Chapter 62
Falling stopped meaning anything.
Shenping drifted through a space without direction, without sequence, where moments slid past him like broken reflections. There was no up or down, no before or after—only pressure, constant and intimate, pressing against his existence.
The hunter was there.
Not fully.
Not yet.
Its presence wrapped around him like a tightening coil, patient, probing. It did not rush. It no longer needed to.
Shenping forced himself to breathe, anchoring to the rhythm out of instinct alone. Each breath felt heavier than the last, as if the space itself resisted the act.
"You followed," he muttered.
The darkness answered—not with sound, but with intent.
Images bled into his awareness.
Cities collapsing into silence. Seas boiling without heat. Machines screaming as their logic unraveled. Cultivators disintegrating mid-technique, their paths severed by something that did not recognize effort or merit.
The hunter did not destroy.
It corrected.
Shenping's teeth clenched. "I'm not an error."
Pressure increased.
A shape began to emerge within the dark—a partial outline, layered and unstable. It shifted constantly, unable or unwilling to settle on a single form. Each version overlapped another, as if reality could not decide which one was true.
Recognition sharpened.
The hunter was studying him the same way the CORE once had.
No.
More deeply.
Where machines calculated, this thing remembered.
Shenping felt something brush against his mind, not invasive, but inquisitive. A touch that searched for origin, for cause.
He resisted instinctively.
The effort burned.
Fragments of his past surfaced against his will—Iron Burial City, Sang Sang's eyes, Lin Yue's stubborn grin, Gu Tianxu's quiet steadiness. Futures flickered too, half-formed and unstable.
The hunter recoiled slightly.
Interest spiked.
"You don't like that," Shenping said hoarsely.
The darkness shifted again, and for the first time, something like emotion rippled through it.
Confusion.
Shenping laughed weakly. "Good."
The space around them convulsed.
A boundary formed—not physical, but conceptual. The hunter pressed against it, testing, mapping. Shenping felt the strain immediately, as if hooks had sunk into every possible version of himself at once.
Pain flared.
Not sharp.
Endless.
"You erase things you don't understand," Shenping said, forcing the words out. "That's why they sealed you."
The pressure intensified.
A response formed—not words, but certainty.
It did not deny him.
It disagreed.
The hunter pushed harder, and the boundary cracked. Visions flooded Shenping's awareness—ancient eras where the hunter had walked openly, where time bent to accommodate its passage. Where civilizations had offered worship, then terror, then silence.
It had been a god once.
Not chosen.
Endured.
"You're obsolete," Shenping whispered.
The darkness froze.
For a single fraction of a moment, the pressure eased.
That was all Shenping needed.
He reached inward—not for strength, not for technique, but for contradiction. For the impossible layering of futures that defined him. For the fact that he existed where he should not.
He opened that fracture deliberately.
The space screamed.
The hunter recoiled violently as incompatible sequences slammed into it—future logic colliding with ancient inevitability, machine-born causality grinding against pre-human memory.
The darkness thrashed.
Not in pain.
In disruption.
Shenping was thrown free, hurled through collapsing layers as the space around them tore itself apart trying to reconcile the conflict.
He felt himself tearing too.
Something gave way.
Then—
Impact.
Shenping slammed into solid ground, air exploding from his lungs. He rolled across rough stone, coming to rest face-down, limbs trembling uncontrollably.
Sound returned.
Wind.
Water.
Distant thunder.
He coughed, forcing himself onto his hands and knees. His vision swam, then slowly cleared.
He was on a cliff.
Below him, a vast sea churned under a storm-dark sky. Waves crashed violently against jagged rocks, sending plumes of white spray high into the air. Rain lashed sideways, stinging his skin.
Behind him stood a structure carved directly into the cliffside.
An ancient gate.
Its surface was etched with cultivation markings so old they barely resembled symbols anymore. They pulsed faintly, responding to his presence.
Shenping staggered to his feet.
He knew this place.
Not from memory.
From inevitability.
"This is where you fell," he murmured.
The gate creaked.
Slowly, impossibly, it began to open.
From within, warm golden light spilled out, cutting through the storm like a blade. The rain hissed as it touched the threshold, evaporating instantly.
A figure stood beyond the gate.
Old.
Bent.
Wrapped in tattered robes that looked as if they had once belonged to a dozen different eras. His hair was white, his beard unkempt, his eyes sharp and unbearably alive.
He leaned on a crooked staff and studied Shenping for a long moment.
"…You're early," the old man said.
Shenping swallowed. "You know me?"
The old man snorted. "Unfortunately."
He turned and shuffled back into the light. "Come in before the sea decides to eat you. I don't like shouting over storms."
Shenping hesitated, glancing back at the dark sky.
The hunter was gone.
For now.
He stepped through the gate.
The moment he crossed the threshold, the storm vanished.
The gate slammed shut behind him.
Silence fell.
The space inside was vast—far larger than the cliffside could possibly contain. Stone platforms floated in midair, connected by streams of light. Ancient weapons lay scattered like discarded tools. At the center, a massive formation pulsed slowly, breathing like a living thing.
The old man dropped onto a stone seat with a grunt. "Sit. You look like death arguing with itself."
Shenping lowered himself carefully. "Where am I?"
The old man eyed him sideways. "The last place cultivation refused to die."
Shenping's heart pounded. "You're the master."
The old man laughed, a dry, cracked sound. "Don't insult me. I'm just what's left."
He leaned forward, staff tapping against the stone.
"You dragged something very unpleasant here," he continued. "Something that should never have remembered you."
Shenping met his gaze steadily. "It followed me."
"Yes," the old man said. "That's the problem."
He sighed and waved a hand. The formation at the center flared brighter.
"Rest while you can," the old man said. "Once it finds the scent again, this place won't stay hidden."
Shenping clenched his fists. "Then teach me."
The old man smiled slowly.
"Oh," he said. "I was hoping you'd say that."