474: Chapter 474 Funeral Deity

Because Burial Son did not want to die.

It was not the kind of "not wanting to die" that stemmed from cowardice—but rather a more intense, more paranoid, and more unquestionable "cannot die" that originated from the deepest part of his Soul and was branded into his Bloodline.

He could not be like A-Pan, devoured by a tree representing deathly silence that grew from his own heart, becoming nutrients for the growth of an evil entity.

—This was the most vicious trampling of his rock-like will and dignity.

He could not be like Ling, drained of all traces of life and existence, turned into dust of the Void Realm, with even the proof of having once "existed" erased.

—This was the greatest irony to his pursuit of power and the meaning of existence.

He could not be like Cang Ming, torn apart and devoured by those low-level blood mist monsters that only possessed the instinct to consume, dying a worthless death like carrion chewed on by insects and ants.

—This was the ultimate insult to his Burial Land Bloodline and pride.

Even less could he be like Youying, suffering a mental breakdown and dying in madness within an inexplicable, malicious "song," losing all dignity and self.

—This was the complete destruction of his resilient mind and his heart of seeking the Dao.

He was Burial Son.

He was the final and most compatible Bloodline conceived by this "Burial Land" after countless epochs.

He was the sole successor chosen by the "Burial Dao Divine Body" after enduring long ages.

He was the one proclaimed by the clan elders, by mysterious premonitions, and by his own ambition and conviction to be the most likely to reach or even surpass that ancient legend—the Legacy of the "Lord of Burials."

How could he die here?

Die before the first gate of this so-called "Immortal Palace" trial?

Die at the hands of these monsters that crawled out from the cracks of the Burial Land, which were supposed to be "grave keepers" or "funerary objects"?

Die in... such an absurd and humble ending, consumed as a "sacrifice"?

No. Absolutely not.

A scorching torrent mixed with extreme unwillingness, monstrous rage, and a survival instinct deeply rooted in his marrow exploded in the deepest part of his consciousness, which had been frozen and nearly solidified by the forbidden technique of "Burying Self."

This explosion had no external manifestation, but it was like a red-hot blade stabbing fiercely into the sinking darkness, forcibly gathering and pulling back his last bit of drifting, nearly dissipating consciousness.

He had to "see" it through.

He had to know what happened.

He had to find... even a one-in-a-billion chance of... survival!

He exhausted this gathered, final, and total Mental Energy, struggling bit by bit to extend that extremely weak perception connected to the Burial Land, like controlling a spider silk that could break at any moment—crossing over Youying's shriveled corpse, over the rubble and evil tree that A-Pan had turned into, over the dust where Ling had dissipated, over Cang Ming's empty robes, and over those indescribable fissure monsters that were still pouring out and fighting frantically with the Sky Burial Beast...

Casting it toward the chaotic battlefield, beneath the shattered sky, toward that place which should have been empty—the Void Realm.

Then, he "saw" it.

Or rather, his perception touched "that place."

Against the backdrop of the endless Void Realm, where shattered heavenly light intertwined with surging Death Qi—a white figure stood.

He was standing there.

He did not know since when he had been there.

Perhaps at the moment the five furnace fires ignited and extinguished?

At the instant the Sky Burial Beast's giant claws first hovered?

At the first moment the cracks exploded and the eternal nightmare awakened?

Or even... earlier, at the moment the five of them stepped into this scorched earth, no, at the moment they decided to embark on the path to ascend to immortality?

There was no way to know.

He stood there.

His white clothes were like snow, unstained by a speck of dust.

Beneath his feet was the nothingness that devoured everything; behind him were the abyss cracks surging with terrifying existences; above his head was the fragmented sky that seemed ready to collapse completely at any moment.

Violent energy turbulence, malice capable of tearing apart a Divine Soul, ripples of space collapsing... everything, upon approaching within three feet of him, seemed to hit an invisible, absolutely smooth barrier, quietly sliding away or simply annihilating without a sound—unable to infect him in the slightest, not even causing the hem of his clothes to ripple in the slightest.

He just stood there quietly.

He did not emit any Qi, did not cause any energy ripples, and did not display any sense of presence.

He was so clean that he was incompatible with this filthy, crazy, and desperate dead zone—so clean that it was abrupt, so clean that it was... blinding.

It was like a silent, groundless, yet impossible-to-ignore dot placed upon a grand painting depicting an apocalyptic scene, using the purest technique of negative space.

It was like an absolutely static, solidified space-time coordinate that had been wrongly dropped into this dynamic, collapsing world.

He was the second person to ascend the Immortal Palace platform.

He was the existence who, at the foot of the mountain, crushed the pride and cognition of all Prodigies with a single step.

He was the white-clothed youth who, since the trial officially began, had been like a stone sinking into the ocean, never revealing a trace again, as if he disdained this so-called "struggle for immortality" and "Prodigies competing for the deer."

Burial Son's pupils, which were under bloodstains and decay and nearly completely frozen by the power of "Burying Self," contracted uncontrollably and violently to the size of a needle point at this moment!

A certain string that had been tightly stretched in the depths of his Soul, and had not completely snapped even when the four of them fell one after another, was fiercely plucked in this instant by the scene of extreme "abruptness" and "calmness" before him, emitting a hoarse, near-breaking, yet indescribably trembling resonance!

It was him!

It really was him!

He really was... always there!

Watching everything happen in this transcendent, almost indifferent way!

A crazy, scorching thought, mixed with the last glimmer of hope in despair and an unwillingness that went deep into his marrow, ignited like a wildfire in Burial Son's consciousness that was about to sink completely—he could not die!

At least... he could not be "buried" here so worthlessly and silently!

Even if there was only a glimmer of hope, even if he had to pay any price, even if he had to tear apart his last bit of dignity...

He had to speak!

He had to let that person know!

He had to... try that one-in-a-billion possibility!

The state of "Burying Self" was impacted by this intense thought, and a tiny, almost imperceptible fluctuation that should not have occurred appeared.

Burial Son disregarded everything—exhausting the fleeting, final bit of control over his own body brought by this fluctuation, as well as all the gathered Soul Power, he pried open his lips that seemed to be welded shut and vibrated his nearly stiff vocal cords.

The voice rushed out of his throat.

It was hoarse, broken, and so dry that it did not sound like a human voice—like two pieces of rusty, blood-stained metal scraping hard against a rough stone slab.

Every syllable carried the excruciating pain of ruptured internal organs, and sprayed out hot blood foam mixed with fragments of internal organs.

Yet this voice actually pierced through the death symphony of surrounding monster roars, space shattering, and energy roaring, carrying a desperate, Soul-burning determination, piercing through the suffocating atmosphere of despair—clearly, yet incomparably weakly, it reached that white figure in the Void Realm:

"Fellow... Daoist..."

The voice was trembling uncontrollably.

It was not because of the fear of facing death—Burial Son had long since put life and death aside.

This trembling originated from something deeper—originated from the pride that had been crushed and forcibly glued back together in the face of absolute power disparity and situational gap; originated from the extremely complex and intense tearing mixed with shame, unwillingness, pleading, and the last shred of crazy hope when reaching out to the only possible "kind" at the edge of the abyss!

"Let us... strike together..."

These five words exhausted Burial Son's last bit of strength and also seemed to drain the final support he had for maintaining the "Burying Self" state.

The moment the words fell, the layer of gray Qi disguising death around him swayed violently and almost dissipated—his own consciousness, like a kite with a broken string, fell rapidly toward the boundless dark abyss...

However.

At the very last instant when his words were spoken and his consciousness was about to sink completely—between heaven and earth, the filled, boiling, and chaotic-to-the-extreme clamor of death suddenly experienced a moment of extremely abrupt... dead silence.

It was as if an invisible hand had gently pressed the pause button.

In the cracks, those indescribable things that were frantically pouring out, roaring, and fighting with the Sky Burial Beast—the remaining half-face of the Necro-Bone Titan, the surging red mist of the Blood Infant Mist Nightmare, the singing mouth on the black dead tree branches, and more indescribable shadows that had just poked out their hideous limbs—their movements all stopped in unison.

It was not a stop—but a moment full of motion, as if frozen on a canvas by the most brilliant painter—a strange balance between extreme motion and extreme stillness.

Even the Sky Burial Beast, as huge as a mountain, covered in blood, with rotting flesh flying, and its single-horn phosphorus fire dim but still frantically biting at the cracks—its giant claws capable of shattering space also hovered in mid-air, and in its rotting eye sockets, the eerie green flames suddenly solidified and froze.

The pitch-black evil tree that grew from A-Pan's corpse and was greedily absorbing the Death Qi and resentment of this place stopped swaying its branches; the leaves (if they could be called leaves) stopped rustling, and the mouth in the center of the tree trunk also stopped that low, humming burial song that struck directly at the Soul.

All sounds—the roars of monsters, the shattering of space, the explosions of energy, the groans of the earth—disappeared at this moment.

It was not absolute quiet.

Rather, it was a state where, in the midst of all silence, the "attention" of all "existences"—or rather, all the chaotic and malicious "will" permeating this place—under some indescribable, higher-level traction, underwent a subtle, unanimous... deflection.

All "gazes"—the cold, scarlet vertical pupils of the Necro-Bone Titan, the countless "mouths" of the Blood Infant Mist Nightmare opening and closing with circular sharp teeth, the "gaze" of the blurred face on the trunk of the black dead tree, the solidified phosphorus fire in the eye sockets of the Sky Burial Beast, and various other indescribable, terrifying "light spots" lit up in the shadows of the cracks—were all attracted as if by an invisible magnet, slowly and in unison, cast toward the same direction.

Cast toward the Void Realm, toward that figure who, from beginning to end—white clothes fluttering, standing quietly like an eternal cold abyss, unstained by a speck of dust...

He was still there.

Quietly, standing.