Chapter 63
He simply sat there, cross-legged in midair, both hands resting on his knees.
His eyes, no longer half-closed, were now fully open, observing every vibration emanating from Ling Xu's body.
Every pulse that spread from her chest to the tips of her fingers.
Every current that flowed from her sea of consciousness into her cultivation axis that was beginning to empty—because he knew that what would happen next could not be predicted, could not be controlled, could not be stopped by anyone, not even by him, who had already stood at the peak of Humanity and looked down upon the world spinning beneath his feet like a toy he could shatter at any moment with a lazy kick.
"Sooner or later, Liu Xin—sorry, Ling Xu," he whispered, his voice still carrying its usual laziness, yet his eyes—his eyes spoke differently.
They spoke of concern he had never shown to anyone.
Of fear he had never admitted even to himself.
Of hope he had never allowed to grow because he knew hope was the mother of all disappointment.
"You have to decide. Because your sea of consciousness will not wait forever. Because those raging currents will begin to freeze if you hesitate for too long. Because if you do not choose now, then the sea will choose for you—and believe me, the sea's choice is never kind to those who are afraid to take risks."
Within her sea of consciousness, amid the storm that still raged yet began to show signs of exhaustion—like waves running out of fury after realizing the shore they struck would never yield, like wind losing its breath after circling the world without ever finding a place to rest—Ling Xu opened her eyes.
Not eyes born from a mother's womb.
Not the eyes that had grown in her face since birth.
Not the third eye that had opened on her forehead after she lost her original ones in that silent meditation chamber.
But eyes born from her own sea of consciousness.
Eyes made from the very torrents she had shattered.
Eyes that needed no light to see because they themselves were light—or darkness, or something in between, depending on the angle from which one looked.
"I don't know what all of this is for," she whispered to the Cancer plague that still resided in the darkest corner of her consciousness.
Her inner voice no longer trembled.
No longer hesitated.
No longer carried anger, sorrow, or fear.
It was flat, empty, like the surface of a lake undisturbed for far too long.
"I don't know why I chose to walk this path of cultivation. Whether it was because of vengeance. Whether it was because I feared dying as a failure. Whether it was because I had no choice but to keep moving forward, because stopping meant death, and death meant I would never be able to avenge my mother. But there is one thing I know, plague—one thing I no longer need to question because it is embedded in my bones, in my blood, in every strand of flesh you have turned into part of yourself: I will not stop. Not because I am strong. Not because I am brave. Not because I am certain that what I am doing is right. But because stopping means admitting that they won. That my mother's death was meaningless. That their laughter, echoing as she screamed for help, would be the last sound in this universe. And I will never allow that to happen. I will never let them win, plague. Even if I must become a monster. Even if I must lose everything I have. Even if, in the end, nothing remains of me but an unending hatred—I will not stop. Not because I choose not to stop, but because I cannot. Stopping is no longer an option available to me."
The Cancer plague did not respond with words—it simply smiled.
A smile neither warm nor cold, but strangely satisfied, like a teacher hearing their favorite student give the perfect answer after hours of thought.
Like a mother hearing her child say they are ready to walk alone despite unsteady steps.
Like something that had long waited and finally heard what it had wanted from the very beginning.
And with that smile, the Cancer plague began to move—not like a crawling serpent, not like spreading fire, but like a rising ocean.
Like a flooding river.
Like something no dam could ever contain.
It spread from the darkest corner of her consciousness to every part of her cultivation axis, drowning the remnants of Star, Longitude, Crystals, and Dew that still resisted release.
Forcing them to flow.
Forcing them to become part of the sea.
Forcing them to no longer belong solely to her, but to belong to both of them—Ling Xu and the Cancer plague, two beings once separate but now fused into a single entity that could no longer be divided, like water and salt, like fire and smoke, like a mother and child who were never truly separated even though death had tried to part them countless times.
The rumble that erupted from Ling Xu's body did not sound like an ordinary explosion.
Not a deafening boom.
Not a sound measurable in decibels.
Not a vibration that could be felt by bone, flesh, or skin.
But a rumble born from the space between spaces, from time between time, from meaning between meanings.
A rumble that declared something immense had been born.
That something never before seen now existed.
That the world would never be the same after this moment.
And amid that rumble that shook the entire void once called the universe, Huan Zheng narrowed his eyes.
Not because of blinding light—there was no light bright enough to blind a cultivator of Humanity, not even if it came from a thousand suns exploding at once—but because he needed to be sure.
He needed to see.
He needed to confirm with his own eyes whether what he was witnessing was real or merely an illusion born from exhaustion after centuries of wandering among dead stars.
"Ling Xu?" he called, his voice no longer lazy, no longer flat, no longer like someone reading the death of an unknown neighbor.
It trembled.
A tremor he had never shown anyone.
A tremor born from relief, from awe, from gratitude he had never spoken because he had always been too lazy to pray.
"You… you did it. You truly did it."
And before him, in the trembling void still echoing with the remnants of that rumble, Ling Xu stood.
Not with the same body as before.
Not with robes soaked in sweat, blood, and tears.
Not with bandages wrapped around her head despite the absence of eyes beneath them.
But with a new body.
A body not made of flesh, bone, or blood.
But of light.
A light that was neither bright nor dark.
A light that was neither warm nor cold.
A light that could not be described by words, because words were never meant to describe what now stood before Huan Zheng.
To be continued…