Chapter 455

After the figure of Wuchen Sanxiu dissipated, only that withered branch remained on the sea surface. The withered branch was inserted on the surface of the Chaos Source Sea, not sinking, because it is the Dao. The Dao does not sink; the Dao only waits. Wang Ping gazed at that withered branch, gazing for a long time. The leaves were still yellow, yellow as autumn ginkgo, as the dusk after sunset, as a person's final sigh. It swayed gently in the wind, not speaking, but breathing. The leaves' breath was so slow it was almost imperceptible, but Wang Ping felt it, because his heart was also breathing. They were in the same sea, breathing the same air, having the same dream.

He sat down in the sea. Not sitting, but "sinking". His body sank into the sea, not falling down, but "transforming". Like a piece of ice placed in warm water, changing from solid to liquid, from having form to having no form. He felt no pain, because he still had consciousness. As long as consciousness remained, he remained. His consciousness drifted in the sea, like a leaf floating in a river, with no direction, no purpose, just drifting. Drifting and drifting, he saw Banshan Lao Zu.

Banshan Lao Zu stood on the sea surface, bare-chested, muscles knotted like a moving mountain. In his hand he held that stone small axe, crude in craftsmanship, the handle wrapped with cloth strips, the strips worn frayed and retied with a rope. He laughed, laughing loudly, his mouth split to his ears, revealing two rows of neat teeth. His eyes were bright, bright as stars, as a lamp, as a person's heart. He stood there, the sea breeze blowing past him, his hair fluttering in the wind, messy, like a bird's nest.

"Brother."

His voice was coarse, coarse like sandpaper rubbing wood, like a stone striking the ground, like a man roaring. But Wang Ping heard the softness within, like jade hidden in stone, like roots buried in earth, like a hand cupped over the chest. When he called "Brother", he was not only calling Wang Ping, but also calling the young man who once debated the Dao with him on the Realm-Breaking Shuttle, the old comrade-in-arms who fought alongside him outside the Law Corridor, the passerby who watched him undergo tribulation before the ruins of the Immortal Palace. He was calling everyone he knew.

Wang Ping's heart ached once. It ached deeply, deep into the bones. Not the bones themselves aching, but something inside the bones aching. When Banshan Lao Zu died, a hole was left in his bones. The hole was not large, but deep, deep enough that his marrow could not flow out, because the opening was too small. Now the hole ached, not because the wound split, but because it "was". Banshan Lao Zu was in the hole, looking at Wang Ping. He said——you have come.

Wang Ping's heart said——I have come.

Banshan Lao Zu's face appeared on the sea surface, very clear, clear as a real person standing before him. Wang Ping looked at that face, at those wrinkles—not old wrinkles, but laughter lines. Banshan Lao Zu laughed all his life, laughing until the lines were etched into his face, carved into grooves, carved into ravines, etched into indelible marks. He would not stop laughing, for not laughing would not be him.

"Brother, you have grown thin."

Wang Ping's tears flowed down. Not crying, but his body grieving for him. His body remembered Banshan Lao Zu, remembered his smile, remembered his words, remembered his hands. The hands were large, rough, like old bark. Those hands had patted his shoulder, patting heavily, so heavily his bones resonated. He resonated——Brother, I am still here.

Banshan Lao Zu's face flickered on the sea surface, like a ripple on water. The ripple spread, circle after circle, widening, fading. He was about to disperse. Wang Ping reached out, wanting to grab him, but his fingers passed through that face. The face was not real, yet it was real. It was real, but he could not grasp it. Because Banshan Lao Zu was not in the sea; he was in Wang Ping's heart.

"You are dead, I am alive. Your Dao, I will continue to walk. You are not here, I will walk in your place."

Wang Ping's voice was very light, light as wind, as dream, as nonexistent. But Banshan Lao Zu heard it. He heard "Dao", heard "walk", heard "instead". His face stilled on the sea surface, no longer dispersing. He looked at Wang Ping, gazing for a long time. Then he smiled, a faint smile, so faint it was hardly visible. But his eyes smiled, his eyes saying——good.

The face dispersed. Like a ripple on water, once dispersed it vanished. The sea surface returned to calm, chaos-colored, grayish. Wang Ping's heart no longer ached. Not forgotten, but "was". He was there, Banshan Lao Zu was there. They were all there, no contradiction.

Banshan Lao Zu departed. Another person appeared on the sea surface.

Jiang Mingyuan stood on the sea surface, white-haired to a hoary degree, white as snow, as frost, as old age. His back was straight, straight as a pine, as a sword, as a pillar propping up the heavens. In his hand he held a whisk, the white threads of the whisk fluttering in the wind, very light, very fine, like an old man's hair. His eyes were bright, despite the yellowed sclera of old age, his pupils remained clear. He stood there, like an ordinary rural elder, like a person waiting for his grandson to return home from school.

Wang Ping gazed at Master, gazing for a long time. He recalled when he was seven, Master took his hand and led him into the Ninth Dao Institute. Master's hand was large, warm, thick. His hand enclosed Wang Ping's hand, like wrapping an infant in swaddling. Master lowered his head to look at him, smiling and saying, child, from now on this place will be your home. Wang Ping did not know what home was, but he knew Master's hand. Hand present, home present; hand gone, home still present.

"Master."

His voice was hoarse, hoarse like sandpaper rubbing wood, like dry leaves crushed underfoot on the ground, like someone who had not drunk water for a long time speaking. His tears flowed more severely, not crying, but because it had been too long since he last uttered "Master". His mouth longed for those two words, longing to the point of bitterness.

Jiang Mingyuan's face appeared on the sea surface, aged and benevolent, with a smile at the corners of his mouth. His smile was faint, so faint it was hardly discernible. But Wang Ping saw it, because he was looking. He looked at Master's smile, at Master's eyes, at Master's white hair. Master had grown old, old to the point his hair turned white, old to the point his back bent, old to the point his vision blurred. Yet he remained, present in the smile, in the eyes, in the white hair.

"Pinger."

His voice was very light, light as wind blowing through a bamboo grove, as a dew drop sliding from a leaf, as a person's sigh. But Wang Ping heard it. He heard "Pinger", heard Master's voice calling him. Master had called him for over a hundred years, from age seven to over a hundred. He had called as he grew up, as he became strong, as he no longer needed Master. Master still called, because calling had become a habit.

"Master, you are gone, but your Dao remains. I will pass it on, pass it to more people."

Jiang Mingyuan's face stilled on the sea surface. He was looking at Wang Ping, at his eyes, at his Dao, at his path. The path was very long, long enough that its end could not be seen. But Wang Ping was walking, walking slowly, walking steadily, walking arduously. Master knew, because he had walked it himself. His face smiled, a faint smile, so faint it was hardly visible. But his eyes smiled, his eyes saying——good.

The face dispersed. The sea surface became calm again. Wang Ping's heart no longer ached. Not forgotten, but "was". He was there, Master was there. They were all there, no contradiction.

Jiang Mingyuan departed. Another person appeared on the sea surface.

Youying stood on the sea surface, leaning against the trunk of the Building Tree. The Building Tree was not here, but her back rested on something, because she was waiting. Waiting for the person she ought to wait for. Her eyes were closed, her hair fluttering in the wind, very black, very long, very soft. She wore that dark blue long skirt, the skirt very long, long enough to trail on the ground. The ground had no ground, only sea. The skirt's hem floated on the sea, like a flower, like a cloud, like a dream.

Wang Ping gazed at Youying, gazing for a long time. He recalled when she first called him "Big Brother", amidst the ruins of the Chaos Immortal Palace, among a pile of broken stones and dust. Her face was small, very white, her eyes very bright. She called him "Big Brother", calling softly, so softly like a mosquito's chirp. But he heard it, because he was listening. He heard her voice, remembered it. He had remembered it for many years, still remembering. Remembering to the point of forgetting his own voice, yet unable to forget hers.

"Youying."

His voice was very light, light as wind, as dream, as non‑existent. But Youying heard it. She opened her eyes and looked at him. Her eyes were black, very deep, like two wells with no bottom. In the wells there was water, clear, cool, still. In the well water he saw his own shadow, the shadow trembling—not the water trembling, but his heart trembling. The heart said——I am.

Youying's face appeared on the sea surface, very small, very white, with a smile at the corner of her mouth. Her smile was faint, faint to the point of being almost invisible. But Wang Ping saw it, because he was looking. He looked at her smile, her eyes, her face. Her face told him——You are not my karma, you are my path. The path is under your feet, you are in my heart. We walk, walking until we can walk no more.

Wang Ping's heart jumped once. It jumped so fast, fast enough that his chest ached. Not pain, but "being". He was, she was. They were, not contradictory. Youying's face did not fade, because she was not karma, she was part of the Dao. The Dao does not fade; the Dao only waits.

The sea surface calmed. Wang Ping stood up.

The sea beneath his feet calmed, not that it stopped flowing, but it became "still". Like a person's heartbeat, beating and beating until it stills. Not that it stopped beating, but it beats too steadily, steady to the point of being inaudible.

In his dantian, in the hand of the Primordial Chaos Spirit, a fruit appeared.

The fruit was very small, about the size of a walnut, round. Not round, but "full". Full to having no edges, full to having no gaps, full to having no flaws. Its color was chaotic, a grayish haze, like the sky before dawn, like the dusk after sunset, like that blank segment between dream and wakefulness. It emitted light, faint yet bright. Faint to almost invisible, bright enough to make his eyes hurt. Not pain, but "seeing". Seeing the Dao Fruit, the Dao Fruit was there.

The Dao Fruit condensed.

It was not a slow condensation, but an instant. Like a tree, from seed to sapling, from sapling to great tree, from great tree to blooming, from blooming to bearing fruit. In an instant, it was all completed. Because it had waited a long time in Wang Ping's heart, waiting since he was a child. Waiting for his Dao to be perfected, waiting for his karma to be severed, waiting for his "being". Having waited, it arrived, and then emerged.

His aura was rising.

It was not a slow rise, but rapid. Rapid enough that he heard his own bones crackling, crack‑crack, like winter branches snapped under snow. Not broken, but "growing". His bones were growing, growing strong enough to support the Dao of Refining Void. His meridians hummed, hum‑hum‑hum, like a plucked string. Not just sounded, but "widened". Widened enough to let the chaotic power of Refining Void flow through. His dantian throbbed, thump‑thump‑thump, like a war drum, like a bell, like a heartbeat. Not just sounded, but "expanded". Expanded enough to contain the Dao Fruit of Refining Void.

From the Great Perfection of Spirit Transformation to the early stage of Refining Void.

Heaven and earth were trembling. Not truly trembling, but "in" trembling. The Primordial Chaos Source Sea surged, seawater rising from the surface and turning into countless tiny specks of light. The specks were tiny, tiny like fireflies, like stars, like fragments of dreams. They drifted around Wang Ping, some fast, some slow, some urgent, some gentle. Then they surged forward, pouring into his body like countless rivers flowing into the sea.

His meridians were widening. Wide enough that his body trembled—not trembling, but "supporting". Once supported, the pain ceased. His dantian was expanding. Large enough that his belly bulged—not bulging, but "containing". Once full, he was no longer hungry. His Primordial Spirit was growing. Large enough that his crown pressed upward—not pressing, but "breaking". Once broken, it emerged.

Refining Void, achieved.

Wang Ping opened his eyes. His eyes had no light, black and white, quite ordinary. But his eyes had changed, deeper, like two wells with no bottom. In the wells there was water, clear, cool, still. The well mouth was small, but the well was deep, deep enough that the bottom could not be seen. He looked at the bottom of the well and saw the Dao Fruit. The Dao Fruit floated on the well's bottom, chaotic in color, a grayish haze. It jumped, like a heart, like a lamp, like a child calling for its mother.

He lowered his gaze to look at his hands. Still the same pair of hands, fingers long, joints distinct, nails trimmed neatly. But he knew it was different. His hands could now do what they could not before. Not a increase in strength, but a "quality" change. Formerly his chaotic power was water; now it is ice. Ice is harder than water, colder than water, more powerful than water. Yet ice is still water, merely changed in form. Formerly his Dao was pursuit—pursuing enemies, pursuing realms, pursuing time. Now his Dao is "being". Being where he ought to be, doing what he ought to do, becoming who he ought to become. No need to pursue, for he has arrived.

He stood up. The sea beneath his feet had calmed, like a mirror that reflected his face. His face bore weariness, the vicissitudes of life, a hint of age. He stared at that face for a long time. Then he smiled, a faint smile, so faint it was almost invisible. But his eyes were smiling, and they said——You are still alive.

He raised his head, gazing into the distance of the Primordial Chaos Source Sea. In the distance there was light, not chaotic in color, but golden. That was the sky of the Immortal Realm, the sky after order had dissipated, the path he had come upon. He ought to leave. He lowered his gaze to glance at the sea beneath his feet; the sea was looking at him. The sea said——Will you come back? He gave no answer. For he did not know. He only knew that he was, and the sea was. If he were not, the sea would still be. The sea had waited for him countless years, waiting for him to sever karma, waiting for him to advance from Spirit Transformation to Refining Void. Having waited, he departed. The sea would not retain him, for the sea is the source. The source does not speak; the source only "is".

Wang Ping turned and walked toward the golden light. His silhouette on the sea surface grew ever farther, ever smaller, finally vanishing within the golden radiance. The Primordial Chaos Source Sea lay still behind him, like a person closing their eyes. The sea surface was utterly flat, flat as a mirror. In that mirror appeared a face—not Wang Ping's, but that of an Unstained Wandering Cultivator. He was smiling.