Chapter 458

Wang Ping stood on the altar, not moving. Not because he didn't want to move, but his body was standing on its own. He stood for a long time, until wind blew up from the mountain foot, stirring his robe; the robe fluttered in the wind like a flag, like a tree, like a dream just awakened. His body still glowed. The light was no longer emanating from within, but seeping in from outside. Chaos power surged from his dantian, flowing along his meridians to his fingertips, spilling out and dripping onto the altar's stone. One drop, two drops, three drops. Not water, but the "Source". The Source was chaotic, grayish, like the sky before dawn. It fell on the stone, and the immortal markings on the stone flickered—not just lit, but "came alive". Alive, it breathed.

The immortal markings were breathing, inhaling slowly, exhaling slowly, like a person taking a deep breath in the dead of night. They inhaled chaos power; after drawing it in, the stone grew warm. The warm stone trembled—not from fear, but from "awakening". It had slept for countless years, ever since the day the Immortal Realm shattered. It slept until the stone cracked, until the markings blurred, until even the wind grew old. Now it awoke, because someone was calling it. The call was not a sound, but the "Source". The Source said—"You are here, so am I."

Chaos power overflowed from Wang Ping's body, like spring water gushing from a spring eye. The spring eye was small, but the water was abundant, abundant enough to flow endlessly. The water was chaos-colored, clear, cool, and still. It flowed down the altar's stone steps, step by step, slowly, because it was not in a hurry to go anywhere. It simply flowed. Reaching the edge of a step, it dripped down onto the next step. The immortal markings on the step lit up, like a lamp being switched on. The lamp was faint, faint enough to be almost invisible, but it was shining.

The water continued downstream. It flowed past the altar's base, past the cracks in the rocks, past the withered grass roots. The grass roots had slept in the soil for a long time, until their rootlets dried, until they crumbled at a touch. When the water touched the grass roots, the roots twitched—not from fear, but from "absorption". Having absorbed water, the rootlets softened, and softened they could grow. They stretched a little in the soil, slowly and gently, like a person just waking up stretching.

The water followed the mountain path downward. The path was steep, narrow, and winding. The water did not pick a route; it seeped through any crack, filled any hollow, and flooded any obstacle. It flowed to the mountainside, where a flat patch lay, covered with grass. The grass was yellow, yellow as autumn, as old age, as a person's face. The water washed over the grass roots; the roots drank, and once sated, the grass blades turned from yellow to green. Not all at once, but gradually—green began at the tips, spread to the middle, then to the base, until the whole leaf was green. The leaves swayed in the wind, rustling, like someone laughing.

The water continued downhill. At the mountain's base lay an empty stretch—no grass, no trees, no stones, only a thick layer of grayish ash. The water soaked the ash; wet, it sank into the soil. The soil softened under the water, and now it could sustain life. First to appear was not grass, but moss—tiny, green, like a thin layer of velvet. The velvet crept over the stones, slowly and lightly, as if someone were stroking them.

Green light spread from the mountain's base in all directions. It was not water flowing, but "life" walking. Wherever life passed, death retreated—not merely retreated, but "transformed", transformed into life.

It spread over the dry riverbed. The riverbed was wide and shallow, littered with many round stones. They lay on the bed, having slept for countless years, until they cracked, until they grew round, until they shattered. Water flowed over the stones; the stones absorbed water, and once saturated, they gleamed—not with emitted light, but with a "moist" sheen. The stones became damp, no longer dry. Water welled up in the riverbed. This water did not come down from the mountain; it rose from underground. There lay a subterranean river, dried for countless years, until its bed cracked and the soil hardened. When the water arrived, the riverbed was no longer dry. Water seeped from the fissures, rose to the stones, and the stones rolled in the water, making a splashing sound like flowing water. The water was clear, cool, and sweet. Wang Ping stood on the mountain and sensed the water's taste—not smelled, but "felt". The water said—"I have come."

It spread over the collapsed immortal palace. The palace was vast, its edges lost to sight, yet it had fallen utterly. The roof leaned, the walls cracked, the pillars broke. Piles of rubble lay on the ground, heap upon heap, like graves, like monuments, like forgotten dreams. Water flowed over the debris; the stones grew wet, and wet they became light—so light they rose from the ground, not floating, but "flying". Stones lifted from the earth, piece by piece, fitting back together. First came the foundation—vast, thick, stable. The stones settled on the foundation with a click, set in place—not set, but "grown". They grew together, old and new indistinguishable.

The walls rose. Growing from the foundation, they went up piece by piece—not stacked, but "born". Born thus, they would not fall. The walls were tall, their tops out of sight. Immortal markings were carved into the walls, glowing with chaos-colored light. The roof was put on—not placed, but "joined". Joined together, it leaked no more. The door was installed; the door was wood, and the wood was alive. A living door breathes, drawing in wind and exhaling warmth. The immortal palace came alive.

It spread over the dried immortal lake. The lake was huge, its opposite shore out of view. The lakebed had split open, its fissures deep—deep enough that the bottom could not be seen. Water seeped into the cracks; the cracks drank water, and once full, they closed—not merely closed, but "healed". Healed, they no longer ached. Water welled up from the earth, rose to the lakebed, and the lakebed grew damp; damp, it filled. The lake was full, its water clear, clear, so clear that the stones on the lakebed could be seen. The stones were round, smooth, like pebbles, like eggs, like an infant's head. They lay on the lakebed; water flowed over them, and they no longer rolled, for they were home.

It spread over the withered immortal trees. The trees were tall, their trunks piercing the sky. The trunks were grayish-white, bare, lacking leaves, bark, or life. Their branches resembled countless hands reaching toward the heavens, pleading for something. Water flowed over the roots; the roots drank, and once sated, they pulled free from the soil and re-anchored themselves. They took hold deep—deep into the earth, deep into the water channels, deep into the bones of the Immortal Realm. New buds sprouted on the trunks—tiny, green, green as jade. The buds swayed in the wind, rustling, like someone laughing.

The Immortal Realm, alive.

The original inhabitants emerged from the caves. Not walking, but "surging"—like water gushing from a spring, like wind blowing from a mountain pass, like light leaking from a door crack. They surged out of the cave mouths and stood in the sunlight. The sunlight was no longer grayish; it was golden, warm, bright. Light fell on their faces, and their faces grew warm in the light—not temperature warmth, but "heart" warmth. When the heart warmed, fear vanished.

Someone knelt, knees striking the ground with a soft "pfft". Not pain, but "being". In the sunlight, on the green grass, in the wind. He cupped soil in his hands—damp, black, soft. He brought his nose to the soil, inhaling the scent of grass. The grass was green, tender, fragrant. The fragrance was not smelled, but "remembered". He recalled this scent from when he was a child, before the Immortal Realm shattered, when those immortal trees still bloomed. He sensed it, and tears streamed down—not from crying, but his body rejoicing for him. His body had waited countless years, waiting for this day.

Someone smiled—not a voiced smile, but the corners of his mouth lifting. The lift was slow and slight, like a person smiling in a dream. He smiled at his own age, at having waited this long, at the sunlight falling on his white hair, which turned golden in the light.

Someone embraced another, holding tight—so tight their bones resonated. Not pain, but "being". They were present, and the Immortal Realm was present. The Immortal Realm had come alive, and so had they.

An elder walked out of the cave. He moved slowly, for his legs were thin—thin as withered twigs. His staff tapped the ground, dong, dong, dong, like a bell, like a heartbeat, like a countdown. He reached the sunlight and stopped. Sunlight fell on his face; his face was aged, wrinkles carved like knife cuts, eye sockets deep and hollowed like two dry wells. The wells held water—not rain, but tears. Tears streamed from the corners of his eyes, tracing the wrinkles down to his chin, dropping to the ground with soft "pfft" sounds. Each tear was small, but the sound rang loud in the sunlight, echoing like a human heartbeat.

He lifted his head and gazed at the sky. The sky was blue, blue as a water-washed cloth, without a trace of cloud. The sunlight was bright, bright enough to make him squint. He did not close his eyes, for he was looking. He looked at the sky he had waited countless years for, at the blue he thought he would never see again, at the golden hue he had seen countless times in his dreams. He saw it, and his tears flowed even more fiercely.

Wang Ping stood on the altar, beholding all this. Around him were chaos-colored stones, beneath his feet a chaos-colored altar, upon his body chaos-colored light. Yet he was not in chaos; he was in sunlight. Sunlight fell on his face, warm and gentle, like a mother's hand. He smiled—a faint smile, barely perceptible. But his eyes now held light—not chaos-colored, but the hue of "hope".

Hope was thin—thin as paper, as gauze, as a dream. Yet it was there, in the eyes, in the sunlight, on the grass. It lived, because the Immortal Realm lived. The Immortal Realm lived, because it had waited for this. It waited for a person who came from the lower realm, from Nascent Soul to Transformation Spirit, from Transformation Spirit to Refining Void, from Refining Void to Union. He had passed through the Azure Deep Heaven Domain, the Chaos Immortal Palace, the Law Corridor, Return to the Void, the Immortal Realm's fragments, and the Chaos Source Sea. He arrived at the altar, sat down, and united himself. United, chaos power surged from his body, like spring water gushing from a spring eye. The water was chaos-colored, flowing to the altar; the altar's immortal markings lit up. The light streamed down the mountain path, reaching the mountain's base, where the withered grass turned green. The green light spread in all directions, flowing over the dry riverbed, where water welled up. The water was clear, cool, and sweet. It flowed over the collapsed immortal palace; the palace's stones rose from the ground, piece by piece, fitting back together. The walls rose, the roof was set, the door was installed. The immortal palace came alive. It flowed over the dried immortal lake; the lakebed's fissures sealed, water rose from the earth, and the lake filled. It flowed over the withered immortal trees; roots pulled from the soil and re-anchored, trunks sprouted new buds, green as jade. The Immortal Realm, alive.

Wang Ping stood there, taking it all in. He recalled the elder's words—"Chaos Immortal Venerable, you have finally come." He remembered reaching out his hand in the cave, chaos power illuminating the darkness. The light was warm and gentle, like a mother's hand. The elder's hand no longer trembled. He recalled walking beneath the grayish sky, the ash under his feet catching a faint silver gleam in the moonlight, like snow, like frost, like a dream. He recalled sitting in the Chaos Source Sea, the sea drifting beside him, slow and light, like time. He recalled uniting himself on the altar, gathering all his scattered selves—from the Azure Deep Heaven Domain, to the Chaos Immortal Palace, to the Law Corridor, to Return to the Void, to the Immortal Realm's fragments, to the Chaos Source Sea. Each time he reclaimed a fragment of himself, his body glowed a little more, until it shone like a sun, until the whole mountain radiated light.

He had done it. Not he alone, but with the help of those who had passed—the laugh of Ban Shan Lao Zu, the eyes of Jiang Mingyuan, the thunder of Lei Wan Ting, the ice of Bingyue Xianzi. They were gone, yet their Dao remained. As long as the Dao endured, so did he. He walked the road, and they walked with him. The road was long, very long. But he knew its end was not an end, but a beginning.

He descended the mountain.

His steps were light—light as wind, as shadow, as if they did not exist. Yet he was heavy, heavy enough to make the mountain tremble beneath his feet. Not that the mountain feared him, but that it rejoiced for him—joyed at his arrival, at his sitting, at his departure.

He walked to the foot of the mountain, walked into the midst of the indigenous people. The people gathered around—not a crowd, but a 'gathering'. Like water gathering into a lake, like wind gathering into clouds, like light gathering into the sun. Their eyes held no fear, no numbness, only hope. Hope was thin, thin as paper, as gauze, as a dream. But it was there, in their eyes, in the sunlight, on the grass. They looked at Wang Ping, saying nothing, because they did not know what to say. 'Thank you' was too light, 'sorry' too heavy. They merely watched him, watched him approach, watched him stop, watched him smile.

Wang Ping did not say goodbye. He turned around and left. His receding figure in the sunlight grew farther and farther, smaller and smaller, finally vanishing in the golden light. The immortal realm came alive behind him, the grass turned green, the river flowed, the celestial palace rose, the lake filled, the trees sprouted. The people stood in the sunlight, watching the direction he had gone. They did not know where he was going, but they knew he would return. For this place was his home, and the immortal realm was too.

The old man stood at the very front of the crowd, leaning on his cane. His back was deeply bent, bent until his chin almost touched his knees. But his eyes were bright, bright as stars, as lamps, as hope. He watched the direction Wang Ping had gone, gazing for a long time. Then he smiled, a faint smile, so faint it was almost imperceptible. Yet his eyes were smiling.

He turned around, looking at the tribespeople behind him. Looking at their faces, looking at their eyes, looking at their white hair. He gazed for a long time, then he spoke.

"Go home."

They had returned home. The torches in the cave went out—not blown out by wind, but extinguished themselves. The cave grew bright—not because there was light, but because it was no longer needed. They no longer needed to hide, for the immortal realm had come alive. Home was outside, in the sunlight, in the grass, in the wind.

Wang Ping walked on the road back to the Spirit Realm. The road was long, very long. But he was not in a hurry, for he knew the Spirit Realm was waiting for him. Youying waited beneath the Jianmu tree, Cangxuan waited at the Heaven Sword Sect, Yuliuli waited among the Fallen Immortal Tribe, Jiu'er waited in the trunk of the Jianmu tree. They had waited for him a long time, so long that the leaves of the Spirit Realm had turned yellow three times. He would not let them wait any longer. He quickened his pace.