An anchor. A point that remains utterly unmoving no matter how the river of time flows. A node connecting the past, the present, and the future. An indisputable "reality" within the long river of time.
This realization pushed the changes deep within Qian Renxue's soul to a critical point. The precipitated "golden granules" began to merge. No longer scattered, they converged into a core that grew increasingly dense and heavy. This was not an outward-radiating seed like Tang Wulin's, but an inward-condensing "nucleus"—an anchor of existence.
She felt her body, her soul, and her divine throne all being reintegrated by this "nucleus." Every breath, every heartbeat, became more certain, more real. She even felt that if someone were to try and deny her existence right now, that negation would shatter against her like a wave crashing into an iron wall.
But this was only the beginning.
Qian Renxue pressed deeper into the Corridor of Time, arriving at a ring-shaped space at its very depths. There were no echoes of time here, only absolute silence, and a bizarre object floating in the center of the space. It was an hourglass, but the sand within it was golden, and it flowed so incredibly slowly that it seemed almost entirely still.
"The Anchor of Time," a raspy, ancient voice echoed in the space.
Qian Renxue turned around to see a white-haired old man manifest from the void. He wore a plain white robe, his eyes as profound as time itself, leaning on a gnarled wooden staff.
"The God of Time?" Qian Renxue asked cautiously.
The old man shook his head slightly. "The God of Time fell long, long ago. I am merely a wisp of consciousness he left behind to guard this remnant. You are the first deity to truly set foot here in ten thousand years."
"Why me?"
"Because you have grasped the true essence of an 'anchor,'" the old man walked toward the hourglass, the golden sand glowing faintly as he approached. "Time requires an anchor, otherwise it would fall into absolute chaos. Existence also requires an anchor, otherwise it would dissipate into the Void. What you came here to find is precisely the method to become an anchor."
Qian Renxue stared at the hourglass. "This hourglass..."
"...is the symbol of the Anchor of Time," the old man explained, "but it is not for you to use. The true anchor is within your heart. You have already found that nucleus; what you must do now is make it permeate your entire timeline."
"How do I do that?"
"Recollection," the old man said. "But not ordinary recollection. It is to re-experience, to re-affirm. It is to use your existence in this very moment to validate every past instant. When your 'present' can anchor your 'past,' your existence gains half of its stability. Then, in the same manner, anchor your probable 'future,' and your existence will become whole."
Qian Renxue frowned. "Re-experience the past? But the past has already happened. How can I re-experience it?"
The old man smiled. "Time is a river, but you are standing within it. Look downstream, and you see the water that has already passed—that is the past. Look upstream, and you see the water that has yet to arrive—that is the future. But whether you look up or down, it is all the same water. Your existence is simply you, standing in the river at this very moment. When you use the 'reality' of this moment to touch the 'shadows' of the past, those shadows will become equally 'real.'"
This explanation was somewhat esoteric, but Qian Renxue seemed to understand. She walked up to the hourglass and reached out her hand. This time, however, she didn't touch the hourglass itself, but the invisible substance flowing around it—the very texture of time.
In an instant, she was pulled into a memory.
No, she wasn't "pulled in"; she actively "entered" the memory. Using her existence in the present, she re-experienced that exact moment—
She was six years old, displaying her Angel Martial Soul before her grandfather for the very first time. A golden light bloomed in her small palm—faint, yet incomparably pure. Her grandfather, Qian Daoliu, crouched down and held her small hands with his own, which were covered in calluses yet exceptionally warm. Tears glistened in his eyes.
"Good child," he said. "You are the Angel inheritor with the purest bloodline our Qian family has seen in a thousand years. You will accomplish what your grandfather could not, and reach heights your grandfather could never reach."
At that time, she hadn't fully grasped the weight of those words. But now, re-experiencing this moment with thousands of years of wisdom, Qian Renxue understood. She understood the expectation and the worry in her grandfather's eyes. She understood the responsibility and the heavy burden behind this inheritance. She understood how that single moment had defined the incredibly long life that followed.
"I affirm," Qian Renxue whispered in that moment. She wasn't speaking to her grandfather, but to her six-year-old self. "This moment is real. You are real. Your existence is real."
The imagery of the memory froze, then seemed to be plated in a layer of gold, becoming incredibly solid. Deep within her soul, Qian Renxue felt the "nucleus" extend a thread, connecting it to this node in her memory.
She returned to the center of the Corridor of Time, to the scene before the hourglass. But something was different now—her sense of existence was stronger, and that feeling of "solidity" was far more pronounced.
"One anchor secured," the old man's voice rang out, carrying a tone of approval. "Continue. Anchor all the crucial nodes of your life. When you have finished, you will no longer be scattered points in time, but a continuous line. And a line is much harder to erase than a point."
Qian Renxue nodded and reached out to touch the flow of time once more.
This time, she entered the memory of her twelve-year-old self—disguised as Xue Qinghe, stepping into the Heaven Dou Imperial Palace for the first time. That resplendent yet treacherous world, those courtiers who were superficially respectful but harbored dark motives, the lie that had to be maintained every single second. She remembered the loneliness, the suffocating repression of having no one to confide in, the bewilderment of trying to find her true self amidst a web of lies.
"I affirm," she said to her masked self. "The pain of this moment is real. Your perseverance is real. Your existence is real."
Another node was anchored.
Time and time again, Qian Renxue entered the moments that had shaped her—
At eighteen, during the ninth trial of the Angel God assessment, struggling on the precipice between light and darkness, ultimately choosing to embrace the light rather than fall—that moment of sacred awakening.
At twenty-five, the final duel with Tang San, her divine throne shattering, falling from the clouds—that moment of despair and release.
After the fall, the grueling three hundred years, painstakingly remolding her divine core bit by bit, searching for meaning in the void, seeking wholeness amidst the shattered pieces.
Meeting Tang Wulin, the pure trust in that child's eyes that allowed her frozen heart to feel warmth once again.
For every single moment, she used her present existence to re-experience, to affirm, and to anchor. With every affirmation, her "nucleus" extended another thread, connecting to a node in time. Those threads multiplied, weaving themselves into a net. But unlike Tang Wulin's outward-expanding network, this was a network taking root deep into the depths of time itself.
She didn't know how much time had passed. When Qian Renxue finally anchored the last important node of her life, she opened her eyes and found herself still standing in the center of the Corridor of Time, before the hourglass. But at some unknown point, all the golden sand within the hourglass had completely fallen to the bottom.
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