Chapter 433: Jiu

It leads straight to the lair of the Lord of Order.

Where is the lair of the Lord of Order? Deep in the Primordial Chaos Sea, at the core of the Purification Court, the source of all order laws across the myriad realms. There lies the absolute domain of Order—where the Void Laws are completely nullified, and Chaotic Power is suppressed to its limit.

No known teleportation array can reach there, no void channel can penetrate its defence. If the Allied Forces of the Myriad Realms wish to launch a conventional assault, they must first break through the Order Army spanning three hundred thousand void li—three at the Peak of Unity, thirty at the Late Nascent Soul, over a hundred at the Mid Nascent Soul, and countless apostles and puppets. Before breaking through them, the Allied Forces have already lost more than half their strength.

After breaking through, the survivors must still face the Lord of Order's true form—a peak Void Refinement existence, invincible. This is a dead end. The Fusang tree's passage is the only way for the Allied Forces to bypass the entire army and strike directly at the Lord of Order's true form.

Capture the bandit, capture the chief. As long as the Lord of Order is defeated, the army becomes leaderless, the seeds of Order lose their source, and all apostles and puppets will lose power, becoming empty husks. This passage is the deciding factor. If it cannot be opened, the Allied Forces will surely lose. If it can be opened, there remains a sliver of hope. But the key is only one—Jiu'er.

Wang Ping stared at that branch. He watched the dewdrop on the branch flicker, watched the veins on the leaves extend thread by thread, watched the rootlets gently bend in the air. He stared for a long time.

Long enough for the wind to stop and rise again, rise and stop again, as a muffled thunder rolled across the grey horizon in the distance, and the Golden Clan's hammer struck once more. Long enough that Jiu'er's arm, holding the branch, began to ache, her wrist trembling slightly—not the tremor of fear, but the tremor of muscle fatigue.

She gritted her teeth to keep her arm from sinking, lifting her shoulders upward. Wang Ping noticed. He did not speak at once. He reached out, not to take the branch, but to hook his rough index finger beneath it, helping to support its weight—that weight was so light it almost did not exist, yet he supported it.

The veins on the back of his hand bulged from the effort, the pads of his fingers bearing old calluses from sword practice, those calluses pressing against the newborn bark, roughness against tenderness. He said nothing, but his fingers were doing a small thing—lending a hand. When the child could no longer hold on, the adult extended a finger to prop her up. This one finger mattered more than ten thousand words.

Then he asked: "What is the price?"

His voice was cold. Not cold toward Jiu'er, but cold toward the answer he already sensed. His chaotic divine sense had already warned him—the chaotic primordial spirit in his dantian opened its eyes, the chaotic immortal lightning slowly accelerated its spin, and the chaotic immortal stele vibrated faintly against his chest. The stele spirit still slept, but the stele itself sensed something—it was growing cold.

Not a chill of temperature, but a chill on the level of the Dao. Something was approaching, not at spatial speed, but at causal speed. It was coming—the price. Wang Ping knew the Fusang tree would not help for nothing. The chaotic immortal stele had made him understand that power always comes with a price; under heaven, there is no free fortune.

A tree that has lived over thirty thousand years, endured one death, and bears the grudge of its clan's extermination, will not burn its life imprint without cost just because a little girl asks it. It has its own desires. What it wants must be precious. He asked Jiu'er, but his voice dared not rise. Fearful that if he spoke louder, Jiu'er would shatter before she could answer.

Jiu'er lowered her head, saying nothing.

Her fingers stroked the branch. Starting from the base of the branch, moving upward, pausing at the leaf axil of the first leaf, then upward again, pausing at the petiole of the second leaf, then upward again, pausing at the terminal bud of the branch.

Then she returned, moving downward. The stroking was slow, not heavy, the pads of her fingers rolling over the longitudinal fissures in the bark. Those fissures were too fine for the naked eye to see, but her finger pads could feel them—one by one, dense and dense, not the cracks of an old tree, but the natural grain of a tender shoot.

Each grain was a vascular bundle, within which flowed dilute sap, within which lay the memories of the Fusang tree. She had stared for a long time. Not with her eyes, but with her fingers she had "seen" the life of the Fusang tree.

It awoke amidst the ruins of the Immortal Palace. Around it lay ruins—stone pillars shattered into fragments, tiles ground to powder, once-glorious palaces reduced to broken walls and remnants.

No sunlight, the depths of the ruins were eternal darkness. No water, only occasional droplets of dead water condensing on the stone walls, their mineral content too high for humans or trees to drink. No soil—its roots had nowhere to take hold, only able to struggle in the cracks between rubble.

It thought it would die. Germinating a seed requires courage, but a sapling surviving requires luck. Its luck had run out. Then a small hand pressed against its slender trunk. The hand was small, a little dirty, with dirt under the nails, and a mosquito bite on the back of the hand.

But it was warm—warm as a small charcoal brazier. The tree's roots stirred in the soil—not from cold, but from emotion. It had been far too long since any living thing had touched it. This hand was the first life it had contacted since awakening. It decided to live on. Not for itself, but for this person.

So that when she returned, it could give her a little shade—even if only palm-sized, even if only to block the chilly wind of the ruins. Now, this person needed it.

It would not refuse. A tree's way of refusing is to not bloom, not bear fruit, not sprout new buds; its way of agreeing is just as simple—offering its branches, extending its roots, burning itself to ash.

Her fingers stopped at the radicle of the branch. That small cluster of white meristematic tissue still trembled faintly, still bending downward in an arc. She felt its heartbeat.

Not a metaphor—plants have hydraulic pulses. Root pressure pumps water from the roots to the stems and leaves; one pump, the vascular bundle swells; after the pump, it recoils; after the recoil, it pumps again.

This swelling and shrinking is the tree's pulse, its frequency very low—once every few minutes—but her hand remained there long enough to feel it. In the pulse of this sapling, she read the answer.

When the Fusang tree told her the price, there was no sound—only a kind of "knowing." She swallowed that knowing, then lifted her head.

"The price is me."

She did not say those two words, but her gaze said them. Wang Ping understood. His lips moved, something blocked in his throat, unable to come out. Those two words. He wanted to say—no.

But he could not say it, for this passage concerned the survival of the myriad realms. He was the Chaotic True Lord, the commander of the Allied Forces of the Myriad Realms. A commander cannot let emotion rule; a commander can only say "good."

But he was Jiu'er's big brother. A big brother cannot say "good." He was trapped between these two identities, stuck in the middle, unable to move. So he continued to stay silent.

"Big brother, Jiu'er has grown up."

Her voice finally stopped trembling. Three words, each a broken clause, each short sentence followed by an extremely brief pause, as she told herself—yes, just like this. This was a line she had practiced for a long time. From the moment she decided to help, she had been practicing it.

Practiced by day—taking advantage of the gaps when Cang Xuan practiced swordplay, she hid behind the stone pillars, speaking to the mottled moss on the pillars. Practiced by night—taking advantage of everyone being in the tents discussing affairs, she ran to the Fusang sapling, leaned against the trunk, lifted her head to gaze at the light filtering through the leaves, and spoke to the tree in the darkness.

Practiced in front of the mirror—the mirror reflected a little girl with a crooked ponytail, her face not yet fully grown, a small patch of freckles on her nose, her lips crusted with dried blood. She looked at that person in the mirror and said to herself—you have grown up. Once, not believing it, she said it twice.

Twice still not believing, she said it ten times. Ten times still feeling the person in the mirror was lying, so she said it a hundred times. After a hundred repetitions, she finally began to believe it. Now she could finally say this line with level gaze, voice unwavering, eyelids not blinking, tail tone not rising. This was not a question, not a command, but a statement. She was stating a fact.

But small does not mean weak. Small is only small. Ants are tiny, yet ants can carry objects dozens of times their own weight. Grass seeds are tiny, yet grass seeds can push open stones. She is small, but she has the Fusang tree. The Fusang tree is great, great enough to have once connected the myriad realms.

The Fusang tree is also small—just a sapling. Two small lives added together are not necessarily small. She wanted her big brother to know this. She lifted her face, eyes unblinking, staring at him, waiting for his answer.

Wang Ping stared at her. This face he had seen countless times—when they first met in the Immortal Palace ruins, she had curled in the corner, trembling; in the kitchen of the Ninth Dao Institute, she had tiptoed to steal a steamed bun, which he caught her doing; in the back mountains, she had pointed at the tender bud of the Fusang sapling and shouted for him to look quickly; when she finished her cultivation drenched in sweat, he had carried her back to the house.

This face looked different in each scene—fearful, mischievous, excited, drowsy. Now this face was resolute.

Resoluteness is not an expression exclusive to adults. When a person makes up their mind, regardless of age, this expression appears—brows slightly drawn together but not furrowed, mouth slightly pursed but not bitten, eyes staring straight ahead but not glaring. This is resoluteness. It is not a muscular movement, but a light in the heart. Jiu'er's heart held light.

Something flashed in his eyes. Not tears. Tears are liquid, they flow down. Something in his eyes flashed—light—chaotic in hue, grey and misty, like the sky before dawn.

The light turned in his eye sockets, but did not fall. He had not cried in a long time. Since the day Xiao Han Mountain was exterminated, he had not shed tears. Tears are the weapon of the weak; he could not afford to be weak.

But at this moment, he nearly used that weapon. He held it in. His jawbone clenched, the masseter bulging slightly. His Adam's apple rolled up and down once, forcing something down hard.

Jiu'er reached out her hand—not to wipe his tears—there were no tears flowing from his eyes. She simply placed her palm on the back of his hand. His hand was large, fingers thick, joints hard, his back covered in small scars from sword practice and battle.

Her hand was small, resting on those scars, she gave a light pat—pa, very soft, almost no sound. This was something he had done for her since she was little—each time she woke from a nightmare, frightened, he would pat her hand like this, one tap after another, until she stopped crying. Now it was her turn to pat him.

"This time, let Jiu'er help you."

Help. Helping is not you taking my burden for me, but you and I shouldering it together. Before, it was you alone standing on the stone platform gazing at the sky, you were too tired. Now let me and you do it together. I will do what I can, you continue doing what you must. We will finish this together. When done, we can go back—back to eat the hot steamed buns in the kitchen, back to watch the Fusang tree on the back mountain grow taller, back to live ordinary days. She waited. She had said all that needed to be said; now only waiting remained.

Wang Ping stared at her, staring for a long time. Long enough that her wrist began to ache again. Her expression remained unchanged, still resolute. But her bitten lower lip had seeped a thread of blood—not from biting, but from her lips being too dry, the crack splitting open on its own. She did not wipe it.

His hand trembled. The chaotic immortal stele within him spun, spinning much faster than usual, so fast that the chaotic spiritual power in his dantian was stirred into a vortex. The stele spirit in the depths watched him, silent, offering no advice.

Not indifference, but the stele spirit knew he needed no advice—he already had the answer, he just dared not speak it aloud. He only needed someone to keep him company in silence, and the stele spirit kept him company in the depths.

His hand withdrew from the branch, reached into his own bosom. Not to take out the stele, not to draw the immortal lightning, but to touch the spot slightly left of centre on his chest. That was the heart. Not to pluck out the heart, but to feel the heartbeat. The heartbeat was still there—soon, heavy, each beat striking the chest cavity. The heartbeat of the Chaotic True Lord was just as tumultuous.

"Good."

One word.

Uttered from Wang Ping's mouth. Not shouted, not sighed, spoken for himself to hear. Like a stone rolling down from a mountain peak—the moment it detaches from the rock face at the highest point is a dull thud; the stone does not know what it will encounter rolling down—perhaps it will plunge into a river and sink, perhaps it will strike another stone and shatter to powder, perhaps it will roll all the way to the valley bottom, breaking countless saplings along the way, startling countless birds into flight.

At the moment he said "good," he did not know what the consequences would be. Did not know if he could win, did not know if the passage would succeed, did not know if Jiu'er could still awaken. He only knew one thing—he needed this "good."

The Spirit Realm needed it, the Allied Forces of the Myriad Realms needed it, the warriors who had come from the Thirty-Seven Clans needed it. He had no right to refuse the sole chance of victory out of private feeling. He was the Chaotic True Lord, disciple of Jiang Mingyuan, hope of the Spirit Realm.

Hope cannot be guided by emotion, only by doing what must be done. Doing what must be done is his Dao. The Dao of Chaos is not doing as one pleases, but a hundred rivers returning to the sea, silt and sand flowing downstream, doing what ought to be done, even if afterward the heart breaks.

Jiu'er stood in place, watching that "good" word fall from Wang Ping's mouth. She heard the heaviest word in the world.

It was not a command spoken to her, not a hollow coaxing, but treating her as someone like himself—capable of bearing consequences. She had waited three years, not waiting to hear "you have grown up," but waiting for this word.

She lunged forward. Not running, but lunging. Her feet pushed off the stone table, the force too great, shaking up a small handful of the thirty thousand years of dust accumulated in the stone table's groove; the dust swirled briefly in the low air before dispersing.

Her cloth-soled shoes were only a few inches off the ground, but in that instant she seemed to be flying, flying into big brother's embrace. Her arms wrapped around his neck, and he could smell the bitter residue of elixirs. Her hair brushed his chin, fine strands tangled in places, catching his stubble.

She didn't care; she held on tightly, afraid that if she let go he would return to that "good" word. She swallowed the "good" word back, said "no," said "you're still young," said "let's try another way." When she was brought out of the immortal palace ruins that day, she had held his neck just like this; then he had lifted her from the corner, she had been trembling, afraid he would let go.

Now she was trembling too, also afraid he would let go. But this time the trembling was different—three years ago it had been high-frequency shivering, like leaves in the wind.

Now it was low-frequency—one shake, a long pause, then another. Not from cold, but from heartbeat. Her heartbeat was so strong her body followed with a jolt. A deep breath, and her body rose and fell with it. She rose and fell in his embrace like a small boat moored at dock, the waves still there, but the mooring lines already tightened.

Wang Ping held her, his hand pressed to the back of her head. Her hair was very soft, soft as silk. His fingers slipped into her strands, fingertips touching her scalp, not rubbing, just resting.

He could feel the pulsation of cerebrospinal fluid beneath her skull—the signal of life. She was breathing, her warm breath spraying onto his shoulder blade, through the thin layer of robe fabric, the warmth imprinting on his skin. He gently drew her head forward a little, resting his chin on her crown. There were two whorls on her head, hair parting from the center in disarray. She never combed her hair seriously, each time just grabbing a couple of handfuls before running off. When she ran out, her hair would fly loose, blown by the wind into a bird's nest; when she returned, the ends would be tangled with broken leaves and grass seeds. He had told her many times, and each time she said okay, okay, okay, next time same as before. He stopped saying it. Nor would he say it again. From now on, she could comb her hair however she liked; he didn't want to nag her about her hair anymore. She could let her hair run loose all over the courtyard, dye it another color, cut it short, thin it, shave it bald—he wouldn't care. As long as she was awake.

Jiuer withdrew from his embrace. She pulled back quickly, not hesitating, but afraid that if she held on longer she would cry. She gave him a hard hug, then let go and stepped back. She lifted her face to look at him, her eyes very bright—not from reflected light, but from something welling up inside, straining not to spill over. She blinked once, quickly, then opened them again, still just as bright. She wasn't crying.

The corner of her mouth twitched—a smile. Not a happy laugh, not a loud laugh, but the kind where lips are gently pulled sideways and eyes slightly narrowed. No sound, no movement, just the corner of her mouth lifting slightly. But because there was still sweat on her face, the skin a bit taut, when she smiled the taut areas wrinkled first, then smoothed out. Like thin ice on a pond—first a crack, then melting into water. Her smile was that thin ice. She knew what she was doing. She knew that if she fell asleep she might never wake up. But she smiled anyway. Not because she was foolish, not because she didn't know fear, but because she had done it—completed what she wanted to do, said what needed to be said, gotten big brother's answer. Everything that needed doing was done; next was the matter of the building tree. She could smile now.

"Big brother, Jiuer will come back. When I wake up, I'll return."

Her voice was very light. Not weak, but light. The great stone in her heart had been set down, and her voice became light. She didn't say goodbye, only said she would come back. Because she believed she would come back. The roots of the building tree were planted in the spirit realm, and the spirit realm would not perish. Big brother's soul resided in her memory, and memory would not break. Roots unbroken, memory unbroken, she would return.

Then she turned around.

Not running away. Running is charging, is urgent, is wanting to quickly leave a place one is reluctant to leave. She did not run. She pushed aside big brother's arm, turned around, and began to walk. Step by step, steady, not fast. After three steps she stopped again, without turning back, just standing there. Her right hand gripped that branch—not holding it up, but pressed against her chest, the branch resting over her heart. She stood there a little while, her back to Wang Ping. Then she continued forward, step by step, without stopping a second time.

She ran toward the building tree.

She had walked the path from the stone table to the back mountain countless times. She could run it with her eyes closed—down from the stone table, past the yellowed lawn, around the old pine oozing murky resin, along the dry creek bed for fifty steps, turn left, pass through the thicket, climb a short slope, and there it was. The building tree stood on the slope's summit. Today the path was somewhat different—the lawn was yellower, previously yellow-green, now completely turned to withered yellow, crunching underfoot, grass blades shattering when stepped on. The old pine still oozed resin, more than before, resin seeping from cracks in the trunk and pooling on the ground in a small patch, dark brown and viscous. The creek bed had dried, stones exposed, their surfaces covered with dried moss remnants, grayish white. Lizards had vanished from their usual sunning spot on the third stone; today they were absent. She ran past every spot without stopping. Her cloth shoes scuffed on the dry grass, stuck slightly on the resin before lifting, and struck painfully on the pebbles of the dry ditch. No matter. She kept running.

The building tree waited for her. When she was found at the edge of the spirit realm, she still did not know what this sapling meant. She only knew it was a tree, an untended tree, leaning in a corner of the immortal palace ruins, half its leaves yellow. She had watered it—drop by drop from her own waterskin onto the soil at its roots. She had spoken to it—"Hello," "I am Jiuer," "What is your name," "Are you thirsty," "Don't be afraid, I'll take you out." Later, when she left, she had dug it up with roots and soil, wrapped it in her bundle, and carried it on her back. She carried it out of the immortal palace ruins, through the dark zones of Gui Xu, to the spirit realm, and planted it behind the Ninth Dao Institute. It was the tree she had brought back. Today, she would borrow its not-yet-fully-grown power to do something. After this deed, it would continue to grow—into a great tree whose canopy could shade half the spirit realm. She would sleep in its shade, and when she woke, big brother would already be waiting for her beneath it.

She ran to the tree's base. The canopy swayed gently in the wind, leaves rubbing together, emitting an extremely fine, soft rustling, like the building tree whispering her name. She stopped, hands braced on her knees, bent over, and caught her breath for a moment. Sweat dripped onto the soil beside the roots, the earth absorbing it, darkening a small patch.

Then she straightened up, turned around, and glanced at Wang Ping. Far away—from the back mountain to the stone table, with the withered yellow lawn, resin-oozing old pine, dry creek bed, and thicket in between. But she could still see him. He stood on the stone table, his robe fluttering in the wind, his hair blown to cover half his face. He was looking at her. Though she could not make out his expression from that distance, she knew he was looking at her. She knew he was worried about her. Worrying was fine—it came from caring. When he no longer needed to worry, she would already have awakened.

Then she smiled. The smile was faint, so faint that Wang Ping on the stone table could barely see it—he only saw her standing there, face tilted up slightly, then a very weak light flashing across her face. The light was not from the building tree, but from Jiuer herself. Her body's building tree power had been pushed to the limit; spiritual energy overflowed from her qi vortex, forming an extremely thin layer of radiance on her surface—muddled gray, like dawn mist. The light shone on her face, making her sweat droplets crystal clear, softening the scab on her lips somewhat, and making her eyes very bright, very bright. She was smiling, not just at Wang Ping alone. She was smiling at the entire Ninth Dao Institute she was about to guard, at the building tree that had walked out of the ruins with her, and at the darkness she was about to enter. She knew that in that darkness there were no silver-white eyes—no light she feared, only the building tree's roots gently wrapping around her, as she had once wrapped it in her bundle.

Then she turned her head back, turned back quickly, not looking again. She drew a deep breath, shoulders rising, chest expanding. Filled, held, then exhaled. As she exhaled, a small puff of white mist emerged from her mouth, quickly blown away by the wind. She placed her hand on the tree trunk.

The building tree's trunk lit up beneath her hand. Not glowing—not like a lamp radiating light outward. It was "alive."

The cracks on the bark, originally deep brown dead tissue, now began to emit a faint green light at their edges, the green light spreading along the cracks, one after another, from the point where Jiuer's palm touched, extending simultaneously up and down the trunk.

Up to the first branch point, down to the root neck. The entire sapling was covered by the crack network, like parched earth suddenly gaining water veins—each green line a recovering vascular bundle, the hydraulic pressure inside surging sharply—as it mobilized all its stored energy.

The roots moved in the soil, through the loose earth, one could feel the root tips frantically drilling downward. Originally only penetrating a few zhang underground, the roots now punched through the topsoil, gravel layer, first bedrock layer, found deep groundwater in the bedrock fissures, drew water, pressurized, and pumped it upward.

The water pumped upward flowed rapidly through the xylem, producing an extremely faint zizi sound, like a distant stream suddenly magnified to the ear. The branches and leaves swayed in the wind, but not blown by the wind—the wind's direction was southeast, yet the leaves swayed opposite to it.

They were moving on their own. Each leaf vibrated at high speed, the photosynthetic reaction rate in its chloroplasts boosted to hundreds of times normal, releasing all stored light energy at once.

Jiuer's body was also glowing. Starting from her hand. The part of her palm touching the bark glowed first, light shining through from beneath the skin, muddled gray, like the sky before dawn.

The light spread from her palm to her wrist, forearm, elbow, upper arm, shoulder. From the shoulder it went in two directions simultaneously—upward, along the neck to chin, cheek, eyes, forehead, crown; downward, along the collarbone to chest, abdomen, waist, legs, feet. She was becoming light throughout her entire person.

Not being enveloped by light—light was emerging from within her body. The building tree power in her dantian was burning—thread by thread, burning one thread reduces it, but more threads were still burning. Her body's spiritual energy reserves were only enough to burn for a short time; the building tree was pumping its own power in to compensate.

The roots continued drilling downward, reaching the earth veins, reaching the spirit realm's deepest stratum where the spiritual power of countless deceased cultivators had condensed into the sea of earth veins—beneath the muddled gray surface, the building tree's root tip pierced the water and began to draw. It had died countless times before; now it was briefly coming back to life.

The building tree's roots emerged from the soil. Not pulled out—pulling would break, would separate. This was "extension." Like a person who had curled up for a long time finally able to stretch, vertebrae pushing open one by one, joints cracking, muscles lengthening, bones returning to alignment.

The building tree had not stretched for too long. In the sapling stage, its roots could only anchor within a limited range, but now it awakened the primordial building tree's form memory in its life imprint, temporarily reconstructing the roots into a semi-energy state—no longer a pure material root system, but a spiritual root extension existing between the virtual and the real.

The root tips pierced the boundary between matter and energy, extending simultaneously in all directions. Extending into the spirit realm's earth veins, there the earth veins are the main trunk of all spirit realm meridians, like a deep subterranean dark river; the building tree's roots entered like a straw, and the dark river's energy began to surge upward along the root conduits.

Extending into the void, the root tips pierced the spirit realm's outer void barrier, drilling out a channel as fine as a hair, the inner wall reinforced by energy substances secreted by root epidermal cells, being drilled and reinforced simultaneously, like a tunnel-boring machine advancing while lining the tunnel.

Extending past the rubble zone, the root tips bypassed floating debris, which was pushed aside by energy released from the root epidermis to both sides; extending past the ancient battlefield, where remnants of thirty-thousand-year-old order's silver-white energy still lingered.

Silver-white and muddled gray had intertwined for tens of thousands of years; as the building tree's root tips passed through, they were scorched by the silver-white, emitting smoke—hissing sounds cannot propagate in the void, but can be sensed via the root tube's vibration frequency as pain. It did not stop. Enduring the burn, it continued forward to drill into the lair of the Order's Sovereign.

It was searching. In that darkest, coldest, most repellent-of-all-non-order realm, its root tip was like a blind explorer, probing inch by inch. Rebounced once by the silver-white barrier, the root tip's cells were scorched by order's power into charcoal—silver-white in color, hard and brittle.

It self-amputated the burnt portion, mobilized new meristematic tissue from behind, instantly redifferentiated a new root tip. Probed again. Rebounced again, swapped, probed again. Repeated countless times, each rebound exacting a burn toll, each time without hesitation replacing and re-extending.

Finally it found a point—not the weakest spot in the legal barrier, but the "only" point. The sole location in the Order Sovereign's lair permitting chaos to exist briefly—not a defensive loophole, but a remnant of the primordial chaos sea.

This was the last remnant belonging to the primordial chaos sea before this region was remodeled by order. Only the building tree knew it. Because in antiquity the building tree had once planted its roots in the primordial chaos sea, its hereditary memory storing that sea's coordinates and aura.

It was by this memory from hundreds of millions of years ago that it found this place. The root hairs anchored there, motionless. They no longer extended forward; they had locked onto the coordinates. They were waiting for Jiuer to speak.

Jiuer closed her eyes. Her palm still pressed against the trunk, palm and bark already fused—not flesh merging, but energy-state merging.

Her palm's outline had blurred, becoming a mass of muddled gray light embedded in the trunk surface. She felt no pain; the building tree would not harm her. The fusion was for optimal information transmission—she needed to give the building tree its final command, the building tree needed to gather all its remaining energy into her body, and she would deliver the final trigger. The trigger required a person—one bound by a life contract with the building tree. Only she could.

Her lips were moving. Not speaking—speech is vocal cord vibration transmitting air to others' ears. She did not need the building tree to hear her words—the building tree already knew what she would say. She was speaking to the spirit realm, to big brother, to the cultivators from all heavens and myriad worlds who had come to assist in battle.

She gave them an explanation. Not saying goodbye, but saying begin. The channel begins now, no longer merely a conception.

She mouthed the building tree's name, without vocalizing—lips only forming shapes, no airflow. She formed the mouth shape for "Jian," then for "Mu." Done very slowly, very seriously, like a beginner learning characters tracing strokes in a sand tray with a finger. She repeated it many times—not mechanically counting repetitions, but each time she uttered it, she passed a bit of her breath to the trunk. Breath was her life force, the primordial essence of qi cultivators. She gave herself to the building tree, and the building tree gave itself to her. The boundary between the two existences gradually blurred.

The building tree heard. The trunk trembled, the tremor frequency very low, too low for human ears, but animals in the forest could sense it. All the birds on the back mountain simultaneously took flight from their perches, unaware of what had happened, but their bones felt the infrasound. The leaves rustled—not a shushing sound, but leaves rubbing against each other with extreme violence, edges striking. The branches swayed—all branches bending downward at the same time, toward Jiuer's direction. Not bent by wind pressure, but the canopy itself leaning toward her—gathering all its leaves and branches inward, sheltering her in the deepest part of the canopy. It responded to her—I can, I am ready. Whatever you want to do, I will help you.

The channel opened.

Not suddenly opened. Not a loud bang then a great hole torn in the void. It opened slowly—like a bubble rising from deep water to the surface, growing from small to large, from dark to bright. In the depths of the void, at a point less than three thousand li from the Order Sovereign's lair where the building tree's root tip had locked on, that point began to swell. Initially just an invisible singularity with extremely high energy density. Then the singularity began to expand—expansion speed exponential. It was "emerging"—rising from an extremely deep point in void law, penetrating layer after layer of law barrier, each penetration increasing volume by one ring. The Order Sovereign's power sensed it—silver-white light surged from all directions, trying to crush this anomaly. But the light could not reach it, because it still lacked substance, remaining in a superposition of existence and non-existence. It was merely emerging, approaching the moment of "appearance." Finally, it appeared. At that moment, void within a ten-thousand-li radius trembled once—the spirit realm's earth quivered slightly, tiles on the Ninth Dao Institute's roof slipped and shattered on the stone steps; the array stone pillars floating around the Questioning Dao Platform, inscribed with countless years of immortal patterns, flashed bright for an instant, sensing the building tree's aura; all cultivators above the Nascent Soul level in the allied camp simultaneously opened their eyes—they felt spatial law torn open a gap. Not a violent rending, but a gentle, ancient way—using root system growth to prop open from within the law. Not destroying rules, but covering lower-order rules with higher-order ones. The building tree itself was the architect of the myriad-realms conduit; before its law, void was merely its soil.

Light poured out from that opening. Not silver-white—but muddled gray, like the sky before dawn. The light pillar pierced the void, penetrated the gray-white order barrier, pierced the spirit realm's gray sky canopy, pierced the Ninth Dao Institute's defensive grand array above, straight to the back mountain, straight to the building tree's canopy, straight to Jiuer's body. She stood at the pillar's center, completely enveloped by muddled gray light. Her body dispersed in the light.

Not shattered. Shattering is external destruction—a vase falling from height, smashing on stone tiles into countless shards, never to be reassembled. She was not a vase; the building tree's light would not destroy her. She was dissolved. Like an ice cube melting in warm water—from solid ice to liquid water; from shaped solid to shapeless liquid. Ice is not shattered, it is melted. After melting, it is still water—still H₂O, only the state changed. Her body became countless muddled gray light points, each retaining a fragment of her consciousness, her memory, her emotion. These light points were not passively dissipating—they flowed in order, like an extremely fine light river, following the building tree's root system downward.

She didn't feel pain. Because transformation isn't destruction—it's change. The form changed, but the essence remained. Her consciousness was still there. Consciousness is the core of "I"—you can change shape, change size, change form, even change the flow of time—but you are still "you." As long as the core remains, you are still you. She knew her name was Jiu Er. She remembered her big brother crouching down to look her in the eye. She remembered the first time the Jianmu sapling grew a new leaf and she let out that scream. She remembered the jolting ride carrying her out of the ruins of the Immortal Palace. She remembered all of it. Her memories hadn't been scattered; they were wrapped gently in points of light, one by one, neatly arranged. She was sinking—down along the main vascular bundle of the trunk, sinking into the roots, sinking into the root tips, sinking into the soil. In the soil lay Jianmu's root network—the roots had coiled here for many years, already quite dense. The points of light continued sinking along the root network, down to the earth's veins, down to that sea of chaotic-colored energy deep in the Spirit Realm. Everywhere in that sea was warm, everywhere breathed the aura of Jianmu. She sank slowly through this sea, found the softest corner, and settled herself there—she fell asleep. Very heavy, very stable, very quiet. Breathing still there, heartbeat still there, just much slower. Slow as a hibernating bear. Slow as a dormant seed—waiting for spring, waiting for the thunder of awakening, waiting for someone to wake her.

Wang Ping stood there, watching that beam of light. The light shot up from the crown of Jianmu, piercing the gray sky— that gray sky sealed by the power of Order, through which no light could penetrate. It pierced through. Not by violent tearing, but by the force of growth, pushing open a hole from within. On the gray sky, a chaotic-colored light spot appeared. The light spot slowly expanded, its edges sharpening from blur to clarity. From within the light spot, one could see the scene in the depths of the void—not the silver-white army, no. It was deeper behind the army, a realm older than the Return to the Void. The headquarters of the Purification Court, the source of the Order laws, the last remnant of the Primordial Chaos Sea. That was the lair of the Lord of Order. At the end of the passage, there it lay—direct access to the Lord of Order's true form.

Chaotic-colored, gray and hazy, like the sky before dawn. Jiu Er was in the light. He couldn't see her; her body had already turned into points of light. But the light remained, she knew he was watching, so she let the light keep him company for a while. Not forever—just a while. A while was enough. After a while, the light pillar began to contract—from the great pillar piercing heaven and earth, it shrank to the crown's range, then to the trunk's range, and finally collapsed into a single point. The contraction was swift—from top to bottom took only a few moments. After it finished, the appearance of the Jianmu sapling returned to what it had been before—an unremarkable little sapling, leaves slightly curled, trunk somewhat slender. But inside, it was hollowed out—the life imprint remained, most of the energy had been used, consciousness had fallen silent. Standing beneath the tree, one could no longer hear the faint tree-speech she used to hear. It wasn't dead—it was still alive. It had merely entered a deep slumber. Together with the sleeping girl deep in the soil beneath the tree, in the earth's veins, it waited for the day it should wake.

Wang Ping's hand still held the posture of reaching out to catch the branch. The faint texture of that branch's bark seemed to linger on his fingertips, twitching slightly. He clenched his hand into a fist, drew it back, and pressed it to his chest—where the Chaos Immortal Stele stood. The stele was vibrating. The stele's spirit awoke for an instant in its depths, and he felt all his emotions—sorrow, pride, heartache, anger. The stele spirit said nothing. It simply stood with him, watching the direction in which that light had vanished.

"Big brother, Jiu Er will come back. When she wakes up, she'll come back."

She said that. He remembered.

He would. He waited. Waited for that light to shine again. Waited for Jianmu to sprout new leaves. Waited for her hand to reach out of the soil again, pat the back of his hand, and say—Big brother, your beard's grown again, time to shave. He waited. No matter how long it took.