Chapter 122
Not enduring like a warrior who still possessed the strength to fight back, not enduring like a hero who still held hope of victory, but enduring like a single leaf clinging to the farthest branch in the middle of a storm, enduring like a drop of water struggling not to evaporate beneath the blazing sun, enduring like something that knew it would fall, that it would shatter, that it would vanish, yet still endured because the time had not yet come, because there were still things that had to be done, because there were still people who needed protection.
"Huan Zheng…" Ling Xu whispered, his voice barely audible, almost swallowed by the roaring of the ten arcs that continued crashing into him from every direction.
"The Singer… I… I don't know how much longer I can…"
But within his constricted chest, between the layers of Cancer plague flesh that were beginning to crumble one after another like walls never strong enough to withstand an enemy's assault, between the foundation of his cultivation that was beginning to decline from Complexity Dao toward the Head Humanity, toward the Abdomen of Humanity, toward the Leg of Humanity, the voice of the Cancer plague Consciousness spoke once again.
Not in panic, not in despair, but with a strange calmness that was somehow soothing, like a grandmother sitting in a rocking chair on the porch of her home during a bright afternoon, explaining a lesson to her beloved grandchild resting on her lap with sleepy eyes half-closed yet still listening because they knew that what they heard would someday prove useful.
"Use telepathy, Ling Xu," whispered the Cancer plague Consciousness.
"Speak to the two of them. They need to know. They need to prepare."
And Ling Xu—whose cultivation realm had now truly fallen to the Legs of Humanity, whose three colors had completely faded into pale gray like the sky before rain, whose body felt as though it no longer possessed bones because every bone had been rewritten into soft and powerless flesh—gathered the remnants of his still-intact consciousness, the remnants of his memories not yet scrambled by The Silent One, the remnants of himself that could still be called "Ling Xu."
And through telepathy—not ordinary telepathy that could be detected by an enemy, but telepathy that could only be heard by those connected by blood to the Cancer plague, heard only by Huan Zheng and The Singer because fragments of Cancer plague flesh resided within their bodies—he whispered. His voice was no longer clear and pure, no longer cold and firm, no longer bitter and harsh, but gentle, incredibly gentle, like a lover whispering farewell into their partner's ear in the middle of a silent night, like a mother stroking the hair of her sleeping child and whispering that she would always remain, even if she would never return.
"Huan Zheng… The Singer… listen to me. I succeeded in breaking through into the realm of Complexity Dao. An extra realm within the Humanity Realm. A realm you do not know, a realm you have never heard of, a realm known only to The Silent One and the soul of the God of the Vast Cosmos. But my power… is insignificant. And now, because of The Silent One's attacks continuously rewriting my history, scrambling my memories, destroying the foundation of my cultivation… I will soon return to the Leg of Humanity. I will return to the beginning. I will lose everything I built through eleven deaths and eleven resurrections."
Huan Zheng, who from afar still knelt upon the drying pool of blood, whose eyes were still wet with tears yet now beginning to shine with something people who still believed love not only made someone weak but also made someone strong might call resolve, replied through telepathy with a voice equally gentle, equally bitter, equally overflowing with something too vast to be expressed through words because words were too small to contain feelings that immense.
"What should we do, Ling Xu?"
Ling Xu drew a breath—a breath that felt like inhaling shards of glass, like swallowing thorns, like doing something no living creature should ever do because it hurt too much—and answered. Through telepathy, his voice sounded clearer now, more focused, more undeniable even while his physical body was slowly being destroyed by the ten major arcs endlessly scrambling his history.
"There is one way. The only way. I can raise both of your cultivation realms to Complexity Dao. Here, in this place, within this still-empty script, within a space where time does not move as it normally does because this story is only about to be written for the first time. To carry out the trial of Destruction of the Dao Meanings, sixty minutes are required. Sixty minutes during which you will meditate, destroying the boundless flows of Dao one by one, minute by minute, without caring whether you can complete the first test, the second, and so on within the allotted time for each trial. Sixty minutes that will continue to pass no matter where you are—even here, even inside this still-empty script, even inside a space where time has forgotten how to move. During those sixty minutes, I will hold off The Silent One's attacks. I will protect you. I will ensure that not a single Ink Arrow, not a single paragraph, not a single chapter, not a single arc reaches you. Because if you succeed, if you attain Complexity Dao, then you will be able to help me. You will be able to defeat The Silent One. You will be able to end all of this."
And The Singer—who since awakening from unconsciousness had remained silent, merely standing rigidly with a deathly pale face, whose body was still weak because the physical nature of the God of the Vast Cosmos constantly tried to take control yet always ended up restrained—heard Ling Xu's words through telepathy, and for the first time in a very long time, she felt something warm within her chest.
Not the warmth of the Cancer plague, dark and cold, but the warmth of belief, the warmth of certainty, the warmth of realizing that she was not alone, that beside her stood Ling Xu who was willing to die again and again to protect the people he loved, and Huan Zheng who, despite his laziness, despite never being serious when explaining anything, possessed a heart greater than any universe.
"Alright," whispered The Singer, her voice no longer hoarse and rough like when she cursed at Silence moments earlier, but calm, measured, like a musician tuning their instrument before the greatest performance of their life.
"I'll do it, Ling Xu."
And there, amidst the vortex of the ten major arcs still endlessly crashing into Ling Xu from every direction—amidst Ling Xu's body beginning to crack apart like porcelain falling from a table before it had even touched the floor, amidst his cultivation realm now truly standing at the Legs of Humanity, at the very bottom of a staircase that never truly ended—Huan Zheng and the Singer sat down.
Not sitting like exhausted people seeking rest, not sitting like people who had surrendered and no longer wished to struggle, but sitting in meditation posture, legs crossed, backs straight, eyes closed, with consciousness slowly separating from their physical bodies and entering the boundless flow of Dao, which had never begun and would never end, which was never calm and never chaotic, which simply existed without cause, without purpose, without meaning, except for the meaning granted by those brave enough to destroy it.
To be continued….