Chapter 115
And when that fragment of a sentence finished forming, the Silent One felt something strange within his chest.
Not a wound, not pain, but a sensation as though a needle were slowly piercing between his ribs, piercing not to kill, but to remind him that words, despite having no weight, could be sharper than any sword.
Ling Xu gave The Silent One no time to reflect on the strange sensation in his chest.
With movements faster than before—so fast that even his shadow could not keep up, so fast that even time itself, which had only just begun crawling forward again, seemed to blink in confusion—he launched a second attack.
No longer a burst of aura that could be burned away by empty flames, but a whip made from the flesh of the Cancer plague, a whip pulsing with slime that was neither wet nor dry, a whip that, if it struck its target, would leave behind scars that could never be erased by anyone, not even by Gods themselves.
"The second attack," Ling Xu whispered once more, his voice no longer cold like the edge of a sword, but filled with something that people who still believed justice existed might have called hope, even if that justice lay hidden beneath mountains of corpses and oceans of blood, "for Huan Zheng, whom you injured."
Yet The Silent One, who from the very beginning had never been an enemy whose actions could be predicted, did not block the whip with empty flames, nor evade it with his speed. Instead, he casually raised one hand—casually, as though picking up a cup of tea from a table—and caught the whip in midair, feeling its slime coat his pale fingers. Then, with a motion that looked as though he were tossing a ball back to a playmate, he hurled the whip back toward Ling Xu.
"Feel your own attack for yourself," said The Silent One, his voice no longer soft as when he whispered about breaths that halted time, no longer hoarse as when he warned about the risks of becoming a monster, but flat and hollow, like the frozen surface of a lake that had never once known the warmth of sunlight.
And the whip of Cancer plague flesh—which only a second ago had remained loyal to its master—now reversed direction, shooting toward Ling Xu with the same speed, the same intent, the same savagery, as though it had forgotten that it had been born from the same womb, the same blood, the same flesh.
But Ling Xu—whose third eye blazed with a grayish-green light brighter than before, whose consciousness had fully synchronized with the Cancer plague dwelling within every pore, every vein, every strand of muscle in his body—did not panic.
He did not dodge, did not shield himself, did not scream, curse, or pray to gods long since dead.
He merely raised both palms forward, spreading his trembling fingers wide—fingers still shaking from exhaustion, rage, and something that people unafraid of appearing weak might have called love. And from every fingertip, every pore upon his palms, every corner of his body that had been mutilated through eleven deaths and eleven resurrections, the Cancer plague emerged in its most primitive, wildest, most uncontrollable form.
No longer as aura, no longer as slime, no longer as flesh pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat, but as something existing between life and death, between existence and nonexistence, between reality and a nightmare that never truly ended.
"You forgot, Silent One," whispered Ling Xu, his voice no longer cold, no longer hopeful, but calm, deeply calm, like a mother soothing her feverish child by stroking sweat-soaked hair.
"The Cancer plague cannot be harmed by its own creations."
And when the whip reached his palms, he did not block it, did not snap it apart, did not destroy it—he absorbed it, allowing the whip to melt into his flesh, to become part of him, strengthening what was already strong, fattening what was already bloated, like an ocean swallowing rivers that flowed endlessly into its embrace without ever becoming full.
The third attack came without pause.
Ling Xu no longer used whips, no longer used aura, no longer used anything visible, audible, or tangible to ordinary human senses. He used himself—his entire body made light because he had cast aside everything he had once built and chosen emptiness instead, his entire cultivation foundation coated in Cancer plague flesh from Lower Star to Supreme Dao Dew, all the hatred he had carried since his mother died before him with eyes still open and mouth half-parted as though she had wanted to say something but never had the chance because her head had already been severed from her neck.
He ran—or more accurately, he vanished from where he stood and reappeared before The Silent One within a fraction of a second too brief to be measured by even the most advanced instruments in any universe—and punched.
Not an ordinary punch that could be avoided with a slight tilt of the head, not a punch that could be blocked with raised arms or energy shields, but a punch carrying the full weight of eleven deaths, the full burden of eleven rebirths, the entirety of the agony from seeing Huan Zheng lying weak upon the ground with blood flowing from the corner of his lips.
Yet the Silent One—who perhaps had already predicted that Ling Xu would attack with all his strength, or perhaps had already read the motion from the blink Ling Xu could not conceal—raised both hands, and with a movement resembling the turning of a page in a book, he redirected Ling Xu's punch.
Not blocked.
Not dodged.
Not defended against.
Redirected.
And so the punch that should have struck The Silent One's chest, shattered his ribs, or stopped his heart instead slammed into Ling Xu's own abdomen, directly beneath his solar plexus, in the place where the Cancer plague dwelled most deeply.
Blood—not red blood like that of ordinary people, but greenish blood mixed with slime and tiny fragments of flesh still twitching—burst from Ling Xu's mouth, soaking his chin, his neck, and his chest that still tightened from suppressed grief, fury, and pain too immense to express through words.
"The… third attack…" he whispered, his voice broken and wet, like someone drowning who could only speak the name of the person he loved before the water covered his head for the final time, "for… myself."
And while part of that third attack injured Ling Xu himself—tearing apart the layers of Cancer plague flesh protecting his stomach, shattering several Heavenly Longitude he had painstakingly built from the corpses of enemies that had never been enough to make him feel safe, nearly causing him to collapse from pain that even he, who had died eleven times, could not simply ignore—the remaining portion, the part The Silent One had failed to redirect because he possessed only two hands while Ling Xu's attack came from a thousand directions at once, struck the ground behind The Silent One, striking the outermost edge of the place where reality had begun cracking apart from being manipulated too often.
And there, at the place where the attack landed, a fragment of a sentence began to form—longer than before, longer than the curses against the humans who had violated his mother, longer than declarations of pain beyond words.
To be continued…