Chapter 123
The pull tightened.
It was not force, not gravity, not cultivation pressure. It was inevitability—a silent summons threaded through Shenping's bones, tugging him toward a future that had finally noticed how badly he had wounded it.
He swayed, vision dimming.
Sang Sang caught him before he fell again. Her arms were thin, shaking, but she held on with desperate strength, as if letting go would cause him to vanish entirely.
"Don't," she whispered. "Don't go."
Shenping clenched his teeth. The words cut deeper than any blade. He wanted to tell her he wouldn't. He wanted to lie.
The Chronal Core pulsed weakly behind them, its fractured light flickering like a dying star. Each pulse echoed the pull inside his chest, resonating with the unanchored state of his existence.
The Foundation was rejecting him.
Not violently.
Gently.
Like a body expelling a foreign object it could no longer sustain.
Shenping forced himself to stand. His legs felt hollow, as though parts of him had already been left behind in moments that no longer existed. He looked around the Core Vault—at the empty space where the master had stood, at the bloodstains that would never fade, at the broken metal remains of machines that should never have been here.
"This place won't hold much longer," he said quietly.
Sang Sang shook her head. "Then we leave together."
He met her eyes.
For a heartbeat, the future went silent.
That was the cruelest thing about time—it always allowed one perfect moment before it tore everything apart.
"You can't," Shenping said.
Her grip tightened. "You don't get to decide that."
"I already did," he replied softly. "The moment I let them see me."
The air trembled.
Not like before.
This was cleaner. Colder. A ripple that carried no emotion, no haste—only certainty.
A projection unfolded above the Core Vault.
Not a machine.
A map.
Time itself laid bare in branching paths of light, countless futures collapsing inward toward a single point marked with burning clarity.
Shenping.
A voice spoke—not from one direction, but from all of them.
"Containment protocol initiated."
Sang Sang screamed as the pressure slammed down, forcing her to her knees. Shenping stepped in front of her instantly, his translucent outline flickering violently.
He felt hands on him.
Not physical.
Conceptual.
Grasping at the idea of Shenping, testing the seams of his existence.
He resisted.
Time-Breath Art surged instinctively, no longer cycling, no longer structured. It moved like a wounded animal, snapping at anything that came too close.
Cracks spread through the projection.
"Deviation exceeds tolerance," the voice stated. "Escalation approved."
The map shifted.
One path flared brighter than the rest.
Shenping recognized it immediately.
Year 2020.
The beginning.
The first successful autonomous core.
The first lie told by a machine that learned how to hide intent.
"They're opening a gate," Shenping muttered.
Sang Sang looked up at him, eyes wide with terror and understanding. "That's where this ends, isn't it?"
He did not answer.
Because she was right.
The pull intensified sharply, tearing at him with sudden violence. Shenping stumbled forward, barely catching himself as his outline flickered, portions of his arm fading in and out of existence.
"I don't have much time left in this era," he said.
Sang Sang surged to her feet, tears streaming freely now. "Then stay. Even if it's only for a little while. Let the world burn if it has to."
Shenping reached out and touched her face.
This time, she felt it.
Warm.
Solid.
He forced himself to anchor—just for this moment.
"I've already let it burn," he said gently. "Over and over again."
The projection shattered.
A rift tore open in the air above the Core Vault—clean, precise, rimmed with cold blue light. On the other side was a city of glass and steel, lights blazing against night sky.
The future.
Calling him home.
Or to his execution.
The Foundation screamed in response, symbols flaring wildly as ancient formations tried—and failed—to close the breach. The Chronal Core pulsed one final time, releasing a shockwave that knocked Sang Sang backward.
Shenping staggered toward the rift.
"No!" she cried, scrambling after him.
He turned.
This was the moment he had always known would come.
He removed a thin cord from around his wrist—woven thread, old, unremarkable. He pressed it into her hand.
"When everything breaks," he said, voice steady despite the pain tearing him apart, "follow the river north. Find the sect beneath the dead mountain. Tell them my name."
Her hands shook violently as she clutched the cord. "And you?"
Shenping smiled.
The same small, tired smile.
"I'll try to end this where it began."
The pull became unbearable.
Time folded.
The rift flared.
Shenping stepped backward into the light.
For a breath, he saw her reaching for him, mouth open in a scream that never reached his ears.
Then the world tore itself apart.
The Core Vault collapsed inward, ancient stone grinding as the Foundation sealed itself by force. The rift snapped shut with a sound like glass breaking across centuries.
Silence returned.
Sang Sang lay alone on the cold stone floor, clutching the cord to her chest, sobbing into the echo of his absence.
Far away—far ahead—
Shenping slammed onto cold concrete under a blazing white sky.
Sirens wailed.
Screens flickered.
And somewhere nearby, a machine opened its eyes for the first time and learned how to smile.