothered to comb it, because messy hair can be combed again, but the wind will not stop.

His eyes hold the light of the Chaos Immortal Stele.

Chaos-colored light, hazy gray, like mist, like cloud, like the sky before dawn. That light flows within his eyes, not still, but moving. It surges from the depths of his pupils, spreads over the iris, scatters into the whites of his eyes, then retracts, then surges again. One inhale, one exhale, one bright, one dim—like a lamp, like a heart, like an infant not yet born.

He has returned.

He returned from Gui Xu, from the immortal realm fragments, from the time reversal and the Dao-heart tribulation. His cultivation rose from early Nascent Soul to mid Nascent Soul, his dantian gained a palm-sized stone tablet, and beside his primordial spirit appeared a slumbering stele spirit. He is the master of the Chaos Immortal Stele, the inheritor of the Chaos Immortal Venerable, the last successor of the Chaos Dao lineage. He has returned.

But home is no longer the home it once was.

Home is a safe place. You go out to venture, to strive, to get hurt. When you return, home has a warm bed, hot food, someone waiting for you. Home is unchanging. No matter how far you go, how long you are away, when you return it is still the same. But the spirit realm has changed. Not that the spirit realm changed its heart, but that the spirit realm was injured. It was crushed under the pressure of the Lord of Order, soaked in silver-white light, awakened by a nightmare that had not stirred for thirty thousand years. It still exists, but it is no longer as it was.

The sky has changed.

The sky is the roof of home. If the roof leaks, the home leaks rain. A leaking home is still a home, but living in it is uncomfortable. The spirit realm's roof has been pierced, and silver-white light leaks from the hole, dyeing the sky gray.

The earth has also changed.

The grass on the ground is yellow.

Not the yellow of autumn.

Autumn's yellow is golden yellow, the yellow of harvest, the yellow of life burning itself in its final moment to emit light. That yellow is beautiful, warm, makes you want to lie on it and roll around. The grass on the ground is not that yellow. It is the yellow of sickness, the yellow of having its essence drained, the yellow of rotting.

The leaves are curled.

Grass leaves should be spread out. Extending from the stem, reaching for sunlight, reaching for dew, reaching for anything that can give it nourishment. Now the grass leaves are curled, not toward the sunlight, but toward themselves. They curl themselves up, like a person in pain drawing up their body, knees to chest, hands shielding the head, hiding every fragile part. They hurt, but they do not know where it hurts—only that they hurt.

The edges are withered.

Withering begins at the edges. The leaf edges turn yellow first, then dry, then brittle. A touch makes them crumble, a breeze makes them fall. Withering spreads from the edges toward the center, bit by bit, inch by inch. The center still holds, but not for long. Because it has no nourishment, no sunlight, no water.

Like a person running a high fever.

When one has a high fever, the person is delirious. Things cannot be seen clearly, sounds cannot be heard truly, the body alternates between cold and hot. A high fever is not the illness itself, but the body fighting the illness. The body raises its temperature, hoping to burn away the germs. But the germs cannot be burned to death, and the body continues to burn. In the end, the germs remain, and the body collapses.

Lips chapped and cracked.

One with high fever has dry lips. Moisture is burned away, saliva evaporates, the skin on the lips splits open, one crack after another. Opening the mouth hurts, closing the mouth hurts, drinking water hurts even more. But the more it hurts, the more one must drink, for not drinking means dying of thirst.

Skin burning hot.

To the touch it is hot. Not warm, but hot—hot enough to make you pull your hand back, afraid to touch again. You know he has a fever, know he is suffering, but you cannot help him. You can only watch, wait for the fever to break. But the fever does not break; it keeps burning.

The trees are also yellow.

Resin flows on the tree trunks.

The resin is not transparent.

When a tree is injured, it oozes resin. Resin is used to seal the wound, to keep insects and bacteria out. Clear resin is healthy; it is medicine the tree makes from its own life. But now the resin is cloudy, like pus. Pus is the result of an infected wound, the corpse left behind after the body fights germs. Pus oozing out means the wound is not sealed, means the infection is still there.

The birds are silent.

Before, there were many birds on the back mountain. Some were emerald green, some fire red, some snow white. They perched on branches, hopping about, chirping and twittering. Their calls were for courtship, to proclaim territory, to summon companions. Now they do not call. They stand on the branches, not hopping, not moving, not calling. Just standing, as if waiting for something. Waiting for the gray to fade, waiting for sunlight to return, waiting to die.

The insects are silent.

Before, there were many insects in the grass. Crickets chirped, cicadas sang, weaving maidens trilled. Their voices rose and fell like a symphony without a conductor. Now they do not call. They hide in the grass, curled up, making no sound, not moving. They are conserving energy, for they do not know how long such days will last. Perhaps it will end tomorrow; perhaps it will never end.

When the wind blows.

Only the rustling of leaves.

Like a person weeping softly.

Weeping very quietly. Not wailing, but soft sobs. Tears drop one by one, shoulders shudder with each sob. She wants to hold back, but cannot. She does not want others to hear, but they still do. The sound of wind through leaves is the spirit realm weeping.

The disciples of the Ninth Dao Institute stand below the platform.

The Questioning Dao Platform is very high; below it is a square. The square is paved with blue stone, on which immortal patterns are carved, with gold powder inlaid in the patterns. Usually this place is lively, with sword practice, meditation, and Dao discussion. Now the gold powder remains, the immortal patterns remain, but the liveliness is gone. The disciples stand on the square, packed tightly, from before the platform all the way to the mountain gate. No one speaks.

They look up at Wang Ping.

Wang Ping stands on the platform; they stand below. At this angle, they look up at Wang Ping. Looking up is not because Wang Ping is tall, but because he stands on the platform. But even if Wang Ping were not on the platform, they would still look up at him. Because Wang Ping is a God Transformation cultivator, the master of the Chaos Immortal Stele, and a person who returned alive from the Return to the Void. In their hearts, he is very high, high enough to require looking up.

Fear is on their faces.

Fear cannot be hidden. You can control expression, voice, and movement. But you cannot control the gaze. Fear in the gaze is instinct, it is real. They are afraid. Afraid of the Lord of Order, afraid of that silvery-white light, afraid of the unchanging gray in the sky. They want to live, but do not know if they can.

There is confusion.

Confusion is uncertainty. Not knowing what to do, not knowing what tomorrow will bring, not knowing if their cultivation still has meaning. Usually cultivation is for breaking through realms, for longevity, for going farther to see more scenery. Now everything hangs in midair. If the Lord of Order comes, if the spirit realm is destroyed, what meaning would cultivation have? If the spirit realm is not destroyed, what should they do? No one tells them. They wait for someone to tell them.

There is a little hope.

Not a great hope, but a small one. Small as a sesame seed, hidden in the crevices of fear and confusion, unseen unless you look closely. But it is there. It is Wang Ping. Wang Ping has returned. When he left, he was early God Transformation; when he returned, he was mid God Transformation. There is ash on him, wind in his hair, light in his eyes. He is different. What can he do? Unknown. But he is different. Being different is a variable, and a variable is hope.

Hope is because Wang Ping has returned.

When he left, he was early God Transformation.

Early God Transformation is a high realm. In the spirit realm, the vast majority of cultivators never reach God Transformation in a lifetime. Nascent Soul is already top-tier; God Transformation is a legendary existence. The Ninth Dao Institute can stand firm in the spirit realm only because it has a God Transformation cultivator holding the fort. But early God Transformation is not enough. The Lord of Order is Void Refinement; mid God Transformation is one small realm higher than early, a great leap ahead. Going from early to mid God Transformation would take others several hundred years, even over a thousand. He took only a few months.

When he returned, he was mid God Transformation.

Mid God Transformation is more stable, deeper, and stronger than early. His internal chaotic spirit power is denser, the chaotic primordial spirit in his dantian clearer, the chaotic immortal lightning in his palm more powerful. More importantly, his Dao has changed. Not a change in direction, but in depth. From the fifth realm he has become a deeper fifth realm—not realm depth, but depth of realization. He has learned the story of the Chaos Immortal Venerable, learned the waiting of the stele spirit, learned the meaning and price of power.

There is one more thing in his eyes.

Not light.

He already had light. The light of the Chaos Immortal Stele flows in his eyes, gray and hazy, like the sky before dawn. That is his inheritance, the power he inherited from the Chaos Immortal Venerable.

Not shadow.

He already had shadow. From the day he began cultivating the Chaos Dao, chaotic gray has been etched into his pupils. That gray is the color of chaos, the color that encompasses all things and devours all things.

It is "base".

Base is底气, 底牌, 底线. Base is knowing what you have, knowing what you can do, knowing what you cannot do. Wang Ping has base. The Chaos Immortal Stele is his trump card, the inheritance of the Chaos Immortal Venerable is his底气, the countless lives of the spirit realm and all heavens and worlds are his底线. A person with base, standing on the platform, those below can feel it. Not seen with the eyes, but felt with the heart. What the heart feels is truer than what the eyes see.

A person with base, standing on the platform.

Those below can feel it.

That feeling is very subtle. Like you in a dark room, not knowing if anyone is inside. Suddenly someone strikes a match, the flame flares for an instant, but you see how many people are in the room. They are all there, always have been. Wang Ping is that match. He lights himself, letting everyone see—I am not alone, you are not alone, we are all here.

They felt it.

So they wait.

Waiting is not passive; it is active. Passive waiting is sitting there, letting things happen. Active waiting is standing there, gathering strength, preparing to meet what comes when it happens. The disciples are gathering strength. Their spirit power circulates within, their Dao heart beats in their chest, their hands rest on their weapons. They wait for him to speak.

Wait for him to speak.

Wait for him to say—

Don't be afraid, I am here.

"Here" is the simplest promise. No oath needed, no contract, no formality. Just being there, visible when needed, shoulder-to-shoulder in danger, together in death. "Here" is enough.

Don't be afraid, I am here.

Four words.

They have waited a long time.

Since the day the gray descended, they have waited; since the day the silvery-white light seeped into the spirit realm, they have waited; since the day the Lord of Order's might swept over all heavens and worlds, they have waited. They wait for someone to step forward and say these four words. Now Wang Ping has returned, and they have waited until now.

Cang Xuan stands beside Wang Ping.

His position is three steps to the left. Left is yang, right is yin. Sword cultivators belong to yang, so he stands on the left. Three steps is the distance of one sword step—drawing, thrusting, and sheathing the sword are all completed within three steps. He stands beside Wang Ping, not to guard him, but to protect. Protection is not standing in front, but standing to the side. Standing to the side, he can see the angles Wang Ping cannot.

His hand rests on the sword hilt.

The sword is in its scabbard, silent.

The sword being silent in its scabbard does not mean the sword is gone. It is there. The blade touches the scabbard wall, the tip rests on the scabbard bottom, the guard catches the scabbard mouth. It is there, like a sleeping beast. A sleeping beast does not cry out, but its claws and teeth remain. To wake it takes only a moment. Drawing the sword is waking it.

His face shows no expression.

Not that he has no emotion, but that he does not show it. A sword cultivator's emotion is not on the face, but in the sword. The sword in the scabbard sounding once is joy; twice is vigilance; thrice is anger. No sound is composure. Now the sword is silent, he is very composed. Composure is not lack of tension, but tension held down. The tension is suppressed by a thin layer of ice; beneath the ice is scalding water. If the ice does not break, the water does not come out.

But his eyes are looking down at the platform.

Looking at those disciples.

Looking at those fearful faces.

Fearful faces are all the same. No matter who you are, no matter your age, no matter your cultivation level, when afraid, the expression on the face is the same. Eyes wide, lips slightly parted, forehead sweating cold. He has seen many such faces below. Young, old, male, female. Their faces differ, but the expression is the same.

He recalls his childhood.

Recalls the night his village was looted by bandits.

That night's sky was also gray.

Not clouds.

It was smoke.

Bandits set fire to the houses, burning them one by one. Thatched huts burned fastest, flames leaping from the roofs and turning the sky orange-red. Tile-roofed houses burned slowly, but produced thick smoke. The smoke was black, seeping out from door cracks and windows, rising into the sky and pressing the orange-red into a grayish black. Orange-red and gray-black mixed together, turning gray. It was a gray that made it hard to breathe.

The houses were burning.

The crackling of burning wood sounded like bones being stepped on and broken. Beams collapsed, crashing to the ground and sending up a shower of sparks. Sparks flew onto neighboring roofs, igniting those houses too. Fire was red, but the sky it burned was gray.

People were shouting.

Someone cried for help, someone shouted a name, someone shouted——Mother, Mother, where are you. That was his neighbor's child, two years younger than him. The child stood before the burning house, weeping and calling for Mother. His mother was inside the house, unable to come out. She couldn't get out. The fire was too fierce, the door had collapsed, and she was trapped beneath it. The child kept shouting until his voice went hoarse, until his throat bled. His mother did not answer.

Dogs were barking.

All the dogs in the village were barking. Some were in the courtyards, chained with iron links, unable to break free, only able to turn in place, barking nonstop. Others had run off, barking at the village from the slopes outside. They dared not return, only able to watch from afar, bidding farewell with their cries.

He was hiding.

Hiding under the bed.

The bed was wooden and sturdy. His father had shoved him under it before dying, saying——Don't come out, don't make a sound. Those were his father's last words to him. After saying that, his father turned and rushed out, holding a wood-chopping knife. The blade was unsharpened, meant for splitting firewood. He did not see how his father died, only heard a miserable cry, then his father's voice fell silent.

Embracing the sword.

The sword was given to him by his father. Not a valuable sword, just an ordinary iron sword, with the character "Cang" carved on the hilt. Cang was his family name. He held the sword in his arms, cool against his chest. The sword remained sheathed, not because he didn't want to draw it, but because he couldn't. His strength was too small, the scabbard too tight. He strained to pull it, but it wouldn't come out. He gritted his teeth and pulled, still couldn't draw it.

Because he dared not.

What does one who dares not draw his sword fight with? The sword in its scabbard does not protect him—it mocks him. It mocks his weakness, his fear, his lack of courage to even draw the blade. After that night, he swore——In this lifetime, his sword will never again fail to be drawn.

Now he dares.

The him of today is no longer that child hiding under the bed. He is Cang Xuan, a Divine Sword Cultivator who walked out of the Return to the Void. His sword no longer sticks in the scabbard; his fingers can draw it at any moment. He dares to draw it now. But he has learned another truth——Drawing the sword is not the goal; knowing when to draw is. The hardest part for a sword cultivator is not drawing the sword, but waiting.

His sword dares.

The sword rests in its scabbard, the sword spirit slumbering. The sword spirit is a faint consciousness, unable to speak or think, only to feel. It feels the master's heartbeat, the air's movement, the coming and going of killing intent. It has felt Cang Xuan's fear, and also his bravery. Now it feels a deep sense of "ready." Not that the sword is ready, but that the person is ready. When the person is ready, the sword is ready. For the sword is an extension of the person, the externalization of the hand, the embodiment of the heart. When the person dares, the sword dares.

His finger lightly tapped the hilt.

The sword in the scabbard rang once.

Very soft.

Very short.

Like a drop of water falling from the eaves, landing on the ground. Not the boom of thunder, not the blare of a horn, not the earth-shaking war drum. Just a single water drop. But a water drop has its own power. Water drops wear through stone—not in a day, but year after year. This sound was brief, yet in the quiet square it carried far. The disciples heard it. They did not understand sword language, but they sensed something——Someone was with them. He did not speak with his mouth, but with his sword. The sword said——I am here.

Like a child saying——

I am here.

Children are the purest. They do not lie, do not conceal, do not pretend. When they say "I am here," they truly are. Cang Xuan's sword is the same. When it says "I am here," it truly is. It will not leave, will not run, will not abandon. On the battlefield, it will stand here, beside Wang Ping, beside these people. Until victory, or until death in battle.

Yu Liuli embraced her guqin, standing behind Wang Ping.

Her position was one step to the right. Qin cultivators belong to Yin, so she stands on the right. The guqin is a qin, and the qin is Yin. Not because women are Yin, but because the qin itself is Yin. The qin's body is wood, and wood is Yin, for it grows from the earth, absorbing the earth's Yin qi. The qin's strings are silk, and silk is Yin, for it is spat from the silkworm's belly, and the silkworm is Yin. She embraces the qin, the qin embraces a mass of Yin qi, so she stands on the right.

One of her guqin strings broke.

The sixth string.

The sixth string is Shao Shang.

The guqin has seven strings, from thickest to thinnest named Gong, Shang, Jiao, Zhi, Yu, Wen, Wu. The first string is thickest, the seventh thinnest. The sixth string is the Wen string, thinner than the Yu string, thicker than the Wu string. Its sound is the softest, lightest, most able to touch the softest place in the human heart. Guqin players say the sixth string is the soul of the qin. If the soul is not broken, the qin lives. The sixth string on her qin broke in the passage, shattered by the pressure of the Lord of Order. When the pressure surged, the sixth string was the first to fail, for it is the softest, and thus the first to break.

She did not replace it.

Because she had no strings left.

Her storage pouch held many spare guqin strings. Strings are consumables; they break with prolonged play. Especially the Wu string—playing one passionate piece might snap it. So she had stocked many: thick, thin, silk, steel. But in the fragments of the immortal realm, in those immortal palaces that had slept for thirty thousand years, during this long journey, her strings were used up one by one. The last spare sixth string broke half a month ago; she replaced it, thinking it would last long. Then the pressure in the passage came, and the newly replaced sixth string also broke. She reached into her storage pouch and felt nothing. The pouch was empty, no strings left.

The sixth string broke.

She still had six strings.

Gong, Shang, Jiao, Zhi, Yu, Wen, Wu—seven strings, one broken, six remain. Six strings are still a qin. Ancient qins once had only five strings; later Wen and Wu were added, making seven. Five strings can play, seven strings can play, six strings can play. She still has ten fingers—two hands, five each. Left hand presses strings, right hand plucks. Six strings, ten fingers, enough.

A guqin master of the Fallen Immortal Clan.

The Fallen Immortal Clan is the origin of qin cultivation. Legend says long ago, an immortal fell from heaven onto a mountain. On his back he carried a qin with fifty strings. He sat on the mountain peak and played; when the qin's voice rang out, birds did not fly, beasts did not run, even the wind stopped. They all listened. The immortal played for three days and three nights, then gathered his qin, rose, and flew back to heaven. The Fallen Immortal Clan witnessed this performance, recorded his fingering, but his qin had fifty strings while theirs had only seven. They did not give up, spending countless generations translating the fifty-string pieces into seven-string pieces. This is the Fallen Immortal Clan's gift——turning the impossible into possible.

Even with only one string left.

One can still play a complete melody.

How does one play with a single string? A single string has only one pitch. But a single pitch can vary. Different finger positions change the pitch. Different plucking force changes the tone. Different vibrato speed changes the flavor. One string can produce countless sounds. Organize those sounds, and you have a melody. The melody is not on the string.

It is in the heart.

The heart is the most ancient qin. It needs no strings, no wood, no material. The heart plays itself, sings itself, listens to itself. Her hand is on the string, the string on the qin, the qin in the heart. She lost the sixth string, but not her heart. The heart remains, and so does the melody.

Her finger lightly plucked the broken string.

The broken string does not sound.

The string is broken, but its two ends remain—one end attached to the qin's tuning peg, the other to the mountain (note: likely a typo for "bridge"; original says 岳山, but context suggests part of the instrument). The middle is empty, the break. When the finger flicks past, it touches only air. The string does not vibrate, so it does not sound. No sound, yet she plucked. She plucked not to hear a sound, but to remember. To remember that string that had accompanied her for so long. It died in the passage, under pressure, on the road home. It never saw the spirit realm's sky, never saw the Questioning Dao Platform with these people, never saw the battle to come. She watched for it.

But its vibration transmitted to the qin's body.

The qin's body is wood. Wood conducts vibration. When the finger flicks the broken string, the string's root at the tuning peg vibrates slightly. The vibration is tiny, too faint for ears to hear. But the qin's body can feel it. The qin's body is a resonance chamber; any vibration is amplified within it. Vibration travels from the head of the qin to the tail, from the soundboard to the back, from outside to inside.

The qin's body vibration transmitted to her heart.

Qin heart. All qin cultivators have a qin heart, but each is different. Some qin hearts are made of ice, producing melodies like winter winds. Some are made of flame, producing melodies like summer thunder. Yu Liuli's qin heart is made of water. Water is the softest, yet also the toughest. A blade cannot split water, a stone cannot shatter water, fire cannot dry it. Water evaporates, rises to heaven as clouds, clouds become rain falling down, still water. Her qin heart received the qin body's vibration; the vibration rippled in the water, ripples expanded circle by circle, finally becoming a sentence. That sentence is not spoken in words, but felt.

Her heart says——

I am here.

"Here" is the only word she will say. She will not utter grand boasts beyond "I am here." She will not say "We will surely win," for victory is not decided by words. She will not say "The Lord of Order will surely fall," for as a qin cultivator, she does not lie. She only says "I am here." I am here means I am still alive. As long as I live, I will play the qin. I play the qin, and my qin sound will wash away your fear, guard your hearts. Leave battle to the sword cultivators, protection to the qin cultivators. I am here, and you are within my qin's sound.

You Ying stood at the farthest point.

She always stands at the farthest point. Around the Questioning Dao Platform there are many positions—on the platform, below it, beside the stone pillars, in corners. She chose a stone pillar at the farthest spot. The pillar is a support of the platform's dome, four pillars holding up the dome. The one she leans against is the western one. The west belongs to Metal, whose lord is solemn and killing. She is a cultivator of the Void Law, and the solemn killing qi suits her.

Leaning against a stone pillar.

Not standing, but leaning. Leaning takes less effort than standing, and provides support. The stone pillar is cold, and leaning against it sends coolness to her back. That coolness keeps her awake. She did not go forward, not because she does not want to, but because she is accustomed to it. Thirty thousand years in the ancient mirror have made this habit unbreakable. Standing farthest lets her see the whole picture. She can see Wang Ping's back, Cang Xuan's profile, Yu Liuli's fingers. She can see the fearful yet expectant faces below. She can see the gray sky, the yellow grass, the murky resin. She can see everything. To see everything is to protect everything.

She had no fragments left in her hand.

The fragments had already merged into her chest.

At a point slightly left of her heart.

Slightly left of the chest is where the heart lies; the heart is not in the exact centre but slightly to the left, and all human asymmetry begins here. She placed her hand on her chest, feeling her heartbeat, and also feeling the heartbeat of the fragments. The fragments bore the character "An," and "An" carried power. They merged into her chest—not vanished, but taken residence. They became another heart beside her heart. Not a physiological heart, but a heart of will. The heart of will also beats, but much slower than the physiological heart—beating once every few minutes, not to supply blood, but to remind her—An. An. An.

Together with her heartbeat.

Thud, thud, thud.

Two heartbeats, one fast, one slow. The fast one is her heart, tense, preparing. The slow one is the fragment's heart, soothing, reminding. Tension and soothing cancel each other out—not that she is no longer tense, but that tension is controlled. Tension remains, but it no longer disturbs her.

She was thinking of the Lord of Order.

Thinking of that silvery-white light.

In the passage, she first felt the Lord of Order's pressure—a power she had never felt in this life. Not strength in the sense of power, but strength in the sense of existence. He exists more "fully" than she, than Wang Ping, than anyone—his very "being" equals the sum of the "being" of all life across the myriad heavens and worlds. Facing such an existence, fear is not weakness, but instinct.

Thinking of the aura coming from the direction of the primordial chaos sea.

The aura had no smell, no colour, no sensory attribute whatsoever. Yet it had a "feeling." If you felt it, you knew whose it was. It belonged to the Lord of Order, to the oldest, strongest existence in this world. When it came, it passed through the Return to the Void, through the void, through everything blocking it. The silence in the Return to the Void was awakened, the laws in the void were disturbed, the great defensive array of the spirit realm flickered and then dimmed. The aura did not stop; it continued forward, spreading to every corner of the myriad heavens and worlds.

She had never seen him.

The Return to the Void clan hid for thirty thousand years; the nether shadows concealed themselves in the ancient mirror for thirty thousand years. What happened thirty thousand years ago, she did not experience firsthand, but her clansmen did. They left records, stored in the memory crystals of the Return to the Void clan, passed down through generations. The records contain no image of the Lord of Order, for he has no form. The Lord of Order is not a person, not a beast, not any kind of lifeform. He is rule itself, order itself. He can choose any form, or choose to have no form. The records hold only one feeling—silvery-white light. When the light came, all things stilled, breath ceased, heartbeat paused. Then the light departed, leaving corpses strewn everywhere.

But in the passage, she was not afraid.

Fear remained, it did not leave. But it was not that fear made life impossible; rather, she lived on while carrying fear. Like carrying a stone while walking—the stone is heavy, but once accustomed, it feels no heavier. She had grown accustomed to fear, accustomed to staying calm amidst fear. This was the most important skill she had learned in the ancient mirror.

But she was not afraid.

Not the kind of fearlessness spoken with the mouth, but fearlessness in the heart. She had Wang Ping, Cangxuan, Yuliuli—those powerhouses who had rushed from the myriad heavens and worlds. They were not weak; they were merely not yet prepared.

From the time the news spread until now, only three days had passed. In those three days, envoys came one after another from the myriad heavens and worlds. Some brought a dozen, some several dozen, some only one person. One person is also a people, a civilization, a world's representative. When that person came, that world came. They were not here to die, but to fight. They knew the Lord of Order's strength, yet they came anyway. Because they knew—if they did not come, they would die even sooner.

She would wait.

Wait for them to prepare.

Not sitting there waiting, but preparing while waiting. She practiced void escape, shuttling through the void between the spirit realm and the Return to the Void, familiarizing herself with routes, setting anchor points. Void escape is not only for fleeing, but also for transmitting messages, transferring the wounded, and, at critical moments, pulling people out of piles of corpses. She is a scout, a messenger, and the weaver of the final line of defence. She waits for them to prepare, and also helps them prepare.

The news spread quickly.

The spirit realm's transmission array has remained open since the grey descent. The array's core is in the Ninth Dao Institute, its eye a jade stele for transmission, two zhang high, one zhang wide, engraved with the world coordinates of all realms connected to the spirit realm. Normally these coordinates are dark; they only flash when a transmission is received. Since the day Wang Ping returned, the coordinates have lit up one after another, like lit lamps. First the nearest worlds, then the middle ones, then the farthest.

On the third day after Wang Ping's return.

The envoys of the Tianyu tribe arrived.

They came rushing from the star domain of wind and thunder.

The Tianyu tribe's star domain is not beneath the spirit realm's sky. It lies in another star domain, a place called Wind Thunder Sea. There is no land there, only countless shattered stellar bodies drifting in the void. Between the stellar bodies there is wind, and within the wind there is thunder. The wind is eternal wind, the thunder is eternal thunder. Wind and thunder intertwined is the only weather there.

They passed through several void passages.

Void passages are shortcuts connecting different worlds. They are not naturally formed, but were opened by ancient mighty beings using the power of laws. Each void passage has an owner—some belong to a great world, some to a powerful clan, some are public. The Tianyu envoy group passed through one passage after another; at each stop they had to negotiate, prove their identity, and beg for passage. They could not stop, for every pause wasted a minute. The Lord of Order would not wait for them, nor would the spirit realm's allied forces. They could only fly.

They flew for a full two days and two nights.

The Tianyu tribe needs no flying vessels, for they have wings. Wings are innate void-traversing devices. A single feather is a miniature spatial artifact; ten thousand feathers are ten thousand miniature spatial artifacts stacked together. Flying by wing is far faster than by flying vessel. But even so, there is a limit. They flew from Wind Thunder Sea to the spirit realm, taking two days and two nights. During those two days and two nights, they did not sleep, did not eat, did not land to rest. They flew without cease.

Featherfolk.

With wings growing on their backs.

Wings are the Tianyu tribe's most precious organ. They grow from behind the shoulders, attaching to the scapulae and extending outward. The wing's framework is hollow, like a bird's bones—light yet sturdy. Outside the framework lies a layer of skin, on which feathers grow. Feathers are layered piece by piece, like fish scales, like tiles, like finely stitched armour. When folded, the wings lie against the back, hanging from the shoulders to the calves, like a cloak. When spread, they span two or three zhang in width, able to cover an entire expanse of sky.

The feathers are white, gold, and silver.

Not dyed, but naturally this colour. Colour represents bloodline. White is the most common bloodline; most featherfolk have white feathers. Gold is the royal bloodline—only the royal clan has golden feathers. Silver is the legendary bloodline; in legend, the most ancient featherfolk had silver feathers, like moonlight, like mercury, like frozen starlight. Silver bloodline is now rare; if gold bears a trace of silver, it indicates atavistic tendency.

Like snow, like sunlight, like moonlight.

Snow is white, sunlight is gold, moonlight is silver. These three colours interweave on the Tianyu tribe's wings, forming a flowing picture. As the wings move, the feathers tremble, and the picture changes. Like sunlight sprinkled on snow, with moonlight's clear radiance shining through the sunlight. Not painted with pigment, but life itself painting.

They wear no shoes.

Wearing shoes would hinder flight. Shoes have weight, and their soles are flat, unsuitable for gripping. Featherfolk do not need to walk; they are children of the sky. They rarely walk; most of the time they fly, or rest on trees, rocks, or clouds. Where gripping is needed, they use their toes.

Their toes are very long.

Much longer than human toes. Human big toes are the shortest, little toes even shorter. Featherfolk's big toes are the longest, about the length of an index finger. Between the toes there is webbing, which retracts during flight and spreads when gripping. The toes have joints, allowing them to bend and hook onto branches, vines, or the edges of clouds.

Able to grasp branches.

Branches are round, and the toes can encircle them to form a ring. The ring's size can be adjusted—fine branches are gripped with the toe tips, thick branches with the whole foot. Once gripped, the person is steady, can relax the wings, and can sleep standing up.

Able to stand on clouds.

The clouds of Wind Thunder Sea are special. There, clouds are not condensed water vapour, but formed from the mixture of wind and thunder elements. The clouds have substance, soft and bouncy, like stepping on them. Featherfolk can stand on the clouds, and the clouds will not scatter. Because they also contain wind and thunder elements within their bodies, the resonance between the elements creates an invisible lifting force between them and the clouds. They are part of the clouds.

Able to hover in midair.

Hovering is the most difficult flight. Flight is forward movement; hovering is staying in place. When flying, there is speed and the wings generate lift. When hovering, there is no speed—where does the lift come from? From the vibration of the wings. Featherfolk wings can vibrate at extremely high frequency, invisible to the eye, only felt—a buzzing, like a hummingbird. The lift generated by the vibration exactly equals body weight, so the person hangs in midair.

The envoy is a middle-aged man.

Among cultivators, middle age is not old. Cultivators have long lifespans; a God Transformation cultivator can live several thousand years. Tens or hundreds of years are still youth; only above one thousand years counts as middle age. This envoy's actual age may already be over a thousand years. But his face does not look young. Not from loose skin, not from many wrinkles, but from his gaze. A young person's gaze looks outward, at the world, at the future. A middle-aged person's gaze looks inward, at oneself, at the past. His inward gaze holds deep sedimentation, showing he has experienced much and lost many.

His wings are gold.

Gold with silver in it.

His bloodline is royal.