Chapter 451

That night after returning from the Scripture Pavilion, Wang Ping did not sleep. Not insomnia—his body needed no sleep; the spirit power of the Great Perfection of Transformation Spirit circulated automatically in his meridians, each circuit clearing all physiological fatigue. It was 'not wanting to sleep'—he feared that if he closed his eyes, the words the Profound Extension Dao Venerable had spoken in the darkness would sink into his memory, down to the dream's depths, leaving only a few vague echoes upon waking. He sat beneath the Fusang Tree, his back against the trunk. Cracks in the bark pressed into his back, one especially deep crack fitting exactly into the groove between his vertebrae.

He held the Wordless Book in his hand. After leaving the Scripture Pavilion he did not put it into his storage bag but kept gripping it. The book was thin, thin enough to have only a few pages—front cover, back cover, and three folded sheets in the middle, six pages total. Yet it was heavy, heavy as a stone—not the book's weight but the weight of 'emptiness'. Every unwritten word pressed upon the pages, each unwritten word having weight. The stone's weight pressed on his hand and also on his heart.

Moonlight leaked through the leaves. The canopy of the Fusang Tree at night was deep ink-colored, the leaves faintly glowing under starlight, their edges rimmed with an extremely fine silver line. As moonlight passed through the leaf layers, the leaves sliced it into countless tiny specks of light that fell on the book's cover—the cover was black; when Profound Extension Dao Venerable gave it to him he had not examined it closely, but now in the moonlight he saw it was not pure black but an extremely deep greenish black, like algae residue accumulated for hundreds of years at the bottom of an ancient well. Black as night—not tonight, for tonight there is a moon. Like ink—ink dried on an inkstone, then re‑wet with water, unevenly dissolved, leaving a tiny undissolved grain of ink protruding on the cover's surface. Like an abyss—he pressed his fingertip against the cover; his pad could feel the paper's rough fibers, yet his eyes perceived the surface sinking, as if into a bottomless well.

He opened the first page. Blank—the page emitted an extremely faint fluorescence under moonlight, the residual lignin in the pulp oxidizing to produce spontaneous emission. He placed his fingertip on the surface and slid slowly from left to right; his pad felt no relief of ink. Second page, blank. Third page, blank. Fourth page, blank. Fifth page, blank. All blank. He closed the book and laid it on his knee, the book and knee separated by the robe's fabric, yet his knee still sensed the book's chill.

He raised his head and looked at the moon. The moon was round, not full—just a hair shy of full, its edge bearing an extremely fine, extremely fine notch, as if a fingernail had pinched off a tiny sliver. Round like a mirror—not a bronze mirror, which reflects a yellow face—but an ice mirror, the kind of ice formed by extreme‑cold laws in the depths of Return to the Void, smooth enough to reflect light back at a hundred percent. In the mirror there was a shadow—not his, his own shadow stretched long behind him by moonlight. It was another person's, that person standing on the moon. Not standing on the lunar surface, but standing in the moon's reflected light, as if someone had taken the moon as a mirror and projected from its far side.

He wore white robes, not pure white but moon‑white—the pale blue‑white that results from countless exposures to moonlight. His hair was long, hanging to his waist, not black but gray—not the gray of old age but a chaos‑colored gray, the same hue as the stele spirit's hair. His face could not be made out, for he was too far away—no one has measured the distance between the moon and the Spirit Realm—but Wang Ping knew who he was. Wu Chen San Xiu—the sole person in thirty thousand years of the Spirit Realm to have entered Void Refinement and broken through to ascend—who, when the Fusang Tree had not yet sprouted, stuck a withered branch on a barren slope, the man who erased his name from all records leaving only a single line of text. He stood on the moon, gazing at Wang Ping, separated by who‑knows‑how‑many tens of thousands of li—the distance from moon to Spirit Realm beyond the reach of a Transformation Spirit cultivator's divine sense. Separated by who‑knows‑how‑many years—when he stood there there was no Fusang Tree, no Nine Dao Institute, no Wang Ping. They faced each other—Wang Ping looking up from beneath the tree, Wu Chen San Xiu lowering his head on the moon.

The shadow on the moon moved slightly—not his body, but his hand—he extended his right hand from his robe, long fingers with distinct knuckles. He stretched out his hand, pointing far away. Not a casual point—his finger indicated not a spot on the moon but a direction in the Spirit Realm. Wang Ping followed his gaze; that direction was Return to the Void, the border between Spirit Realm and Immortal Realm where immortal fragments float, the place where the Chaos Immortal Stele once slumbered. He withdrew his gaze; the shadow on the moon had vanished, only the moon remained.

He lowered his head, looking at his own hand. There was no book in his hand——the book lay on his knee, he didn't know when it had slipped down. He bent over and picked up the book; when his fingers touched the page, the page turned on its own, not blown by wind. He turned to the last page——not the front side, but the inner side of the back cover. He had turned this page before, and it had been blank. But now it wasn't. There was a line of writing on it——tiny, dense as ants, not written in ink, but "burned" into the paper. The paper bore extremely fine scorch marks, each stroke made by something extremely hot and thin. He leaned in to look; the characters were faint, so faint they were almost invisible in the moonlight. But he saw them——"Come." Not "come", but "Come on," the particle "ba" burned into the final stroke of the character "lai", the two characters stacked together. His heart gave a sudden jump—not from fear—he had been afraid before, but now he wasn't. It was "knowing"—knowing which way to go.

The next morning, before dawn, Wang Ping got up. Not from the bed——he hadn't returned to the quiet chamber the previous night, but had sat under the Jianmu all night. The night's dew had soaked his robe, leaving a dark wet patch on each shoulder and knee. He rose from under the tree, and his knees emitted an extremely faint cracking sound——not from joint degeneration, but from gas bubbles in the joint capsules bursting as his posture changed.

Wang Ping walked to the base of the Constructed Tree and placed his hand on the trunk. This was his morning habit—walking from the Quiet Chamber to the Constructed Tree, standing awhile, and speaking with Jiu Er. The bark was rough and thick; the morning dew had softened the dry cracks on its surface a little, so when his fingers pressed down the crack edges no longer lifted as they did in daytime. It was cool—not icy cool, but the bark itself had dissipated the day's absorbed sunlight during the night, its temperature slightly lower than the air. His fingers slid over the cracks, moving from waist height on the trunk upward to a high point below the branches, then he stopped. He felt Jiu Er's heartbeat—thud. After a long interval, thud. Still that slow, once per minute. So faint—so faint that he had to press his whole palm against the trunk to feel it. Yet steady—each beat and the next were exactly the same interval. Jiu Er's face appeared faintly within the trunk—the inner layer of translucent phloem fibers was thinner than a few years ago, perhaps because the Constructed Tree was slowly pushing her visage outward. With eyes closed, the curve of her eyelashes was clearer than a few years ago, the corner of her mouth bore a smile, so faint—so faint that if he did not gaze at that same face countless times each day he would not notice it at all. But he saw it—her smile was 'knowing'. Knowing he would leave, knowing where he was going, knowing he would return.

"Jiu Er, I'm leaving. Going to the Return to the Void, to the Immortal Realm, to seek the path of Refining the Void. When you wake, I will return." His voice was soft, as if speaking to a sleeping person—afraid to wake her yet wanting her to hear. There was no reply from within the trunk—her face remained the same, eyes closed, mouth smiling. In that smile he saw 'reassurance'—not 'go ahead', but 'I will wait for you'. Since the day he carried her out of the Immortal Palace ruins, she has been waiting—waiting to grow up, waiting to be of help, waiting for him to return from battle. Now she still waits—waiting to awaken, waiting for him to find the Refining the Void path.

He withdrew his hand. As his fingers lifted from the bark, a tiny speck of bark dust clung to his fingertip, brought down when his finger had just scraped the crack. He placed the speck in his palm to look at it, then tucked it into his bosom—not into a storage bag, but against the spot over his heart. He turned and walked back to the Quiet Chamber.

The Quiet Chamber was small, still the same room he used for closed-door cultivation, behind the rubble heap on the north slope. There was only one futon—his old futon, the corners worn flat, the grass filling compressed. One window—opening east, its frame of old wood, the gap half a finger wide. Sunlight squeezed through the gap; morning light was gold‑red, not the noon‑gold. The light fell on the futon like a bolt of silk just taken off the loom—smooth surface, dense light‑threads, the edges bearing ultra‑fine down that glowed in backlight. He sat on the futon, feeling the chill of the stone slab beneath seep up through the grass filling. He took the wordless book from his bosom, laid it on his knees; the book was light, light as if it had none—not because its weight vanished, but because his knees had grown accustomed to it. Yet he knew words lay inside—not present now, but 'future' words. The words were in his heart, invisible to him, because he had not yet arrived—not yet walked deep into the Return to the Void, not yet reached the edge of the Immortal Realm's fragments, not yet arrived at the end of Chaos.

He closed his eyes and breathed. Inhaling—air entered the nostrils, passed the vestibule, where nasal hairs filtered out the last few dust particles. It passed the nasal conchae; capillaries in the nasal mucosa warmed the air to body temperature. It went through the pharynx, trachea, bronchi, into the lungs. The lungs expanded—the diaphragm descended, pushing the abdominal cavity downward. Air entered the blood, which carried oxygen to every part of the body. Passing the heart—the heart pumped the freshly oxygenated blood out of the left ventricle. Passing the dantian—ripples on the Spirit Sea were gently swayed by the rhythm of the breath. Passing the Primordial Spirit—the chaotic Primordial Spirit sat cross‑legged at the center of the Spirit Sea, eyes closed, hands resting on the knees. Exhaling—from the Primordial Spirit, through the dantian, through the heart, through the lungs, through the trachea, through the pharynx, out the nostrils. One cycle, then another. He was waiting—not for the gate to open, but for 'himself' to open.

The sun rose in the east—light squeezed through the gap, shifting from gold‑red to gold‑yellow, moving from left to right. The light patch fell on his face, traveling from forehead to brow ridge, from brow ridge to nose bridge, from nose bridge to chin, then vanished. It was warm, gentle—like a mother's hand—he did not know what a mother's hand felt like, but he remembered You Ying telling him that Yu Liuli had once played a melody for her, a tune that said a mother's hand was not a real hand but the sensation of 'being caught'. He was now caught by this light. He sat in the light like an infant—eyes closed, breathing slow, body light. The sun set in the west; the light withdrew through the gap, disappearing from his face. He remained seated—motionless, eyes still closed, not rising. Day after day, day after day. He waited. Waited for the gate to open.

On the fifth day the gate opened. Not the door of the Quiet Chamber—the Quiet Chamber's door stayed shut, its hinge lacking oil, and when opened it would emit a harsh, dull thud. This gate opened silently. It was the gate of the Spirit Realm—a silver stone gate hovering above the Ninth Dao Academy, above the canopy of the Constructed Tree, between cloud and sky. When it appeared it did not slowly emerge from emptiness; it was 'already there'—one moment that spot was blue sky, the next moment the gate was set into the heavens. The gate was tall, tall enough that its top could not be seen—not because it lacked a top, but because its summit exceeded the focal limit of a Transformation Spirit cultivator's vision. It was wide, wide enough that its edges could not be seen—the gateposts extended outward, stretching beyond the periphery of vision.

The patterns on the gate glowed—not carved, but grown from within. They were natural as tree rings, circle upon circle, tight and close. Each circle was a layer of inscriptions of the Transcendent Dao, countless layers radiating outward, leading back to the primal gate—the original Dao trace left when the Chaos Immortal Venerable attained the Dao. The light was bright, bright enough that the whole Spirit Realm could see it—not silver‑white, but a chaos‑colored gray, exactly the same light that seeped from the trunk when the Constructed Tree's passage opened. The light flowed from the gate's surface like water from a spring, streaming onto the gateposts, onto the clouds, onto the canopy of the Constructed Tree.

The disciples of the Ninth Dao Academy halted their tasks, lifted their heads, and stared at the gate. Some were practicing swords in the training field—having raised their swords halfway, they forgot to bring them down. Some were turning pages in the Scripture Pavilion—the sheets froze at their fingertips. Some were cooking in the mess hall—the water in the pot had boiled dry, yet they did not notice. Fear showed on their faces—not knowing what lay beyond the gate, for the last time the silver stone gate opened in the Holy Hall ruins, a Transcendent being stepped out, and that gate resembled this one too closely. There was confusion—not knowing what to do, whether to kneel, to draw swords, to flee, or to stay. A sliver of hope existed—because Wang Ping was still there, Wang Ping's presence meant they felt no fear. It was not that they were unafraid of death, but that fear would be useless; he shielded them from fear.

Cang Xuan stood beneath a tree—not the Constructed Tree, but the old pine on the rear hill. These days he stood here every day, neither far nor near the Quiet Chamber. His hand rested on the sword hilt; the blade gave a short, bright ring from its scabbard—just like before in the passage and in the Holy Hall ruins. The sword seemed to say—he has arrived. Not an enemy, but the 'gate'. The gate has come, the gate has opened, the gate waits for him. Cang Xuan lifted his hand from the hilt and pressed it to his chest. His heart beat quickly, not from nervousness—but from joy for Wang Ping. Joy that he had waited long enough, joy that he no longer needed to wait, joy that he was about to depart—not the joy of 'about to leave', but the joy that 'he can finally go'.

Yu Liuli cradled her guqin, standing at a distance—by the morning‑glory trellis on the east side of the Constructed Tree. The morning glories had bloomed three white flowers that morning; she had just watered them, droplets still clinging to the petal edges. Her fingertip lightly plucked a string—not the feather string, but the horn string, the horn string being the string of vitality. The string emitted an extremely soft, fine sound, like wind blowing through a bamboo grove—though there is no bamboo in the Spirit Realm, her instrument's heart knows what bamboo looks like. She played a short melody, only a few notes: the palace string rises, the horn string bears, the feather string turns, the horn string closes. Yet within those notes lay her farewell—not 'goodbye', but 'go on'. After finishing, she held the qin and gazed at the gate. The gate waited for her to finish playing—only after the final note faded from the strings did the patterns on the gate continue to flow.

You Ying stood at the base of the Constructed Tree, her back against the trunk. She wore that indigo‑blue long dress—not new clothing, but the first garment she had sewn for herself after growing out of her shadow. The fabric was chosen by Yu Liuli; the stitches were her own, one by one, some places uneven. Her hair fell loose over her shoulders, unbidden, and when the wind blew it drifted. A wisp of stray hair was blown onto her lips; she did not brush it away. She gazed at the gate for a long time—not at the patterns on the gate, but at the gate itself. The gate's patterns pulsed—not a mechanical beat, but a 'living throb'—like a heart, thud, thud, thud. Like a lamp, flickering bright and dim. Like a person's eyes, eyes looking at her—not the gate looking, but the person behind the gate looking. That person was saying—will he come or not? She did not know how Wang Ping would decide—he might go, he might not. She only knew that Wang Ping would decide for himself.

Wang Ping stepped out of the Quiet Chamber. The hinge emitted a harsh, prolonged dull thud as sunlight fell on his face—not the morning's gold‑red but the blazing white of noon. He narrowed his eyes; his pupils had not yet fully adjusted to the strong light. He lifted his gaze to the gate—the patterns on the gate glowed, a chaos‑colored gray, like the sky before dawn. Not bright, but the 'gray that precedes brightness'. The light on his face was warm and gentle—just as warm as the light that filtered through the Quiet Chamber's window gap, just as soft as the light he felt each morning beneath the Constructed Tree, filtered through the leaf layers. He stood in the light a moment, then stepped forward, walking toward the Constructed Tree.

You Ying leaned against the trunk, eyes closed—not asleep, but listening. She recognized his footsteps by sound—his steps were steadier than before, each footfall spaced with exactly the same interval, the sole rolling fully from heel to toe across the grass. Hearing the footsteps, she opened her eyes and looked at him. His face bore no expression, just ordinary—just as it always was when he finished a decision and prepared to set out. But his eyes were different—deeper, like two bottomless wells. The wells held water—not real water, but 'stillness'. Crystal clear—clear enough to see every grain of sand at the bottom. Ice‑cold—cold enough that thrusting a hand into it at midsummer noon would draw a shiver. Utterly still—still enough that the moon's reflection in the well, waxing and waning over countless years, would never ripple. She gazed into the well's bottom and saw the gate—the silver stone gate stood open in the well's depths; beyond it lay a road, long enough that its end vanished from sight. At that end there was light—not chaos‑colored, but golden.

"Are you leaving?" Her voice was soft, soft as wind—not a gale, but the midsummer night breeze drifting through the window. Like a dream—not a nightmare, but a pleasant dream that lingers in memory upon waking. Like something nonexistent—the sound was too faint, so faint she could barely hear it herself.

Wang Ping nodded—not a forceful nod, but his chin sinking slightly. The amplitude matched exactly the nod he gave each time she asked him, 'Are you ready?'

She reached out and took his hand. His hand was warm—the perfected Transformation Spirit chaos power coursing through his meridians needed only an instant to travel from dantian to fingertip. She placed his hand against her cheek, feeling his temperature. His chaos power seeped from his palm—not the former wisp‑thin seep, but a 'mist': an extremely fine, dense, soft chaos‑colored light mist that oozed from his palm and settled on her cheek. It was soft and fine, like silk sliding over her skin. She closed her eyes; the corner of her mouth curled in a smile.

"I will wait for you." Not 'don't go', not 'take me with you', not 'you must return'. It is 'I will wait for you'—she has been waiting since the beginning. In the ancient mirror she waited for him to reach in and pull her out; in the Holy Hall ruins she waited for him to swing his sword and turn her from shadow back to human form; at the Quiet Chamber's door she waited for him to finish cultivation. Now she continues to wait—waiting for him to enter the Return to the Void, waiting for him to enter the Immortal Realm, waiting for him to reach the road's end, then turn and walk back.

Wang Ping said nothing—not because he didn't want to, but because it was unnecessary. He took her hand from his face, clasped both hands, and gave a firm squeeze. Her hand was small, fitting exactly into the hollow between his life line and wisdom line in his palm. Then he released, turned. As he turned, the edge of his robe brushed her skirt, stirring a tiny, almost imperceptible breeze. He walked slowly, each step planted firmly. The grass beneath his feet bent, then sprang back—not because the grass is sentient, but because the lingering chaos power in the air after his passage gave the blades a slight lift, helping them rebound faster. Bent, then sprang back. The grass seemed to say—go on, I will wait for your return. The grass does not speak, but he heard it.

Cang Xuan stood in the distance under the old pine. From the moment Wang Ping walked out of the meditation chamber he had been watching, hand on the sword hilt—not a warning but a "seeing off". The sword made no sound in its sheath—because the sword knew this was not his path. His path lay in the Spirit Realm, in the Heaven Sword Sect, before the disciples awaiting his teaching. He could not go—not because he could not leave the Spirit Realm, but because he "should not" go. The Heaven Sword Sect's newly recruited disciples had just learned the basic sword forms; if he left, who would teach them the heart method of the Slay‑Immortal Sword Intent? The broken sword brought back from the Hall of Order, lying in the Sword Tomb, was still soaking in the tempering‑fire pool; tempering requires ninety‑nine days without interruption, and only thirty‑plus days have passed. He could watch—watch Wang Ping walk, watch his receding back, watch that door swallow him. He moved his hand from the hilt to his chest. His heartbeat was not fast, but "heavy"—thump, thump, thump. Each beat struck his chest cavity. He was saying—come back alive.

Yu Liuli cradled her ancient zither, standing beneath the Establish Tree beside the morning‑glory trellis. Her finger lightly plucked a string—not the horn string, but the feather string—the finest one. The feather string's tone is the clearest and farthest of all strings, able to reach all heavens and myriad worlds. The string issued an extremely faint, slender sound, like wind blowing through a bamboo grove—but this time it was not a bamboo grove, it was the "road". The road stretched in the wind, from the Spirit Realm all the way to the Return to the Void, from the Return to the Void all the way to the Immortal Realm. She was playing a long piece, not the short farewell tune of just a few notes before. It was a complete piece, an ancient melody of the Fallen Immortal Clan, titled "Long Road Guide". She had previously played it only for her master, who said she played it too fast—the long road must not be rushed, for haste makes one miss the scenery beside the way. Now she played it slowly, each note drawn out—her left hand coaxed an exceedingly fine vibrato on the string, and when the vibrato was about to fade, her right hand plucked the next note. It was as if she hated to let the sound end—not because she hated to let him go, but because she hated to let this piece finish. When the piece ended, he would have to leave. Yet the sound still ended—the final note landed on the horn string, the string of vitality. She finished playing, her fingers resting on the strings. Gazing at Wang Ping's retreating back—he reached the door, stopped, and glanced back at her once. Across the whole meadow beneath the Establish Tree, past the morning‑glory trellis and the three white blossoms that had just opened this morning, she saw—his eyes were saying "Wait for me".

Wang Ping turned his head, looking at the door. The door was tall—tall enough that craning his neck he could not see the top. Wide—wide enough that turning his head left and right he could not see the edges. The patterns on the door pulsed—not a chaotic pulse, but an "ordered" pulse; each pulse brought a new ring of pattern up from deep within the door panel. Like a heart, like a lamp, like a person's breath—that person beyond the door had been waiting for him, waiting countless ages. He reached out, his fingertips touching the door—not substance, but "existence". Under his fingers the door had no material, no temperature, no weight. Yet he felt—it was here, it was waiting for him. The door was cold, cold as ice—the chill of absolute‑zero law, the chill before chaos first opened. Like snow—snow that had lain in shade for tens of thousands of years without melting. Like death—the "death of the beginning", a seed must die once before it can sprout. But his hand was warm—warm hand touching the cold door, the door grew warm. Not that the door itself was changing, but his hand was telling the door—I have come, you need wait no longer. The door opened—not pushed in, not pulled out, but "dispersed". From its center it split into countless ultrafine chaos‑colored light threads, which drifted apart like wind scattering dandelion fluff, like seeds bursting from their casings. Beyond the door lay a passage.

The passage was long—so long its end could not be seen—not a straight line but a slight arc, like the curvature of the Establish Tree's roots extending through the void. Its walls bore no markings, no light, no substance—not stone, not wood, not void. It was the condensation of the Dao itself; here the Chaos Dao had solidified into substance. Nothing adorned it—no decoration, no signs, no markers. Only black—not darkness, but "void black", the black before light was created. Only emptiness—not void, for void has law, here there is none. Only the road—the road underfoot, perfectly flat, flat as a water surface. Yet stepping on it caused no ripples, for the road's density exactly matched the pressure of his soles. The road was narrow—wide enough for only one person; two walking shoulder‑to‑shoulder would brush their shoulders against the walls. He stepped forward, entered the passage. Footsteps echoed within—tap, tap, tap. Not a heavy step, but a "steady" step; each footfall took exactly the same interval. Like a bell toll—not a funeral bell, but a "morning bell", the first morning chime that tells everyone inside the mountain gate that dawn has come. Like a heartbeat—not a nervous heartbeat, but a "still" heartbeat—thump, thump, thump. Like a countdown—not counting how long until death, but counting how long until arrival.

There was no light in the passage. But he could see——not with his eyes, but with the Dao looking. His chaotic divine sense surged out from the spirit terrace point, spreading in the darkness. Not a scan, but an 'illumination'——wherever his divine sense passed, the darkness automatically retreated, revealing the texture of the ground. There was light in his eyes——chaotic-colored, hazy gray, like the sky before dawn. Not bright, but a 'guidance'. The light illuminated the road ahead——the road extended beneath his feet, and with each step he took, the road extended a step forward. He walked on it, and there were no ripples beneath his feet——not because the road was too hard, but because he was too light. A cultivator at the peak of the Nascent Soul stage makes no footfall when walking, but he made his steps produce sound, because he was counting, counting how many steps he had taken.

He walked for an unknown length of time. There was no time in the passage——not that time had stopped, but that 'time does not exist here'. Perhaps a day, perhaps a year. He didn't mind——not that it was indifferent, but that he 'knew'. He knew the road was long, long enough that he needed to walk step by step. Walking fast would make him miss the scenery at the roadside——not real scenery, but the 'scenery of the Dao'. Along the roadside were countless infinitesimal fragments of law, they were all the traces of evolution of the Chaos Dao from its birth to the present, and the milestones left by generations of cultivators who had walked the Chaos Dao. Walking fast would blur these fragments, and blurring them would mean missing them. Walking slow would waste time——not that time was insufficient, but that those 'waiting' grew impatient. Youying waited for him in the Spirit Realm, Jiu'er waited for him in the Jianmu, and the Dustless Wandering Cultivator waited for him in the Immortal Realm. He walked neither fast nor slow——not deliberately regulated, but his body found its own rhythm. This rhythm was forged during his eighteen months of retraining, each day walking from the back mountain to the front mountain, treading out the rhythm on the more than nine hundred stone steps. He walked, walked, walked.

At the end of the passage there was a light. Not chaotic-colored——it was golden. Not the thin light that seeps through a crack in a door, but a 'full' light. The golden light poured in from the passage's outlet, flooding the ground, flooding the walls, flooding the tops of his shoes. It was golden like the sun——not the midday sun, but the autumn afternoon sunlight that filters through the canopy of the Jianmu tree. Like a star——not a distant star, but one close enough to see its surface, a golden main-sequence star. Like hope——hope has no color, yet whenever anyone sees hope they automatically assign it a color. The color assigned to hope is golden. The light pulsed——not an explosion, but a 'breath'. Like a heart, thump, thump, thump. Like a lamp, whose wick is the foundation of the Chaos Dao, whose oil is all the road he has walked, whose shade is the road he has yet to walk. Like a child calling for its mother——the child stands at the light's end, mouth open, making no sound, but the shape of its mouth is 'come'. He walked toward that light, stepped into the light. The light engulfed him——not burning, but 'embracing'. Like water swallowing a drop of ink——the ink droplet on the water's surface first gathers into a round ink bead, then, at the moment surface tension is broken, it disperses into threads, into filaments, into mist. The ink is no longer ink, the water is no longer water.

On the sky of the Spirit Realm, that silver stone gate slowly closed. Not with a bang——but extremely gently and slowly, like an old person closing a book they had read for a long time. The light in the gap grew narrower——from a whole sheet of golden light, to a line, to a thread, to a point as small as a needle tip. It grew finer and finer until it vanished. The gate disappeared——not dissolving into light threads, but 'ceasing to be'. As if it had never appeared——the sky remained that same sky, the blue just as blue, the clouds still those few white clouds drifting from east to west. The leaves of the Jianmu rustled in the wind, sha-sha-sha, like someone speaking. It said——he had left. Not sorrow, but 'record'. The Jianmu is a living chronicle, recording every person who sets out from the Spirit Realm toward the Immortal Realm. It recorded his silhouette as he stepped through the gate.

Youying leaned against the tree trunk, eyes closed. She wasn't crying——the tear tracks were old; a few days ago, while he waited in the quiet chamber for the gate to open, she had stood alone beneath the Jianmu and shed tears, but those tracks had now dried. There was a smile at the corner of her mouth——not happiness, but 'knowing'. She knew where he was going, knew why he was going, and knew he would return.

Cangxuan moved his hand from the sword hilt to press against his chest. His heart beat—once, once, once—not fast, but 'steady'. When that gate vanished in the sky just now, his sword gave a sound from its sheath——not an alarm, but a 'farewell', bidding farewell to his sole acknowledged rival, who was also his sole acknowledged friend.

Yuliuli's finger lightly plucked a string on the zither——not the feather string, but the palace string. The string emitted an extremely faint, delicate sound, like a dewdrop sliding off a leaf and dripping into a pond——the pond's surface gave a slight dip, then rebounded, sending out a ripple. The ripple spread outward from the base of the Jianmu, passing through the newly grown wild grass, and past the three white morning glory flowers that had bloomed that morning.

Jiu'er was within the trunk of the Jianmu, her face faintly appearing and disappearing. When that silver stone gate just now scattered chaotic-colored light across the treetops, her eyelid twitched—a movement so minute that Youying, standing beneath the tree, did not notice it, but the Jianmu did. The Jianmu conveyed that tremor through its roots deep into the earth's meridians, recording it in its growth rings. The smile at the corner of her mouth deepened a little——from an extremely faint arc becoming a clear curve. She knew he had left, and she knew she would return.

Wang Ping walked in the golden light. The light was warm——not a scorching heat, but the warmth of 'body temperature', like someone taking off their outer garment and draping it over your shoulders when you are cold. It was soft——not the softness of silk, but the softness of a 'hand', like a mother's hand, like the feeling of being caught. He walked slowly——not because he couldn't walk fast, but because he was 'feeling'. Feeling the road beneath his feet——the road surface was golden, and stepping on it sent out ripples.

The ripples did not spread outward; they spread forward, wave after wave surging ahead. For he knew that the road's end was the Immortal Realm——the place where the Chaos Immortal Venerable came from, where the Lord of Order came from, and where the Dustless Wandering Cultivator went. In the Immortal Realm lay what he sought——the secret of Refining the Void, the path of the Dao fruit, and the answers left behind by the Dustless Wandering Cultivator.

He needed to find them, to find himself. The light grew brighter——not a blinding brightness, but a 'full' brightness. So full that he could no longer see his own feet, the road, or his surroundings.

So bright he could not keep his eyes open——his eyelids could not block such intense light, nor could his iris sphincter contracted to its limit. He closed his eyes——even with his eyes shut the light remained, turning into an extremely bright gold-red behind his lids. He kept walking——not seeing with his eyes, but 'seeing' with his heart. The road was beneath his feet——there was road underfoot, and the road extended onward. His heart was on the road——his heart walked, and his heart knew which way to go. He walked, walked, walked.