489: Chapter 489 Bronze Fragments

Chu Changsheng's gaze was locked tightly onto the lines of text on the System interface—

[Primordial Divine Martial · Bronze Shard].

His breathing stalled in that instant.

Three feet in front of him, that palm-sized bronze shard was floating silently, rotating slowly.

On its rusted surface, a faint, eerie green glow flowed like blood vessels—not blinding, yet as heavy as tears seeping from the end of time, strand by strand, pressing down until time itself bent.

Beneath the layer of rust, something seemed to be waking up, opening its eyes, inch by inch.

This aura—ancient, profound, so terrifying that even the World Tree Manifestation was trembling, and the roots that anchored the world were silently retreating.

Chu Changsheng looked sharply at what was before him, then stared intently at the System interface.

The position matched.

The aura matched.

That pressure that caused even the Soul to curl up—it also matched.

Is this... a fragment of a Supreme Dao Ancestral Weapon?

He felt completely hollow for a moment.

It wasn't shock, but a bewilderment far deeper than shock—like a legend he had chased his whole life suddenly landing lightly before his eyes, yet so heavy it made him unable to breathe.

"System—"

He called out in his heart, his voice carrying a hoarseness he hadn't even noticed.

"System, does this Acquired Physique... really count? Are you serious?"

He bit out the last three words heavily, as if questioning, or perhaps begging for confirmation.

The System was silent for a moment.

This silence was as long as the deliberation before a judgment.

Then, it responded, with only two words, though it rarely showed a hint of hesitation:

"I suppose so."

After a pause, the System spoke again, its speed very slow, word by word, as if weighing their importance:

"Host, it is mainly because this Physique of his... is somewhat terrifying; it can already be called the aptitude of a Great Emperor."

"It has never appeared between heaven and earth; it is unprecedented and unique throughout the ages. Such an existence, even if formed through Acquired Fusion, has a potential that does not lose to any Innate Forbidden Physique. In fact—"

The System paused for a breath.

"In a certain sense, the 'unique' formed by Acquired Heaven-Defying seizure is... more terrifying than the 'unique' destined by Innate nature.

Because it proves that this path can be replicated and surpassed. Once this door is pushed open... it can never be closed again."

"Fine!" Chu Changsheng took a deep breath, his chest heaving violently.

He suppressed the palpitations coming from the depths of his Soul—that palpitation was like a heavy drum beating, making his fingertips numb.

"System, didn't you say before... that there are no complete Supreme Dao Ancestral Weapons in this epoch?"

"There are no complete ones left," the System's voice remained calm, yet like an undercurrent surging beneath a deep pool, "but the fragments are still there."

Fragments.

The two words fell like stones into an abyss, rippling silently in Chu Changsheng's heart.

"Host can collect the fragments. If enough are gathered, perhaps one could recast a complete Supreme Dao Ancestral Weapon. However—"

The System's tone suddenly turned heavy, each word sounding as if it were being salvaged from the depths of the netherworld, wrapped in bone-chilling cold:

"This requires a long period of time, perhaps... spanning several epochs."

"The fragments are scattered across the world, perhaps sealed in desperate abysses, guarded by ancient taboos; or held by great powers, those old monsters who have lived for hundreds of thousands of years, treating them as their lives; or they have turned into mountains and rivers, coexisting with heaven and earth, becoming impossible to distinguish.

To gather them all is harder than defying heaven."

Chu Changsheng knitted his brows, a deep frown carving into his forehead.

"Then isn't that saying nothing at all?"

"Host can use this fragment as a foundation to re-refine a Natal Divine Weapon that belongs to you." The System's speed returned to normal, calm and pragmatic:

"With your current Realm and Luck, you are capable of starting."

"A Natal Divine Weapon is different from a Supreme Dao Ancestral Weapon—it does not rely on external objects, but takes your own Dao and Law as its Soul.

Using your Dao as the bone, your Law as the blade, and your Luck as the sheath.

As long as you exist, it exists; as you become stronger, it becomes stronger. If refined properly, its potential... is not necessarily weaker than a Supreme Dao Ancestral Weapon, and may even surpass it."

"Because—"

The System's voice was like gold and stone, ringing out clearly:

"What suits you best is always the strongest."

Chu Changsheng lowered his eyes, looking at the faint lines on his palm left from the beginning of his Cultivation, deep in thought.

Re-refine a Natal Divine Weapon.

This option sounded more attainable and more in line with his current path.

Collecting fragments? Too many variables, too much time.

He could wait, but this world... might not be willing to wait.

The forces lurking in the darkness, the taboos stirring, the ancient malice lying dormant in the depths of time—they would not wait.

Just then—above the rift, a violent tremor arrived.

Not an earthquake, not a mountain shaking, but a trembling of space, a wailing of the Law; it was this world being forced to acknowledge the arrival of some new existence.

Chu Changsheng suddenly looked up.

The body of the Burial Son had completely stabilized.

Those cracks were no longer hideous—they had turned into ancient patterns, spreading from his chest to his limbs, climbing up to his head, and finally covering his whole body.

Every pattern flowed with a ghostly light, like the palm lines of the earth engraving primitive secrets, like scars of the Heavenly Dao showing the traces of broken and rejoined rules.

The semi-transparency of the Void Divine Body and the grey-white halo of the Burial Dao Divine Body had now completely merged.

They were no longer fighting, no longer repelling, no longer two Origins struggling for life and death within the body—but a perfect Fusion.

The two Origins formed a cycle, mutually generating and nourishing, like Yin and Yang fish chasing each other's tails, endless and ceaseless.

The Void Realm opened a boundless domain for the Burial Dao, and the Burial Dao granted the Void Realm a heaven-swallowing will.

They were not supposed to coexist, yet at this moment, in this person, they achieved a reconciliation that even the Heavenly Dao had to remain silent about.

A brand new, never-before-seen Physique—was born here.

Grey-white, semi-transparent.

Like solidified moonlight stained by the Burial Land, like a ghostly light quenched from the bone fragments of an ancient beast.

Beautiful enough to make the heart palpitate, cold enough to pierce the Soul.

The influx of the Burial Land had also stopped.

The essence of the entire scorched earth had been poured into the Burial Son's body.

Those powers of the Burial Land that had slept in the depths of the earth for who knows how many epochs, those ancient wills that even time could not erase—at this moment, all belonged to one person.

His body was no longer like a bottomless abyss, and his aura began to converge.

This climbing momentum—from the Early Stage of Soul Transformation to the Middle Stage, to the Late Stage, to the Great Perfection—reached its peak here.

And then, it slowly receded.

Like the tide reaching its limit and beginning to retreat; like climbing to the top of a mountain, eventually needing to settle.

Finally, it settled at one Realm—the Great Perfection of the Deity Transformation Realm.

But everyone understood: this was just an illusion to appease the order of heaven and earth.

His true strength, this terrifying pressure originating from the Physique itself, had long since transcended the constraints of the Realm.

The Great Perfection of Deity Transformation was just a vessel, and what was carried within... was an ocean capable of drowning the world.

The Burial Son opened his eyes.

These eyes—no longer the unfocused dead silence from before, but like pearls wiped clean of a thousand years of dust, their brilliance contained, yet Soul-stirring.

Deep within the pupils, two voids seemed to be rotating slowly.

On one side was the endless Void Realm, dark, silent, boundless; on the other was the devouring Burial Dao, cold, resolute, leaving no blade of grass.

Two diametrically opposed forces converged in his eyes, eerily harmoniously coexisting, like light and darkness reaching a fragile balance at the dawn.

He lowered his head and looked at his own hands.

These hands—a ghostly light flowed faintly beneath the grey-white skin, as if what was surging in his blood vessels was no longer blood, but molten stars.

He flipped his palms, his fingertips brushing through the air, leaving behind fine cracks in space.

The cracks vanished in an instant, but were instantly swallowed by the power of the Burial Dao, leaving no room for healing.

He looked at his body again.

Beneath the semi-transparent torso, the outlines of internal organs were visible—yet it was no longer a flesh-and-blood body.

This was an existence condensed from the pure power of the Void Realm and the Burial Dao, like a meticulously carved jade statue, every inch exuding suffocating Perfection.

The mark of the Fusion of the Void Realm and the Burial Dao wandered beneath his skin, like a living tattoo, like a breathing totem.

"This...?"

The Burial Son's voice was very light, like talking to himself, and like asking a riddle he couldn't answer himself.

But every word clearly shook the surrounding space, and wherever the sound waves reached, the Void Realm rippled finely, as if making way for this voice.

He raised his head and looked at the Lord of Burials.

That huge rotting claw was still suspended in mid-air, but it was paler than before.

Large pieces of rotting flesh were peeling off, and the exposed bones were covered with fine cracks, like a dried-up riverbed, like broken porcelain about to collapse, as if it would turn to ash with the wind in the next moment.

The Lord of Burials' body was also trembling slightly.

This was the price of burning life—not fatigue, but the disintegration of the very root of existence.

It was not burning spiritual power, not blood essence, it was burning existence itself.

Every second that passed, it was being erased from this world a little bit, from memory, from Karma, from every corner of heaven and earth.

Yet its gaze remained calm.

There was no emotion in that ghostly green human eye, only a stillness so ancient it was almost indifferent.

That was not heartlessness, but after living for too long and seeing too much, everything could be accepted, and everything became inevitable.

"Ancestor..."

The Burial Son called out softly.

There was complexity in his voice—gratitude for this gift that he would have to carry for a lifetime; guilt that he had made the ancestor burn his life to this point; and a weight that could not be described, like a soldering iron pressed into his chest, burning his Soul until it trembled, yet it could not be pulled out, nor could he pull it out.

This was responsibility.

The Lord of Burials did not answer.

It just looked quietly at its descendant.

The rotting giant claw slowly retracted, the claw tip brushing across the air, leaving behind black trajectories, like scars where space had been scorched.

In the ghostly green human eye, a trace of almost imperceptible fluctuation finally appeared.

As if deep within an ancient glacier, something... melted for a moment.

"You have fused the Void Divine Body and devoured the essence of the Burial Land."

The Lord of Burials finally spoke, its voice still hoarse like grinding sand, like the wailing of wind through a cave of dry bones.

Every word carried the scent of decay, yet was as heavy as truth dug from the depths of the earth.

"This is the ten-thousand-year wish of the Burial Clan, and also the... final Opportunity I exchanged by burning my life."

It paused, its ghostly green eyes narrowing slightly, as if examining, as if confirming.

"Use it well."

Four words.

No extra emotion, no extra exhortations, not even a word of "do not fail my expectations."

But because of this simplicity, the weight of the four words was comparable to mountains and seas.

The Burial Son was silent.

In that silence, the wind above the rift stopped, the space trembling ceased, and the Spiritual Qi drifting between heaven and earth seemed to freeze.

Only the continuous sound of decay on the Lord of Burials—flesh falling off, bones cracking, existence dissolving.

Silent, yet deafening.

Then, the Burial Son nodded slowly.

That nod was very slow, very heavy, like a mountain moving, like a person bowing to fate.

He understood.

He knew the weight of this fortune—this was not a gift.

Gifts can be refused, can be given, can be left in a corner.

This was not.

This was a brand.

A brand carved into the bone marrow, fused into the Soul, accompanying him for a lifetime.

It was the fruit condensed from the ten-thousand-year blood and tears of the Burial Clan, the last fire ignited by the ancestor using his life as firewood.

This responsibility was heavier than mountains, deeper than the sea, and longer than time.

The Burial Son bent his knees, and his body slowly sank.

The moment his knees touched the ground, the entire scorched earth trembled slightly, as if responding to this belated kowtow.

He knelt straight, his spine like a spear, his head bowed.

And then—he kowtowed heavily.

The sound of his forehead hitting the ground was not loud, but muffled like a hammer hitting the earth, shaking the surrounding gravel.

The first kowtow.

"Junior Burial Son..."

His voice was hoarse, suppressing a tremor.

His forehead touched the cold earth, where the Burial Land still retained the residual heat from the ancestor burning his life.

The second kowtow, heavier.

"...will certainly not fail the ancestor's wish."

Fine cracks bloomed on the ground, spreading in all directions from where his forehead touched.

That was not the destruction of force, but this scorched earth accepting his vow, carving this promise into the depths of the earth.

The third kowtow, heavy as a thousand jun.

"As long as this Junior exists for a day, I will protect the Burial Clan for a day—"

His voice suddenly rose, no longer a whisper, but a vow that was almost a roar.

The voice carried the ethereal echo of the Void Divine Body and the devouring power of the Burial Dao Divine Body, shaking the entire rift, echoing over every inch of the scorched earth.

"Until—"

He suddenly straightened his body, a bloodstain already seeping from his forehead.

In those eyes, the Void Realm vortex and the Burial Dao vortex accelerated their rotation simultaneously, and in his grey-white pupils, the gradually disintegrating figure of the Lord of Burials was reflected.

"My spirit and Origin are extinguished!"