Chapter Index

    Shi Wuluo retracted his hand.

    He cared even less about the beacon fires below than Chou Bodeng did. In fact, he didn’t care at all what became of the mortal realm.

    From the highest clouds, the map of the West Continent lay spread out below. In the northwest corner, line after line of white waves relentlessly approached the mountains and rivers. Each wave was a great tide, dozens, even hundreds of meters high. These tides surged past, easily swallowing the cities on both banks.

    But it didn’t matter.

    Let it rot completely, burn completely, it was all fine.

    Shi Wuluo couldn’t care less.

    As long as Chou Bodeng didn’t care.

    “Why are your clothes on fire?”

    Chou Bodeng withdrew his gaze and turned to look at Shi Wuluo. He suddenly reached out and tugged at his sleeve, his fair fingers slowly tracing across the fabric. Specks of silver-gray light floated up, like embers flying from the edge of burning paper. As his fingertips passed, dark patterns of mountains and rivers emerged on the blood-red robe.

    “…It’s also a dragon.”

    The patterns on the robe shimmered.

    Like the wind surging through mountains and rivers.

    “Mm.”

    Shi Wuluo grunted in acknowledgment, looking down at his sleeve, unsurprised.

    The body Chou Bodeng had once painstakingly crafted for him had disintegrated twelve years ago. His current form was merely an illusion. He was the mountains, the rivers, the phoenixes, the snow—he was everything in the Twelve Continents. The heavens and earth were his body, the seas and rivers his robes, and the cities his embroidery.

    But Shi Wuluo didn’t like these clothes.

    He usually let his blood qi and demonic aura cover them up.

    The cruelty in Chou Bodeng’s black eyes vanished completely. He lowered his head, tracing the bright red and dark patterns on Shi Wuluo’s robe. A lock of white hair fell across his face, swaying gently in the wind from the clouds. With his head down, his skin, framed by the red robe, was as white as porcelain. He suddenly looked very young, like an innocent, unworldly youth who knew nothing of the world’s dust.

    His fingertips traced the dragon’s tail, then he examined it a few more times.

    Seeing that the dark fire burned without any effect, Chou Bodeng seemed to realize something wonderful and clapped his hands. “Excellent!”

    He was overjoyed, saying only “Excellent!” but not explaining why.

    In that instant, it was as if he had cast all the teeming masses below the sea of clouds to the back of his mind.

    Shi Wuluo took his wrist, folding his fingers into his own palm, confirming that the beacon fires of the West Continent had truly not affected him.

    These past few days, Chou Bodeng’s thoughts and emotions had become a completely uncontrollable vortex.

    One moment he was ecstatic, the next withdrawn. Sometimes, like just now, he could watch with cold, cruel detachment as millions struggled and died. Other times, he would suddenly become as innocent as a child, gazing at a snowflake and weeping silently, simply because he had glimpsed an unparalleled beauty in the crystalline branches of the six-petaled ice.

    And in that moment, as Shi Wuluo gazed at his tear-laden eyelashes.

    He too saw an unparalleled beauty.

    Back then, when Chou Bodeng walked into the Great Wilderness to bring him back, he had completely opened his divine sense to him. Through the chains of their connected souls, Shi Wuluo heard what he heard and saw what he saw.

    The world, in Chou Bodeng’s eyes, was distorted, fantastical, a blend of truth and illusion.

    It was a bizarre spectacle.

    Sometimes, words and images would suddenly lose all meaning in Chou Bodeng’s eyes, becoming nothing but twisted lines and sprawling colors. He perceived the essence of this world with an abstract sense that no god, demon, or human could reach. The mountains and rivers, the winter snow, the flying flowers and old trees all vanished, leaving only intersecting lines of longitude and latitude, the orbiting paths of the sun and moon as they rose and fell.

    And…

    A clock.

    A celestial clock with the curved dome of the sky as its face, the revolving stars as its markers, the ten suns and twelve moons as its hands, and the winds of the four seasons as its gears, with the heavens above and the earth below reflecting each other.

    The first time he saw that celestial clock with its countless revolving stars and intersecting lines, Shi Wuluo felt an endless wind pour into his chest, blowing against his ribs, striking his heart… He remembered. All the hazy, indistinct memories of his twelve years of demonic fall into the wilderness.

    For Shi Wuluo himself, the memory of his fall into the wilderness had always been hazy and vague, like a nightmare he couldn’t recall.

    Even after waking up, when he tried to remember, he couldn’t recall much beyond the endless vicious ghosts and filth. Chou Bodeng didn’t want him to remember those things. After bringing him back from the Great Wilderness, except for the times he had to sleep to absorb the demonic qi at Hundred Bows Manor, Chou Bodeng constantly ordered him around, as if finding fault, never giving him a moment’s rest. Shi Wuluo went along with his wishes and hadn’t thought about those days since waking up.

    But occasionally.

    When Chou Bodeng rested his head on his lap for a quiet nap, Shi Wuluo would be lost in a daze, remembering that twelve-year-long nightmare.

    The nightmare was filled with ferocious shouts and shrill howls.

    Only a faint, familiar voice came from a great distance, ethereal and indistinct, impossible to hear clearly.

    It wasn’t until he saw the magnificent celestial clock through the chains of their connected souls, a clock that Chou Bodeng still remembered steadfastly even after going mad, that those faint, ethereal voices finally became clear.

    …A Luo, let me give you a celestial clock.

    …A clock hanging high in the sky. The sun and moon shine upon the thick earth to nourish the cities, and the cities’ qi forms stars to guide the sun and moon. The stars revolve to match the cycle of the four seasons. Sun, moon, stars, heaven, and earth—all mutually generating and guiding one another.

    …I’ll give you this clock.

    …A Luo, I miss you.

    All those indistinct voices finally became clear, sometimes feigning cheerfulness, sometimes unable to hide their dejection. They were all from his Divine Lord’s journey through the mortal realm. His Divine Lord, even after going mad, still remembered his promise to give him a celestial clock.

    An unprecedented clock of stars, suspended in the high heavens.

    Phrase by phrase, the voice was like a long wind.

    It surged into his chest, passed through his ribs, and wrapped around his heart.

    …A Luo, do you know that you owe me a lot?

    Yes, a great, great deal.

    So much that it would take all of his future time to repay.

    “Excellent,” Chou Bodeng was still looking at the dark fire patterns on Shi Wuluo’s sleeve, pressing the back of his hand against it.

    Shi Wuluo tucked the white hair that had fallen to his cheek back behind his ear. “What’s excellent?”

    These days, Shi Wuluo had taught himself how to patiently guide a person with an unstable mind and extreme emotions. His Divine Lord, once the Divine Lord of the Clouds, later the Little Martial Ancestor of Taiyi, was born with knowledge and seemed omnipotent. But in reality, the Divine Lord was not omnipotent.

    He just always tried his best to do everything perfectly.

    Over time, everyone got used to it and became convinced that he was omnipotent and indestructible.

    But that was because they didn’t love him.

    Only those who didn’t love him would think he was omnipotent and indestructible.

    Those who truly loved him, however, would see his sincere fragility, his countless scars, that he could shatter at a touch.

    “What’s excellent?” Shi Wuluo’s silver-gray eyes softened. He curved his lips into a smile for Chou Bodeng, half-asking, half-coaxing, “Can you tell me?”

    Chou Bodeng looked up at him, suddenly leaned in, and touched their foreheads together. “Because you’ve fallen to a demon…”

    You are the Heavenly Dao of the mortal realm, but it’s wonderful that you fell to a demon long ago.

    All the bitter fruits of this mortal realm, all its sins and slaughters, will only become the edge of your blade. No matter how many cities are devastated, how many living beings die, you won’t feel their pain.

    “How wonderful.”

    You fell to a demon, and I went mad.

    Neither of us will ever feel pain again.

    How wonderful.

    “I’ve never seen what this robe of yours truly looks like.” In a flash, his thoughts vanished, and Chou Bodeng’s attention was once again drawn to Shi Wuluo’s clothes. He affectionately pressed his forehead against Shi Wuluo’s, looking at him from under his long, dense eyelashes. “Let me see.”

    “Alright.”

    Shi Wuluo kissed his forehead, stood up, and took a step back.

    A stream of silver light poured down from his shoulders. The demonic obstacle and blood qi receded with it, revealing the Heavenly Dao’s true robes. On the black garment flowed wind and clouds, surged mountains and rivers. The sun and moon rose and set on his sleeves, sparse stars draped over his shoulders, and the lights of the common folk adorned his hem.

    “Do you like it?”

    Chou Bodeng knelt among the clouds, watched quietly for a while, then looked up and asked Shi Wuluo.

    Shi Wuluo looked into his eyes. “I don’t.”

    —Even if it symbolized so much, even if it was something so many fought over.

    “I want to change it.”

    Chou Bodeng met his gaze.

    Through the chains of their connected souls, Shi Wuluo saw the mountains, rivers, and cities on his robes sometimes appear normal, and sometimes twist into tangled, strangling lines. The starlight and moonlight would sometimes be brilliant, and sometimes bleed red. After a moment of stunned silence, Shi Wuluo realized what the overlapping illusion in Chou Bodeng’s eyes was.

    —It was him, twelve years ago, ascending the ninety thousand heavenly steps.

    The wind blew through his sleeves, and blood from years past dripped down.

    For the first time, Shi Wuluo understood so clearly what Chou Bodeng was concerned about.

    …The first revival, which triggered three thousand years of darkness. The second revival, ascending ninety thousand heavenly steps, blood winding through the clouds.

    …So, that’s how it is?

    For so many years, he wasn’t the only one filled with regret and self-blame.

    Shi Wuluo gently closed his eyes. After going mad, without the jokes used for disguise, his lover suddenly became so simple and easy to understand… For so many years, he had felt that he had trapped his Divine Lord, that he had left him covered in scars. But in fact, his Divine Lord felt just as much self-blame as he did.

    Just like him, he blamed himself.

    Warmth and a sour feeling surged in his chest, a mixture of a hundred flavors.

    Shi Wuluo suddenly remembered the storybooks he had read.

    Twelve years ago, after being mocked by Chou Bodeng for not knowing how to write love poems or understand romance, Shi Wuluo had bought all the storybooks from that storyteller. As a carriage traveled through the mountains and rivers of Yong Continent, Chou Bodeng slept fitfully on Shi Wuluo’s lap. And Shi Wuluo flipped through the storybooks, reading about all the twists of fate and misunderstandings written in ink.

    One of the storybooks advised at the end: Love in this world is often like an undercurrent; though it may only ripple gently, it has its own pity and charm. But if one is unwilling to open one’s heart and frankly speak of worries and doubts, even if love is mutual, it will inevitably lead to complications and added sorrow.

    Words he didn’t understand back then, he suddenly understood today.

    Shi Wuluo raised a hand to his forehead, unsure for a moment whether he was happy or sad.

    How true.

    Since they loved each other, they should have been direct about what they were thinking, what they were afraid of, what they were worried about… But their meetings were always too fleeting, and their partings always too long. Where was the time and courage to speak clearly? It wasn’t until the one whose thoughts were hardest to guess went mad that the other finally understood his heart.

    Composing himself, Shi Wuluo lowered his hand and walked toward Chou Bodeng, who was still sitting where he was.

    He knelt down, looked into Chou Bodeng’s eyes, and said softly, “I don’t like this robe either.”

    The white-haired youth’s eyes reflected his image.

    Shi Wuluo reached out, his long fingers gently touching Chou Bodeng’s cheek, his movements gentle and careful, as if he were holding a snowflake. “I don’t want to be the mortal realm’s Heavenly Dao.”

    He paused slightly.

    Shi Wuluo slowly, deliberately asked:

    “When this is all over, I won’t be the Heavenly Dao, and you won’t be the mortal realm’s Divine Lord anymore, alright?”

    ***

    “The Divine Lord has vanished, the Heavenly Dao has fallen to a demon, and their whereabouts are unknown. Demonic beasts are rampaging in thirty-six cities of the West Continent, the West Sea Demons are heading south, the Thirty-Six Islands are mobilizing, and the Beast Taming Sect and the Twelve Scholarly Villas have jointly issued a denunciation edict, causing a great stir.”

    A plump white hand crumpled the letter into a ball and threw it, hitting the messenger squarely on the forehead. The man flinched, not daring to breathe. The next moment, an ornate lacquered desk was kicked over, and a fat man, round in every direction and utterly devoid of any “upper-class demeanor,” leaped up in the exquisitely decorated room.

    This particular fatty was exceptionally fat.

    Most people’s fatness was like risen dough, with a few extra chins and a wide frame at most. His fatness, however, was equal in width and length, front and back. He was truly a rolling mountain of flesh, so perfectly formed that one felt a gentle kick to his rear or a light poke to his belly would send him rolling away.

    Across the Twelve Continents, you couldn’t find a second person this fat even if you searched with a lantern.

    Right now, this fatty was wearing a black and gold flood-dragon-patterned robe, black cloud and gold embroidered boots, and a wide golden belt. With one hand on his hip and one foot on the overturned stool, he let out a stream of curses, his voice resonant and powerful, like a great bell. If he started cursing at one end of a ship, you could hear thunder at the other, and his vocabulary was innovative and endless.

    He was the very image of a street ruffian among street ruffians, a bandit among bandits.

    And the person he was cursing was a man of immortal bearing and extraordinary grace.

    He was none other than the Chief Steward of the Mountain Sea Pavilion’s West Continent branch.

    In the past twelve years, after Pavilion Master Zuo Liangshi’s martyrdom, the Mountain Sea Pavilion had expanded with astonishing momentum. Instead of declining and shrinking, it had spread its branches and tendrils across the Twelve Continents with the force of a great river. It was said that even in the most barbaric and remote Southern Borderlands, they had built the Mountain Sea Pavilion’s iconic gilded, hipped-and-gabled grand halls. As a result, the Chief Stewards of the Mountain Sea Pavilion in each continent could be considered major figures.

    But at this moment, the Chief Steward of the West Continent’s Mountain Sea Pavilion was being sprayed with a face full of spittle by a fat man, yet he didn’t dare make a sound.

    He was as respectful as could be.

    Over the years, the Mountain Sea Pavilion’s branches had spread everywhere. Besides expanding their business on the surface, the most important thing was that they had formed an incredibly well-informed network.

    Right now, the storm in the West Continent was raging.

    In this harsh winter, twelve years after the Night of Dusk and Dawn’s Division, it was the coldest time of the year in the capital city of the West Continent. The city was piled high with white snow, the days short and the nights long. It was supposed to be a time for friends and family to gather, to cook wine and brew tea, to sleep soundly. But this year, the city bells had shattered the peaceful dreams, and the winds of war had torn apart the quiet winter.

    Because a wave of demonic beast rampages had swept across the West Continent.

    In just a few short days, thirty-six cities had suffered bloody disasters. Among them, the dozen or so coastal cities in the northwest were piled high with white bones, a truly unbearable sight.

    This was why Zuo Yuesheng was so furious after seeing the report he presented.

    News of a demonic beast rampage should have been reported at the first sign, but they only received the information after the rampage had occurred and the tragedy of thirty-six cities was a foregone conclusion. Such slowness! What was the point of Zuo Yuesheng keeping these people around!

    The West Continent’s Chief Steward knew he had failed in his duty.

    But he was also filled with unspoken grievances.

    This demonic beast rampage had come without any warning. They had also heard that Elder Gu Qingshui had been sent by the Beast Taming Sect to the Ancient Sea, and they had expected that with Elder Gu Qingshui’s strength as the number one Sword Saint in the West Continent, he should have been able to quell the incident, or at least temporarily suppress it.

    They never expected Elder Gu Qingshui to die in the Ancient Sea.

    This year’s harsh wind was more terrifying than ever before, yet the whale pods did not break through the Hundred Rivers. The profound ice of the Ancient Sea, driven by the harsh wind and ocean currents, surged into the numerous fjords of the western West Continent. Wherever it passed, all the floating sea cities were reduced to dust. The most tragic among them was a sea city called “Yun-Whale City.”

    Yun City was located in the Changlan Fjord, at the very top of the entire fjord, and was the first city to fall victim to the whale pods.

    The Hundred Rivers flowed south, and the sea tide destroyed the city, but a quarter of the people were lucky enough to escape to the top of the steep cliff the city relied on. However, when the West Sea Demons and whale pods subsequently arrived at Changlan Fjord, they stirred up monstrous waves and cruelly engulfed all the remaining city dwellers.

    According to the firsthand account of a disciple who escaped back to the Beast Taming Sect, the surface of the sea was covered layer upon layer with floating corpses, all frozen a deathly purple by the icy tide.

    Old people held children, and women tightly grasped their husbands.

    Bodies were piled upon bodies.

    It was a heart-wrenching sight.

    When the news of the tragedy in the thirty-six cities reached the Mountain Sea branch, the person responsible for compiling the information was also horrified. Knowing the gravity of the situation, the others dared not face the Pavilion Master who had rushed to the West Continent. In the end, the Chief Steward had to brace himself and report in person.

    “…The Twelve Scholarly Villas jointly issued a denunciation edict, and you bastards just stood by and watched them do it?” The cursing Fatty Zuo grew angrier as he spoke. “Damn it, do you really think we opened all these literature workshops and book pavilions just to print storybooks for that Lu Shiyi who can’t squeeze out three words a year?”

    He got so worked up that he choked on his own saliva and started coughing violently.

    The Chief Steward hurriedly went forward to pour him a cup of cool tea. “Pavilion Master, please slow down.”

    “…Bah!” The fatty took the tea, gulped it down in one go, and rolled his eyes. “My time is too precious to be wasted on cursing.”

    “I misspoke,” the Chief Steward quickly slapped himself. “The Pavilion Master’s words are golden advice, how could it be cursing.”

    “Alright,” the fatty tossed the teacup aside. “Hurry up and find a group of people. Write me a hundred and eighty articles overnight and suppress that… what… Twelve Scholarly Villas.”

    “Yes.” The Chief Steward quickly agreed, then paused and cautiously added, “Pavilion Master, those twelve villas not only include the most influential ones in the West Continent, like Cold Plum Mountain Manor, White Deer Scholarly Villa, and Moonlight Study, but also the nine major scholarly villas from other continents. Eight or nine out of every ten books scholars read come from these twelve villas. Now that they’ve joined forces to denounce the demonic beasts, I’m afraid it will be difficult to find anyone who can counter them for a while…”

    There were some things the Chief Steward dared not say directly.

    The tragedy of the thirty-six cities was different from the past disasters of rampant miasma that wiped out entire cities.

    Firstly, this time, the perpetrators were the Demon Race. Many people had witnessed with their own eyes the savage and violent demonic beasts tearing their loved ones apart, so their hatred ran as deep as the sea. Secondly, if it were a desolate calamity outbreak, the people of a city would mostly be swallowed by the miasma fog, leaving few survivors. This time, however, although the demonic beasts devoured people and caused immense devastation, quite a few people managed to escape.

    These escapees spread the news, panic, anger, and hatred all at once.

    The blood feud between humans and demons had a long history.

    Just as the scholars from those villas were fond of saying, “Not of my race, their hearts must be different,” most people held a degree of hostility towards demonic beasts. Especially after the Night of Dusk and Dawn’s Division, when the Demon Race from the Thirty-Six Islands entered Qing Province, the matter had already put people from other continents on edge, and there had been no shortage of minor frictions over the past twelve years.

    Now, the bloody disaster of the thirty-six cities had instantly snapped the string that was already stretched to its limit.

    With various reasons mixed together, the situation escalated rapidly.

    The joint denunciation edict from the Twelve Scholarly Villas was so powerful partly because someone was definitely pulling strings from behind, having bribed or even taken control of some of the villas in advance. But on the other hand, it was also because the tragedy was too shocking, too sensitive and sharp, and the upcoming Immortal-Demon Alliance Meeting had already drawn a lot of attention long ago.

    The entire West Continent was a vortex filled with firecrackers.

    And now, someone had lit the fuse.

    Frankly, the Chief Steward believed that it was impossible to turn the tide of public opinion with just a hundred or eighty articles.

    Zuo Yuesheng paced and cursed. After a few curses, he held out his hand. “Give me that bullshit they wrote, let me see it again.”

    “Yes.” The Chief Steward hurriedly presented a stack of papers that he had prepared earlier but had not dared to bring out.

    Zuo Yuesheng, his face, which was usually quite cheerful, now gloomy, began to read as if he were eating flies.

    And after handing over the stack of papers, the Chief Steward immediately bowed his head and retreated to the side.

    —He knew that under these circumstances, the brunt of the accusations was instantly directed at the Divine Lord, who had recently taken a hard-line stance, demanding that the Beast Taming Sect dissolve their blood contracts. The various statements in the articles, though not daring to be direct, were full of insinuations and veiled accusations.

    As expected, in less than three breaths, Zuo Yuesheng leaped to his feet, cursing loudly.

    The last intact, priceless table instantly met its end.

    “What is this shit!!!”

    Zuo Yuesheng sneered, “They can’t even keep their own affairs in order, yet they’re full of righteousness and morality, with bellies full of debauchery. How dare they spew this passionate bullshit at a time like this?”

    He “spoke eloquently” in the most exquisite private room of the flying boat.

    “Without Young Master Chou setting the Four Poles back then, where would they get the ink, paper, and time to spew this crap? Ungrateful wretches. At least a dog knows to bark ‘mom’ when you give it a bowl. They, on the other hand, cling tightly to their bowls while cursing their mother.” Zuo Yuesheng grew angrier as he spoke, grinding his teeth in frustration. “Sooner or later, I’ll tear up their bullshit righteousness and use it as toilet paper, and burn down their damn academies for firewood!”

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