Chapter 517: Same Ancestry, Same Origin! The World Knows Not How It Boils

The vast night of heaven, thick as unmelting ink, poured down from the nine heavens, mercilessly drowning the mortal world.

The scene before him now mirrored exactly that bloody night decades ago—memory and reality twisted into a grotesque overlap.

In a daze, Fan Lingzhou seemed to see again…

The blood of the Southern Zhang stained the waters of Zhuhu; flames stretched endlessly, illuminating the scorched earth and shattered ruins.

Piercing screams, the roar of Daoist arts, and the clash of weapons wove together into a symphony of death.

Beneath the night sky, a crane’s cry tore through the heavens.

A colossal white crane rose into the air, its white feathers scattering, its terrifying, razor-sharp talons crimson and glistening—drenched in countless lives—as it ripped apart a writhing, black serpent midair…

Flesh and blood rained down in fragments, mingling with torrents of primal essence, splattering tragically and turning the already crimson lake even murkier, more horrifying.

Amidst the boiling flames and rolling smoke, powerful auras rose like undulating mountains, brimming with cold killing intent, encircling tightly the blood-soaked figure who still stood upright.

“Zhang Tiansheng! You are at your end!”

“After tonight, the Southern Zhang will cease to exist!”

Sharp, murderous voices echoed through the boundless night, as if proclaiming the end of a lineage.

The young Fan Lingzhou stood amid the flames, before that tall, gaunt man…

Once, the man he had revered as a god, now looked pale as paper, his breath faint as a dying candle, his tattered robes soaked in blood and clinging to his body—where was the slightest trace of his former awe-inspiring aura?

“It’s not my fault, Second Master…”

Fan Lingzhou’s heart pounded uncontrollably, a complex emotion burning through his five viscera and six bowels.

He couldn’t help speaking, his voice trembling with a haste and weakness he hadn’t even noticed himself.

“You… you of all people, why defy the tide of fate? Why… why choose this path of utter ruin?!”

Fan Lingzhou’s voice grew weaker, as if pleading, as if accusing.

Blood pooled beneath the man’s feet, thick and dark red.

Yet he still stood, spine straight as a monument weathered by ten thousand years of storms, unyielding even in ruin.

The killing intent around him, the flames, even the fall of the Southern Zhang itself—none could bend his back.

He smiled.

His lips twitched, flecked with blood, yet his gaze pierced through the crowd, landing precisely on Fan Lingzhou’s face—deep, calm, and tinged with pity.

“Young man…”

His voice was hoarse, yet clear as it reached Fan Lingzhou’s ears, “Do you remember our two first meetings?”

“The first time, I gave you eight characters as an oracle…”

“The second time, I gave you your name…”

He paused, his finger, stained with his own blood, slowly, painfully lifting.

“This third time… I give you one more divination.”

Before the words faded, that bloodied finger flicked like a phantom, gently touching the center of the young Fan Lingzhou’s forehead!

Hum!

Fan Lingzhou felt his spirit altar shudder violently—a profound, unfathomable hex instantly appeared and expanded within his mind.

Upper Marsh, Lower Wind!

Da Guo of Marsh and Wind—the ridgepole bends and sags!

“When all things lose balance, they collapse…”

The man’s voice, like an ancient prophecy, burned with his last strength into Fan Lingzhou’s soul.

“Water can carry a boat… and capsize it…”

“One day, the one who kills you… will be of the Zhang family!”

Boom…

That day.

That night.

The man’s final words, like an unending curse, echoed endlessly in Fan Lingzhou’s ears.

Light and shadow shifted; fragments of memory spun like a revolving lantern.

Fan Lingzhou seemed to return to Baihe Temple, to the quiet chamber thick with the scent of pills.

After the great battle on the Yujing Riverbank, he awoke from a long coma, a tingling itch spreading from his chest—the hollow there now filled and healed by some immense power.

Slowly, he opened his heavy eyelids, and saw the old man seated beside his bed, watching him with deep concern…

The Chairman of the Dao Alliance, Jiang Your Majesty.

“Chairman…”

Fan Lingzhou’s voice was dry, weak from barely surviving, thick with confusion.

“The Zhang family… that brat… how could he have wounded me? What technique was that?”

His face bore indelible terror—the annihilation and dread brought by that black light on the riverbank still made his soul tremble.

“He is of the Southern Zhang bloodline… that man… always leaves behind some trick,” Jiang Your Majesty said calmly, his voice soothing.

Fan Lingzhou fell silent.

He knew well—the “that man” Jiang Your Majesty meant was [Divine Oracle] Zhang Tiansheng.

“But you need not fear—such a trick can only be used once.”

Jiang Your Majesty’s voice returned, pulling Fan Lingzhou’s thoughts back.

“Are you thinking of the eight-character oracle he gave you?”

At these words, Fan Lingzhou’s face twitched sharply.

“The future is ever-changing,” Jiang Your Majesty said with unshakable certainty.

“You have already passed through the greatest calamity of your life.”

“From now on, no one in this world can kill you.”

Hearing this, Fan Lingzhou’s mind involuntarily returned to the black light on the Yujing Riverbank—the light that ignored and destroyed all—his heart still chilled.

“You don’t believe me?” Jiang Your Majesty asked, as if seeing through the deepest doubt in his heart.

“I…”

Before Fan Lingzhou could answer, Jiang Your Majesty continued, his voice deep as an ancient well.

“Every word and deed is but a seed—its outcome depends on you alone.”

Jiang Your Majesty’s words carried an indescribable, elusive meaning.

Fan Lingzhou’s heart tightened; he immediately stilled his mind and bowed with utmost reverence: “How could I not believe?”

“Every step I’ve taken has been thanks to your guidance. This rebirth you’ve granted me—beyond you, who else in this world could I trust?”

Jiang Your Majesty’s face showed no expression; beneath the flickering candlelight, his figure blended perfectly with the swaying shadows, becoming blurred and unfathomable—only his voice, utterly serene, came clearly:

“The great calamity has passed—neither birth nor death…”

“Forget those eight characters.”

Boom…

Light, shadow, and sound blurred and twisted in Fan Lingzhou’s crumbling spirit realm.

Only those eight characters broke free of all chains—like the death knell of fate—ringing wildly, desperately within his soul:

Rise with white! Fall with black!

His vision snapped violently back to reality!

Back to the Blackwater Hills, before this ruined temple, at this final moment of life!

Before him, a beam of light born from the black iron tablet.

No—it was not light. It was the deepest, purest “black,” a swirling vortex of bottomless void.

The vortex swallowed the moonlight, the bonfire, the sound, all his Dao arts and power—like the night itself descending…

All things in heaven and earth returned to nothingness and darkness!

That unimaginable power, carrying the purest intent of annihilation and end, pierced through his [Vessel of Suffering] manifestation as effortlessly as a red-hot iron through thin ice—and then…

The shattering and extinction of flesh and blood!

The wailing and tearing of his Nascent Soul!

The mournful collapse of his Golden Core!

Everything that was his life’s foundation was violently torn, dragged, and ground to dust within the boundless, black vortex—until total obliteration.