Chapter 432: Ah, I see……This is what a 'prison' really is

Shíhóu didn't know how many times he had woken up.

He also didn't know whether the word "awake" still had any meaning.

Every time he opened his eyes, it was a remnant of a nightmare.

The scene of killing, the abandoned wail, the dull sound of iron chains piercing the collarbone.

Each time he opened his eyes, he was weaker than before.

So weak that even the strength to lift his hand was draining away.

He lowered his head and glanced at his own forearm.

His hair was falling out.

It fell in clumps, light and feathery, like autumn's dry leaves.

Revealing the skin underneath.

Grayish-white.

Not from aging.

Not from illness.

It was fading.

Like a picture soaked in water, the color seeping out layer by layer, until only blank paper remained.

He was turning into an empty shell.

Shíhóu stared at his bald hand back for a long time.

He wasn't panicked.

He wasn't angry.

He didn't even feel fear anymore.

He just felt—oh, that made sense.

Something that shouldn't exist was supposed to disappear.

When that thought arose, Shíhóu froze for a moment.

Then he realized something.

That voice stopped speaking.

After the words "You promised me you'd come back," no external sound had appeared in the darkness.

No more persuasion.

No more deception.

No more pretense.

Because it was no longer needed.

Shíhóu's own brain was already working for it.

"I don't deserve it."

This sentence rose from his heart, as natural as breathing.

"I am wrong."

This one too.

"Without me, everyone would be better off."

And this one as well.

One after another, like weeds, they pushed up from the mud themselves, growing wildly, spreading, filling his entire mind to the brim.

They weren't implanted.

They were his own growth.

Shíhóu sat leaning against the void, chewing over these thoughts in his mind again and again.

Chewing on them made him feel tired.

Really tired.

Not bodily tiredness.

Not the satisfying exhaustion after a fight.

It was a fatigue that welled up from his marrow, from the deepest part of his soul.

Like someone forced to walk a ten-thousand-year night road, finally admitting he could find no end.

Shíhóu closed his eyes briefly.

Then opened them again.

Closed them briefly.

Opened them again.

Each time he opened his eyes, it took more effort than before.

He wanted to close them.

He wanted to close them forever.

He wanted everything to stop.

He wanted to cease existing.

When that thought arose, there was no drama.

No heart-rending pain, no gritting-teeth resentment.

He was just tired.

He couldn't walk anymore.

Didn't want to leave.

Shihou raised the monkey paw that had already lost its golden fur in front of their face.

Greyish‑white skin clung to the bones, dry and ugly.

It did not look like a monkey's hand.

Like a discarded old object.

If I had never existed from the beginning.

The woman named Yao would marry a good person.

The monkeys of Mount Huaguo would not have their bones pierced by iron chains.

The Three Realms would not be reduced to ruin because of the title 'Great Sage Equal to Heaven'.

Those people whom Shihou personally crushed to death in their dreams—the old woman, the infant, the kneeling commoners—would all live well.

Shihou lowered their hand.

Slowly closed their eyes.

Not unconscious.

Not knocked out by a blow.

It was Shihou's own choice.

Willingly.

Like a traveler who had been on the road for too long, finally finding a bed, lying down on it and not wanting to worry about anything.

The point of light on Shihou's chest went wild.

It jumped anxiously and quickly, more violently than at any previous time.

Boom—

Like a person about to drown, slapping the water surface.

Like a living person trapped in a coffin, frantically striking the coffin lid.

Shihou felt it.

Shihou chose to ignore it.

Too tired.

No matter who you are, no matter what you're rushing about.

Let me sleep a while.

Just a while.

The jumping of the point of light began to weaken.

From slapping it turned into striking.

From striking it turned into light tapping.

Shihou's consciousness sank inch by inch downward.

Like a stone sinking into deep water.

The light on the water surface grew farther and fainter.

Shihou was almost at the bottom.

Then—

At the instant when Shihou's consciousness was about to reach the bottom.

The point of light did one last thing.

It squeezed all of its remaining energy, without leaving a trace, into a faint light.

That light did not illuminate the darkness.

It could illuminate nothing anymore.

It merely projected an image into Shihou's Divine Soul, which was already on the verge of fading.

A three‑second image.

A study.

Very old, very small.

The table was made of wood, and one corner had a notch, as if knocked by something.

There was nothing on the table.

No books, no brush, no tea.

Empty.

A figure sat at the table, back turned.

Worn Daoist robe, washed too many times, the color faded to grey‑white, hanging on their body.

Waist bent.

Back hunched.

Spine curved into an arc.

Shihou's consciousness had already sunk to the bottom.

But this image made Shihou stop.

That arc.

Not resting.

Not dozing.

It was the arc formed after bearing something too heavy for too long, bending the bones under pressure.

It was the arc of someone alone propping up something, having done so for who knows how many years, even sparing the strength to groan in pain.

No one before him heard him speak.

No one behind him lent him a hand.

All around was Blank.

Pure, boundless Blank.

Only he was there.

He sat there.

He did not move.

He made no sound.

Three seconds.

The image vanished.

The light point burned up its last trace of energy and returned to dimness.

Shi Hou's consciousness had already sunk more than halfway into darkness.

He was about to hit rock bottom completely.

But that three‑second image was like a red‑hot iron nail, driven deep into the deepest part of his Divine Soul.

It could not be pulled out.

It could not sink.

That hunched back—

That solitary person sitting in the Blank world—

Who was he waiting for?

No one came.

He knew no one would come.

But he still sat there.

In Shi Hou's heart there was a spot that would not sink no matter what.

Like a speck of stone lodged in the silt at the bottom of a lake, blocking the final inch of sinking.

He was already near death.

He knew he was near death.

But that back was too lonely.

Lonely to the point that he felt—

If he himself were to just disappear like that.

That person would truly never wait for anyone again.

Shi Hou's lips moved.

Hardly any sound came out.

The breath squeezed from his throat was as weak as it could possibly be.

But the shape of his lips was clear.

Not "Master".

Not "Sorry".

Not "I was wrong".

It was four words.

The most foolish four words.

The most unreasonable four words.

"Don't be alone."

He said.

His consciousness sank.

Darkness swallowed everything.

Shi Hou felt nothing at all.

He heard nothing.

Nothing remained.

But—

That crimson‑gold light point on his chest.

After he spoke those four words.

It stopped.

It did not jump.

It did not flicker.

It did not struggle.

It remained quietly there.

Dark.

But it did not go out.

Like a seed buried deep in frozen soil.

There was no sunlight.

No water.

There was no sign that it was still alive.

But it simply wasn't dead.

It was waiting.

Waiting for a spring that even it didn't know when would come.

Darkness closed in completely.

No sound.

No light.

Nothing remained.

But in this absolute void, at an extremely distant place——

In the Study within that Blank world.

That hunched back.

Suddenly lifted his head a little.

As if sensing something.

He didn't turn back.

Only after a long silence did his cracked lips curve.

Not a smile.

It was the expression of someone who had waited far too long, finally hearing footsteps from afar.

Then he lowered his head again.

Continued sitting.

Continued waiting.

But this time——

His spine straightened a fraction.