492: Chapter 492 Millions of Leaves Move Automatically Without Wind

Chu Changsheng took a step forward.

His footsteps landed silently, yet it felt as if he had stepped upon the very pulse of this world.

The World Tree Manifestation behind him slowly unfurled—this was no ordinary stretching, but a slow, solemn blooming, akin to a deity who had slumbered for eons opening their eyelids for the first time in the morning light.

Billions of leaves swayed without wind.

At first, it was only a faint tremor, like the waking wings of a butterfly, and then, the ancient runes on every leaf lit up one by one.

This light was gentle and moist; it was not scorching like the blazing sun, nor searing like a raging fire, but rather like the moonlight rising from the center of a deep lake on an autumn night—clear, serene, and all-encompassing.

The light washed over the charred canyon walls, over the congealed dark brown bloodstains, and over those spatial rifts that were still convulsing—wherever it passed, all agitation and pain miraculously subsided.

There was a sound hidden within this light.

It was not a sound audible to the ears, but a resonance echoing directly within the depths of the Divine Soul—

It was the soft sound of a seed breaking through its hard shell beneath the frozen earth, the light tapping of a fledgling bird pecking open its eggshell for the first time, the even breathing of an infant sleeping soundly in its mother's arms... It was the most primal, most peaceful rhythm of life.

"I accept him."

Chu Changsheng's voice rang out; it was not loud, yet every word felt as if it were being re-engraved like an ancient inscription.

The moment these five words were spoken, the world fell silent—not a dead silence, but a bated, almost devout waiting.

Each syllable carried a solid weight, branding itself into the cracked earth, into the wailing gale, into every bleeding wound of this world.

As soon as his voice fell—

The Lord of Burials smiled.

What a smile that was.

His face had largely collapsed; his left cheekbone was exposed, hanging with a few strands of sinew that were on the verge of snapping; his right eye socket was empty, with a ghostly green flame flickering within it.

Yet on such a face, that remaining corner of his mouth—connected only by a thin layer of decaying skin—was rising extremely slowly, inch by inch.

It was too slow, so slow that one could see the trembling of every muscle fiber.

At first, it was just an imperceptible arc, like some kind of tentative probe, then it deepened, and deepened further, until that entire shattered face blossomed into a complete, relieved, and even childlike, bashful smile—as if a traveler who had trekked a lifetime under a heavy burden had finally caught sight of the smoke from his hometown's hearth, as if a night watchman guarding the long night had finally waited for the dawn to break.

In that smile, there was no coldness of death, no fear of the end, only a kind of near-sacred peace.

The light in the ghostly green eye began to extinguish.

It did not fade suddenly, but slowly and gently dimmed, like the last ray of light at the edge of the sky reluctantly withdrawing as twilight closed in.

In the instant before the light completely vanished, the reflection in that ghostly green pupil—clear enough to make one's heart tremble—mirrored Chu Changsheng's side profile, which was as calm as a deep pool, mirrored the Burial Son's violently trembling back, and mirrored a rift finally torn open in the layers of deathly dark clouds above the canyon.

A beam of heavenly light leaked down from that rift.

A thin, clear beam, falling precisely and squarely upon the Lord of Burials' body as it gradually dissipated.

"Good... good..."

He murmured, his voice as weak as the final flutter of an autumn cicada's wings, like the last wisp of smoke before a candle flame is extinguished.

Yet these two "good"s, every syllable, were like red-hot brands, deeply branded into the Souls of those who heard them.

When the first "good" was spoken, his chest heaved gently once, as if he had unloaded the first boulder that had weighed upon him for eons.

When the second "good" fell, something in his eyes completely let go—this was the obsession that had entangled him for infinite years, the guilt of bearing endless time, the attachment to the beginning and end of life that he himself had long forgotten.

"I... can... go in peace..."

Before the lingering sound had faded, change had already occurred.

His body no longer crumbled away in chunks, but began to turn into flying ash, inch by inch, starting from the edges.

This ash was special—not charred black, nor dead grey-white, but a kind of crystalline, almost ethereal light-dust.

Every particle of light-dust was twinkling, shimmering with a starlight-like glow, and in the dim light of the canyon, it was as if someone had crushed an entire galaxy and gently sprinkled it over this body that was about to pass away.

"Ancestral Founder!!!"

The Burial Son's roar exploded suddenly.

This was no longer a human voice, nor a beast's roar, nor any lament that any living creature in the world could utter—

This was the excruciating pain of a Soul being torn in two, the despair of roots being pulled up from their native soil, the madness of a child wandering in the eternal night who finally touched a sliver of warmth, only for that warmth to turn into nothingness in their palm.

He wanted to rush forward.

His body reacted before his will—the muscles in his legs bulged, the scorched earth beneath his feet exploded with a boom, and the newly born power of the Burial Dao roared in his Meridians like an angry Dragon.

He wanted to grab those light-dust particles, with these hands, with this newly acquired power, with everything he possessed, even if he could only hold onto them for an instant.

But he could not move.

Chu Changsheng's hand had, at some unknown moment, been gently pressed upon his shoulder.

This was a hand that looked ordinary, with distinct knuckles, and a warm, jade-like glow flowing beneath the skin.

Yet with just this hand, with a gentle press—the Burial Son felt as if ten thousand mountains had crashed down upon his shoulders; no, that was heavier than mountains, that was the will of the entire world, the weight of time itself, the weight of an irresistible Karma.

"Let him complete his final journey."

Chu Changsheng's voice rang in his ear, very soft, yet like a needle to calm the seas, it drove straight into the depths of the Burial Son's boiling Sea of Consciousness.

In that voice, there was no command, no admonition, only a calmness that pierced through everything, a most profound respect for the coming and going of life.

The Burial Son trembled all over.

Deep within his grey-white pupils, the Void Realm vortex and the Burial Dao vortex were spinning, colliding, and tearing at each other with unprecedented speed, almost bursting out of his eye sockets.

The newly born power rampaged within his body like a caged Vicious Beast, urgently needing an outlet to vent.

But the power coming from Chu Changsheng's palm—this power was gentle and without edge, yet incredibly firm—was like an invisible net woven from billions of Dao principles, locking all his rampaging, near-out-of-control Qi back into place, without a single thread missing, gently yet firmly.

"No... do not..."

The Burial Son's roar suddenly lowered, turning into a sob.

Tears rolled down without warning—they were not transparent tears, but a grey-white, viscous liquid, like melted moonlight mixed with the essence of the Burial Land, every drop as heavy as lead, falling onto the scorched earth, silently corroding small, bottomless holes with smooth edges.

The Lord of Burials watched this scene quietly.

On that face, which had already dissipated more than half, there appeared a shade of near-tenderness—it was the expression of an elder looking at a child of their own who had been throwing a tantrum but was finally willing to bow their head and admit their mistake; it was a look of being both annoyed and amused, yet ultimately unable to hide their affection.

"Silly... kid..."

His voice grew lighter and lighter, so light it was like an echo drifting from another world, every word about to scatter in the wind, requiring the listener to use all their heart and mind to catch and piece them together.

"This Ancestor... has lived... too long..."

"So long that... I have... almost... forgotten... who I am..."

His body had dissipated more than half, with only his head and half a torso barely maintaining their shape.

That ghostly green eye had completely dimmed, but right in the depths of that eye socket, in the final instant before his Divine Soul was about to completely dissipate, it was as if something brighter and purer was awakening—

That was not the light of the pupil.

Not the light of power.

But—the light of true essence.

It was the one point of pure light of existence that remained after a Soul had stripped away all identity, memory, and the burdens of Karma.

That light was very faint, yet as clean as a newborn baby's first breath.

"But meeting you... is this Ancestor's... final... good fortune..."

He looked at the Burial Son.

This gaze was no longer a projection of vision, but the final resonance of the Divine Soul, the gaze of existence upon existence.

It passed through the dissipating shell, passed through the crumbling canyon, passed through the dust and oblivion accumulated over ten thousand years, and landed straight and without hindrance upon the young man kneeling on the ground, trembling all over, face streaming with tears.

In that gaze—

There was kindness, deep as an abyss, silent and soundless.

There was gratification, like a craftsman gazing at a work he had poured his blood and heart into, which had finally taken shape.

There was reluctance, faint as morning mist, knowing that the morning sun would eventually rise.

There was also a trace—almost imperceptible—of pride.

That was the confirmation of the dying firewood, as it handed over its final bit of warmth, that it had once burned.

"Follow... him... well..."

"He will... take you... to places... this Ancestor... cannot reach..."

The last few words no longer formed syllables.

Only a wisp of airflow, weak to the extreme, remained, wrapped in the lingering warmth of his final Divine Soul, spinning in a small circle in the air.

Within that airflow, it seemed as if unfinished words, unended exhortations, and untold stories were still entangled.

It circled, rising, and just as it was about to touch that line of heavenly light at the top of the canyon—

Silently, it dissipated into the Void Realm.

At the same time, the Lord of Burials' last remaining head and torso turned into the final handful of crystalline light-dust.

The light-dust did not fall, but was gently guided by that beam of heavenly light, slowly drifting upward, like starlight flowing against the current, like fireflies returning to their nests, bit by bit, melting into the increasingly bright heavenly light above the canyon.

The Burial Son watched blankly.

Watching the last particle of light-dust disappear at the end of the heavenly light.

Watching that beam of light slowly withdraw.

Watching the dark clouds re-gather above the canyon, as if nothing had ever happened.

But he knew—

Something had left forever.

Something had also remained forever in his bones and blood, in his Soul, remaining between every heartbeat and every breath of his remaining life.

Chu Changsheng's hand was still pressed upon his shoulder.

That palm was warm, steady, like a silent promise.

Within the canyon, the wind rose again.

It wailed as it passed through the jagged, strange rocks, like an ancient elegy, sounding for the end of an era,

And also for another era's—

Quietly setting off.