Chapter 50
Ling Xu felt his chest tighten.
Not because of the ten crystals pulsing within it, but because of the image of what it meant to never be able to cultivate again—what it meant to lose everything he had fought for over the years, what it meant to return to being an ordinary human in a world where ordinary humans were no more than insects, easily crushed at any moment by those stronger than them.
"Defective," Huan Zheng whispered, and the word left his lips like a blade slowly driven into the chest—not fatal, but agonizing, agonizing in a way that could not be explained with words, because that pain was born from the awareness that he himself had once seen his companions—companions who had once been as strong as him, as great as him, as resilient as him—end up like that, becoming shadows of their former selves, wandering the corridors of sky cities with empty eyes, hands grasping at nothing because they could no longer feel Qi, wearing bitter smiles because they knew they had lost something they would never regain, even if they traded the rest of their lives to reclaim it.
"A permanent defect, Liu Xin. Not a physical defect like losing a hand, a leg, or an eye, because physical defects can still be treated with elixirs, prosthetics, or the minor miracles of healing goddesses. This is a defect in the axis of cultivation, in the very foundation built over years, in the root embedded within the chest that allows one to feel Qi, to fly, to kill, to survive in a world that has never been kind to the weak. That axis will crack, irreparable, irreplaceable, beyond restoration by anyone—even by the Supreme Gods, even by the Supreme Dao itself if it were to descend from its throne and attempt to fix it with all its boundless power. And without that axis, Liu Xin, a person is no more than a breathing corpse. They can eat, drink, sleep, laugh—but they can no longer feel the pulse of the crystal in their chest, no longer feel the warmth of Qi flowing through their veins, no longer feel the joy of perfecting a crystal after months of struggle. They simply… exist. And for someone who has once known what it means to be a cultivator, merely existing is a punishment far crueler than death."
Ling Xu, who just moments ago had been imagining the horror of becoming a breathing corpse without a cultivation axis, suddenly looked at Huan Zheng with shining eyes.
Not out of hope—because he had struggled for far too long to cling to sweet illusions—but out of a curiosity he could no longer suppress, curiosity about what awaited those who succeeded, about what it felt like to stand at the peak of the Supreme Dao after enduring nine torments and the radiation of a universe capable of killing a thousand ordinary cultivators.
"Then what about those who succeed, Zhao Wei?" he asked, his voice soft yet clear in the silent audience chamber, like droplets falling into a pool within a dark cave—echoing, repeating, never truly fading. "Those who do not die, do not become defective, who manage to fuse all ten crystals into one and absorb all the radiation and talent from that unknown universe—what happens to them?"
Huan Zheng, upon hearing that question, smiled.
Not a bitter smile like when he spoke of defects, not an empty smile like when he spoke of death, but a strangely warm smile, like a cup of ginger tea on a cold night, like a campfire in a dark forest, like an older brother proud of his younger sibling who is finally ready to hear good news after so long hearing only the bad.
"Then they will possess the Everlasting Prism, Liu Xin," he said, his voice suddenly lighter, more relaxed, yet still carrying a tremor that hinted what he was about to say was not something to be taken lightly, not a reward to be accepted with carefree joy without understanding its consequences. "The 10 crystals they have successfully fused into one will change form—not into a sphere or a square or a triangle, but into something that constantly shifts, sometimes a trapezoid, sometimes a parallelogram, sometimes shapes that do not even have names in the languages of humans, Gods, or any being in this infinite universe."
Ling Xu frowned, trying to imagine a crystal that never stopped changing form—like flowing water, like blazing fire, like clouds drifting in the wind—but his mind was too accustomed to fixed, static forms, things that could be held, measured, categorized, making it difficult for him to visualize something that was never the same at any two moments, something whose very existence was a paradox beyond human logic.
"Everlasting Prism," Huan Zheng repeated, his words flowing like a spell spoken by a magician upon a stage—beautiful yet terrifying, mesmerizing yet dangerous, "it is named not because it cannot be destroyed—because it can be destroyed, Liu Xin, and its destruction is more terrifying than anything you have ever imagined, more terrifying than death, more terrifying than defect—but because it reflects the characteristics, behavioral traits, talents, and all aspects of the cultivator who possesses it. It is like an honest mirror, Liu Xin. It will never lie about who you truly are, about what you fear, what you love, what you hate, why you are still standing here even after the world has tried a thousand times to bring you down. It is you, Liu Xin. Not a part of you, not something you own, but you yourself—manifested as a crystal that constantly changes, that pulses within your chest, that becomes the foundation of your cultivation in the realm of the Supreme Dao. Without it, you will never feel Qi again, never fly again, never kill again, never avenge your mother."
Huan Zheng paused, drawing a deep breath—a breath that felt like swallowing memories of those he had known, those he had loved, those he had defeated, those he had lost, who now remained only as names in the darkest corners of his memory because their Everlasting Prism had been destroyed, their names erased from the infinite universe as if they had never existed, as if all the battles, laughter, and tears they had shared were nothing more than illusions born from a mind too weary to remember.
"And this Everlasting Prism, Liu Xin," he continued, his voice suddenly heavier, deeper, like a bell tolling in a dark underground chamber, "must be protected at all costs. Because if you fail to protect it—if it is destroyed by an enemy, or by accident, or by your own foolishness, or by anything that causes that ever-changing crystal to stop shifting and then shatter into fragments that can never be reassembled—then it is not only that you will lose your ability to cultivate. It is not only that your cultivation axis will crack like those who failed the trial. It is far more than that, Liu Xin. Far more."
He pressed his chest, right where his ten crystals—now one—pulsed softly like a second heart that never ceased beating even when the first had stopped due to age, injury, or despair, then continued in a voice nearly a whisper, like wind slipping through dry leaves before a storm arrives.
To be continued…