Chapter 456: The Path to Union

The Chaos Source Sea had calmed. The sea surface was like a mirror, reflecting Wang Ping's face. He stared at that face for a long time; the fatigue on his face was like a stone at the bottom of the water, the water clear, the stone visible. The fatigue was not on the skin, but in the bones—his bones had grown weary after a hundred years, from the Qingming Heaven Realm to the Chaos Source Sea, from early Nascent Soul to early Void Refinement. The stone had been washed by water for so many years, its edges rounded, its protrusions smoothed, worn into a smooth pebble. The stone did not hurt, because it had grown accustomed.

He held his hand before his eyes; it trembled. Not from fear, but from exhaustion. His muscles told him, you've walked too far, you should rest. He did not rest, because he could not rest. If he rested, his body would think it had reached the end. The end is still far.

He sat by the Chaos Source Sea for three days. During those three days he did not move, did not eat, did not drink, merely sat. The sea flowed beside him, slow and gentle, like time, like breathing, like a person's heartbeat. He listened, listening to the sea's sound. The sea had no sound, for the sea is the source, and the source does not speak. The source simply is—when you come, it is there; when you do not come, it is still there. It waits for every one who comes; once they have come, it remembers them.

His body was slowly recovering. The fatigue in his bones ebbed like a tide, from bone to muscle, from muscle to skin, from skin into the air. The air held no wind, only the source. The source carried the fatigue away, to the depths of the sea, to a place no one knows. Wang Ping's body became lighter—not thinner, but 'empty'. With the fatigue gone, the emptiness left behind needed to be filled with something new.

After three days, he stood up and went to seek the path of Union.

The aboriginal inhabitants were still in that cave, the torches still burning, the flames weak. The old man remained seated in the deepest part of the cave, his staff leaning against the wall, eyes closed. When Wang Ping entered, everyone lifted their heads to look at him. Their eyes held no fear, no numbness, only a hint of something—hope. Hope was thin, as thin as paper, as gauze, as a dream. Yet it was there, in their eyes, on the flames, in their breath. The old man opened his eyes and gazed at Wang Ping.

"Have you reached Void Refinement?" His voice was still hoarse, but with a little more strength—though not much, it was enough. Wang Ping nodded. The old man's eyes brightened for a moment, not from lamp light, but from his own inner glow. He smiled, a faint smile, barely perceptible, yet his eyes were smiling.

"Union—go find him. He is at the foot of the northern mountain. Alive."

Wang Ping nodded, bowed slightly, turned and left.

The northern mountain was older than any mountain he had ever seen. It was not tall, but very wide—wide enough that its edges vanished from sight. The mountain's body was black, black as night, as ink, as an abyss. On its stone there were no immortal markings, no characters, nothing at all—only black, only age, only silence. Wang Ping walked at its base, lifted his head, and gazed at the summit. The summit lay within the clouds, clouds gray as mist, as smoke, like the scene when chaos first opened. He could not see the summit, but he knew the mountain was there.

He searched for a day and found a cave. The cave lay at the mountain's base, behind a pile of rubble. Its mouth was tiny, large enough for only one person to pass. The opening was round, not natural, but dug by humans. It was roughly hewn, uneven, as if scooped out with fingernails. Wang Ping crouched and peered inside. The cave was deep, so deep he could not see the bottom. Inside there was no light, no sound, no wind—only darkness, only silence, only waiting. He crawled into the cave.

The cave was long, long enough that his knees ached. It was narrow, narrow enough that his shoulders brushed the stone walls. The walls were rough, rough enough to fray his robes. He did not stop, for he knew someone awaited him inside. He had waited so long that he forgot time, forgot his name, forgot who he was. But he remembered one thing—waiting for someone to come.

He walked a long while, and the cave widened. Wide enough to stand upright, he straightened and looked ahead. Inside the cave stood a stone bed, laid with dry grass that had been flattened, pressed hard. Beside the stone bed was an oil lamp; its holder was of baked clay, very old, the surface coating worn away to reveal the clay beneath. The oil was scant, only a puddle remained, with a wick floating on its surface, the wick short, nearly burnt out. The lamp gave no light, for it had no oil.

A person sat on the stone bed.

The immortal was very old, his facial wrinkles like knife cuts. Not carved in the skin, but etched into the bone. The skin was merely cloth stretched over bone; the cloth wrinkled, the bone remained. His eye sockets sank deep, like two dry wells. The wells held no water, for the water had dried. At the bottom lay dry, cracked earth. He waited for water to come. His body was emaciated, skin stretched over bone like a skeleton. The bones held up the skin, the skin held up him. He still endured.

But his eyes were bright—bright as stars, as a lamp, as hope. Not reflected light, but light emanating from within. The light said—'I am still alive.'

Wang Ping sat opposite him. The ground had no cushion, only stone. The stone was cold; the chill rose from his buttocks up to his waist, his back, his neck. He did not move; he was waiting.

The immortal gazed at Wang Ping for a long time—long enough that the oil in the lamp diminished a little, the wick grew a little shorter, and the shadows on the wall swayed several times. Then he spoke.

"Union is not about cultivating the body; it is about cultivating the "One." The Dao Fruit is you, and you are the Dao Fruit. The physical body is you, and you are the physical body. The Primordial Spirit is you, and you are the Primordial Spirit. The Divine Sense is you, and you are the Divine Sense. The Law is you, and you are the Law. Gather all your "you" together into a single "One." One is the Dao, and the Dao is One."

Wang Ping's heart gave a jump. One is the Dao, the Dao is One. It sounds simple, but it is hard to do. Because within him there are too many things: Dao Fruit, Primordial Spirit, Divine Sense, Law, Chaos Power, fragments of the Chaos Immortal Stele, remnants of the Lord of Order, the void left after karma was severed. They are all 'him,' yet they are separate. Separate, they are not One.

"How do we unite?" Wang Ping asked.

The immortal gave no answer. He picked up the oil lamp from the stone bed; the lamp holder trembled slightly in his palm, and his hand trembled as well. Not from fear, but from age—age brings trembling, trembling makes one unsteady, and unsteadiness risks breaking it. He did not let the lamp break, for he was waiting for someone to come and receive this lamp from him. The lamp was very old, its rim worn smooth by countless hands, the oil scant—only a puddle remained, with a thin film of dust on its surface, dust that time had settled. The wick was short, nearly burnt out; once it burned out, it would give no light.

He handed it to Wang Ping, and the lamp went out.

It was not he who blew it out; the lamp extinguished itself. The oil was gone, the wick burnt through, and the light vanished. The lamp holder lay cool and light in Wang Ping's palm. He lowered his gaze to it, to the oil residue inside the holder—now dried into a thin film, a film bearing a crack. The crack ran deep, deep enough to reveal the clay's color: the clay was black, black as night, as ink, as an abyss. The wick remained only a blackened, charred stub, like a burnt finger. It told him—oil exhausted, lamp extinguished, light gone. You must make it shine.

Wang Ping stared at the lamp for a long time. The lamp did not light, because he could not. Union is likewise—not a matter of can or cannot, but of 'arrival.' Once you arrive, it happens naturally. He placed the lamp on his knees; the holder was cold, cold as ice, as snow, as death. His hands were cold too. Cold hands touching cold lamp did not warm, for both needed warmth. Warmth lay outside, in his heart. His heart was warm—warm as fire, as sun, as a person's body temperature. The temperature said—'You are here, the lamp is here. If you are gone, the lamp remains. But the lamp does not shine.'

The immortal closed his eyes—not sleep, but a 'rest.' He had spoken too much, his breath insufficient. He needed to gather his strength; once gathered, he would continue. Wang Ping did not ask for the next sentence, for he knew the immortal had already said the most important thing. Union is not a matter of can or cannot, but of arrival. Once you arrive, it happens naturally. He sat there, gazing at the lamp on his knees. The lamp was looking at him—not with eyes, but simply 'being' there. The lamp said—'Have you arrived?' Wang Ping did not answer, for he did not know. He only knew he was on the road. The road was long, very long. But he knew that at its end lay the 'One.'