Chapter 125
Not emerging like water flowing from a faucet, not emerging like a bird escaping from its cage, but emerging like something that could never be imprisoned, like something that could never be restrained, like something that no one could ever stop.
And when that Consciousness merged with Ling Xu's attack—when the Cancer plague in its most primitive, wildest, and uncontrollable form shot toward Pendiam with a speed that even the ink shaping the universe could not follow—Huan Zheng and The Singer, without discussion, without exchanging glances, without whispering, shouting, or giving signals, restricted The Silent One's authority.
Not restricting him like a wall blocking a road, not restricting him like chains binding hands and feet, but restricting him like a reader closing a book in the middle of a story, like an editor cutting out unnecessary scenes, like a writer deciding not to write what they do not wish to write.
And within that restriction, The Silent One—who had once been able to multiply his power up to five thousand times beyond the original potential of the God of the Vast Cosmos—could no longer move, speak, or write.
He could only watch—watch Ling Xu's attack that carried the entirety of the Cancer plague's nature and the entirety of the Consciousness dwelling within it, an attack that could not be blocked, avoided, rewritten, or erased from the manuscript because this attack was the manuscript itself, this attack was the story itself, this attack was the ending of a story that never wished to end but was forced to end because every story, no matter what sequel it may have, will one day inevitably reach its conclusion.
And that attack pierced The Silent One's heart.
Not piercing with a thunderous sound like lightning striking the tallest tree in the forest, not piercing with a soft sound like a needle falling onto thick carpet, but piercing with a sound that human ears could never hear, a sound that only the soul could hear, a sound that said:
"It's over. Enough. It's time to end."
And Pendiam—whose heart had been pierced by Ling Xu's attack, whose body began cracking apart like porcelain that had never been strong enough to withstand anything, whose consciousness began scattering like shards of glass spread across the floor—lifted his head upward.
Not lifting it like someone wanting to look at the sky, not lifting it like someone taking their final breath before death, but lifting it like a puppet whose strings had been cut, like a statue that no longer had a pedestal to stand upon, like something with no choice left but to fall.
And from his wide-open mouth—from his throat that was beginning to disappear like mist driven away by the morning sun—came a scream.
Not a short scream born from reflex, not a long scream filled with rage or despair, but a scream that never seemed to end, a scream that grew louder every second, more insane every second, a scream that made the hairs on Huan Zheng's neck stand on end as he stood beside Ling Xu, a scream that made The Singer—who had heard thousands of melodies in his life—feel that no melody could ever be more horrifying than this scream, a scream that was the sound of the death of the God of the Vast Cosmos's soul—a soul that had lived for thousands of years, that had witnessed the birth and death of entire civilizations, that had ruled this infinite universe countless times, and that now, at long last, had finally fallen completely.
And when the scream ended—when the soul of the God of the Vast Cosmos vanished like mist that had never truly existed, when The Silent One, no longer possessing that soul, began to collapse, when his body, half-burned and half-shattered, began falling to the ground like dry leaves too weak to cling to their branches—Ling Xu, Huan Zheng, and The Singer synchronized.
Not synchronizing like three warriors helping one another, not synchronizing like three colors merging into one, but synchronizing like three Cultivation Wheels finally finding balance, like three beings who, despite their differences—one lazy, one a carrier of plague, one the heir of a self-destructive God—could still unite because they shared a single purpose.
To protect what they loved.
And from their bodies emerged light—golden light from Huan Zheng, silver light from the Singer, greenish light from Ling Xu—and those three lights illuminated The Silent One's crumbling body.
Not to kill him, not to finish him off, not to ensure he would never rise again, but to save him, to heal him, to ensure that The Silent One's soul—not the soul of the God of the Vast Cosmos, but The Silent One's true soul, which had been buried beneath the consciousness of the God of the Vast Cosmos for years—would not disappear as well.
"You don't need to die, The Silent One," Ling Xu whispered. His voice was no longer hollow and empty like when he released the entirety of the Cancer Plague's nature, but soft, incredibly soft, like a mother stroking the hair of her feverish child, like a nurse wrapping her patient's wounds with clean and warm cloth.
"You only need to rest. You only need to be silent—just like your name. Silent, but not dead. Silent, but not gone. Silent, but still existing—within our consciousness, within our memories, within the story we will write about this battle."
And The Silent One's soul—which had nearly vanished together with the soul of the God of the Vast Cosmos, which had nearly been erased from the manuscript after being buried for too long beneath the consciousness of a stronger being—settled down.
Not settling within his own body, because his body had already become too destroyed to inhabit, but settling between the consciousnesses of Huan Zheng, the Singer, and Ling Xu, like an uninvited guest welcomed with open arms, like a lost sibling finally returning home after years away, like a part of the story that could no longer be separated because it had become part of who they were.
And there, among the three Cultivation Wheels that had finally united—Ling Xu who carried the Cancer plague, Huan Zheng who was lazy yet loyal, The Singer whose melodies could shatter the flow of Dao, and The Silent One who remained silent yet always watched from within their consciousnesses—this story, for now, came to rest.
Fhuuuh!!
In another world—a world unfamiliar with cultivation, unfamiliar with the Cancer Plague, unfamiliar with Dao Complexity, unfamiliar with everything that had happened during that battle that lasted more than sixty minutes—Theo Vkytor, the original author of the novel Cultivation Wheel: The Last Descendant of the Reincarnator, blinked.
He was still sitting in his chair, his head still tilted toward the ceiling of his room that was cracked in several places because it had gone unrepaired for too long, his thoughts still spinning like a jammed cassette tape that refused to stop because he was too lazy to get up and press the stop button.
"What just happened?" Theo whispered. His voice was no longer as clear and calm as usual, but confused, strange, filled with questions he could not answer no matter how hard he tried.
"Ling Xu... Huan Zheng... The Singer... The Silent One... they... moved on their own? They... chose their own path? They... didn't follow what I imagined?"
He shook his head.
Not a slow and hesitant shake, but a firm and forceful one, as though trying to drive away something that should never have existed in his thoughts.
Because this novel—Cultivation Wheel: The Last Descendant of the Reincarnator—had never been written by him.
He had never compiled it into an online novel.
He had never published it, never shared it, never told anyone about it.
To be continued….