Chapter 112
Within the silence that hung like a mist that never truly evaporated—after the final words of the Cancer plague Consciousness regarding Head Humanity faded from Ling Xu's mind, after six seconds passed in a stillness denser than death itself, six seconds in which nothing moved, nothing breathed, nothing blinked, as though time itself was holding its breath because it knew that something horrifying was about to happen, something that would change everything, something that could never be undone even by the one who ruled over seconds, minutes, and hours—Ling Xu opened his mouth.
Not hastily like someone afraid of running out of time, but slowly, like someone about to ask the most important question of his life, about the final realm, about the summit of everything, about Complexity Dao that could supposedly only be reached by those brave enough to die for the twelfth time and rise for the twelfth time.
"Consciousness," he whispered, his voice no longer calm like the surface of a lake in the morning, no longer filled with resignation as it had been when he accepted the truth about Leg of Humanity, Abdomen of Humanity, and Head Humanity but curious, deeply curious, like a child asking his mother why the stars in the sky never fall even though they appear so small and fragile.
"What is Complexity Dao? What makes it different from Humanity Head? What must I do to reach it? Must I die for the twelfth time? Must I lose something else? Must I—"
But before he could finish his sentence, before his words could echo through the emptiness increasingly consumed by the flesh of the Cancer plague creeping like a river that never ceased flowing, The Silent One moved.
Not with lightning speed like when he froze time, not with the lazy indifference characteristic of Huan Zheng, but with terrifying precision, the precision of an executioner who had beheaded thousands and knew exactly where the weakest joint in the neck lay, the precision of a puppeteer who had pulled strings thousands of times and knew precisely how hard to tug so his puppets would dance according to his will.
From the fingertips of The Silent One—those pale, slender fingers he once used to erase all of Huan Zheng's attacks with nothing more than a casual flick of his wrist, the same fingers he once used to create an empty canvas from a reality that had once been colorful and full of life—something black began to emerge.
Not black like the night sky when no stars dared to shine, not black like the ink used to write a love letter that would never be sent because of fear of rejection, but black darker than black itself, a black that absorbed light, a black that devoured color, a black that made the flesh of the Cancer plague, which had once pulsed proudly, suddenly shiver as it felt something it had never experienced in thousands of years of existence.
Fear.
Fear born from the realization that what flowed from The Silent One's fingertips was Manuscript Ink, the very same ink used to write word after word, sentence after sentence, chapter after chapter of the novel Wheel of Cultivation: The Last Descendant of Reincarnation. Ink capable of realizing whatever its wielder desired, ink capable of creating new destinies, erasing old ones, killing characters the writer disliked, reviving characters already dead, changing an ending from tragedy into happiness, or from happiness into tragedy, depending entirely on the mood of the author sitting in a cramped room with a cold cup of coffee and fingers dancing across a keyboard.
"LING XU, DODGE IT!" screamed the Cancer plague Consciousness, its voice no longer deep and resonant as when it explained Head Humanity, no longer sharp and piercing as when it confirmed the truth about Abdomen of Humanity, but shattered, wet, like the snapped strings of a harp in the middle of the most beautiful melody, like a mother watching her child about to be struck by a speeding carriage while being powerless to do anything except scream, scream, scream, hoping her cries would be heard, hoping her child would turn around, hoping her child would survive instead of becoming a corpse sprawled across the road with blood flowing from every opening in the body.
"THAT IS MANUSCRIPT INK! THE INK USED TO WRITE THIS NOVEL! THE INK THAT CAN REALIZE ANYTHING DESIRED BY THE ONE WHO WIELDS IT! IF IT TOUCHES YOU, LING XU, YOU WILL BECOME A PUPPET! YOU WILL BECOME A CHARACTER THE AUTHOR CAN ALTER HOWEVER HE PLEASES! YOU WILL DIE, LING XU! DIE FOR THE TWELFTH TIME, AND THIS TIME, THERE WILL BE NO REBIRTH! BECAUSE MANUSCRIPT INK KNOWS NOTHING OF THE CANCER PLAGUE! MANUSCRIPT INK KNOWS NOTHING OF DEATH! MANUSCRIPT INK KNOWS NOTHING EXCEPT THE AUTHOR'S WILL! AND THE AUTHOR, LING XU, THE AUTHOR WILL NEVER WRITE A REBIRTH FOR YOU! BECAUSE TO HIM, YOU ARE ONLY A CHARACTER! YOU ARE ONLY WORDS! YOU ARE ONLY SCRIBBLES UPON PAPER THAT CAN BE ERASED AT ANY MOMENT! AND ONCE YOU ARE ERASED, LING XU, YOU WILL VANISH! VANISH AS THOUGH YOU NEVER EXISTED! VANISH AS THOUGH YOU WERE NEVER BORN! VANISH AS THOUGH YOU NEVER LOVED HUAN ZHENG! VANISH AS THOUGH YOU NEVER HATED ANYONE! VANISH, LING XU! VANISH!"
Hearing the broken, trembling screams of the Cancer plague Consciousness—hearing that Manuscript Ink could realize anything the author desired, that it could kill him for the twelfth time without rebirth, that it could erase him from this story as though he had never existed, as though he had never been born, as though he had never loved Huan Zheng, as though he had never hated anyone, as though all his struggles throughout the years—dying eleven times, rising eleven times, devouring entire civilizations of Gods, killing, burning, destroying—had never happened, had never mattered, had never left a trace—Ling Xu moved.
Not with lightning speed like when he attacked The Silent One, not with terrifying calmness like when he unleashed the nature of the Cancer plague, but with movements born from instinct, from reflex, from fear he once believed had died alongside his mother on the most horrifying night of his life, only to discover that it still existed, still lived, still had the power to send coldness crawling down his spine, to make his heart pound faster than ever before, and to shorten his breaths like a man who had just run a thousand li without rest.
He bent his body backward, arching himself like a bridge—not the graceful arch taught in ballet schools, but one born from desperation, an arch that made his spine crack like dry wood about to split apart, an arch that caused the bandages around his head to flutter violently because his movement was too fast, too sudden, too desperate. And his third eye, glowing with grayish-green light, pulsed so rapidly, so intensely, so impatiently that the light it emitted transformed into a pure white brilliance like lightning splitting a sky that had never known rain.
To be continued…