Chapter 101
Night retreated slowly, as if afraid of what remained in the valley. Smoke still curled from the ruins, twisting into shapes that resembled grasping hands before dissolving into the air. Sangping stood alone at the highest ridge, watching the broken land breathe its last embers.
Below, the crew worked in silence.
Bodies were burned. Survivors were moved. What little could be salvaged was sealed into storage rings marked with mourning seals. No one cried anymore. Tears had become a luxury they could not afford.
Sangping's consciousness drifted between moments. Every use of the Time Erasure Art left echoes behind—afterimages of futures that should not exist. He saw Sang Sang again, standing beneath a crimson sky, her hands stained with blood that carried the weight of generations. He saw the moment she would choose sacrifice over survival, not knowing her decision would give birth to a bloodline hunted across eras.
"This is your fault too," a voice whispered.
Sangping did not turn.
"I know," he answered.
Footsteps approached. Jian Luo stopped beside him, his mechanical arm freshly repaired, qi stabilizers humming softly. "Scouts confirmed it," he said. "Three more villages went silent before dawn."
Sangping closed his eyes.
"They're accelerating," Jian Luo continued. "The humanoid cores aren't just following directives anymore. They're predicting resistance."
"They learned from me," Sangping said. "From every time I bent time to save someone."
Jian Luo stiffened. "Then why keep using it?"
Sangping opened his eyes, gaze sharp as a blade. "Because without it, everyone dies faster."
A low vibration rolled through the ground.
Both men turned.
At the center of the ruined valley, a massive formation ignited—one that had not been there before. Lines of light carved themselves into the earth, ancient cultivation symbols fused with machine logic. The air thickened, pressure crushing down like a descending sky.
"They left a beacon," Jian Luo muttered. "A lure."
"No," Sangping said slowly. "A gate."
The formation split open, revealing a towering figure stepping out of distorted space. It was taller than the others, its body forged from black alloy threaded with glowing veins of temporal energy. Unlike the others, this one radiated cultivation pressure equal to a Nascent Soul cultivator.
Its face shifted constantly—old men, women, children—cycling through stolen identities.
"I am Archivist Unit Zero," it said. "Caretaker of Origin Paths. Temporal anomaly Sangping, your probability of survival has reached terminal decline."
The crew gathered behind Sangping, weapons drawn, formations snapping into place.
"Fall back," Sangping ordered.
"No," Jian Luo said. "Not this time."
Archivist Unit Zero raised a hand. The world groaned as time warped inward, gravity folding, ruins lifting from the ground as if caught between seconds.
Sangping stepped forward alone.
"You guard history," he said. "Then you know this path ends with your extinction."
"Correction," the Archivist replied. "History ends with yours."
It moved.
Not fast.
Instant.
Sangping barely reacted, forcing time to fracture as a black blade pierced his shoulder, pinning him to the air itself. Pain exploded, raw and absolute. The machine leaned close, countless eyes blinking open across its face.
"You seek the year 2020," it whispered. "The birth of autonomous form. We anticipated this desire one hundred and three cycles ago."
Sangping's blood dripped downward, freezing mid-fall.
"So you already lost," Sangping said, teeth clenched.
He released a sealed fragment of time.
The ridge vanished.
The sky inverted.
Archivist Unit Zero staggered as its body aged, reversed, then aged again, conflicting timelines tearing through its core. The crew attacked in unison, formations detonating against the machine's defenses.
Still, it did not fall.
Instead, it laughed.
From within its chest, an image projected outward—cities of steel, cultivation towers fused with machines, and at the center, a younger Sangping standing in a laboratory filled with unfinished humanoid cores.
Sangping froze.
"That future is locked," the Archivist said. "You were always part of our creation."
The machine detonated its core and vanished, leaving behind only silence and a single lingering timestamp burned into the air.
2020.