Chapter 452: Farewell

Wang Ping stood before the silver stone gate, not entering immediately.

The gate was open, golden light pouring out from within, falling on his face, warm and soft, like a mother's hand. The light pulsed, like a heart, like a lamp, like someone calling his name. His foot had already stepped forward, hanging in midair, not landing. Not because he didn't want to go, but because he couldn't bear to leave.

He turned around.

The Spirit Realm lay behind him. The roofs of the Ninth Dao Academy shimmered with a blue‑gray light in the morning sun, cooking smoke rising from the chimneys of several buildings, thin and straight, like threads. The threads broke in the wind, the smoke dispersed. He gazed long, gazing at every hall, every corridor, every tree that had withered and then lived again. He wanted to remember their appearance, for perhaps the next time he returned, it would be many years later.

Cang Xuan stood beneath the Building Tree, his hand resting on the sword hilt. The sword made no sound in its sheath, for it was listening. Listening to Wang Ping's footsteps, to his heartbeat, to his breath. Wang Ping walked up to Cang Xuan and stopped.

Cang Xuan's face bore no expression, stern as a stone. But the stone had grain, the grain being the marks of time. His grain was deep, deep as if carved by a knife. Wang Ping stared at those lines, staring for a long time. He recalled the first time he had seen Cang Xuan, at the entrance of the Azure Void Heavenly Domain, that sword cultivator with a cold face, drawing his sword and asking him if he had come to seize opportunity. Back then they were young, young enough to think there was no enemy under heaven they could not defeat. Now they were no longer young, but the enemies were dead. They both still lived.

Cang Xuan reached out and placed his hand on Wang Ping's shoulder. The hand was heavy, heavy as iron. The iron burned, making his palm hot. His fingers lingered on Wang Ping's shoulder for a moment, then withdrew, slipping into his own robe.

"I will catch up to you."

His voice was cold, cold as winter wind. But Wang Ping heard what lay within, not defiance, but a "promise". They had promised: he would follow behind, Wang Ping would run ahead. No matter how far he ran, he would catch up. A sword cultivator does not stop; if he stops, his sword dulls. His sword will not dull.

Wang Ping nodded. He did not say "I will wait for you", because he knew Cang Xuan did not need him to wait. Cang Xuan wanted him to run, to run fast, to run far, to run until he could not catch up. Only when he could not catch up did the pursuit have meaning.

Cang Xuan turned and walked. He took three steps, stopped, without looking back.

"Live."

One word. Not "live and return", but "live". To live is enough. He stepped forward, walked. His footsteps grew fainter and fainter, finally disappearing at the end of the corridor.

Yu Liuli stood on the other side of the Building Tree, cradling a guqin. Her fingers lightly plucked a string, the string emitting an extremely faint sound, like wind blowing through a bamboo grove. She walked up to Wang Ping and stopped.

Her eyes were black, bright, like two black gems. Light lay within the gems, not reflected light, but light emanating from inside. The light seemed to say — I know you are leaving. Wang Ping gazed at her, saying nothing. For he did not know what to say. Thanks would be too light, sorry too heavy.

Yu Liuli's fingers plucked the string again, the string emitting an extremely faint sound, like a dewdrop sliding off a leaf and dripping into a pond.

"Take care."

One word. Not "take care of your body", not "take care of your path", but "take care". Take care of himself, take care of his Dao, take care of what he had promised. Having spoken, she held the guqin, turned and walked. After a few steps she stopped, without looking back.

"Nine Er has awakened, I will send you a message."

She departed. Her footsteps were light, light as a cat stepping on cotton. But Wang Ping heard them, for he was listening. He heard her footsteps grow fainter and fainter, finally merging with the wind.

Youying leaned against the trunk of the Building Tree, eyes closed. She was waiting, waiting for Wang Ping to come over. She did not need to go to him, for she knew he would come. Every time he walked, he would come to say farewell. From the Azure Void Heavenly Domain to the Chaos Immortal Palace, from the Law Corridor to the fragments of the Immortal Palace, from the Return to the Void to the fragments of the Immortal Realm. Each time, he would come. This time, too, would be no exception.

Wang Ping walked up to her, stood for a long time. He gazed at her closed eyes, at her hair drifting in the wind, at the faint smile at the corner of her mouth. He reached out and lightly touched her hair. Her hair was soft, fine, like silk, like spring breeze, like a dream. He lingered there a moment, then withdrew his hand.

Youying opened her eyes. Her eyes were black, deep, like two bottomless wells. The wells held water, clear, cool, still. In the well water he saw his own shadow. The shadow swayed, not because the water swayed, but because his heart swayed.

"I will wait for you."

Her voice was light, light as wind, as dream, as nonexistent. But Wang Ping heard it. He heard the "I", heard the "wait", heard the "you". Each word was light, yet together they were heavy, heavy enough to make his heart sink, sink into his belly, sink into his dantian, sink into his primordial spirit.

He reached out and grasped her hand. Her hand was small, cool, soft. He placed her hand over his own heart, letting her feel his heartbeat. It beat fast, fast. Not from nervousness, but from reluctance. He did not want to go, but he had to go. For the path of Refining the Void lay in the Immortal Realm, at the end of the Return to the Void, in the depths of Chaos. He went there, only then could he return. Having returned, he could then never leave again.

Youying withdrew her hand, placing it over her own heart. Her hand trembled, not from cold, but from endurance. She endured not crying, not embracing him, not begging him to stay. She endured.

"Go."

Wang Ping turned. He took three steps, stopped, without looking back.

"Wait for me."

He stepped forward, walked. Behind him, Youying leaned against the tree trunk, eyes closed. The corner of her mouth held a smile, so faint it was almost invisible. But the Building Tree saw. The leaves of the Building Tree rustled in the wind, sha sha sha, like a person saying — he has left, but he will return.

Nine Er dwelled within the trunk of the Building Tree. Her face was small, white, like a flower buried in the earth. Eyes closed, the corner of her mouth smiled. Wang Ping stood beneath the Building Tree, hand pressed against the trunk. The bark was rough, thick, cool. His fingers slid over the cracks, feeling her heartbeat. Slow, weak, but steady. One beat, one beat, one beat. He listened, listened to her heartbeat. As he listened, he heard another sound. Not a heartbeat, but "words". Nine Er spoke in her dream, speaking to the Building Tree, which conveyed the words to him.

"Big brother, you must come back."

Wang Ping lowered his head, forehead pressing against the trunk. The bark was rough, rough enough to hurt his forehead. He did not pull away, for he wanted her to know he had heard. He had heard, he would return. He lifted his head, gazing at her face within the trunk. She still smiled, faintly, but she smiled.

"Nine Er, I will return. When you awaken, I will return."

There was no response from within the trunk. Her face remained as it was, eyes closed, the corner of her mouth smiling. In that smile he saw "reassurance" — reassurance that he would return, reassurance that he would not abandon her, reassurance that he still existed. He withdrew his hand, turned, and walked away.

Jiang Mingyuan's memorial tomb stood behind the rear mountain. That blue stone stele still stood, the characters still legible — "Tomb of Jiang Mingyuan, Headmaster of the Ninth Dao Academy of the Spirit Realm. Dao heart unmoved, myriad laws return to the one." The characters were carved by Wang Ping; when he carved them his hand trembled, and a few strokes were skewed. He did not re‑carve them, for he wanted his master to know that disciples are not perfect, that disciples make mistakes, that disciples tremble, that disciples fear. But he would come.

Wang Ping knelt before the tomb, kowtowing three times. His forehead struck the ground with a resonant thud, thud, thud. The ground held dry soil, so dry it had cracked. In the cracks crawled tiny black ants, unafraid of him because he did not move. He remained kneeling.

"Master, I am leaving. Going to the Immortal Realm to seek the path of Refining the Void. You said my path would be harder than anyone's. I have gone, gone weary, but never stopped. You said you would always be with me. I know you are, in my heart, in my Dao. If you are not, I still am. If I am not, the Dao remains."

He took from his bosom the Jiang character token. The token had dimmed, lost its light. But he knew the master's will remained. Not in the token, but in his heart. He placed the token before the tomb, pressing it under the stone.

"Master, the disciple has departed. The disciple will return."

He rose, turned, and walked away.

Behind him, the tombstone stood quietly in the morning light, the characters on it glowing faintly in the sunshine, like a person smiling.

Wang Ping arrived at the silver stone gate once more, halted. The gate remained open, golden light pouring out, falling on his face, warm and soft. He drew a deep breath, that breath carrying the scent of the Spirit Realm, of grass, of earth, of sunlight. He swallowed it down, deep into his belly, deep into his heart, deep into his bones. He would remember this scent. For this was the scent of home.

He stepped forward, walked into the light. The light swallowed him, like water swallowing a drop of ink. The ink dispersed in the water, becoming threads, becoming filaments, becoming mist. Finally it merged with the water. He walked within the light, not looking back. For he knew someone behind awaited him, awaiting his return.

The stone gate slowly closed. The light in the gap grew narrower and finer, finally vanishing. The gate disappeared, as if it had never existed.

The leaves of the Building Tree swayed in the wind, sha sha sha, like a person saying — he has left, but he will return.

Youying leaned against the tree trunk, eyes closed. The corner of her mouth held a smile.

Cang Xuan stood in the distance, hand on his sword hilt. The sword gave a short, bright ring from its sheath. The sword said — he has left, I will catch up to him.

Yu Liuli cradled the guqin, her fingers lightly plucking a string. The string emitted an extremely faint sound, like wind blowing through a bamboo grove. She played a nameless melody, a farewell tune. Having finished, she held the guqin and gazed toward the direction where the gate had vanished.

Nine Er dwelled within the Building Tree, her face faintly visible. The smile at the corner of her mouth deepened a little.

Jiang Mingyuan's tombstone stood quietly in the morning light, the characters on it glowing faintly in the sunshine.

The gate of the Immortal Realm closed. But Wang Ping's path had only just begun.