Chapter 430

And the major sects of the Spirit Realm—the Azure Firmament Sect was azure, the Burning Heaven Valley was crimson, the Mysterious Ice Palace was white. The colors mixed together, like a shattered rainbow spread across the void, crowded and pressed, layer upon layer, with no end in sight.

The Spirit Realm had never gathered so many people, and the myriad worlds had never gathered so many different races. They did not know each other, could not understand each other's languages, had different customs and beliefs. Yet they stood in the same void, gazing at the same gray sky, preparing for the same war.

Some people were speaking.

Most of those speaking were young cultivators. Youth does not mean low cultivation—the weakest of the cultivators who came to fight were at Golden Core, which would be considered a patriarch among mortals. But their "cultivation age" is short, their training time only a few hundred years or even just a few decades. Compared to the older generation that routinely lives tens of thousands of years, they are just children. When children are afraid, they speak; speaking can ease fear.

Speaking their fear out loud turns it into someone else's affair—at least not solely their own. They chatted about all sorts of topics. Some discussed the combat style of the Order Apostles, talking and talking until they realized no one had ever seen an Order Apostle; they had only read fragments in ancient texts.

Some were speculating what the Lord of Order looked like—some said he had no body, some said he had ten thousand faces, some said he was the Dao itself. Others were more direct—he was telling his friend nearby his final arrangements. He said—"If I die here, help me bring my storage bag back to my daughter; inside are three Foundation Establishment Pills, enough for her to reach Foundation Establishment." His voice was very soft, soft as a mosquito's buzz.

It wasn't fear of being heard.

It was fear of hearing himself.

Some things cannot be spoken; once spoken, they become true. Stating one's final affairs is a kind of curse—you are not dead yet, yet you are already arranging matters after death. Hearing oneself say "If I die," the thought that has been weighing on the mind will surface. That thought is—"I might really die." It has always been there, but you pretend not to know. You discuss tactics, enemies, the future, all to keep it submerged beneath the surface. Once you speak it aloud, it rises from below. After it surfaces, it is no longer a thought but a fact. So those stating their final affairs speak very softly, softly enough that they hope even they cannot hear it clearly. If not heard clearly, it does not count as stating final affairs. If it does not count as stating final affairs, then one will not die.

He heard himself.

Then he would know he was afraid.

Knowing that one is afraid and being afraid are two different things. Fear is an emotion; when it comes, you cannot stop it, it runs wild in your heart, making your heart race, your palms sweat, your thoughts scatter. But you still do not know you are afraid—you think you are calm, prepared, and unafraid of death. Until you hear your own voice trembling, hear yourself stating your final affairs, hear yourself speak your daughter's name. At that moment you finally know—"I am indeed afraid." Originally I thought I feared death, but actually I fear that after my death my daughter will have no Foundation Establishment Pill, that my elderly mother will have no one to see her off, that the Dao I have cultivated all my life will be severed. What I fear is not the ending, but the void left behind. One who knows he is afraid is more afraid than fear itself.

Those who are afraid cannot fight.

Those who fight need a special state—not being unafraid, but pressing fear down beneath consciousness. Fear remains, operating at a deeper level, making muscles tighter, reactions faster, pain perception duller. But these are handled by the body itself, without needing consciousness. The only thing consciousness must handle is: see the enemy clearly, judge the timing, swing the weapon. If consciousness is occupied by fear, it cannot handle these things. If it cannot, the hand will be slow, the blade will veer, and the person will die. So they control themselves, not listening to the voice in their heart. No speaking, no listening, no thinking. They keep fear lodged in the throat, not letting it rise. If it rises, they swallow it back down.

The one wiping his weapon does so very slowly.

Weapons are a cultivator's most faithful companion. Magic treasures have spirits; the higher the spirit, the more they attune to human intent. When a person is tense, the magic treasure tenses too—the sword will tremble slightly, the knife will emit a low hum, the spear shaft will grow warm. Conversely, moving one's hand repeatedly over the treasure can soothe it. The act of wiping itself has no practical meaning—a Divine Transformation cultivator's weapon is spotless and needs no wiping. Wiping is to give oneself something to do. With motion in the hand, stray thoughts have no room to arise. Wiping slowly, steadily, the breath follows the rhythm, the heartbeat follows the breath. What is being wiped is not the weapon itself.

One.

One.

One.

Like stroking an old friend.

The feel of an old friend is familiar. The cord wrapped around the sword hilt has been soaked in sweat countless times, turning dark brown. The cloud pattern engraved deeply on the sword guard was carved during forging and has been worn smooth. There is an extremely fine crack on the sword blade, left from the last life-and-death battle—when the opponent's blade struck the sword's spine, the blade broke but the sword did not, leaving this mark. You have not repaired it, because it is a memorial. Each time you wipe over this scar, the sword trembles slightly. It seems to say to you—"Remember that time? That time we almost died." You say—"I remember." Then you continue wiping. When wiping over that scar, your fingers lighten, as if afraid of hurting it. The precious sword has a spirit; it does not fear pain, but it needs to know you still care for it. Only if you care for it will it stand in your stead on the battlefield and die for you.

The weapon in hand is wiped until it shines.

Bright as a mirror.

Every inch of the sword blade has been wiped until it can reflect a face. The face reflected on the blade is stretched by the curve, forehead narrowed, chin pointed, like another person. Who is that person? Is it yourself? Or is it the weapon trying to show you a version of yourself? That you is thinner, more haggard, older. Heavy eye bags, messy stubble, brows knotted. You stare at that face you see, trying to find a trace of courage on it. You find none. It is merely a weary face, the face of someone who has waited too long on the battlefield.

The mirror reflects their faces.

Their faces have wrinkles.

Cultivators do not age naturally. After Foundation Establishment, their appearance remains constant; after Golden Core, their qi and blood never exhaust; after Nascent Soul, their flesh is reborn. To cultivators, wrinkles are wounds—wounds from overburning essence and blood, wounds from injury to the primordial spirit, scars left by heavenly tribulation. Each wrinkle is a mark of a brush with death. Some have wrinkles between the brows—they have used the mental deduction technique too many times, exhausting the primordial spirit's power to the limit. Some have wrinkles at the corners of the eyes—they have fought too long in some extreme environment, unable to close their eyes, the wind splitting the eye corners. Some have wrinkles at the corners of the mouth—they often smile. But it is not a happy smile; it is a grim smile. When driven to desperation in battle, the enemy asks—"Do you have anything left to say?" They grimly smile, say—"Nothing." Then they keep fighting. Such people have lines at the mouth corners.

They have scars.

Scars are more straightforward than wrinkles. This one is from a sword slash—diagonally from the left shoulder to the right rib, a clean cut, a swift blade. This one is from a claw tear—four parallel deep grooves, equally spaced, from some monster's claw. This one is beside the throat, only half an inch from severing the windpipe. It was left by a sneak attack—the enemy had already felt around to the back, just a little short of success. He killed the enemy in return, but kept this scar. Every scar tells a story, most of which share the same theme—near death, yet survived. Having survived, they stand here, able to fight again.

They have fatigue.

Fatigue is the most honest expression, impossible to hide. When you stand, your spine is straight as a rod, your voice booms, your grip on the weapon is firm and strong. Yet your face shows fatigue. It is not in the muscles, not in the skin, but deep in the bones, in the innermost 'you'. That 'you' is utterly exhausted. You have fought too long, guarded too many, lost too many companions. That 'you' wants to sleep, to sleep long and long, until waking to find the war already over. But 'you' cannot sleep, because the war is not yet over, because the enemy still advances, because behind you there are still people who need you.

They looked for a long time.

They looked at themselves in the mirror. They looked at wrinkles, scars, fatigue. After looking, they also understood—this face is proof of being alive. Each line is a brush with death; each scar is a taste of blood from the blade's edge. Fatigue comes from still persisting; persistence comes from still having something they cannot let go of. Those who cannot let go will not die.

Then they set down their weapon.

Setting down is not letting go; it is consciously placing the weapon on one's knee. The moment the weapon leaves the hand, the fingers feel a sudden emptiness, as if a piece of flesh had dropped. This is normal—the connection between hand and weapon is temporarily severed, the spirit's resonance weakens. But after a while, the weapon rests on the thigh, its weight pressing there, its warmth lingering in the fabric, the tremor of the heartbeat traveling along the bone. The weapon steadies, and so does the person.

He closed his eyes.

Eyelids shut, the world turned from gray to black. Gray is external oppression; black is one's own. Black feels more reassuring than gray—black is the color of night, of sleep, of being able to breathe. Closing the eyes is not sleep; it is withdrawal. Withdrawing the outward-extended divine sense, withdrawing scattered attention, withdrawing the slight concern placed on each person. Gathering them back, focusing them in the dantian, focusing them in the primordial spirit, focusing them on this body about to step onto the battlefield.

Those who close their eyes to nurture the spirit cannot sleep.

Because the heartbeat is too fast.

A cultivator's heartbeat can be self-regulated. At rest, seated quietly, it can drop to four or five beats per minute, like a hibernating animal, conserving energy. In battle it can rise to several hundred beats per minute, pumping blood to the extremities, pushing reaction speed to the limit. But now the state is in-between—the body does not need to fight, yet the heartbeat will not drop. It beats there, fast and irregular, without rhythm. The heart wants to slow, but the blood is too thick with spiritual power—the power mobilized before battle, spiritual power circulating through the meridians, stimulating the nerves, putting the whole body into a half-combat state. It cannot retreat, because the order has already been issued—prepare for battle. It can only wait, wait for that moment to arrive.

He closed his eyes.

The sound of the heartbeat is right by the ear.

Pressing the ear to a pillow lets one hear one's own heartbeat—that's common knowledge. But cultivators need not press ear to pillow—their hearing is too keen. Closing the eyes filters out external sounds, amplifying the heartbeat. It is the body's background noise—normally external noise presses on it, so it does not stand out. Once quiet, the background becomes the lead. Thump, thump, thump. Not a continuous drumbeat, but distinct single syllables. Between each sound is a brief pause. That pause is the ventricle's relaxation, the gap for blood to return. In silence, that pause becomes extremely long.

Like a drummer beating a drum.

The drum is a battlefield instrument, not for appreciation. It has a rhythm, and that rhythm is the order to advance. Drumbeats urge people forward, urge them to swing knives, urge them to die. The heartbeat is the same. The heartbeat in my chest beats like a war drum; each beat says—advance, advance, advance. Yet I am still sitting here, not yet advanced. The drummer does not know what tune he is playing; the tune is set by the conductor, who has not yet given the command. The drummer only knows he cannot stop.

The drummer does not know what tune he is playing.

He only knows he cannot stop.

What happens if it stops? If it stops, the drum grows cold. The drumhead is made of animal hide, which needs warmth. The drum's sound keeps the hide vibrating; vibration produces heat, heat keeps the hide elastic. If it stops, the hide cools, cools becomes brittle, brittle cracks, cracked it cannot sound. If the war drum cracks, the army goes deaf, a deaf army cannot fight. So the drummer keeps beating, beating a tune with no name, no melody. This tune is what every person awaiting battle feels in their heart. It is fear, anticipation, anxiety, resolve. Fear and resolve are not contradictory—fear is the will to live, resolve is the readiness to die. Every beating heart is a battlefield of these two forces.

If it stops, the person dies.

Cang Xuan stood behind Wang Ping.

His position was not at the other end of the stone platform. That end was empty, reserved for Jiang Mingyuan. Cang Xuan stood where the stone platform meets the mountain, a place half a zhang lower than the platform—one could step up with a lift of the foot, but he did not. He stood low, head raised, looking at Wang Ping's back. This is a sword cultivator's habit—sword cultivators do not stand on high ground. Those who stand high are easily seen, and a sword seen is a dead sword. The true sword stays sheathed, one stands in darkness.

His hand rested on the sword hilt.

The familiar grip, repeated every day. The sword hilt warmed by the heat of the palm, the cord absorbed sweat and became supple and pliable. When new, it was hard on the hand, the cord stiff as wire. Now, after decades of polishing, it has finally softened. How long has this sword been with him? He does not remember. For a sword cultivator, the sword is life. Sword present, life present; sword broken, life broken.

His sword trembled faintly within its sheath.

The frequency is very low.

Low enough that human ears cannot hear it.

The frequency range humans can hear is roughly between twenty hertz and twenty thousand hertz. Below twenty hertz is called infrasound, which the ears cannot hear. But the body can hear it. Internal organs can hear it, bones can hear it, blood can hear it. Infrasound makes the chest feel stuffy, the scalp tingle, the stomach churn, and creates an indescribable unease. The vibration emitted by Cangxuan's sword lies in this frequency band. It isn't intentionally this low—it would like to hum as usual in the mid-frequency range of a few hundred hertz, clear, sharp, and penetrating. But it cannot. That vibration comes from a distant void, heavy, huge, irresistible, suppressing its high frequency and forcing it down into the low range, so it cannot lift its head. The sword is trying to tell its master something, but it is too terrifying—so terrifying that it dares not speak loudly. It dares only to repeat it over and over at the lowest possible frequency, in a band that only its master can hear.

But its body can hear it.

The bones are resonating.

Resonance is the result of matching frequencies. Whatever frequency the sword vibrates at, that is the bone's natural frequency. They are at the same frequency—when the sword moves, the bone moves. Bone is the body's framework; when the framework vibrates, the whole body vibrates. The vibration is very slight, like the faintest tremor before an earthquake—you feel the ground hasn't moved, but the water surface in a cup on the table trembles.

Blood is resonating.

Blood is a liquid; liquid resonance is more subtle than solid resonance. It is not the whole mass vibrating, but each blood cell vibrating. When blood flows through the heart, the heart's original rhythm is disturbed by the vibration and must readjust, beating in time with the sword's frequency. The heartbeat synchronizes with the sword, the breath synchronizes with the heartbeat. He lives by the sword's frequency—when the sword vibrates once, his heart beats once. The faster the vibration, the faster the heartbeat; the more urgent the vibration, the more urgent the heartbeat. Now the sword vibrates so low and deep that his heartbeat also becomes low and deep.

He is listening to the sword speak.

Can the sword speak? No, the sword cannot speak; it has no mouth, no vocal cords, no language. But the sword has a spirit, and the spirit has awareness—awareness is the sword's language. Awareness is more direct than language—language must be converted into concepts to be understood, awareness needs none. Awareness skips concepts and directly imprints 'knowing' onto your spiritual platform. You know, yet you cannot say what you know—that is awareness. Cangxuan is now in this state. His spiritual platform was struck by the sword's awareness, and he knew. Knew what? He knew the direction, the distance, and the nature of the qi.

The sword is speaking—

They have come.

They are who? They are order. They are the silver-white legion, the entirety of the accumulation of the Purified World Court, the executors of the will of the Lord of Order. They have come—not about to come, not currently coming, but already here. Their vanguard has already entered the void beyond the spirit realm's periphery; their pressure has already pierced the defensive grand formation; their gaze has already locked onto this place. The sword sensed it, faster than any divine awareness. The sword is the most sensitive thing; before the enemy's killing intent condenses into an attack, the sword senses it first. Vibrations of the air, disturbances of the law, fluctuations of qi—the sword can perceive them all. It does not speak, but it is always listening, always perceiving. What it perceives pours into Cangxuan's spiritual platform, and Cangxuan 'knows'. The information turns into a chill in the spine, creeping up vertebra by vertebra—the neck goes numb, the back of the head goes numb, the scalp tightens. The body says—'They have come.'

Wang Ping also felt it.

Wang Ping's chaotic divine sense spreads outward from within him. An ordinary Void God cultivator's divine sense 'goes' out—like water, flowing along the channels of space, going around mountains, merging with waters. Wang Ping's is different—his divine sense is not water, but 'seeps'. The nature of chaos is to encompass all things; every inch of space his divine sense passes through, he can seep into. Spatial laws cannot block him, material obstructions cannot block him, not even differences in the flow of time can block him. Wherever his divine sense reaches, he is not present there, yet he is everywhere.

He passed through the roof of the Ninth Dao Institute. There were tiles on the roof; as the divine sense passed through them, the tiles' texture, density, and cracks were revealed in minute detail. One tile had a tiny crack, inside which lay a seed—no one knows what year the wind blew it there; it had not sprouted, but was still alive. The divine sense continued upward.

He passed through the spirit realm's defensive grand formation. The grand formation left behind by Jiang Mingyuan was still operating. Its patterns resembled a giant net, layered and interlaced, pulsing with a faint golden light. As the divine sense passed through the formation's net, it felt a warmth—Jiang Mingyuan's aura, plus the aura of the Ice Moon Immortal Maiden, plus the auras of all spirit realm cultivators who had contributed spiritual power to strengthen this grand formation. Their spiritual power still flowed within the formation, even though the people were gone. When the divine sense passed through it, it slowed for an instant—not because it was blocked, but as a sign of respect. He passed beyond the grand formation.

He passed through that expanse of gray sky. Gray is the condensation of the power of order. When the divine sense touches the gray, it feels like touching ice, but it is not ice—ice melts, gray does not. Gray is a formation of nothingness, placed there, refusing to let anything non-orderly pass through. When the chaotic divine sense contacts it, it emits a hissing sound, like red-hot iron thrown into cold water. Wang Ping's primordial spirit trembled slightly, but he did not stop. The resistance of the gray grew greater, thicker, denser. He forced his way through. In the hissing, a small patch of gray was opened up by chaos, turned into true chaos—colorless, formless, shapeless. That was his own Dao, having burned a pinhole through the gray. He emerged from that pinhole.

Extending into the depths of the void.

In the void there are no reference points, so the divine sense has no speed limit. A distance of ten thousand li is but a flick of the finger for the divine sense. He raced through the void at extreme speed, passing through the rubble belt outside the spirit realm, through the distorted space region left by the ancient war, and through the several abandoned outpost stars. All along, he sensed temperature changes—the spirit realm direction was warm, under the gray it was cool, and farther out the temperature kept dropping. In the void of the spirit realm there is no concept of temperature; this 'cool' is a coolness at the level of law—the power of order devouring the power of chaos, leaving a vacuum after the chaos is drawn away, which is cool.

The divine sense spread through the void.

Like countless invisible tendrils.

The tips of the tendrils have sensation. They touch stray spiritual energy in the void, they touch remnants of ancient formations left behind, they touch drifting fragments of corpses in the void—those are the remains of the ancient battle, belonging to no known side. As the divine sense sweeps past them, it can feel extremely faint remnants of information: a shattered consciousness fragment repeatedly saying 'destroy', another calling out a name, a third left with only an image—a woman's face. They have been dead for tens of thousands of years, yet their words are unfinished. The tendrils press onward without pause. They reach the edge of the void storm, they encounter an unformed secret realm embryo, they encounter the excretion of something unknown. The farthest tip of the tendrils.

Extending in all directions.

All directions are not just four directions, but every direction—front, back, left, right, up, down, as well as the dimensions of time and law, and the dimension of causality. His divine sense extends along the lines of law—each law is like a string, and the divine sense walks along the string to reach its far end. That far end lies far away—at the edge of the void, at the entrance of the Return to the Ruins, and throughout this entire star field surrounding the spirit realm. Each direction feeds back information. The divine sense on the left reports—void density is normal. The divine sense on the right reports—spiritual power fluctuations are normal. The divine sense ahead reports—large numbers of unidentified objects have been detected in the void, distance still being determined. The divine sense behind reports—toward the spirit realm, the gray pressure continues to rise. The divine sense below reports—unknown disturbances have been detected deep in the spirit realm's earth veins, the source of the disturbance has been marked. The divine sense above—

Above.