Chapter 432

When Jiu Er arrived, Wang Ping was looking at the sky.

The sky was still gray—not the leaden gray before a storm, nor the dark gray of fading dusk, but a gray that should not exist anywhere in nature—it had no shade variation, no light‑dark transition, as if someone had torn the word "gray" from a dictionary and pasted it on the sky, then told you this would be your sky from now on.

Wang Ping stared at it for a long time, long enough for his eyes to grow sore. He didn't like it, but he had to keep watching, because another color might appear in that gray at any moment—silver‑white.

Silver‑white was the enemy's color, the color of order, the signal that the battle destined to come was drawing near.

He stood on the stone platform, his robes snapping in the wind, his hair tangled, his eyes filled with bloodshot veins. He hadn't slept in a long time.

He stood there, motionless—not because he didn't want to move, but because he dared not. Too much surged inside him—chaotic spiritual power crashing through his meridians, chaotic immortal thunder circling above his primordial spirit, and the chaotic immortal stele slowly turning in his dantian.

They all wanted to burst out, charge into the sky, and fight that gray. But he held them back, for the time had not yet come. In war, what's most feared isn't a strong enemy, but losing control of oneself first.

He must not waver. The Spirit Realm watches him, the Heavens Alliance watches him, Cang Xuan, Yu Liuli, and You Ying watch him. He stands at the front; he is the banner. A banner cannot fall—if it does, everything is over.

The footsteps were very light—light as a cat stepping on cotton, light as a leaf falling to the ground, light as someone walking in a dream. But Wang Ping heard them.

It wasn't because his hearing was sharp, but because he was waiting for that sound. He knew whose steps they were—Cang Xuan's steps were steady, heel touching down first, then the toe grinding slightly, like a nail driven into the earth, each step planted deep.

Yu Liuli walked as if gliding on water, her feet not touching the ground, her sleeves brushing the surface with a fine rustle. You Ying made no footstep sound; she was a shadow, and a shadow's movement needs no sound.

This footstep was different—small, light, quick, like a little rabbit running on grass. It had an owner, and that owner's name was Jiu Er.

Wang Ping did not turn around. Not because he didn't want to, but because he dared not. He feared that if he turned, his heart would soften; if it softened, he would say "yes"; saying "yes" would mean losing her.

His chaotic divine sense had long sensed the surging of Jian Mu's power within her body—that force was spinning in her dantian, turning since the day the Jian Mu sapling awoke, but it had never spun this fast before.

It was like a dammed river, the water rising higher and higher, about to overflow the barrier. She was gathering power. Ever since the Lord of Order awoke, she had been doing so.

What was she gathering power for? Wang Ping guessed, but he didn't want to hear. Because hearing it would mean making a decision, and once decided, there'd be no turning back.

Jiu Er ran to Wang Ping's rear, stopped, and panted. The breath she exhaled turned into white mist, which the wind blew away.

Her face was red—not the healthy pink she usually had, like a faint blush on peach petals, but a flushed red—red from running too far, from holding her breath too long, from having too many words she couldn't say trapped in her heart.

Sweat covered her forehead, beads rolling from the corners down past her temples, sliding over the fine hairs before her ears, dripping onto her collar, which was already damp in a small patch. She wiped with the back of her hand, wiped again and still sweated, wiped again and still sweated. When the back of her hand grew wet, she gripped the hem of her clothes to wipe.

In her hand she also gripped something else, so tightly her knuckles whitened, her nails pressed into her palm, leaving four crescent‑shaped white marks.

She had run all the way from the Jian Mu, clutching it, afraid that if she ran too fast she'd fling it away, and afraid that if she gripped too tight she'd crush it. Her force was just right—not loose, not tight—like holding a chick that had just broken its shell.

Wang Ping still did not turn. His back faced her, his rear robe still snapping in the wind, his hair blown into disarray, and a shallow scar lay on the back of his neck—a remnant from Gui Xu, where a ripple of law once grazed him in battle, not breaking bone but leaving a mark on the skin.

Jiu Er looked at that scar and thought it resembled a centipede clinging to Wang Ping's neck—ugly, yet somehow endearing. She wanted to reach out and touch it, but restrained herself; her hand was sweaty, and touching would hurt him.

She stood behind him, panting, waiting for him to turn. She dared not speak first, for what she had to say was too heavy—heavy enough that she needed to meet his eyes to utter it.

Wind blew from the side, lifting her hair—black as ink, flowing in the breeze like a thin river.

Her body swayed—not from the wind, but from herself. It was the sway of fear, of tension, of not knowing whether to speak.

She was a bit taller than three years ago. Three years ago she only reached Wang Ping's waist; now she reaches his chest. But she is still small, so small that she sways when the wind blows.

Her hands were small, her fingers short, her nails round, her knuckles not yet developed. Her shoulders were narrow, and on her back she carried a cloth bundle containing little—a change of clothes, half a piece of dry food, a worn‑out Qi‑Refining introductory manual, and a broken branch of the Building Tree.

This was all her possessions. A child without a home, her entire belongings were just these. She lifted the bundle, took a deep breath, and opened her mouth—

"Big brother."

Her voice was very soft.

It was as faint as a mosquito's buzz. A mosquito's buzz isn't truly inaudible; it's just that the decibels are too low, the air vibrations too weak, and even a slight breeze blows it away.

Her voice, as soon as it left her mouth, was torn into several pieces by the turbulent wind on the stone platform—one "Da" drifted left, one "Ge" drifted right, and the middle "Ge" had not yet landed before it scattered in the air. But Wang Ping heard it. Not with his ears, but with his heart.

Other people's "Big brother" has three syllables; hers does not. From the day he carried her out of the ruins of the Immortal Palace, she has called him Big Brother, for three years, hundreds or thousands of times. Each time the tone was different.

When hungry, calling "Big brother" is a whiny version with a drawn‑out vowel; when she finds wild fruit, it's an excited version with a rising pitch; when she wakes from a nightmare crying, it's a pleading version tinged with sobs. This time's tone he had never heard before—flat, low, and forceful.

It was like someone holding a bowl filled to the brim with water using all their strength, not daring to shake their hand, not daring to take big steps, not daring to breathe heavily. She was straining to control her vocal cords, afraid that if they trembled her voice would break; if her voice broke, her courage would break too.

Wang Ping turned around.

He turned very slowly. Not deliberately slow—he knew this moment was important, so his body automatically slowed its pace. His heels turned first, then his waist followed, his shoulders followed his waist, and his head followed his shoulders. As he turned, the wind blew on his face, lifting his hair from his forehead and revealing his whole face. His face was smudged with ash, sweaty, and covered with three days' stubble. His eye bags were heavy, the rims of his eyelids reddened. He was looking at Jiu'er. Jiu'er lifted her chin to look at him, her neck craned high because Wang Ping had crouched down, so she didn't have to crane it as much.

He crouched down.

He met her gaze.

Level gaze was his habit. From the first day he brought her, whenever he spoke to her he never stood. Standing to speak is adult arrogance—you look down at a child, the child looks up at you. When they are eye‑level, her words are not "a child's words" but "a person's words." Their lines of sight meet at the same height, and he sees her eyes. Her eyes are bright, with red threads across the whites—not just one or two, but a whole sheet. Red strands extend from the corners of her eyes toward the pupils, like fine cracks on a dried riverbed, like the veins on an autumn leaf, like a spiderweb woven too tightly. She hasn't slept for several days; since the day the Master of Order woke, she hasn't closed her eyes. It's not that she doesn't want to sleep; she can't. As soon as she closes her eyes she sees that light—silvery‑white, icy, stiff—shooting from the direction of the primordial chaos sea, passing through the Returned Ruins, through the Spirit Realm's defensive grand formation, through the roof of the Ninth Dao Academy, through her eyelids, straight to the deepest part of her dreams. In the dream she stands on a vast silvery‑white plain, with no one around, no trees, no Building Tree, no Big Brother. She stands there alone; countless silver eyes in the sky watch her. She calls "Big Brother," but no one answers. She calls "Building Tree," but no one answers. She can only stand there, standing until she wakes. Upon waking she dares not sleep again, fearing she'll return to that plain.

Her lips were chapped, the cracked spots covered with dark‑red scabs, hard as stone. She had bitten her lips with her teeth—when nervous she habitually bites her lower lip, peeling off the dry skin, creating a fresh wound that oozes blood, which dries into a scab. After scabbing, the spot becomes itchy and hard, so she bites again, breaking the scab and making it bleed once more. After repeating this several times, her lips are layered with old and new wounds. The top layer is still soft, its edges slightly curled, exuding a bit of clear tissue fluid. When she speaks, her lips move; if they pull on a wound she draws a faint breath—hiss. After inhaling she continues speaking, without complaint, without coquetry, and without asking anyone to help her apply medicine.

Her hand was trembling. She tried to hide the trembling hand behind her back, but she couldn't. Her clothes were too thin, her sleeves too wide, and the veins on the back of her hand pulsed visibly, a clear throbbing. It wasn't from cold—although the wind on the stone platform was strong and the temperature low, she was a cultivator at the peak of the Qi‑Refining stage, so this breeze couldn't harm her. It was fear. Fear that the words she spoke would be rejected, fear that Big Brother would pat her head and say "You're still small, you don't need to do this," fear that after all her preparation, after running so far, after clutching that branch all the way, she would have to turn back and walk home alone. She pulled her hand from behind her back, gripped the branch again—still trembling, but she clenched it tighter. The branch was her anchor; holding it made her less afraid.

"Big brother." She called again. Her voice was a little louder than the first time—not much, just gone from a mosquito's buzz to a bee's hum. But the tone was steadier, the syllables linked, no longer blown away by the wind. The first call had been a test—first draw a breath to see if he was listening. He was listening. He had crouched down, was looking at her eyes, waiting for her to speak. That gave her strength. The strength of being taken seriously. What a child needs most is not praise, not sweets, not new clothes. It is being taken seriously. When an adult squats down to meet your gaze, waits for you to finish speaking, eyes steady, not interrupting, not rushing to say "We'll talk later," you feel you are not a child but a person.

Wang Ping looked at her, silent. His hands rested on his knees, fingers slightly curled, knuckles resting on his kneecaps, maintaining a posture ready to reach out at any moment—but he didn't. He dared not. If he reached out, he would touch her trembling shoulder; touching her trembling shoulder, he would instinctively pull her into his embrace; once he did that, he would say "Don't be scared, don't be scared, Big Brother is here." Saying that, he could no longer refuse her. He could not refuse her, but he could not agree to her either. He was caught between two opposing forces—the duty of the True Lord of Chaos and Jiu'er's Big Brother, reason and emotion, the optimal strategic solution and personal desire. They tugged at him like a rope, he stood at its midpoint, torn either way. So he could only stay silent; silence was his last line of defense.

Silence fermented between them. The wind still blew, the robes still rustled, and far beneath the gray sky a low rumble of thunder rolled—was it the Vajra Clan's hammer striking something, or some pre‑battle signal? Here it couldn't be made out.

Jiu'er coughed once. It wasn't really an itchy throat; when nervous, her throat secretes a viscous saliva. She swallowed the dry, gritty air in her mouth, moved her lips, licked the crack with her tongue—hiss—and drew another breath. Then she lifted the thing she had been clutching in her hand up to Wang Ping's face.

It was a branch. A branch of the Building Tree. Not a dry twig picked up from the ground, not a wind‑broken fragment, but a new shoot that had naturally sprouted from the main trunk of a Building Tree sapling. Its break was not at either end—it had no break. It had not been snapped off; the Building Tree had actively "transferred" it. The way a tree relinquishes a branch differs from how a person hands over a token—it actively cuts off the nutrient supply to that branch, causing the cambium at its base to differentiate into a root primordium, which is then wrapped in a thin layer of callus tissue. Thus, when this branch is taken, its base is dry, not wet; it is not a wound but a ready‑made root. It is still alive, merely temporarily detached from its parent. As soon as it contacts suitable soil, it can take root within a few breaths.

The branch was very thin—thin as a chopstick, a little thinner than Jiu'er's little finger, and as long as a finger. Its bark was tender green, so tender it was translucent. Holding it up to the light, one could see the semi‑transparent pith inside, within which ran an extremely fine, extremely fine dark green line—that was the Building Tree's primordial power, the bloodline of this innate spiritual root passed down from ancient times. It is older than most civilizations in the myriad worlds, older than the Spirit Realm, older than the Returned Ruins. It is sealed within this finger‑long branch, like fitting an entire sea into a single drop of water.

There were two leaves on it. The leaves were tiny, still unopened, their edges slightly curled inward like a baby's clenched fist. The venation was symmetrical pinnate: the midrib ran straight from the petiole to the tip, and the lateral veins extended outward from the midrib on both sides, each clearly distinct. The two leaves were opposite—one at each tip of the branch, pointing in opposite directions. One faced east, the other west, and both leaves tilted slightly upward toward the sky. It was still photosynthesizing. Such a small branch, clutched all the way, was still photosynthesizing.

There was a droplet on the leaf. It was not rain, not dew. The stone platform had neither rain nor dew—this drop of water was secreted by the branch itself through its stomata.

Under certain conditions plants exude water—when root pressure is too high, moisture is actively expelled through the water pores at the leaf edges, carrying with it dissolved trace nutrients. This droplet was the Building Tree's guttation.

When it releases a droplet of liquid, the process is slow—the liquid first forms a tiny bead at the leaf edge, gradually grows, and when surface tension can no longer hold it, the bead trembles slightly. But it does not fall.

The bead remained, crystal clear like a miniature glass pearl. Light passing through it was refracted into a small segment of rainbow—red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet, the seven colors in order, complete but fleeting, a flash and gone, after which the next droplet began to condense.

It was as if the branch itself were breathing—inhaling spiritual energy from the void, exhaling dew. It was alive. It did not know what it was destined to do, but it knew it had left its parent, knew it had been entrusted to a little girl, knew her palm was warm, her heartbeat fast, her grip tight. In her palm it adjusted the tip of its root, pointing downward, toward the ground.

It was waiting. Waiting to be planted in the soil, waiting to take root, waiting to grow into a new Building Tree. Or waiting to be used for some other purpose. Trees do not complain—whatever they are used for, they do. This is the way of the Building Tree, and of all trees.

The base of the branch bore roots—not fully grown roots, but freshly differentiated root primordia. In botany, a root primordium is a clump of undifferentiated meristematic tissue—it is not yet a root, but it holds the full potential of a root.

Given suitable temperature, moisture, and substrate, it can differentiate into a true root tip within a few hours; then the tip's cells begin to divide and elongate, root hairs erupt from epidermal cells, and penetrate the interstices of soil particles.

These few root primordia trembled slightly in the air, sensing the direction of gravity and beginning to curve downward. This is gravitropism. The gravity signal is sensed by starch granules in the root cap cells, then translated into an asymmetric distribution of auxin, ultimately causing the root tip to bend toward the direction of gravity.

Even though this branch had not yet touched the ground, it already knew which way was down and had begun to grow that way. It wanted to live.

Jiu'er held the branch up in front of Wang Ping, holding it steady and level, neither too high nor too low. The branch trembled slightly in her palm—not her hand shaking, but the branch itself trembling.

It has life, it has feeling, it has something it wants. It wants to be taken over. Taken over by this man crouching before her, his eyes full of bloodshot, his face unshaven, and then do what it is meant to do.

The Building Tree said, it can open a passage that leads straight to the Lord of Order's lair.

This sentence she practiced for a long time. From the moment she decided to help, she started practicing, practicing by day, practicing by night, practicing in front of the mirror, practicing against the Building Tree's trunk. What tone, what speed, where to pause, where to emphasize. She spoke in front of the mirror. The her in the mirror was too small, no matter how she practiced she didn't look like an adult, not like Cangxuan's cool and reliable, not like Yuliuli's calm and elegant, not like Youying's silent and powerful. She could only be herself. Finally she gave up imitation. She spoke with her own voice—a child's tone, a girl's enunciation, earnest to the point that each word was pronounced clearly.

Building Tree.

Primordial Innate Spiritual Root, the center of all heavens and myriad worlds. Legend says when heaven and earth first opened, chaos undivided, in the void the first thing born was not heaven nor earth, but a tree.

This tree is the Building Tree. Its roots are sunk in chaos, its branches and leaves stretch toward the myriad worlds, each leaf bearing a star, each root filament connecting a world. It is the 'hub' of all heavens and myriad worlds—the passages between worlds are formed from its trunk and branches, the laws between worlds are conveyed through its vasculature.

During the time it existed, the myriad worlds interconnected, order and chaos coexisted. Later it died. Not of old age, but was cut down. Its trunk was severed at the base, the cut surface smooth, a single blow— the attacker's cultivation was heaven-reaching, the attacker's speed extremely fast, so fast that the Building Tree had no time to react before it was severed.

The sap spurting from the cut turned into a sky-filling green light rain, falling across all heavens and myriad worlds. Some of the light rain fell in the depths of void, becoming new small worlds.

Some fell into a mortal realm, picked up by a passing cultivator and refined into an immortal artifact; most dissipated. The fallen trunk turned into countless fragments, scattering throughout the void, one fragment carrying the Building Tree's last vitality fell into the Immortal Palace ruins, sinking into the deepest part of the ruins.

The seed was condensed later—it is not the Building Tree's fruit, but the Building Tree, knowing it would die, used its last strength to condense a seed at the break.

The seed is only the size of a grain of rice, wrapped in the Building Tree's life imprint and all its hereditary memory, waiting in the Immortal Palace ruins for countless years. When Jiu'er came, it sprouted, took root, and grew into a sapling. Now it is still just a sapling, not yet grown into a towering tree, not yet connected to the myriad worlds.

But it is alive, the sole existing spiritual root among all heavens and myriad worlds that possesses the Building Tree's bloodline. It is the enemy of the Lord of Order, for the Lord of Order was the one who felled the Building Tree back then. The sapling remembers. A tree's memory is not stored in the brain, but in the root system.

When the mother tree fell, the vibration traveled through the roots to the entire root network; the root network transformed the vibration into a signal, the signal passed through the bark, the cambium, the xylem, and was finally inscribed in the cells of the offspring seed, becoming part of the hereditary memory.

So the sapling knows how it died—cut by that clump of silver-white thing. It waited countless years, waited for Jiu'er, waited for the chance to reconnect all heavens and myriad worlds. It wants to help.

Open a passage.

Not a physical road, not a line segment from point A to point B, not a temporary gate constructed by shuttling through void. It is the Building Tree's root network.

The Building Tree's roots are not only fixed in the spiritual realm's ley lines—just the sapling, its root system's reach is limited. But if its growth is stimulated in a short time, activating the myriad world coordinates in the hereditary memory by burning its life imprint, it can temporarily elevate itself back to its primordial form—even if only for a moment.

At that moment, its roots can pierce the void, pierce the law barriers, pierce the Lord of Order's lair's defenses, and drill out a temporary passage between all dimensions.

The passage is not a road, but a 'shortcut'. From one point to another, there is no distance in between. Your foot is here, you step out, and you are there. No process, no time, no risk—only a cost.