Chapter 120
And The Silent One, who saw Ling Xu descend from the sky with his body folded like a devout believer, who saw three colors—red, yellow, blue—revolving around Ling Xu's body like planets orbiting the sun, who heard the voice of the Cancer plague Consciousness echoing through every corner of reality, through every gap between space and time, through every concept that had ever been born and died within the minds of any living being, felt for the first time in this battle something he had never experienced before, something that even the soul of the God of the Vast Cosmos residing within him—who had lived for thousands of years, who had witnessed the birth and death of entire civilizations, who had conquered this boundless universe countless times—could not ignore.
Fear.
Not fear like a child afraid of the dark, not fear like an ordinary person afraid of death, but fear born from the realization that the enemy standing before him now—Ling Xu who had died for the twelfth time, Ling Xu who had reached Complexity Dao, Ling Xu whose body radiated three colors he had never seen before—was something he could not defeat, something he could not destroy, something he could not erase from the script because Ling Xu had now become the script itself, Ling Xu had become the story itself, Ling Xu had become something inseparable from reality because he had become part of the very foundation of reality itself.
"Impossible," Silence whispered, his voice no longer flat and hollow, no longer heavy and deep like when the soul of the God of the Vast Cosmos spoke through his mouth, but cracked, wet, like someone who had just realized that he had already lost before the battle had even begun.
"You… you can't possibly… I already erased you… I already wrote your death… I already…"
But Ling Xu—whose body still remained in that folded position, whose legs were still tucked deep within the bends of his elbows, whose three colors still revolved around him at an ever-increasing speed—did not listen.
He merely smiled—a smile no longer cold and resolute like when he gave Silence an ultimatum before the first battle began, no longer bitter like when he heard about the necessity of killing fellow humans, no longer overflowing with tears like when he saw Huan Zheng lying weakly on the ground, but a calm smile, a peaceful smile, a smile like that of a Buddha who had attained enlightenment and was no longer affected by anything—pain, death, loss, fear—because he had gone through all of it, overcome all of it, become something beyond the reach of all those things.
"Now," Ling Xu said, his voice no longer cold, no longer bitter, no longer soaked with tears, but clear and pure, like water flowing from a mountain spring untouched by human hands, like a bell softly ringing in the distance on a fog-covered morning.
"We begin again, The Silent One. And this time, I will not die."
And there, amidst a reality that had returned to normal yet was not truly normal because Ling Xu had become part of its foundation, amidst Huan Zheng beginning to smile for the first time after believing he would never smile again, amidst The Singer still standing stiffly with widened eyes in disbelief, the second battle between Ling Xu and The Silent One—between the vessel of the Cancer plague who had reached Complexity Dao and the soul of the God of the Vast Cosmos who was beginning to realize that he would never be able to win—began.
In the sky still pulsating with three colors—red, yellow, blue—circling around Ling Xu's body like planets tirelessly orbiting their sun, Silence took a breath.
Not an ordinary breath that inhaled oxygen and exhaled carbon dioxide, but a breath that inhaled stories, that absorbed every word, every sentence, every chapter ever written and yet to be written about Ling Xu, about Huan Zheng, about the Singer, about this boundless universe itself, and within his half-burned chest, that breath transformed into ink—ink not black like the kind used to write on paper, but gray ink, ink born from nothingness, the same ink he had used earlier to write the sentence, "I will kill you."
In the air moments ago, but this time, that ink did not form merely a single sentence, not merely a single paragraph, but ten paragraphs at once, ten paragraphs pouring from his mouth like a river overflowing after rain that had not ceased for a thousand years, ten paragraphs containing death, destruction, wounds beyond the meaning of severe, ten paragraphs all aimed at a single target.
Ling Xu.
"You think you're the only one who can write?" The Silent One whispered, his voice no longer flat and empty, no longer heavy and deep like when the soul of the God of the Vast Cosmos spoke, but filled with something that people who still believed madness had a recognizable shape, color, and smell might call insanity.
"You forget, Ling Xu. I am The Silent One. I am the first. I am the oldest. I am the one who has remained silent the longest among the three Cultivation Wheels. And when I decide to speak, the world—no, the universe—no, the story itself—will listen."
And those ten paragraphs shot toward Ling Xu, not like arrows that could be avoided by tilting one's head, not like waves that could be blocked by walls, but like reality itself, undeniable, unchangeable, like death that could not be bargained with because it had already been written, had already become canon, had already become part of a story that could not be rewritten.
Ling Xu—whose body still remained folded like a devout believer, whose three colors still revolved around him at increasing speed because he realized that the ten paragraphs rushing toward him were no ordinary attack, not magic that could be unraveled by the Cancer plague, not energy that could be absorbed, reflected, or destroyed—did not panic.
He merely exhaled—a sigh that sounded like wind whispering through dry leaves after a storm had passed, a sigh carrying the burden of knowing that he, despite having reached Complexity Dao, was still not enough, still unbalanced, still unable to defeat Silence, who had reached the peak of that realm thousands of years before he was born.
"Consciousness," Ling Xu whispered inwardly, his voice no longer clear and pure like when he had said, "We begin again," moments earlier, but filled with something that people who still believed acknowledging weakness was not a sign of defeat but of wisdom might call humility.
"I can't block this alone. I need your help. I need you to protect Huan Zheng and the Singer. I need you to—"
"I already have," interrupted the Cancer plague Consciousness, its voice no longer echoing throughout every corner of reality like when it announced the attainment of Complexity Dao, but soft and gentle, like the whisper of a mother waking her child in the morning with a kiss on the forehead still warm from an unfinished beautiful dream.
To be continued…