Chapter 65
"Silent One," Huan Zheng murmured inwardly, and as that name crossed his consciousness, he felt a chill crawl along his spine.
Not a chill born of fear, for he had never feared the Silent One even though the entire universe trembled at that title.
But a chill born from certainty.
A certainty that behind the mask of silence always worn by the one ranked first, there was something moving.
Something he had never understood despite standing beside him for years.
Something that made him feel that the Silent One had never truly been human, or god, or cultivator, or anything that bore a name.
But something else—something that chose silence because it had no need to speak, because its mere existence was enough to make reality tremble like a leaf in fear.
"He has begun to show signs of existence in several places. I can feel it—not with my eyes, not with my ears, not with Qi, but with something deeper, older, more absolute. With the foundation of my Humanity that once stood at the same peak as his. That once shared the same throne. That once looked down upon the world spinning beneath our feet like a toy we could shatter with a single blink. He will not remain silent forever. He will not allow me to return to the Realm of Humanity without a greeting. And when he chooses to move—when he decides it is time to remind the world why he is called the silent terror—then nothing will be able to stop him. Not me. Not Ling Xu. Not the entire army of the Second Divine gathered in their golden palaces. No one."
He exhaled again.
This time longer.
Deeper.
Heavier.
Like someone preparing to dive into an ocean untouched by sunlight.
And within that breath, another shadow appeared in his mind.
Not a dark and ominous shadow like the Silent One.
But one strangely bright.
A shadow made of blazing red hair that refused to fade like embers that would never die.
Of a green flute always resting at her lips.
Of laughter that could crack the sky, split the ocean, and force a thousand cultivators to their knees, unable to raise their swords.
"And the Singer," he continued.
And this time, his inner voice was no longer heavy and measured, but bitter.
Like someone swallowing medicine too bitter to bear, yet drinking it because there was no other choice.
"The third. The woman with hair that never dims. She who was once always by my side. Whose laughter was the only reason I could still laugh during the darkest times of my life."
"Who now—whether because of my fault, or her own choice, or a cruel fate that sides with no one—has become something I no longer recognize."
Huan Zheng remembered the reports that came from fishermen.
Not from one or two.
But from dozens.
From hundreds.
Those who sailed at night and returned with pale faces, eyes wide in disbelief, lips trembling every time they tried to describe what they had seen in the dark, silent sea.
They heard the sound of a flute.
Not an ordinary flute played by street performers in crowded markets.
But one whose melody could never be forgotten.
Whose resonance lingered in their bones for days after the sound had faded.
That made their skin crawl even without wind.
That made them want to cry without knowing why.
And when they turned.
When they looked toward the source of that sound.
They saw a beautiful girl walking upon the sea.
Her red hair flowing even without wind.
Her green flute pressed to her lips.
Her dim eyes gazing toward the horizon with an expression they could not comprehend.
Not sadness.
Not anger.
Not joy.
Not emptiness.
But something between all of them.
Something without a name.
Because names were never meant to describe what happens to someone who has lost too much.
Who has seen too much.
Who has become too many things until nothing of their former self remains except a name, red hair, and a green flute she never releases from her grasp.
And in a matter of seconds—so fast the fishermen could not blink, could not breathe, could not pray to the dead gods to save them—their heads separated from their bodies.
Not as if severed by a blade that left blood behind.
But as if erased by an unseen hand that decided they no longer deserved to have heads upon their shoulders.
And the last thing they heard before their consciousness vanished forever was not their own screams.
But the flute.
Still playing.
Soft.
Beautiful.
Heartbreaking.
Like a lullaby sung by a mother to a child who would never wake again.
"The Singer," Huan Zheng murmured inwardly.
And this time, his inner voice was no longer bitter.
No longer sharp.
But empty.
Like a hollow at the bottom of the sea untouched by light.
"I once believed her strength was no greater than mine. Not out of arrogance. Not out of underestimation. But because I once stood at the same peak as her. Fought beside her. Witnessed how she moved, breathed, and killed. But that does not mean she cannot defeat Ling Xu with ease. Ling Xu has indeed transformed into a cultivator of Humanity. She has died eleven times and risen eleven times. She has devoured the entire civilization of the Gods and made it flesh within her. But The Singer has existed in this realm for thousands of years. She has refined her foundation to a level even I dare not measure. She has watched kingdoms rise and fall before her eyes. She has killed more beings than the number of stars visible in the darkest night sky. And if one day they meet—if Ling Xu must face The Singer alone without me beside her… I do not know if she will survive. I do not know if I will be able to save her. I do not know if anyone can save anyone from that green flute whose melody can shatter the sky, split the ocean, and bring a thousand cultivators to their knees."
The outer gate of humanity's domain opened not with the creaking of rusted iron nor the rumble of shifting stone.
But with a silence that felt like a slap.
One second, they were still standing in the void that was once called the universe, surrounded by the remnants of the Cancer plague's flesh that had been pulled back into Ling Xu's womb and the extinguished flames from Huan Zheng's breath that left no trace.
And the next second—without a flash of light, without a tremor that shook the bones, without any warning from unseen voices—their feet stood upon solid, warm ground.
Ground that smelled of grass.
Of dust.
Of something faintly like incense burning on an ancient temple altar.
Huan Zheng blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Like a cat just waking from sleep, still trying to remember where it left its bowl of milk.
Then he let out a long breath that sounded more like a resigned sigh than an expression of awe.
While his lazy eyes began sweeping the surroundings with a speed that did not match the expression on his face, which looked as though he might fall asleep at any moment.
To be continued…