Chapter 457

When Wang Ping came out of the cave, he held that lamp in his hand. The lamp was not lit, the lamp shade was cool. He held it in his palm, as if holding a newborn bird, afraid to crush it, afraid to drop it. Sunlight leaked from the gray-white sky, falling on the lamp shade, but the lamp shade had no response. The light was too weak, too weak to illuminate it. It needed another kind of light, a light that grew from within, not light shone from outside.

The immortal did not see him off. It was not that he did not want to, but he could not move. When Wang Ping walked out of the cave mouth and looked back, the immortal sat on the stone bed, eyes closed, like a stone statue. The stone statue could not speak, but his lips were moving. There was no sound, but Wang Ping knew what he was saying—'Arrived.' He was saying—'The path is under your feet, the altar is on the mountain.'

The mountain to the north was older than the one where the immortal lived. The mountain was very high, high enough that its peak pierced into the clouds. The clouds were gray, thick as a quilt, covering the peak completely. Wang Ping stood at the mountain's base, raised his head, and could not see the peak. The mountain's body was chaos-colored, gray and murky, like the sky before dawn. There were no immortal markings on the stones, no inscriptions, nothing at all. Only chaos, only age, only silence. He stepped on the stones and climbed upward. The stones were rough, rough enough that his boot soles slipped. He climbed slowly, because he did not want to fall down. Falling down would mean starting over. He had no time to start over.

The mountain was steep, steep enough that his knees ached. His legs trembled, not from fatigue, but from strain. Straining to hold up his body, step by step, he moved upward. He walked for an unknown length of time; the sun rose in the east, set, rose again, set again. As he climbed, the wind blew in, cool, carrying the taste of ash. Ash clung to his face, to his hands, to his robe. He did not wipe it off, because he knew it would return.

On the fifth day, he reached the mountainside. On the mountainside there was a flat patch where grass grew. The grass was not green; it was yellow, yellow like autumn. He sat on the grass and looked down the mountain. Below was a gray-white world: gray-white sky, gray-white earth, gray-white ash. He gazed for a long time, then lowered his head to look at the lamp in his hand. The lamp still was not lit, because he had not yet arrived.

On the tenth day, he entered the clouds. The clouds were thick, thick enough that he could not see the path ahead. He could only rely on touch, feeling stone, feeling crevices, feeling himself. His hand touched stone, and the stone was cold. His hand touched a crevice, and the crevice was deep. His hand touched himself, and he was still there. He walked through the clouds very slowly, because he did not want to take a wrong step. If he took a wrong step, he would have to turn back, and turning back would mean starting over. He had no time to start over.

On the fifteenth day, he emerged from the clouds. The mountain peak loomed before his eyes, very high, very high, high enough that his neck ached from looking up. On the peak stood an altar. The altar was round, built from chaos-colored stone. The stones were huge, larger than him, so large that he had to tilt his head back to see the top. Immortal markings were carved into the stone, ancient to the point of blurring, blurred to the point of being nearly invisible. But Wang Ping saw them, because his eyes held light. This light was not shone in from outside; it emanated from within. The light of Refining Void, the light of the Dao Fruit, his light. The light fell on the immortal markings, and they lit up—not with emissive light, but with an 'awakening' light. They awoke, for they had waited for the one who was due.

Wang Ping walked up the altar. The stone steps were high, high enough to reach his knees. He stepped one by one; each step he took caused the immortal markings on the step to glow a little. It was not glowing for him, but for itself. It glowed because it remembered. It remembered that thirty thousand years ago, a person had sat here. That person wore white robes, held a withered branch in his hand, and on that branch was a leaf. He sat for a long time, long enough for the stone to remember his body temperature, his breath, his heartbeat. He left, but the stone remained. The stone had been waiting for him all along, waiting for another person's body heat.

Wang Ping walked to the center of the altar and sat cross-legged. The stone was cold, cold as ice, as snow, as death. But he was not cold, because his body was heating up. Heat surged from his dantian, traveling along his meridians upward, to his chest, to his neck, to his face. His face grew hot, hot as if being roasted by fire. He was not burning; he was 'illuminating'.

He closed his eyes. His mind sank into the dantian, where the chaos primordial spirit stood upright, straight as a pine, like a sword, like a pillar propping up the sky. In the primordial spirit's hand he held a Dao Fruit; the fruit was small, walnut-sized, chaos-colored. It glowed faintly yet brightly. Wang Ping gazed at that Dao Fruit for a long time. Then he reached out and grasped it. The Dao Fruit jumped once in his palm, like a heartbeat, like a pulse, like a baby kicking its mother's womb. It said—'I am here.'

He was uniting himself.

He was retrieving all his 'selves,' starting from the Azure Nether Realm.

Azure Nether Realm: the sky was azure, the earth was dark. He stood there, very young, young to the point of not knowing how high the sky or how deep the earth. In his hand he held no sword, no stele, no lamp—only a heart, a heart that wanted to become strong. The heart beat—thump, thump, thump—like a war drum, like a bell, like a countdown. He told himself—'You must become strong, strong enough to protect those you wish to protect.' That self was foolish, foolish to think that becoming strong could solve everything. Yet he was the starting point; without him, there would be no later path. Wang Ping reached out and grasped that self. That self dissolved in his hand into a thread of light, which merged into his body. His body brightened a little, like a lamp just lit.

Chaos Immortal Palace. The palace was ruined, collapsed, withered, dried up. He stood there, beside him were Cang Xuan, Yu Liuli, and You Ying. Four people, four hearts, four paths. The path was narrow, narrow enough for only one person to pass. Yet they walked together, walking closely, close enough to hear each other's breathing. You Ying was at the rear; her footsteps were light, light as a cat stepping on cotton. He listened to her footsteps, listening and listening, until he reached the palace's depths. There was a light there, not the palace's light, but a 'disorder' light. The light split, split deeply, deep enough that its bottom could not be seen. You Ying rushed forward, using her body to block the crack. She turned back, smiled at him, a light, faint smile. She said—'Go.' He went, went far, walked until exhausted, walked until he forgot her smile. But he did not forget; the smile resided in his heart, in his bones, in the Dao. Wang Ping reached out and grasped that self. That self dissolved in his hand into a thread of light, which merged into his body. His body brightened a little more.

Law Corridor. The corridor was very long, so long that its end could not be seen. The walls on both sides were covered with immortal markings, the immortal markings glowing, chaotic in color. He walked in the corridor, beside him were Cang Xuan, Yu Liuli, the Mountain-Moving Old Ancestor, the Heavenly Derivation Elder, and the Xuanhu Lady. Six people, six lives, one road. The Mountain-Moving Old Ancestor walked in front, his back very broad, broad like a wall. The wall blocked the wind, blocked the rain, blocked the erosion of the power of order. Wang Ping gazed at his back for a long time. The Mountain-Moving Old Ancestor turned his head, smiled, smiled grandly, mouth open, revealing two neat rows of teeth. He said — Brother, take care. Then he rushed out, using his own life, blasting open a rift. Wang Ping did not grab him, because his hand was not long enough, not fast enough, not strong enough. He knelt on the ground, his fist striking the stone slab, the stone slab now bearing blood, his blood. The blood said — I will avenge you. He avenged him, the Lord of Order died, the Pure World Court collapsed. But the Mountain-Moving Old Ancestor could not return. Wang Ping reached out and grasped that self. That self dissolved in his hand into a thread of light, the light merging into his body. His body became a little brighter.

Return to the Void. Return to the Void had no light, no sound, no time. Only darkness, only silence, only one person. He walked in the darkness, walking and walking, saw a light. The light was chaotic-colored, weak, bright. He followed the light, walked for a long time, reached the edge of a piece of land. The land was vast, vast to the point that its edge could not be seen. On it were immortal palaces, divine halls, immortal trees, immortal springs. All were dead, collapsed, withered, dry. Yet they waited for him, waiting for countless years. He stepped onto the land, felt its heartbeat, slow, weak, but steady. It said — You have come. Wang Ping reached out and grasped that self. That self dissolved in his hand into a thread of light, the light merging into his body. His body became a little brighter.

Immortal Realm Fragments. The fragments floated in the air, like an abandoned child. He walked on the fragments, passing the immortal herb garden, passing the remains of the Chaos White Tiger, passing the Chaos Immortal Stele. The stele was very tall, tall to the point that its top could not be seen. On its surface were four characters — Hun, Dun, Xian, Bei. The characters glowed, chaotic-colored, gray and murky. He reached out and pressed his hand onto the surface. The stele was cold, cold as ice, as snow, as death. His hand was also cold. Cold hand touching cold stele, they were waiting for warmth. The stele spirit gazed at him from the depths, light in its eyes.

Chaos Source Sea. The sea had no edge, no bottom, no sound. Only source, only chaos, only the Dao. He sat in the sea, the sea flowing beside him, slow, light, like time, like breathing, like a heartbeat. He was severing karma: the karma of the Mountain-Moving Old Ancestor, the karma of Jiang Mingyuan, the karma of the Nether Shade, the karma of Jiu Er. Having severed, it was not forgetting, but 'being'. They were, and he was also.

Each time he found a self, his body grew a little brighter. Not brightness of appearance, but brightness of 'being'. When bright, his existence became deeper.

From the Azure Void Heavenly Realm, to the Chaos Immortal Palace, to the Law Corridor, to the Return to the Void, to the Immortal Realm Fragments, to the Chaos Source Sea. All those selves were within his body. They were not shadows of the past, but components of the present. They were his path, his Dao, his fruit.

On the altar, Wang Ping's body was glowing. Not light shining in from outside, but light emitted from within. The light passed through skin, through robes, illuminating the whole mountain. The immortal markings on the stones lit up under the light, line by line, like rivers, like blood vessels, like nerves. Light spread from the altar in all directions, lighting the mountainside, lighting the mountain base, lighting the clouds. The clouds dispersed in the light, not blown apart by wind, but scattered by the light. The light was too bright, bright enough that the clouds could not hide.

At the moment of unification, there was no sound. Not that there was no sound, but the sound was too great, too loud for him to hear. His ears buzzed, not tinnitus, but the Dao speaking. The Dao said — You have become one. No light. Not that there was no light, but the light was too bright, too bright for his eyes to see. Before his eyes was a sheet of white, not white, but chaos. Chaos enveloped everything, light within it, darkness also within it. He was in chaos, chaos was in him. He merely felt his body 'full'. Not full, but 'one'. His Dao fruit was no longer a single fruit; it dissolved, merging into his flesh, into his bones, into his primordial spirit. He is the Dao fruit, the Dao fruit is him. His flesh was no longer separate pieces; they joined together, becoming a whole. His bones were no longer separate sticks; they connected, becoming a single bone. His primordial spirit was no longer a little person; it merged with him, becoming him. He exists, the primordial spirit exists; if the primordial spirit does not exist, he still exists. They are one.

His cultivation broke through.

Mid Void Refinement. Not a gradual rise, but an instant. Like a person waking from a dream—awake is awake, with no process. His meridians hummed, buzz buzz buzz, like a plucked string. Not that they sounded, but they 'opened'. Once opened, they were no longer blocked. His dantian thumped, thump thump thump, like a war drum, like a bell, like a heartbeat. Not that it sounded, but it 'expanded'. Once expanded, it could hold more Dao.

Late Void Refinement. His aura changed, not becoming stronger, but becoming 'deep'. Deep to the point that its bottom could not be seen. Like a well, the mouth small, but the well deep, deep to the point that the bottom could not be seen. At the bottom of the well was water, clear, cool, still. He looked at the bottom of the well and saw the Dao. The Dao floated there, chaotic-colored, gray and murky. It pulsed, like a heart, like a lamp, like a child calling for its mother.

It stopped. Because unification is not Void Refinement, but another realm. Void Refinement cultivates the fruit, unification cultivates the one. When the fruit is cultivated, the one is also cultivated. The one is not the fruit, the fruit is not the one. The one is the home of the fruit, the fruit is the child of the one. The child grew up, returned home. Having returned home, he does not leave.

The Chaos Immortal Stele exploded within his body. Not shattered, but 'merged'. The stele spirit walked out from his primordial spirit, not walking, but 'transforming'. It turned into a thread of light, the light merging into his primordial spirit. His primordial spirit brightened, not just a little, but greatly. The stele's body merged into his meridians, his meridians widened, widened like a great river. The river water flowed, clear, cool, still. The stele's inscriptions merged into his bones, his bones etched full of characters, not immortal markings, but the Dao of chaos. The characters were tiny, dense, like ants. Yet they made their home on his bones, home being an eternal place, needing no going.

The Chaos Immortal Stele became part of him. He no longer needed it, for he is it.

Unification, accomplished.

Wang Ping opened his eyes. The immortal markings on the altar had dimmed, not extinguished, but 'asleep'. They had waited thirty thousand years, waiting for the right person. When the person came, the lamp lit, they could sleep. Light withdrew from the mountain, from the mountainside to the mountain base, from the mountain base to below the mountain. It returned home.

He stood up. Having sat for an unknown length of time, his legs were not numb. Because his body was no longer his former body. The power of chaos washed each meridian into a river, forged each muscle into iron, carved each bone into a stele. His body is the training ground of the Dao of chaos. Dao is present, he is present; he is present, Dao is present. He lowered his gaze to his hand, still that pair of hands, fingers long, joints distinct, nails trimmed neatly. But he knew it was different. His hand held the 'one', the one in hand, hand is one. He lifted his head to look at the sky; the sky was no longer gray-white. The gray receded, not all at once, but gradually. Like a tide receding, leaving damp sand. The sky was blue, very pale, very pale, pale as a dream. Yet it was blue. Sunlight filtered through the clouds, falling on his face, warm, gentle, like a mother's hand. He closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of the sunlight. Early unification, accomplished.

He descended the mountain. His steps were light, light as wind, as shadow, as non-existent. Yet he was heavy, heavy enough to make the mountain tremble beneath his feet. Not that the mountain feared, but the mountain rejoiced for him. Rejoiced that he had come, rejoiced that he had sat, rejoiced that he had left. He walked down the mountain for three days, three days without stopping, because he needed to see a person. That person was in a cave, in darkness, before a lamp that had gone out.

He entered the cave; the torch was still burning, its flame still weak. The old man remained seated at the deepest part of the cave, his staff leaning against the wall, eyes closed. Wang Ping entered, his footsteps echoing in the cave—tap, tap, tap—like a bell, like a heartbeat, like a countdown. The old man heard it, opened his eyes, and looked at him. His eyes were very bright, bright as stars, as a lamp, as hope.

'Unified?' His voice was still hoarse, but with a bit more strength. Wang Ping nodded. The old man's eyes brightened a little, not from the lamp's reflection, but from his own brightness. He smiled, a faint smile, so faint it was almost invisible. Yet his eyes were smiling.

Wang Ping took the lamp from his bosom. The lamp still was not lit, the lamp holder was cool. He placed the lamp in the old man's hand; the old man's hand trembled, not from fear, but from age. Age brings trembling, trembling makes it unsteady, unsteadiness leads to breaking. He did not let the lamp break, because he was waiting for someone to come and return this lamp to him. The lamp remained the same lamp, old, broken, extinguished. But it had returned before.

The old man looked at the lamp for a long time. Then he placed the lamp on the stone bed, the lamp holder leaning against the wall, not likely to fall. He raised his hand, touching Wang Ping's head; his fingers were long, his joints thick. His nails were black, not dirty, but dead. His hand lingered on Wang Ping's hair for a moment, then withdrew.

'Let's go. Your road is still long.'

Wang Ping looked at him, bowed. He turned and left. Behind him, the torch's flame in the cave flickered once, not blown by wind, but by the wind raised by his robe. The flame steadied again. The old man closed his eyes, a smile at the corner of his mouth. The lamp beside him was extinguished, but it would light. Because he had awaited the right person. When the person comes, the lamp will light. Not today, perhaps tomorrow, perhaps the day after. It is not in a hurry.