Chapter 434

The light in the passage was chaotic in color.

It was hazy gray, like the sky before dawn. That gray was not dead ash, but living ash—there was something flowing within the gray, breathing, waiting. It was not a static color, but a living presence. The gray surged in the light, rising from the depths to the surface, then sinking back from the surface into the depths. Each surge carried extremely fine specks of light, like lightning deep within clouds wrapped in cotton, faintly flashing then dimming.

Like the dusk after twilight. Twilight is the transition between day and night, and dusk is the final instant of that transition—the sun has fully sunk below the horizon, but the afterglow remains, dyeing the western sky in an extremely thin, pale gray-blue. That gray-blue contains light, but the light has lost its warmth. The light in the passage is like this: it has light but no warmth. Not cold, but "not hot." It does not scorch you, does not warm you, it simply shines upon you.

Like the blank space between dreaming and waking. At the moment when one is about to wake but not yet awake, consciousness has already withdrawn from the dream but has not fully entered reality. At that moment, what you see is neither dream nor reality, but a layer of hazy thin mist. The mist contains fragments—dream fragments and real fragments mixed together, indistinguishable which is which. The light in the passage is this state. It belongs neither to the spirit realm nor to the primordial chaos sea, neither to life nor to death. It is "between."

It hovered above the Ninth Dao Institute. Not hovering above any particular building, not above the Questioning Dao Platform, but hovering "above the Fusang Tree"—the height of the Fusang Tree's trunk determines how high the light hovers. It grew out from the trunk of the Fusang Tree. Not bursting out from the bark surface, but emanating from the "inside" of the tree. The trunk of the Fusang Tree sapling was originally blue-green, with fine vertical lines on the bark—those are the lenticels unique to tender branches. Now those lenticels have all opened, each one emitting chaotic-colored light. Light shoots out from the lenticels, refracts in the air, intertwines, and forms a pillar of light.

It grew out from Jiu'er's body. After the light points she transformed into sank into the Fusang Tree's root system, most had already sunk deep into the earth veins. But a portion remained—the lightest, finest, brightest portion—did not sink down. They rose again from the tips of the rootlets, crawled along the conduits of the Fusang Tree's woody tissue, past the root neck, past the trunk, to the treetop. At the treetop, they reaggregated into a pillar of light. That was the last thing Jiu'er left for him. Not a farewell, but a "sending." Sending him to complete this path.

It grew out from the tips of those rootlets. The roots of the Fusang Tree have already pierced the crust of the spirit realm, penetrated the void, and reached the edge of the lair of the Lord of Order. The tips of those rootlets, at the far end of the void, have opened extremely fine, minute apertures, from which light seeps out, forming in the void a dotted line made of countless light points connected. This dotted line is the passage's landmark—from the spirit realm to the primordial chaos sea, from life to death, from now to the future.

The light was pulsing. Not mechanical pulses, not uniform flickering. It had a rhythm—expand, contract, expand, contract. When expanding, the light halo enlarged, enveloping the entire Fusang Tree; when contracting, the light halo drew inward, condensing into an extremely bright point embedded at the center of the trunk. That point throbbed on the trunk, like a heart expanding and contracting in the chest cavity. The heart pumps blood to the whole body, then draws it back. It pumps chaotic power to every corner of the passage, then draws the passage's breath back into the depths of the trunk.

Like a lamp. The wick is the Fusang Tree's life imprint, the lamp oil is the last thread of consciousness Jiu'er burned before falling asleep, and the lamp shade is the halo of light projected from Wang Ping's dantian by the Chaos Immortal Stele. The stele rotates, and with each rotation, a ring of gray light waves surges out from Wang Ping's chest, into the Fusang Tree, into the passage, into the flame. The flame is gently swayed by the light waves, then straightens again.

Like a child calling for its mother. As the light pillar extends into the void, it emits an extremely faint sound—not a sound wave, but a tremor at the level of law. All cultivators present "heard" it. Not with their ears, but with their Dao hearts. The Dao heart hears a call—not language, but emotion. It is the emotion of someone standing at the door, gripping the doorframe, shouting "Mother" toward the outside. The caller has already left, but the sound remains. The sound echoes in the passage, waiting for an answer that will never come.

Wang Ping stood before the passage.

His feet stepped on the stone slabs. The stone slabs were those of the Ninth Dao Institute, bluish-gray, with shallow anti-slip grooves worn smooth by countless generations of disciples' soles. He stepped firmly, soles flat on the ground, center of gravity slightly forward. Not the posture of charging forward, but of "standing firm." Having stood firm, he felt the temperature, hardness, and texture of the stone beneath his feet. He committed it to memory. For perhaps after this departure, he would never again tread on the stone slabs of the Ninth Dao Institute.

His hand pressed against the Chaos Immortal Stele. The stele was not in his hand, but within him—in his dantian, to the right of the Chaos Primordial Spirit, to the left of the Chaos Immortal Thunder. It was embedded there, like a satellite orbiting a planet. It rotated very slowly, so slowly that a full turn took several heartbeats. His hand pressed against his chest, palm against his robe. Beneath the robe lay the sternum, beneath the sternum the beating heart. The stele's vibration transmitted through the sternum to the metacarpals, then back from the metacarpals to the stele body, forming a closed loop. What he pressed was not the stele, but his own heartbeat.

The stele spirit watched him from the depths. In the deepest part of the light within the Chaos Immortal Stele, a middle-aged man in gray robes and silver hair stood in a patch of chaotic mist. His eyes were gray, the gray of chaos. He looked at Wang Ping, expressionless. Not cold, but empty. Like a mirror. The mirror reflected Wang Ping's face—wearied, weathered, with three days' unshaven stubble sprouting from chin and temples, some black, some white. His lips were chapped, the edges crusted with dark-red blood scabs. His eye bags were heavy, the eyelid margins reddened. All this was clearly visible in the mirror. He did not speak, but his eyes spoke.

Are you ready?

Four words—not heard, but felt. The stele spirit's gaze pierced the chaotic mist, penetrated the layers of restrictions on the stele, passed through the sea of chaotic spiritual power in the dantian, through the sternum and robe, and landed on Wang Ping's Dao heart. His Dao heart twitched—not from fear, but from "response." Like a drum struck once, the drumhead vibrated, emitting a low, deep response.

Wang Ping nodded. His chin sank only slightly, less than the width of a finger. The shadow of his collar shifted on his Adam's apple, caught by the distant light of the passage, producing an extremely brief light-and-dark change. He was not accustomed to expressing himself with large movements. A nod was enough. The stele spirit saw that tiny motion, and also nodded slightly. Then he stepped back one step, retreated deeper into the chaotic mist, sat cross-legged, and closed his eyes. He was conserving his strength. When Wang Ping needed him, he would awaken. Not awakened by sound, but by the heart. When Wang Ping's heart called him, he would come.

Cangxuan stood to his left. Left is yang, sword cultivators belong to yang. His position was three steps to the left—three steps being the distance of a sword step. From this position, drawing his sword could intercept an enemy before they attacked Wang Ping. He had stood in this position for so long that he no longer needed to think; his feet automatically landed on that point. His heel pressed down, the ball of his front foot slightly twisted, his center of gravity fell between his feet, slightly forward. This was a stance allowing him to draw his sword at any moment.

His hand rested on the sword hilt. The cord wrapping the hilt had been soaked in sweat countless times, now turned dark brown. Originally coarse hemp cord, it was rough when new, but softened over years of use. It softened to conform to the curve of each of his fingers—index finger resting on the sword guard above, middle finger hooked around the thickest part of the hilt, ring and little fingers following in order, thumb pressing the sword pommel. The whole hand felt as natural as if grown onto the hilt. The knuckles were not white. They had been white when he arrived, and even white under the pressure of the Lord of Order in the passage. Now they were not white. Not because he was no longer afraid, but because he had "passed." Having passed that hurdle, his hands no longer whitened.

The sword was in its scabbard. The scabbard was ordinary iron, the mouth bound with a copper rim, polished bright. The sword lay in the scabbard, silent. But it had awakened. After obtaining the Sword Intent to Slay Immortals from the fragments of the Immortal Realm, the sword spirit had fully awakened from its slumber. It was no longer the spirit that only hummed, only screamed, only trembled. The Sword Intent to Slay Immortals had taken root within it—not attached to the blade, but "grown" into the iron. The crystal lattice between iron atoms had been rearranged by the sword intent into a crystalline structure never before seen in all heavens and worlds. This structure exists only within the Sword Intent to Slay Immortals, the pinnacle of immortal forging arts. New patterns appeared on the blade—not carved, but grown outward from the iron's interior as crystalline textures. Like tree rings, circle upon circle, dense and tight. Like ice flowers, each pattern an extremely fine engraved line, within which lay barely perceptible silver light. This was the solidified form of the Sword Intent to Slay Immortals' law.

Cangxuan's finger lightly tapped the hilt. His fingernail struck the cord, which absorbed most of the vibration, but an extremely faint portion seeped into the hilt's interior. The sword spirit detected it—emitted a sound from within the scabbard. Very short, very light, but very bright. A "ding," like metal striking crystal. Not a hum, not a sigh, not a warning. It was a single word. A word that could only be spoken to sword cultivators—Walk.

Yuliuli stood to his right. Right is yin, zither cultivators belong to yin. Her position was one step to the right, one step closer than Cangxuan's. Because zither cultivators' method of protection is not interception, but coverage. Zither music is spatial, requiring a certain distance to form a complete sound field. Too close and the sound field has not yet unfolded; too far and it becomes dilute. One step is the optimal distance she found after countless trials.

She embraced the ancient zither. The zither's body was made of paulownia wood. Paulownia wood is the material most commonly used by zither cultivators—wood loose yet straight, transmitting sound quickly and evenly. This zither was already very old, old enough that the lacquer surface was entirely cracked. The cracks were not damage, but "age." After lacquer ages, it naturally cracks, the cracks extending along the wood grain, forming an extremely fine, dense net. The net held countless micro-particles—spirit realm soil, Gui Xu ash, immortal realm fragment immortal spirit aura crystallized. These micro-particles sparkled in the light, like scattered stars in the night sky.

The zither strings had been changed. Not all of them, only one—the sixth string. The sixth string is the wen string, the softest and finest of them all. It had broken, shattered in the passage by the pressure of the Lord of Order. She replaced it with a new string, not an ordinary one. It was brought from the holy land of the Fallen Immortal Clan, the last string left to her by her master. On the day her master gave it to her, he took from the deepest part of the zither case a silk-wrapped bundle, opened it, and inside lay seven strings. The master said—this string is made of silkworm silk, unbreakable. She believed it. She had played it for three thousand years, and indeed it had not broken. Then the pressure of the Lord of Order came, and the string snapped. Not broken from playing, but shattered by vibration. Her master had deceived her. Or perhaps, her master had not anticipated that she would face the Lord of Order. Silkworm silk, no matter how tough, could not withstand the Lord of Order.

She took out from her storage bag the last string her master had left her. The storage bag was moon-white, with an embroidered Fallen Immortal flower at the mouth. Her fingers reached in, feeling a long, thin silk-wrapped bundle. The bundle was small, only finger-length, tied with a red thread. She untied the red thread, unfolded the silk. The string lay on the silk, in the passage's light emitting an extremely pale silver-white hue—the natural color of silkworm silk. It was extremely fine, nearly invisible, visible only when light struck it from the side as an extremely fine, bright thread. She pinched one end of the string, threaded it into the small hole of the zither's tuning peg. The tuning peg was made of yang wood, the hole only needle-point sized. Her hand was very steady, steady enough that threading the string through the hole caused not a tremor. After threading, she tightened it, wound it around the Yue Mountain, threaded it through the other end's tuning peg, tightened it, tuned it. Palace, Shang, Jiao, Zhi, Yu, Wen, Wu—all seven strings present. The sixth string newly replaced, its sound not yet opened. A little astringent, a little tight, like new shoes first worn, the leather not yet broken in. But very stable. Stability was enough. Astringency could be worn in, tightness could be loosened, stability could not be absent.

She lightly plucked the string with her finger. Not playing, but testing the tone. Her ring finger's pad hooked the sixth string, lifted slightly, released. The zither string vibrated, emitting an extremely soft, fine sound—like a dewdrop sliding off a leaf, dripping into a pond. At the instant the dewdrop hits the water, the surface dips into a small arc, then rebounds, sending out ripples. That sound contained ripples—one circle, then another, spreading outward. The first circle was the string's vibration, the second the paulownia wood's vibration, the third her zither heart's vibration. She listened. She listened for the finest components in that sound—the string's tightness, the wood's moisture level, the influence of aged lacquer on resonance, and her own finger's micro-tremor. She had finished listening. The content of the sound was not fear. It was resolve. Resolve is not fearlessness, but fearing yet still playing. After playing this piece, the zither may shatter, the string may break, the hand may be ruined. But before that, the zither's sound will not cease.

Youying stood behind him. Her position could not be accurately described by the two words "behind." She stood within Wang Ping's shadow. Shadow is the absence of light, where light cannot reach is shadow. The passage's light shone from the direction of the Fusang Tree, fell upon Wang Ping, and dragged out a long shadow behind him. She stood in the deepest part of that shadow, merging with it. Not hiding in the shadow, but "transforming" into it. The constitution of void-law cultivators had already become half-void—body existing between the virtual and the real, able to switch between virtual and real at any moment. In the shadow, she was virtual; in battle, she could instantly become real.

There was nothing in her hand. The fragment of the ancient mirror inscribed with the character "An" was no longer there—not lost, but merged. It had merged into her chest, settling at a point slightly left of the heart. She placed her hand on her heart, and through the fabric could feel two heartbeats. The first was her own heart—thump, thump, thump, rhythm fast and strong. The second was the fragment—beating every few minutes, very light, but very steady. The two heartbeats were synchronizing—not in a master-servant relationship, but in resonance. The fragment and her heartbeat were converging toward the same frequency, like two drums responding to each other, eventually becoming one drum. This fragment was a relic of the Wanxiang Guanxing Zhe, sealed in the ancient mirror for thirty thousand years, its sole mission to "see danger." Now it had seen—this journey holds great peril, but within peril lies vitality. It was using its thirty thousand years of experience to tell her—this battle can be fought.

She was listening to the heartbeat. Listening to her own, to the fragment's, to Wang Ping's, to Cangxuan's, to Yuliuli's, to those seven at the Unity Stage, to those thirty at the late Divine Transformation Stage. Some fast, some slow. The fast were tense—blood accelerating in the vessels, heart pumping frequency increased, delivering more spiritual power to the extremities. The slow were steadfast—heart rate steady, breathing prolonged, spiritual power flowing evenly through the meridians. Fast and slow did not conflict; they combined. Like war drums—war drums are not just one face, some large, some small, some high-pitched, some low. The high-pitched are charge drums, the low are marching step drums. When all drums strike simultaneously, that is not noise, but harmony. Harmony says—Go, go quickly. She stepped forward, not stepping forward, but "sinking" into another shadow within three steps ahead. She drifted behind Wang Ping like a withered leaf on stream water, drifting from one stone to the next, soundless and traceless.

The seven at the Unity Stage stood further back. Their positions were not random—Xuan Yan in the center, Feng Huang to the front left, Shan Yue to the front right, Xing Mu to the rear left, Xu Tian to the rear right, Bing Po to the far left, Lei Yu to the far right. The seven points connected form an irregular heptagon, each vertex to center distance unequal. This is not a formation, but a tactical array. Those who can bear are in front, those who can strike in the middle, those who can control on the wings, those who can ambush in the rear. They had not discussed it; their feet automatically stepped to where they should stand. This is the tacit understanding among ancient monsters who have lived over ten thousand years and fought over ten thousand years of battles.

Xuan Yan Daozun. The old ancestor of the Spirit Realm, peak of the Unity Stage. He was the highest cultivator among the seven, and also the most silent. From the gathering until now, he had not spoken a single word. Not because he did not want to speak, but because all words had been spoken thirty thousand years ago. Thirty thousand years ago he stood here—not "here," but on another path to the primordial chaos sea. At that time there was no Fusang Tree passage; they had used their flesh bodies to forcibly break through Gui Xu. Six went in, one returned. He carved the names of those five onto the stone cliff behind the mountain, and every morning went to look at them once. He had looked for thirty thousand years; the names remained, the people were gone.

He walked very slowly. Not because his legs were bad—Unity Stage cultivators' physiques have long surpassed aging, he walks slowly because he is using his entire body to drag an invisible burden. That burden is called "memory." All details of that battle thirty thousand years ago are engraved in his bones; with each step he recalls a little more. Recalling the eldest martial brother blocking his front, pierced by the Lord of Order's light; recalling the second martial sister detonating her natal treasure to blast a blood path; recalling the youngest martial brother, dying, gripping his hand and saying—Martial brother, take me home. He failed to take the youngest brother home. The youngest brother's corpse turned to ash in Gui Xu. Now he must walk the same path. This time he takes no martial siblings, he goes alone. He walked to Wang Ping's side and stopped, gazing at the passage's light. His eyes were very bright—not the brightness of youth, but the brightness of age—like the flame of an oil lamp at the moment the oil is nearly exhausted, its final brilliance.

Feng Huang. The old ancestor of the Tian Yu Tribe, late Unity Stage. His wings were white, white to the point of having no trace of variegation. The Tian Yu Tribe's wing color is a bloodline marker—white most common, gold for royalty, silver for legend. He was white-feathered, the most common bloodline. Yet he had ascended the throne of the Tian Yu Tribe. His reliance was not bloodline, but speed. His speed was the fastest in Tian Yu Tribe history—fast enough that his shadow could not catch up to him, fast enough that others' divine senses had not yet locked onto his qi, his wind blades had already sliced through the opponent's protective spiritual power. Others thought speed was merely velocity; he knew speed was law. The core of the wind law is not "to blow," but "to arrive"—to say it is to arrive, without waiting for your reaction.

He stood in the front right position, that of the vanguard. He did not contend; his feet automatically stepped there. His fingers lightly tapped the bone joints at the base of his wings, not from tension, but in "tuning." The Tian Yu Tribe's wing bones are hollow, each bone joint having a different pitch. Tapping this one is Gong, tapping that one is Jia. He was tuning his bones, adjusting them to the optimal state for flight. After tapping, he spread his wings. Not spreading them before Wang Ping—he was already off the ground. He rose three feet into the air, feet off the ground, without flapping wings, air automatically gathering beneath his feet into a wind cushion for lift. Then he transformed into a white light, flashing past Wang Ping's left side—without wind sound, so fast that even the air had no time to be pushed aside. When the crowd looked up, he was already hovering directly above the passage entrance. He lowered his head to glance down, then executed a dive, like a white bolt of lightning cleaving the light river. He was the first to enter the passage. As the vanguard, he should be the first to enter.

The mountain. The old ancestor of the Vajra Clan, late stage of the Unity Realm. His body was black rock—not painted on, not the color of armor. His skin itself was stone. The texture of cooled volcanic basalt—rough, full of pores, each patch of skin thicker than the armor of an ordinary cultivator. Standing beside the Wind Emperor, they formed a stark contrast—one light enough to float on the wind, one heavy enough to crack stone slabs underfoot.

He held a hammer in his hand. The haft was a single piece of ironwood from the core of the Vajra Clan's homeworld, harder than most flying swords. The head was forged from star-core iron, so dense that an ordinary Nascent Soul cultivator could not lift it with both hands. The Mountain gripped the hammer with one hand, the haft resting on his forearm, the head hanging at his side. As he walked, the hammer head hovered only a few inches above the ground, each step causing it to tremble minutely up and down—he was making the final wrist alignment, using muscle memory to align the hammer's center of gravity with the force point of his wrist. He walked ahead on the right, following the Wind Emperor. The Wind Emperor flew; he walked. His strides were large, each step covering three of another's. With each step, his stone-like soles sank into the ground—the deepest, heaviest footprints on the stone slabs were his. He took seven steps, then stopped. He lifted his gaze to the light in the passage and let out a deep, heavy "hmm" from his throat—not to encourage himself, but to confirm—he had arrived. Then he lifted his right foot, not to step forward, but to stomp. One stomp on the stone slab sent cracks radiating outward from the point of impact. Using the recoil, he launched himself into the light like a black meteorite striking the chaotic river of light. The light river rippled outward, the ripples bounced off the passage walls and returned, making the entire passage tremble slightly.

Star Pupil. The old ancestor of the Stellar Mechanism Clan, late stage of the Unity Realm. The Stellar Mechanism Clan are the calculators, not skilled in frontal combat. They are not needed on the front lines—what is needed is her ability to calculate a path to survival at critical moments. She stood in the rear-left position, a protected spot. She did not need to be the first to engage the enemy; she needed to stay alive and calculate to the very end.

Her body was transparent. Not like glass—glass refracts and reflects light. Her body did not refract light; light passed straight through. Her internal organs were not organs, but countless infinitesimal points of light, each one a counting bead. Within her, she simultaneously performed tens of thousands of calculations—the casualty ratio of chaos versus order, the ultimate combat power of seven Unity Realm cultivators, the timeframe for the passage's collapse, the awakening rhythm of the Lord of Order. All factors were listed as countless equations, all computed at once, each point of light a thread. Her movement into the passage differed from anyone's—not walking, not flying, but "rising." Her knees did not bend, her toes did not push off, her whole person drifted upward like a speck of dust in water losing weight, gliding past Wang Ping's right side like a translucent jellyfish drifting over a reef's edge. Light passed through her transparent body without hindrance; the points of light within flared in brightness under the chaotic light's stimulation, the rotating galaxies spinning at tenfold speed. She completed the final, most frenzied calculation in silent extreme speed—in all possible futures, which one shone brightest? She found it. She opened her eyes and drifted into the light.

Ruin Heaven. The last old ancestor of the Return to the Abyss Clan, late stage of the Unity Realm. The Return to the Abyss Clan was nearly wiped out in the War of Order thirty thousand years ago, losing ninety-nine percent of their number; the remnants curled up in the Return to the Abyss caverns and hid for thirty thousand years. He was hunched and bent, his posture extremely humble. But no one present dared to look down on him—because within this withered, firewood-like shell lay the thirty thousand years of silence sealed within him. Return to the Abyss is not emptiness; it is the grave of existence. And he bore the extinction laws accumulated over thirty thousand years of a civilization's decline.

He leaned on a staff, its black shaft appearing like deadwood, but in fact polished from condensed void from the deepest part of the Return to the Abyss. The staff head bore a white bead—the left eye of the Myriad Phenomena Stargazer. That stargazer, before death, dug out his own left eye and gave it to him, and he set it into the staff head. The bead glowed faintly, so faintly that without close inspection it was invisible—but it had never gone out. He walked with extreme slowness to Wang Ping's side, lifted his cloudy eyes, and glanced at Wang Ping. He said nothing, merely nodded—so slightly his chin twitched once. Then he turned to face the light pillar, his lips moving. He was reciting names. The names of his clansmen who died in battle thirty thousand years ago, from beginning to end, not missing one. After finishing, he stepped forward with his staff into the light; the bead on the staff head flashed once in the light, brighter than all previous light—then he vanished together with it into the depths of the light river.

Ice Soul Immortal Maiden. Supreme Elder of the Profound Ice Palace, female cultivator, mid-stage of the Unity Realm. Her hair was entirely white, white to the point of near-transparency. In the light, one could see within each strand extremely fine ice-crystal fibers—the hair itself had naturally condensed into a natural vessel for the ice system's laws. The blue stone surface beneath her feet was already covered with a layer of ice less than half an inch thick—the ice surface had no cracks, no bubbles, flat as a mirror. She stepped forward, and the ice beneath her feet automatically smoothed and extended forward, as if the ice were paving her way. She did not need to step; she only needed to stand on the ice, which carried her smoothly into the light river.

She was the fourth to enter. At the confluence of the light river's entrance and chaos, the Ice Soul Dao emitted an extremely faint hissing sound—two laws probing each other, ultimately achieving coexistence. She raised her hand and lightly touched the light wall with her fingertip, leaving at the final moment of entry a thread of icy law as an anchor point. The anchor point was the coordinates for return—if return were still possible.

Thunder Prison Old Ancestor. Founding ancestor of the Thunder Prison Valley, mid-stage of the Unity Realm. His face was purple, the imprint of true thunder intent seeping into the skin. Beneath every inch of skin, electric arcs wandered—not in the dantian, not in the meridians, but beneath the skin. His entire skin was a layer of living thundercloud. The hammer rested on his right shoulder, the head hanging behind him, his left hand on his hip. He chose a most informal stance before the passage entrance, tilted his head to look at the gray sky of the Ninth Dao Institute, then lowered his gaze to the hole in the stone slab cracked by the Mountain's stomp, and cursed—"A bunch of lunatics, damn it, I've gone mad too."

Then he laughed loudly. Not a dry laugh, but a genuine, hearty laugh that made his stubble tremble, his shoulders shake, and the hammer haft vibrate against his back with a clang. He strode forward, his thighs stepping on stone slabs that buzzed from the vibration of his laughter, walking into the light. As he took that step into the light, he was still laughing; his laughter exploded in the light river, thunder law resonating with the chaotic light river, lightning arcs wildly leaping along the inner walls of the light river. He was the only one who entered the passage laughing. Not unafraid of death, but truly feeling he had gained. An old madman struck by lightning his whole life, finally able to be recorded in a battle storming the order's lair—worth it.

Thirty late-stage Nascent Soul cultivators followed behind the seven Unity Realm cultivators. They had no names. Not that they lacked names, but names were not needed now. Those who could still fight after the battle would report their names. Their cultivation levels varied—high ones had already reached Nascent Soul perfection, only half a step from Unity Realm; low ones had just reached late-stage Nascent Soul, recently broken through, their aura not yet fully retracted. Their weapons included swords, sabers, spears, axes, hammers, whips, fans, bells, seals, cauldrons, tripods, furnaces. The one at the rear holding a bronze lamp—no oil in the lamp, the wick made from a drop of his own heart's blood. The blood flame burned silently in the bronze lamp for a thousand years, never flickering, never flashing, never extinguishing. He had once sworn—if the lamp goes out, the person dies; if the lamp does not go out, the person does not die.

The lamp-bearer walked up to Wang Ping, nodded at him, then stepped step by step into the light. The light swallowed him and the bronze lamp's flame. But the flame did not go out—in the chaotic light it burned even brighter, two chaotic entities recognizing each other, burning side by side in the depths of the light river. Thirty people entered one after another, none turning back. Not that they did not want to, but they could not. If they turned back and saw the visage of the spirit realm, perhaps they would not want to go on. So they did not turn back.

Wang Ping walked at the rear. He was the leader. The leader does not go in first. The leader must watch everyone else enter before he follows. He turned back and glanced at the spirit realm's sky. Gray sky. Yellow grass. Dry tree resin hung on the trunks like tears. The roof of the Ninth Dao Institute was faintly visible in the gray, a few tiles missing—blown off by a previous storm. The Fusang sapling stood in the rear hills, its canopy gathered, leaves curled, peacefully slumbering.

He remembered all of this. Then he turned around and walked into the light.

The light was cool. Not the chill of cold, but the coolness of dew, of early morning, of waking from a dream. That coolness did not pierce the bone or cause shivering. It merely lay lightly on the skin, like someone placing a cool towel on your forehead. His body floated in the light—not walking, but drifting. Beneath his feet there was no path, the channel's base had no substance, only an extremely thin film of light. Stepping on it caused a slight sink; lifting the foot restored it to its original state. Above his head there was no sky, the channel's vault was an arched structure woven from countless Fusang roots. The root surfaces emitted a faint glow, flowing light streaming from one end of the vault to the other, direction always forward. Around him there were no walls—the channel had no walls, its boundary was a gradient. The center was brightest, gradually darkening outward, the outermost edge pure black. Between light and dark there was no clear demarcation, only layer upon layer of gray.

In the light he perceived Nine Maiden. Not truly seen—it was his chaotic divine sense catching in the Dao-light the lingering ripple of her slumber. She lay deep in the Fusang root system, deep in the spirit realm's meridians, in that sea of chaotic-colored energy. Her body had already dissolved into points of light merging with every grain of sand in the soil layer, her consciousness still present. He could sense her existence—her breathing extremely slow and shallow, her heartbeat perhaps once per minute. At that moment he almost reached out—his hand lifted halfway, then lowered. He could not grasp her. She was not in this dimension. She was underground, in the roots, in the soil, in the dream. In the dream she still smiled—corners of her mouth slightly raised, eyes slightly narrowed, her chapped lips no longer bleeding. She was not dreaming of happy things; she was at ease. At ease that he went to war, at ease that he would return, at ease that he would wake her.

Wang Ping withdrew his hand. Fingers curled into a fist, drawn into his sleeve. He continued drifting forward. The light flowed—from the spirit realm toward the primordial chaos sea, from the Fusang tree trunks toward the outer void of the Order Holy Hall, from life toward death, from now toward the future. He swallowed that breath, deeply, down into his belly, down into his bones. In his bones, that breath became a thread of chaotic micro-light, spreading upward along the marrow, climbing vertebra by vertebra to the occiput, striking the Spirit Platform point. The Spirit Platform point is the gate of divine sense; the moment that gate was struck open, his chaotic divine sense surged out from within like a flood, expanding outward along the channel's root-vault walls. The expansion speed exceeded that of light—light has speed, divine sense has none. Divine sense is instantaneous, a single thought.

He saw the channel's endpoint. That silvery-white point. Very small, only the size of a needle tip, flickering at the limit of his divine sense's range. It was breathing—not an expansion-contraction breath, but a "being"-level throb. Each throb released a silvery-white shockwave in all directions simultaneously, each shockwave penetrating void, penetrating law barriers, penetrating Wang Ping's sea of consciousness. When the shockwave reached his sea of consciousness, there was no sound, only a prickling—extremely fine, extremely small, extremely sharp, like someone lightly pricking the surface of his primordial spirit with the finest silver needle. The chaotic primordial spirit opened its eyes in that prickling—this was the first time he felt the aura of the Lord of Order since returning to the spirit realm. Not heard, not smelled, not overwhelmed by pressure—but direct contact.

Wang Ping drifted in the light for a long time. In the chaotic passage there was no time. Not that time had stopped, but that time had lost its reference—you could not measure it. No one knew how long he had drifted. Perhaps a long time, long enough to watch an entire life. Perhaps only an instant, short enough for only one heartbeat. Wang Ping did not know. He watched that silvery-white point in his divine sense feedback—beginning like a needle tip, then like a grain of rice, then like a fist, then like a wheel, then like a mountain, then it obscured his entire field of vision. The channel's endpoint was right there—that mass of silvery-white light vast enough to shroud everything. The Order Holy Hall.

The channel's end. Here the light was not stopping, but "leaking." Chaotic-colored light surged from the tips of the Fusang roots, surging into a expanse of silvery-white void. When the two lights met, there was no explosion. Only scorching—extremely high-temperature scorching, silent scorching. The silvery-white was torn open by the chaotic light into a narrow fissure, the fissure's edges boiling with silver plasma arcs—this was the fierce clash of order and power at the smallest scale. The fissure fluctuated in size, like a curtain blown by wind. Wang Ping stepped out from the fissure; the chaotic light behind him rapidly coalesced, condensing into a fist-sized light ball hovering in place. That was the channel's exit anchor point—still needed for the return. The light ball had no temperature, emitted no light, merely hung there quietly, like a gray seed awaiting germination.

Wang Ping lifted his head and saw the Order Holy Hall.

It lay ahead. Not built on a planet, not built in void, but built upon the "Dao" itself. Its foundation was the order laws themselves—the entire structure defined by external law frameworks, its base supported by the pure rules of evacuated chaos, appearing as a front face from any direction. Every angle, every line of sight, faced its front. It was absolutely symmetrical—left-right, front-back, top-bottom. The dome had countless facets, each a complete law crystal, the crystal's internal lattice precise to atomic nucleus level. Each lattice unit contained an order rune, engraved—not by hand, but naturally generated by the laws themselves. The runes rotated extremely slowly; each full rotation sent down a silvery-white beam from the dome, flowing over the walls, to the ground, converging into the central silvery-white light sea on the floor.

Its walls were silvery-white. Not painted. The wall material was not stone, not metal, not any substance Wang Ping knew. It resembled some extremely high-density solidified energy—surface so smooth it could reflect a hundred percent of light back, yet transparent enough to see within. Inside the walls flowed countless extremely fine silver threads, like blood vessels, like nerves, like spider silk. Each thread was an executing order rule—no chaos, no noise, no exceptions. They flowed silently down the wall's curvature, converging from the four corners of the dome downward, finally all gathering at the exact center of the ground.

Its dome was so high that the word "high" could not describe it. It had no limit, no apex—the dome's center extended upward infinitely, into void depths unmeasurable by the naked eye. That deep void held no darkness, only layer upon layer of silvery-white stacked upon itself. Each silvery-white layer was a law barrier, from the outermost layer stacked inward to the innermost. The dome's edges hung vast silvery-white light curtains, the curtains moving windlessly, each flutter causing the entire hall's shadow in void to tremble slightly.

Its floor was not flat—for flatness would imply tolerable unevenness. Its flatness was absolute, flat to the level of laws. Stepping on it required no balance adjustment; any point of contact had zero curvature. On the floor were patterns—not carved, but "grown" from below. They resembled tree roots, like blood vessels, like a human neural network. They covered the entire floor, extending from every point in all directions simultaneously, finally converging at the exact center of the floor. Within the patterns flowed silvery-white liquid—not water, not blood, but liquefied order law. Each drop concentrated enough force to grind a small world to dust. They flowed silently, moved ceaselessly—and this motion served to transmit the same rhythm—thump, thump, thump. That was the heartbeat. The heartbeat of the Lord of Order.

He was there. Beneath the floor, at the source of those patterns, in the Holy Hall's deepest depths. His consciousness covered the entire Holy Hall—every wall, every rune, every floor pattern, was part of his consciousness. He need not look, for he was the entirety of this structure. He need not speak, for the structure itself conveyed his will. He waited. Waited for a person. Waited for a group. Waited for these ants who dared enter his domain to walk before him.

Wang Ping took the first step. His foot landed on the silvery-white ground—no sound. The ground was too hard, so hard that even footstep sounds were rejected. At the moment his foot touched the ground, he felt the heartbeat—that rhythm transmitted directly from the ground into his bones, forcing his heart to synchronize. He pressed his chest; the Chaotic Divine Stele within his body accelerated its rotation, driving that rhythm from his heart. His heart restored its autonomous rhythm.

Cangxuan's sword hummed low in its sheath—not fear, but "alert." The sword tip vibrated violently at the sheath's base, the sword spirit reminding its master—this very ground itself was the enemy. Cangxuan tapped the hilt twice with his fingers in response. When his foot stepped on the ground, his foot arch slightly lifted, his heel lightly set down, discharging force via the swordsman's "empty step"—not placing his full weight on the same square inch of ground. His body maintained a ready posture for lateral displacement at any moment.

Yu Liuli entered the Holy Hall cradling her guqin. At the instant she entered, the seven strings sounded a low hum in unison—not her playing, but the Holy Hall's order power pushing the strings. That force was omnipresent, penetrating every orifice; her guqin's heart instantly rose to a state of extreme resistance. With each step, the patterns beneath her feet writhed like living things toward her ankles. She lowered her eyes, her fingertips sliding silently over the strings—the low-frequency hum of celestial music forced those patterns back to the floor tiles.

Youying was the last to emerge from the channel's fissure. Not walked out, but "seeped" out. When her body separated from the shadow, the shadow on the silvery-white ground did not return in sync—her movement and the shadow produced an extremely fine time lag. Shadows could not enter the Holy Hall. She left her shadow at the channel's exit anchor point, letting it guard her retreat. When her form fully manifested, her face bore no expression; she shared via thought with all present chaotic-side cultivators a single perception—the retreat route was marked.

When the seven Unity Realm cultivators stepped into the Holy Hall, the ground showed no cracks, no subsidence. Xuanchen Daozun tested the ground's hardness with his soles—spiritual force pressed down, the rebound was not subsidence but a stronger repulsion. He withdrew his foot, his face slightly darkened. This was not a good omen. The ground was too hard, indicating the foundation's laws were far more stable than expected.

The other six did not need his reminder; each had already, via their own means, rapidly assessed the threat beneath their feet. Wind Emperor slightly spread his wings, the wingtips lightly striking downward a wind blade to test—the ground left no scratch. Mountain stomped his foot, the stone-like skin on his soles transmitting a stabbing pain-like recoil. Star Pupil lowered her gaze to her own foot, the ground's patterns beneath her feet were reordering, she had been positioned at the law level.

Ruin Heaven tightened his grip on the staff, hearing from beneath his feet countless dead souls' whispers—these were not true dead, but fragments of consciousness already assimilated by the Order Holy Hall. They were sealed within the floor patterns, serving as memory units in the law identification system. Ice Soul Immortal Maiden's ice beneath her feet no longer spread—not because she held back, but because the ground rejected the ice. Her ice-system laws were for the first time rejected by a ground. Thunder Prison Old Ancestor cursed, lowered his hammer from his shoulder, planted the head on the ground. He stopped laughing.

Wang Ping walked at the very front. Behind him, seven fused beings and thirty Nascent Soul cultivators stood in a single file. Silver-white light poured down, illuminating each face with the cold pallor of someone just pulled from icy water. No one spoke. Their footsteps echoed nothing in the holy hall—here, all dispersion is drawn into the central sea of light. The hall was so silent one could hear their own heartbeat, everyone's heartbeat—not scattered, but gradually forced into sync.

The heartbeat of the Lord of Order. Each time the ground patterns flared, the heartbeat shuddered. Thud. Everyone's soles jerked. Thud. Everyone's heart was forcibly clenched. Thud. Wang Ping raised his hand, and chaotic immortal lightning silently sparked between his fingers. He gave no command, yet the act itself was the command—everyone's weapons simultaneously unsheathed, tensed, and blazed.

They would go to the deepest part of the light sea at the ground's center to face the awakened entity. Passing through this silver-white expanse was the Lord of Order. He was still waiting, and they had come.