Chapter 454

On the night he came out of the cave, Wang Ping did not rest. He walked under a gray-white sky, the ash beneath his feet shimmering with a faint silver light in the moonlight, like snow, like frost, like a dream. The moon was not a real moon, but that fuzzy light spot. The light spot hung in the sky, bright but not glaring, like a person's eyes. The eyes were closed, but you knew they were watching you. Wang Ping walked for a long time, so long his legs trembled, so long his stomach growled, so long his throat smoked. He did not stop, because he knew stopping would make him think of the cave. In the cave there were torches, someone's body heat, the old man's breath. He wanted to go back, but he could not. Going back would make him unable to walk again.

On the fifth day, he saw an immortal palace. The palace was huge, huge to the point of having no visible horizon. But it had collapsed—not slowly collapsed, but 'sat' collapsed. Like a person sitting down, legs unable to support, they just sat on the ground. The palace's roof was still there, but tilted, tilted like a hat blown askew by the wind. The walls were still there, but cracked, cracked like an old person's face. The pillars were still there, but broken, broken like legs chopped off. Wang Ping walked inside; underfoot were rubble, debris, dust. The rubble was large, large enough that he had to step over it. The debris was fine, fine enough that stepping on it would make him sink. The dust was thick, thick enough to not even reach his ankles. He walked slowly, because he was observing.

There were still murals on the wall. Not painted on, but carved in. The carving showed immortals flying in the sky, wings huge, huge enough to cover half the sky. Their faces could not be made out, worn smooth by time, worn into smooth stone. But the wings remained, the feathers on the wings remained. One by one, they were fine, dense. Wang Ping reached out; his fingers slid over the feathers. The feathers were cold, cold as ice, as snow, as death. Yet his fingers sensed a temperature—not cold, but 'once flown'. The wings had flown, wind passing through the feathers made a whooshing sound. The sound was gone, but the wings remained.

On the sixth day, he saw an immortal lake. The lake was vast, vast to the point of no visible opposite shore. But it had dried up—not slowly dried, but 'thirsted' to death. The lakebed's soil had dried and cracked, splitting into countless irregular chunks, like a map shattered then hastily pieced together. The edge of each chunk of soil was lifted, curled, like dry, cracked lips. Wang Ping stood by the lake, gazing at the cracks in the lakebed. The cracks were deep, deep enough that the bottom could not be seen. He crouched, thrust his hand into the crack. His fingers scraped along the crack's edge; the edge was sharp, like a blade. His fingers were cut, beads of blood seeping from the wound, tiny, red. He withdrew his fingers, put them in his mouth, and tasted the blood—salty, fishy, hot. The lake does not bleed; the lake only dries.

On the seventh day, he saw an immortal mountain. The mountain was towering, high enough to pierce the sky. But it had cracked—not slowly cracked, but 'pain' cracked. The fissure in the mountain's body ran from the summit to the base, wide enough for three people to walk side by side. The edges of the fissure were smooth, smooth as stone washed by water. But the water had dried, leaving only wind. Wind blew into the fissure, making a wailing sound, like a person crying. Wang Ping walked at the mountain's foot, tilted his head up, and looked at the fissure. Inside the fissure something glowed—not chaos-colored, but silver-white. The remnant of the power of order.

Points of light drifted within the mountain's fissure, like ghosts, like spirits. They had no consciousness, no bodies, no anything to attach to. They simply existed there, in the fissure, in the stone, in the darkness. They drifted for a long time, since the day the Lord of Order fell. They drifted until the stone split, until the mountain collapsed, until the wind grew old. They still drift. Because they are order, order does not die. Order only 'is'. To be, they must assimilate.

Wang Ping entered the fissure. The fissure was narrow, narrow enough that his shoulders scraped the stone walls. The walls were rough, rough enough to wear through his robe. Silver-white points of light drifted around him, some fast, some slow, some urgent, some gentle. They did not know him, but they recognized the chaotic power within him. Chaotic power was their enemy, their bane, the opposite of their existence. They surged forward, like a pack of starving wolves, like a swarm of moths, like prisoners locked up too long. They wanted to assimilate him, to make him part of themselves, to turn chaos into order, gray into white, life into death.

Wang Ping did not dodge. He extended his hand, palm facing upward. Chaotic power welled from his palm, gray and murky, like the sky before dawn. The points of light touching the chaotic power were like water droplets falling into magma—hiss—and vanished. Not extinguished, but 'merged'. Merged into the chaotic power, becoming part of it. Order originally came from chaos; it merely forgot the way home. Wang Ping helped it remember.

He walked for three days and emerged from the fissure. The mountain lay behind him, cracked, aching, weeping. He did not look back, because he knew he could not help it. The fissure was too deep, deep enough that his chaotic power could not reach it. He could only walk on.

On the tenth day, he saw a plain. The plain was vast, vast to the point of no visible horizon. The ground was covered with grass—not green, but yellow. Yellow like autumn, like old age, like a person's face. The wind blew over, the grass swayed in the wind, sha-sha-sha, like someone speaking. He listened, listening to what the grass said. The grass said—'You came late.' He crouched, pressing his hand onto the grass. The grass was dry, dry enough to crumble at a touch. The fragments clung to his palm, light, fine, like ash, like dust, like the cremated remains of time. He stood and continued walking.

On the fifteenth day, he saw a river. The river was wide, wide enough that a person on the far bank looked like a speck. The river was deep, deep enough that the bottom could not be seen. But the river held no water—only a dry riverbed, and the stones on it that had been washed by water. The stones were round, smooth, like pebbles, like eggs, like a baby's head. They lay on the riverbed, motionless, as if sleeping, as if waiting for water to return. Wang Ping stepped on the stones; they rolled under his feet, making a clattering sound, like flowing water. He walked slowly, because he did not want to crush those stones. The stones had waited countless years, waiting for water to return. Water never came, but the stones remained.

On the twentieth day, he saw a forest. The forest was vast, vast to the point of no visible horizon. The trees were tall, tall enough to pierce the sky. But they were all dead—not slowly died, but 'thirsted' to death. The trunks were gray-white, bare, without leaves, without bark, without life. The branches were like countless hands reaching toward the sky, praying for something. For rain, for wind, for life. There was no reply. The sky was gray, the ground dry, the wind cool. Wang Ping walked through the forest; the fallen leaves underfoot were thick, thick enough to not even reach his ankles. The leaves were dry, dry enough to crumble at a step, making a crackling sound, like bones being snapped underfoot. He walked slowly, because he was listening. Listening to what the trees said. The trees said nothing, for they were dead. The dead do not speak.

On the thirtieth day, he walked out of the forest. Before him lay an empty clearing. Nothing was on the clearing—no grass, no trees, no stones. Only ash, thick, gray-white. On the ash there was a line of footprints, not his, but someone else's. The footprints were faint, faint enough to be almost invisible. Yet they were there, in the ash, in the wind, in time. Wang Ping crouched, extended his hand, and traced his fingers over the footprints. The footprints were cold, cold as ice, as snow, as death. Yet his fingers sensed a temperature—not cold, but 'once walked'. Someone had walked here before him. That person walked slowly, each step firm. The footprints said—'I am here, and you have come too.'

He followed the footprints. The prints went north, so he went north; east, so he went east; west, so he went west. The prints led him through the clearing, over hills, through ravines. After an unknown number of days, the prints stopped. They stopped before a mountain. The mountain was lofty, high enough that its top could not be seen. Very steep, steep as a wall. On the wall there was a hole, not large, only enough for one person to pass. Inside the hole it was black, black as night, as ink, as an abyss. Wang Ping stood at the mouth, peered inside. He saw nothing, for he had no light. His hand reached into the hole and touched stone. The stone was cold, cold as ice, as snow, as death. He drew a deep breath and slipped inside.

The cave was long, long enough that his legs trembled. Narrow, narrow enough that his shoulders scraped the stone walls. Pitch black, black enough that his eyes could see nothing. He could only rely on touch—feeling the walls, the floor, the front. His hand encountered something smooth and cool, like ice, like jade, like a person's skin. His fingers slid over the skin, sensing a fine, dense texture, like fingerprints. The fingerprints said—'Who are you?' In his mind he said—'Wang Ping.' The fingerprints said—'You have come.' He had come. He exited the cave mouth and stood on the other side of the mountain.

Before him lay a sea.

Not a sea made of water, but a sea made of 'source'. The seawater was chaos-colored, gray and murky, like the sky before dawn. The sea surface had no waves, no tides, no sound. It simply lay still, like a sleeping giant. Wang Ping stood at the shore, gazing at that sea, gazing for a long time. His feet trembled, not from fear, but from exhaustion. Having walked an unknown number of days, from the cave to here, passing the collapsed immortal palace, the dried immortal lake, the cracked immortal mountain, the dead forest. He had finished his journey; the sea had arrived.

The sea was breathing. Very slow, so slow that human eyes could not perceive it. But his heart felt it, for his heart also breathed. Together they breathed—in, out, in, out. He sat by the sea, placing his hand on the seawater. The seawater was cold, cold as ice, as snow, as death. Yet his fingers sensed a temperature—not cold, but 'source'. The source caressed his fingers, like a mother caressing an infant. He sat in the source, eyes closed, waiting. Waiting for his body to be ready, for his heartbeat to slow, for his breath to steady. He waited a long time. Then he rose and stepped into the sea.

The seawater did not reach his ankles. Neither cold nor hot, no sensation—because the water was not water, but 'source'. The source caressed his feet, like a mother caressing an infant. He took a step; the seawater did not reach his knees. The source caressed his shins, light and soft. He took a second step; the seawater did not reach his waist. The source caressed his abdomen, warm and supple. He took a third step; the seawater did not reach his chest. The source caressed his heart, his heart beating, the source also beating. They beat together.

He walked in the source, walking slowly because he didn't know the way. The seawater parted beside him, then closed, parted, then closed. Like a person's breath, like a person's heartbeat, like a person's existence. He walked for a long time, so long that his legs were gone, his waist was gone, his chest was gone. He had only a heart left, drifting in the sea. The heart beat, the source also beat. They beat together.

Ahead, there was a person.

That person stood on the sea surface, his back to him, his robe fluttering in the wind, his hair very long, hanging to his waist. The robe was white, white as snow, as clouds, as old age. His hair was black, black as ink, as night, as the abyss. He stood on the sea, like a tree, like a sword, like a pillar propping up the sky. Wang Ping walked over and stood behind him. He did not turn around, because he knew Wang Ping had come. His robe fluttered in the wind, his hair fluttered in the wind, his body fluttered in the wind. He was not afraid of the wind, because he was a Dustless Loose Cultivator.

Dustless Loose Cultivator turned around. It was an unfamiliar face, middle-aged, gaunt, eyes deep and bright. His face was not what Wang Ping had imagined, because Wang Ping had never imagined it. He only knew that this face had waited here for countless years, waiting for someone to come see it. There were few wrinkles, but they were deep, deep as if carved with a knife. What was carved was time, was waiting, was the Dao. He wore a white robe, without adornment, without pattern, simply wrapped around him. The robe was old, worn to the point that the edges were frayed, but it was clean, clean to the point of not a speck of dust. In his hand he held a withered branch, the branch thin, thin as chopsticks. On it was a leaf, the leaf yellow, yellow as autumn ginkgo. The leaf had not fallen, because it was still waiting. Waiting for wind, waiting for rain, waiting for a person. Wind came, rain came, a person came. The leaf still had not fallen, because it was reluctant to let go.

Dustless Loose Cultivator looked at Wang Ping, looking for a long time. There was no expression in his eyes, but Wang Ping knew he was looking. Looking at his Dao, looking at his cause and effect, looking at his "being". Wang Ping was also looking, looking at Dustless Loose Cultivator's Dao, looking at his cause and effect, looking at his "being". They gazed at each other, separated by who knows how many years. Dustless Loose Cultivator's lips moved, his voice very soft, soft as wind blowing over the water surface.

"Refining the Void is not merging the laws; it is severing cause and effect. In your Dao fruit there is too much of others' things. The death of the Mountain-Moving Old Ancestor, the death of Jiang Mingyuan, the vigil of the Yin Shadow, the waiting of Jiu'er. Those are all cause and effect. If cause and effect are not severed, the Dao fruit is not pure. If the Dao fruit is not pure, Refining the Void cannot be accomplished."

Wang Ping's heart jumped once. He knew. He knew that the death of the Mountain-Moving Old Ancestor was his cause and effect, the death of Jiang Mingyuan was his cause and effect, the vigil of the Yin Shadow was his cause and effect, the waiting of Jiu'er was his cause and effect. Those cause and effect were like ropes, entwined around his body, entwined tightly, so tight that his breathing became difficult. He could not break free, because the rope had no end. No end meant no beginning to find, no beginning meant it could not be untied.

"Severing cause and effect is not being unfeeling. It is letting go. Letting go is not forgetting; it is 'not being'. When you are, cause and effect are. When you are not, cause and effect still are. But when you are not, it does not pull you. When you do not pull it, it becomes free."

Wang Ping sat down in the sea. The seawater did not reach his shoulders, did not reach his neck, did not reach his chin. His lips moved, not speaking, but thinking. Thinking how to sever, how to let go, how to "not be". He thought for a long time, so long that his body was gone. He had only a heart left, drifting in the sea. The heart beat, the source also beat. They beat together, beating for a long time. Then the heart stopped beating.

Wang Ping opened his eyes. Dustless Loose Cultivator was no longer there. Only that withered branch, inserted into the sea surface, lonely. The leaf on the withered branch was still there, yellow, like autumn ginkgo. The leaf swayed lightly in the wind, sha-sha-sha, like a person speaking. It said — Have you understood? Wang Ping did not answer. He did not know. He only knew that he was, and cause and effect was also. He was, and cause and effect pulled him. He was no longer, but cause and effect still was. But cause and effect no longer pulled him. Because "he" was no longer there.