505: Chapter 505: Prelude to the Finale

Move forward.

This was no longer an action, but life itself burning—

Like the final flicker of a candle flame, like the most brilliant arc before a meteor falls, like a school of deep-sea fish swimming toward the only source of light.

Bloodline roaring, bone marrow singing, Soul screaming: You must go, you must go, you must go—

Jian Tanghuang charged at the very front.

Her body was burning—no, her "existence" was burning.

The obsession from nine lives of Reincarnation erupted from every pore, transforming into crimson-gold flames.

This was not fire; it was her compressed time, her folded fate, the embodiment of this single chance she had traded nine lives to obtain.

The sky she swept past left behind a scorching, slowly healing scar.

Was the sky bleeding? No, this was "Possibility" being forcibly torn apart—she was intruding into a Domain that should never have been entered.

Her right hand gripped the hilt tightly, nails digging into her palm; blood seeped from between her fingers, instantly vaporized by the high temperature into a bloody mist, dragging a pale red trail of smoke behind her.

Yet her hand was as steady as a rock.

It was not that it didn't tremble, but that she dared not let it tremble—even the slightest quiver would cause cracks in this burning will.

She knew that what she was rushing toward might be judgment, but so what? She had already judged herself for nine lives.

Jianzi was behind her, maintaining a constant distance of one hundred steps.

This distance was subtle—it was a distance where help was within reach, yet it was also a boundary where they did not interfere with each other.

He walked steadily. With every step he took, he left a faint, silver-gray footprint in the Void Realm, which only slowly dissipated after three breaths.

This was not a leakage of power, but the marks left in reality by his "Dao".

The Sword Qi from the Sword Mountain on both sides raged like a wild storm, enough to grind steel into powder, yet when that Sword Qi touched within three feet of him, it naturally parted—not blocked, but like water flowing around a reef, like light bending around a black hole.

His gray eyes were calm, but if anyone could look directly into the depths of those gray eyes, they would see—

A speck of stardust condensing.

Tiny, yet so heavy that the entire Sea of Consciousness was collapsing toward it.

His right hand pressed on the hilt; the unnamed sword in its scabbard hummed, not trembling, but resonating.

Resonating with what? With this world? With the sword ahead? Or with... a destiny he himself had not yet fully understood?

The third person walked at the very end.

He walked very slowly, so slowly that he seemed almost frozen in time and space.

That Dao robe was alive—no, it should be said, it was "dead".

Those dark purple patterns were the struggling of imprisoned vengeful Souls, the final embers of fallen stars, the curses formed from betrayed oaths.

Occasionally, a pattern would crawl out from the hem of the robe and touch the ground, corroding a small patch of the star-glowing obsidian, leaving behind a charred, foul-smelling mark.

The darkness beneath the hood was writhing.

This was not a shadow, but the materialization of "non-existence"—an absolute nothingness that could swallow even light.

Only a pair of ghostly green eyes, like foxfire in an abyss, locked onto Jianzi's back.

This gaze was killing intent, it was hatred.

His right hand reached out from his sleeve, pale fingers caressing the Void Realm as if stroking a lover's cheek, the movement so gentle it was bone-chilling.

Black mist flowed from his fingertips and dripped onto the ground; each drop corroded a bottomless hole.

The three crossed the final Sword Mountain.

In an instant—the world split open.

This was not a metaphor.

The space ahead truly split open, like a scroll sliced by an invisible blade, revealing an indescribable scene behind it.

This was a plaza.

But it should not be called a "plaza"; that would be blasphemy.

This was the remnant of a god's thoughts, the projection of the concept of "Sword" into reality, the origin of all sharpness, all resoluteness, and all cutting.

It was flat.

So flat that it was terrifying—not due to exquisite craftsmanship, but due to the compulsion of Law.

Here, the very concept of "unevenness" had been erased; not even the undulations of atoms were permitted.

The ground was obsidian, but each piece of obsidian had a starry sky sealed within it.

Not a reflection, but a real starry sky. When you gazed at the ground, you would see stars billions of light-years away being born, burning, and dying.

What your feet were stepping on was not stone, but a compressed Universe.

The moment you stepped on it, what rippled out beneath your feet was not water—it was the wrinkles of time.

Each circle of light that expanded meant you had stepped into an older layer of time.

After three steps, Jian Tanghuang looked down and saw that the shadow beneath her feet had doubled—that was the figure of her past life, slowly overlapping with her current self.

All around, one hundred and eight stone pillars stood.

No, not standing, but growing—growing out of the soil of time, roots dug into the Void Realm, tops piercing through reality.

They were breathing.

With every inhalation, the light of the entire plaza was swallowed for an instant; with every exhalation, Sword Intent surged out like a tide, washing over the Soul of every entrant.

The sword patterns on the pillars were living epics. The longer you looked, the more you could hear—the clashing of metal, shouting, wailing, dying sighs, the crisp sound of swords breaking.

"My Dao... is not alone..."

That was the final reverberation left in the world by generations of Sword Masters, the tombstones into which their "Dao" had solidified.

At the tops of the pillars, one hundred and eight phantoms.

They were not illusions.

Each one was a living being that had truly existed, one who had reached the Peak of the sword path, and before falling, had imprinted their own "moment" of Peak power here.

That Sword Master like a mountain, the stone pillar beneath him was cracking, not because of weight, but because his "heaviness" was not physical weight, but the weight of existence itself—he was too "real," so real that even this reinforced space could hardly bear it.

That Sword Master like a breeze, he was almost dissipating, but the tiny glimmer at his fingertips froze ten zhang of time centered on him.

In those ten zhang, time was solidified honey; even thought became viscous and slow.

The one wreathed in thunder existed in three thousand instants simultaneously.

You see him as still, but if you probe with Divine Sense, you will find three thousand of him simultaneously swinging swords, turning, closing their eyes, opening their eyes—that was the Peak of speed, fast enough to break through the linearity of time.

The one hidden in the abyss, within three zhang of him was absolute "Nothingness." Light, sound, temperature, concepts—everything that touched that range would be erased.

He himself was a sword of "Severance," severing all connections, including his own connection to the world.

This was not a Legacy.

This was an exhibition—one hundred and eight kinds of tragedies that had walked to the Peak and then found no path forward.

They were telling you: Look, this is the Peak of the sword path, and also a dead end. Do you still want to come up?

And in the center of the plaza—that sword.

It had no "form," because it had transcended the constraints of "form."

What you saw was a fissure of light, a condensation of will, the "First Cause" that severed Chaos.

The Dragon on the sword was sleeping, but every breath it took made the starlight of the entire plaza flicker.

This was not a Dragon; that was a true spirit born from the "concept" of the sword—the action of "severing" had gained life, the attribute of "sharpness" had become a spirit.

Then—it opened its eyes.

There was no sound.

But in this instant, everything stopped.

The wind stopped in mid-air, solidified into a glass-like solid.

Light stopped on its path of propagation, like a frozen river.

Time—time was still flowing, but the speed of flow had become one ten-thousandth of what it was. Every instant was stretched into the length of an incense stick, every heartbeat as long as the cycle of four seasons.

This gaze fell.

It was not "looking," it was "defining."

It was defining Jian Tanghuang—"One of nine lives of Reincarnation, obsession turned to flame, can burn self, can burn heaven, can burn Dao. Yet, flames eventually have an end."

It was defining Jianzi—"One with stars hidden in gray eyes, inner Universe newly formed, birth and death in a single thought, one sword opens heaven. Yet, stars also have a day of falling."

It was defining the robed figure—"One nurtured by the abyss, hatred as bone, curse as blood, killing master as fate. Yet, the blade eventually backfires on itself."

One hundred and eight phantoms turned their heads in unison.

Two hundred and sixteen gazes, like swords, like spears, like shackles, like judgment—nailed onto the Souls of the three.

The wind did not resume flowing.

The light did not continue to propagate.

Time remained as slow as congealed honey.

But the three knew—the third trial had already begun from the very first step they took into this place.

And the exam question had long been written in their respective fates: Do you dare, under the gaze of all this, to walk to the front of that sword?

Jian Tanghuang's crimson flames burned even more intensely in the slow time.

The sword in Jianzi's scabbard turned its humming into a wail.

The black mist at the robed figure's fingertips boiled like hot oil.

They stood at the edge of the plaza, their figures stretched, twisted, and overlapping, like three scars about to be carved into history.

Ahead, was the sword, the Dao, the answer, death, the end, and also—the beginning.

Only move forward.

There was no other way.

And, there was no need for another way.