Chapter 429

The sky of the Spirit Realm turned completely gray.

Not clouds.

Clouds have shape, thickness, and movement; when the wind comes, clouds move, when the wind stops, clouds stop; when rain comes, clouds thicken, when rain leaves, clouds thin. Clouds are alive, they change. In the Spirit Realm's sky there are no clouds, not a single one. Those cumulus clouds that once piled like mountains at the horizon, those cirrus clouds that once drifted like feathers overhead, those stratus clouds that once spread like mist at dawn and dusk— they all vanished, not blown away, but dissolved. They dissolved into that gray expanse, like salt dissolving in water. The salt is still there, but you can no longer see it.

Not fog.

Fog has humidity, temperature, and tactile sensation. When fog hits your face it feels wet, cool, something you can feel. Walking in fog, your hair gets damp, your clothes become moist, beads of water cling to your eyelashes. The Spirit Realm's air is dry—dry enough to chap your lips, make your throat itch, make your eyes feel gritty. Reach out and you cannot feel any moisture. There is no water vapor in the air; it has been sucked dry. What sucked it dry? That gray expanse. The gray is a vast sponge, sucking up the water, light, and sound in the air, all of it.

Not anything describable.

Language has limits. What language can describe are things people have seen. People have seen clouds, so they can describe clouds. People have seen fog, so they can describe fog. People have seen smoke, dust, gauze, and everything that can be used to describe gray. But this gray in the Spirit Realm is none of those. It lies outside human experience, beyond the bounds of language. You look at it, wanting to say something, you open your mouth but no sound comes out—not because your throat is hoarse, but because you cannot find the word. That word does not exist, for this gray ought not to exist. It is formed by another kind of law, a projection of the Lord of Order's will, an erosion of the Land of Chaos by the Power of Order. It is not a celestial phenomenon; it is hostility.

Gray.

Pure gray.

There is no light or dark. In the natural world there is no pure gray; gray always has light and dark shades. Dark gray is storm clouds, light gray is twilight. The gray of stone leans yellow, that of iron leans bluish, that of cooking smoke leans white. Gray always contains other colors, thus there are infinite shades. But the Spirit Realm's gray is only one kind. It has no light/dark, no thickness, no brightness. You look at it—left, right, up, down—it looks the same. Stare at it long enough and you feel it is not a color but a 'state'. The world has become a gray state—not a gray sky, not a gray ground, not a gray air, but everything turned gray. Gray has become an adjective describing everything you can perceive.

There is no gradation. Painters paint gray using different ink concentrations: three parts ink for light gray, five for medium, seven for dark. Mixing different grays can render the layers of landscapes, the volume of figures, shifts of light and shadow. But the Spirit Realm's gray has no layers. It is a whole expanse of flat-applied gray, as if someone used the largest brush, soaked it in the same gray paint, and stroked the sky's canvas over and over, until the original blue was completely covered, the clouds and light were wiped away, and the sky no longer resembled sky. Looking at it, you feel you are staring at a gray board with nothing on it.

No border. Usually when you look at the sky, the sky's border is the horizon. The sky in the east meets the eastern mountains; the sky in the west meets the western plains. The mountains are green, the plains have trees, beneath the trees are rivers, beside the rivers are homes. The horizon separates sky from earth, so you know sky is sky and earth is earth. But now the sky has no border. The gray sky and gray earth are joined together, you can't tell which is sky and which is ground. The mountains? They are in the gray. The trees? They are in the gray. The rivers? They are in the gray. Everything is in the gray. You stand at the gate of the Ninth Dao Institute and look ahead, you cannot see distant mountains, you cannot see nearby trees, you cannot see the road under your feet. A vast expanse of gray mist, boundless, endless.

It is as if someone had packed the whole world into a gray box.

The box is square. You are locked inside the box. The inner walls are coated with gray, uniformly gray, thoroughly gray, gray enough to make you breathless. The box has no windows, no doors, no gaps. You don't know what's outside, you don't know how big the box is, you don't know whether there is anyone else inside. You shout once; the sound hits the gray inner wall, bounces back, hits again, bounces again. After many bounces, the sound grows fainter and duller, finally disappearing. The sound is devoured by the gray. You shout again, and it's the same result. You stop shouting, not because you don't want to, but because you're afraid. Afraid that after the gray devours your voice, the next to be devoured will be you.

The box lid was closed.

When was the lid put on? No one knows. When Wang Ping returned from the passage, the sky was still gray, but that gray still had a hint of brightness, like dusk, like the last spark in the ashes. Now the spark is extinguished. It didn't go out all at once; it faded bit by bit. With each breath, the gray grew a little darker. With each heartbeat, the gray grew a little deeper. When darkness reached its extreme and depth reached its extreme, the fire went out. After it went out, the world became completely dark.

Light could not enter.

Sunlight was blocked outside. The sun of the Spirit Realm still exists, still rising in the east and setting in the west. The sun does not know it is blocked; it continues to run its eternal, unchanging orbit, still emitting eternal, unchanging light. But the light cannot pass through that gray. The gray is like a piece of frosted glass, blocking sunlight from the Spirit Realm. Occasionally one or two especially stubborn photons manage to penetrate, but they are no longer light. They turn into gray powder, drifting in the air, sticking to grass blades, falling onto people's hair. People think it is ash, but it is actually the corpse of light.

Moonlight was blocked outside. The moon still exists, still orbiting the Spirit Realm. Its light is borrowed from the sun, gentle, cool, making one think of home. But now moonlight cannot penetrate either. The Spirit Realm at night has lost its moonlight, leaving only pure darkness. In the darkness, gray dust still drifts, still falls, constantly reminding everyone—you have been locked up.

Starlight was blocked outside. The stars of the myriad heavens still exist, still twinkling in the void. Some stars are very close to the Spirit Realm, close enough that with the naked eye you can see their colors—red, blue, yellow, white. Now they are all gone. Not because they have died, but because the gray has covered them. The Spirit Realm has become a lonely island, surrounded on all sides by a gray sea, with no lighthouse, no buoy, nothing to indicate direction.

The cultivators of the Spirit Realm lifted their heads.

All they could do was lift their heads. Lowering their heads revealed yellow grass, withered trees, turbid resin, and the ever‑spreading gray. Lifting their heads, perhaps they could see something else—a thread of light, a shadow, a patch of a different color. Anything, as long as it wasn't gray. Their necks grew sore, their eyes felt dry, yet they kept looking up. Because looking up meant they still held hope—hope that the gray would disperse, hope that light would return, hope that someone could tear a rift in the sky.

They could see only gray.

Gray filled the entire field of vision. The wider your view, the wider the gray; the farther your view, the farther the gray. You look at it, it looks back at you. After staring too long, an illusion arises—not that you are looking at gray, but that gray is looking at you. Gray has eyes, countless pairs, embedded in its surface, without pupils, without lashes, merely rings of gray‑white outlines. They watch you, scrutinize you, judge you. They judge whether you have the right to continue existing, whether your existence conforms to the standard of order. Those who do not conform will be erased. You are already on the list of non‑conformers—gray just hasn't acted yet.

Staring for a long time makes the eyes hurt.

It is not a stabbing pain.

Stabbing pain is the feeling of a needle prick. The instant the needle tip pierces the skin, pain nerves are activated, the signal travels to the brain, and the brain says—pain. Stabbing pain is brief, sharp, and elicits an immediate reaction. But this eye pain in the Spirit Realm is not stabbing. It is dull, prolonged, accumulating bit by bit. It is as if someone were using a blunt knife to slowly grind your eyeball, grind a little, pause, pause a little, grind again. You close your eyes, the pain remains. You open your eyes, the pain intensifies. You don't know when it will end; you only know it continues.

It is being filled with "emptiness."

Emptiness is not nothing. Emptiness is this very gray. Gray is the visible form of emptiness, the anomalous reaction produced when the Lord of Order presses his will into the Spirit Realm's laws. The chaotic Spirit Realm rejects the gray of order, and the gray of order does not spare the chaotic Spirit Realm. The two laws clash in the sky, tearing at each other in every inch of air. The debris of that tearing is the gray dust, the eye pain, and the unspeakable oppression felt in every cultivator's heart. When you look at the gray, you see emptiness—meaningless emptiness, hopeless emptiness, futureless emptiness. Emptiness floods into your eyes, from the eyes into the brain, from the brain into the heart. The heart is filled with emptiness, and the person becomes empty.

Emptiness filled the eyes.

The eye is an organ for receiving light. Light enters the eye, passes through the cornea, passes through the lens, passes through the vitreous body, and lands on the retina. The photosensitive cells on the retina convert light signals into electrical signals, which travel along the optic nerve to the brain; the brain interprets the signals, and thus you see. Now there is no light, the electrical signals have dried up, the optic nerve idles, the brain searches. What does it search for? Any information that can be called "seeing." But it finds nothing. After idling too long, the brain heats up, twitches, and hurts. The pain is not in the eyes, but in the brain. The brain cries out—give me something to see, give me something to see. The gray replies—nothing. Nothing at all.

The eyes can no longer see anything else.

It is not blindness. Blindness means the eyes are damaged. These cultivators' eyes are not damaged; they are still the eyes of Nascent Soul cultivators, able to see a thousand miles away, able to see the flow of laws, able to see the depths of the void. But a thousand miles away is gray, the flow of laws is gray, the depths of the void are gray. Everything visible is gray. Outside the gray there is nothing else, so you cannot see anything else. You try to discern a speck of non‑gray within the gray, frame by frame, inch by inch. You cannot find it. Gray has seized every visible thing, leaving no loophole. It is order, and order allows no exception.

Wang Ping stood at the highest point of the Ninth Dao Institute.

That was the place where Jiang Mingyuan used to stand.

The highest point of the Ninth Dao Institute is not a tower, not a building, but a natural protruding stone platform. The platform extends from the rear mountain's cliff, like a palm reaching out from the arm of a great mountain, suspended in midair. The surface is not large, just enough for two people to stand on. Moss covers the stone; the moss on the left is thicker, on the right thinner. Because Jiang Mingyuan habitually put weight on his left foot and lightly touched with his right, he stood in this position for thirty thousand years, his left foot wearing away the left moss layer by layer. Now that he is dead, the left moss begins to slowly grow back. Life, regardless of who dies, only concerns itself with growing.

The stone platform is not large.

It is just enough for two people to stand.

Jiang Mingyuan used to stand here, watching the sunrise and sunset of the Spirit Realm. The sunrise in the Spirit Realm is not the sun rising from below the horizon—for the Spirit Realm has no horizon; it is a vast landmass floating in the void. The sunrise appears as a mass of orange‑red light seeping out from the deep void at the edge of the Spirit Realm, first a small patch, then a large one, then the entire eastern sky. The orange‑red turns to gold, the gold to white, the white to brightness. At the peak of brightness, the sun's edge emerges from the void, a perfect circle, rays shining ten thousand zhang. Each time Jiang Mingyuan saw this, he would slightly narrow his eyes and lift the corner of his mouth. Over thirty thousand years he has witnessed countless sunrises, each feeling like the first. He was not watching the sun; he was confirming—that the Spirit Realm still exists, that its order still endures, that its sun continues to rise as usual. As long as the sun keeps rising, his guardianship has meaning.

He watched the disciples come and go. The disciples of the Ninth Dao Institute have come and gone for many generations. Some arrived and left after just a few days; after taking on a master they found the sword path unsuitable and switched elsewhere. Some came and never left, staying for thousands of years, progressing from Qi Refining to Nascent Soul, from Nascent Soul to Divine Transformation, from disciple to master. Some left and later returned, bringing news from the outside world—where a secret realm opened, where heavenly treasures appeared, where another genius emerged. Jiang Mingyuan listened to them speak, nodded, smiled. He knew each disciple's name and origin, who their parents were, who their master was, what they excelled at, what they feared. Over thirty thousand years, the Ninth Dao Institute has produced countless disciples; some are long dead, some still cultivate in some corner of the Spirit Realm. Jiang Mingyuan remembered every one, even those who stayed only three days.

He watched the land he had guarded for thirty thousand years. This land is not large, merely a part of the Spirit Realm. The Spirit Realm has many dao institutes, many factions, many mountain gates. The Ninth Dao Institute is not the strongest, not the largest, not the oldest. But it belongs to Jiang Mingyuan. He was born here, cultivated here, took over as headmaster here, accepted his first disciple here, buried his master here. His master is buried behind the mountain, beside a Jianmu tree. Before dying, the master grasped his hand and said—Mingyuan, do not let the Spirit Realm perish. He replied—Good. That "good" has been spoken for thirty thousand years. For thirty thousand years he never left the Spirit Realm a single step, did not venture into outside secret realms, did not involve himself in the myriad heavens' conflicts, and even only heard rumors of the Chaos Immortal Stele. It was not that he did not want to go; he could not leave. The Spirit Realm needs someone to guard it, needs someone to stand here, needs someone to narrow his eyes at sunrise.

Now he is dead.

How did he die? To guard the Spirit Realm. When the Lord of Order's first wave of pressure rolled over, the Spirit Realm's great defensive formation was activated. The core of the formation is the Ninth Dao Institute, the formation eye is the Question‑Dao Platform. Jiang Mingyuan stood at the center of the eye, using his body and cultivation to support the entire formation. His spiritual power poured in like a flood, the formation lines lit up, golden light shot to the heavens, blocking the first wave of pressure outside the Spirit Realm. But he knew he could not hold out long, knowing he was only at the early stage of Unity, while the source of the pressure was at the peak of Void Refining. He did not retreat, nor did he call for someone to replace him. He stood there, burning his spiritual power bit by bit, consuming his life bit by bit, giving all he had accumulated over thirty thousand years to this formation. When Wang Ping returned, the formation still stood, but Jiang Mingyuan was gone.

He died, and Wang Ping took his place here.

This is not inheritance. Inheritance is a willing handover, where the older generation passes something to the younger, who takes it up and continues. There was no such step between Jiang Mingyuan and Wang Ping. When Jiang Mingyuan died, Wang Ping was in the Return to the Void, in that light conversing with the residual consciousness of the Chaos Immortal Venerable, reaching out to touch the Chaos Immortal Stele. When he returned, there was no handover ceremony, no jade tablet of succession, not a single word "I entrust it to you." Jiang Mingyuan left nothing behind except this stone platform, this position, this gray sky. Wang Ping walked onto the platform—not because anyone told him to, but because he chose to himself. Because the Chaos Immortal Stele resides within him, the inheritance of the Chaos Immortal Venerable is in him, and the fate of the Spirit Realm rests on his shoulders. If he does not take this position, who could?

The wind is strong.

The wind on the stone platform is much stronger than at the mountain's base. The wind below is partially blocked by the mountain, so by the time it reaches the body it has weakened. The platform hangs in midair; wind rushes from all directions—front, back, left, right, up, down—each direction has wind. The winds meet above the platform, creating turbulence, tearing at each other, producing a wailing sound. Sometimes it sounds like a person weeping, sometimes like a beast howling, sometimes like nothing at all, just the wind itself. Wang Ping's robes are filled by the wind, ballooning out, making a hunting sound behind him. The robes are his battle garb, worn from mortal body to the present, patched many times, washed many times, bearing the blood of the Mountain‑Moving Ancestor, Jiang Mingyuan, Lei Wantiang, and Bing Yue Xianzi. The blood has long dried, but the stains remain, purplish‑black, like plum blossoms one after another.

The wind made the robes rustle with a hunting sound.

"Hunting" is the most fitting onomatopoeia. "Hunting" is not "whooshing"; "whooshing" is the wind itself. "Hunting" is the sound of cloth being repeatedly whipped by the wind, like a whip, like a banner. Wang Ping stands in the wind, his robes making that hunting sound in the wind, sounding like a torn battle flag still desperately fluttering. The flagpole is Wang Ping's spine, the flag is his blood‑stained robes. As long as the spine remains unbroken, the flag will not fall.

The wind tangled his hair together.

Wang Ping's hair had not been cut for a long time. From the Return to the Void, to the fragments of the Immortal Realm, from time reversal to the heart‑tribulation, then from the passage back to the Spirit Realm. His hair had grown long, hanging over his shoulders; a gust of wind would make it messy. The tangled hair twisted together, forming knot after knot. These knots cannot be undone, only cut with a sword. He did not cut them, because he did not care. What does it matter whether the hair can be untied? He does not need to look good, does not need to be neat, does not need anyone to think he resembles a true sovereign. He only needs to stand, to stand here, to look at the gray sky, and think of the upcoming battle.

The wind made his eyes almost unable to stay open.

The wind blew gray dust toward him; the dust is extremely fine, too fine for the naked eye to see. Yet when it strikes the eyeballs it can be felt—like sand, like salt, like shattered glass. The eyes instinctively want to close—the eyelids are the eyes' shield, closing automatically when danger arises. But Wang Ping forces himself to keep them open. When his eyes close, he sees nothing—not the gray, not the possible silver‑white that might appear deep within the gray. He cannot afford not to see. He stands here, he is everyone's eyes. If he can see, they dare to close their eyes for a moment. If he closes his eyes, they become completely blind.

He did not close his eyes.

Because he wanted to watch that gray sky.

He watched to see whether any other color would appear within the gray.

What other color? Red? Blue? Green? Any color will do, as long as it is not gray. Color equals change, change equals hope. The gray sky is unchangeable, unbreakable, unbeatable. The moment any other color appears in the gray—even a tiny patch, even a fleeting instant—it proves the gray is not absolute. Order is not absolute. The Spirit Realm still has hope. The myriad heavens still have hope. So he kept his eyes open, stared at that gray expanse, and waited a long time.

Another color.

It was silver‑white.

Silver‑white is the color that least resembles a color among all colors. Red is the color of blood, green is the color of life, blue is the color of the sky. Silver‑white has no intrinsic attribute—it is not the color of blood, not the color of life, not the color of the sky. It is the color of order, and order has no content, only form. Silver‑white is the remnant left after light has been stripped of its warmth. Light comprises seven colors; combined they make white. But silver‑white is not white. Within silver‑white there is mixed the cold gleam of metal, the chill of ice, the stillness of death. It is not light; it is reflected light. It does not emit light itself; it merely reflects the will of the Lord of Order. Seeing silver‑white means order has arrived. Seeing silver‑white means death has come. Wang Ping kept his eyes open for this long, waiting precisely for it.

The army of the Myriad Heavens Alliance has already assembled.

The assembly point is in the void outside the Ninth Dao Institute; the Ninth Dao Institute is built on the land of the Spirit Realm, and beyond the land is the void. The void is not empty—within it float countless debris, ice crystals, wreckage, and also the outer base of the Spirit Realm's great formation. The army is stationed within the great formation, between the formation bases. The formation bases are huge stone pillars that extend from the Spirit Realm's earth veins, pass through the atmosphere, and reach into the void. Each stone pillar is several li in diameter, its surface covered with defensive immortal runes. The gaps between the formation bases are natural campsites. Some camps are on the tops of the pillars, flat as plazas; some are on the sides of the pillars, with countless caves carved out; and some are in the void, using formations to condense vapor into floating platforms. The thirty-seven tribes each have their own stationed area, and the areas are connected by light bridges. The light bridges are formed from spiritual power; stepping on them feels soft, like stepping on solidified light.

Seven Unity Stage beings.

They are the allied forces' greatest combat power, and also the core of this war. What is the concept of the Unity Stage? Nascent Soul cultivators have already united spirit and body, while Unity Stage cultivators go further, merging their own Dao with the laws of heaven and earth. One Unity Stage cultivator is a moving domain of law. Early Unity Stage can affect the laws within a radius of a thousand li; mid Unity Stage can affect the laws within a radius of ten thousand li; late Unity Stage can even cover the laws of an entire province. In the myriad heavens and myriad worlds, there are no more than twenty Unity Stage cultivators. Here we have seven, which is already the limit that the Myriad Heavens Alliance can summon. Each person's name is a legend, and each person's cultivation has been painstakingly honed over more than ten thousand years. Their standing here is the myriad heavens and myriad worlds' answer to the Lord of Order—we do not flee.

Hundreds of Nascent Soul cultivators.

Nascent Soul is the watershed for cultivators. Below Nascent Soul, all are mundane cultivators; above Nascent Soul, only then are they true cultivators. Nascent Soul cultivators possess a spirit; their body can be destroyed but the spirit does not perish, and as long as the spirit remains, they have the chance to reincarnate. But before the Lord of Order, this opportunity does not exist. The power of Order can erase everything, including spirit, consciousness, imprints, and even this person's 'past'. Being killed by the Lord of Order is not true death—true death is when all traces of your existence in this world are erased, no one remembers you, no one knows you fell in battle here, and even in the river of karma there is no evidence that you ever existed. The hundreds of Nascent Soul cultivators know this, yet they still came. It is not that they are unafraid, but that there is something more important than death.

Countless below Nascent Soul.

Nascent Soul cultivators are already considered strong in the Spirit Realm. The standard for a sect's leader is late Nascent Soul; a sect with a Nascent Soul cultivator in charge can rank among the top hundred in the Spirit Realm. But here, Nascent Soul cultivators are merely ordinary soldiers. There are also many Golden Core cultivators, Foundation Establishment cultivators, and even some novice cultivators who have only just embarked on the path of cultivation. They stand at the rear of the formation, responsible for formation assistance, healing the wounded, and supplying spiritual power. They know they cannot go to the front lines, and they know that facing the Order's apostles could result in being killed in a single strike. But they still came. Because the myriad heavens and myriad worlds belong to everyone, not just the strong. The weak also have the right to defend their homeland, even if that right can only be exercised with their lives.

They stand in the void outside the Ninth Dao Institute.

Dense and numerous, like a sea of people.

A sea of people is not merely an adjective. Looking outward from the mountain gate of the Ninth Dao Institute, the void is filled with various evasion lights. The wings of the Heavenly Feather tribe are platinum-colored, the armor of the Golden Strength tribe is cyan-black, the bodies of the Heavenly Secret tribe are light blue, and the robes of the Return to the Abyss tribe are dark gray.