506: Chapter 506 The Ancestral Sword Spirit Descends

The first step fell—the heavens and earth shattered.

It was not a breaking, not a cracking, but the "Law" that constituted this world being stepped upon by some higher-dimensional existence and ground into dust.

Space was like glass struck by a heavy hammer, shattering into billions of spiderweb-like cracks—behind every crack was not the Void Realm, but even more ancient time.

Some cracks gushed with the humid air of the Jurassic, some spewed the deep-sea pressure of the Cambrian, and some reflected a desolate starry sky from before humanity was born.

The timeline was torn apart.

One moment it was the faint light of dawn, the next it was dusk closing in; the left eye saw dust slowly rising, the right eye witnessed mountains crumbling inch by inch—past, present, and future were twisted into a tangled mess here.

Light was fleeing.

No, light was wailing.

Those straight lines of light were twisted into spirals by an invisible force, curled into rings, and finally disintegrated into elementary particles emitting a pale, ghastly light, trembling in the frozen space-time like a candle in the wind.

And the source of all this—in the center of the plaza, that sword, awoke.

Before this, it was merely a "concept."

A grayish-white, transparent longsword, carved as if from cold ice, floated there quietly, as if it had existed since the beginning of Chaos and would continue to exist until the end of time.

It had no blade edge—or rather, its "sharpness" was not manifested on a physical level, but on the level of severing Karma and splitting destiny.

It had no hilt guard—because nothing was worthy of becoming its "boundary."

It did not even have the form of a "sword"—the reason you believed it was a sword was simply because, in your cognition, the concept closest to an "absolutely sharp object" was a sword.

It was the very essence of "slashing."

But at this moment—change began from the tip of the sword.

A touch of blue slowly permeated it.

This was not blue.

It was the essence of the North Sea, with all its water drained and compressed into a single drop.

It was the temperature of the core of a permafrost star—negative two hundred seventy-three degrees, an absolute deathly silence where even atomic motion had ceased.

It was the will that survived that Great Freeze before the Universe was born, bearing the concept of "ending."

Its speed of spread was very slow.

So slow that you could see the process of every inch of the sword body being permeated: the grayish-white, attribute-less material came to life the moment it was touched by the blue.

The sword tip began to breathe.

With every inhalation, the temperature within a hundred miles plummeted by ten degrees; with every exhalation, the water molecules in the air directly sublimated into ice crystals, falling with a rustle, making a crisp sound like shattering crystal when they hit the ground.

Blue to the extreme becomes black.

The blue was so deep it devoured all light; within three inches of the sword tip, it became a realm of absolute darkness—a nothingness where even the concept of "non-existence" did not exist.

Immediately after, at the hilt guard, golden light burst forth!

It was not gold.

It was the primordial light that erupted when the first star ignited its hydrogen Fusion.

It was the scorching Bloodline deep within the Earth's molten rock that had yet to cool.

It was that insignificant—yet history-altering for the entire Universe—spark when the concept of life first stirred in the primordial soup.

It spewed forth like a volcanic eruption, like a supernova collapse, like that sliver of world-creating power that burst from the fingertip when God said, "Let there be light," on the seventh day of creation.

Gold and blue met—there was no explosion, no repulsion.

Like twin Souls separated for billions of years, the moment they touched, they let out a sigh that spanned time and space, one that only they could hear.

Then, Fusion.

Blue and gold intertwined, rotated, and coiled—not mixing, but symbiosis.

Like the Yin and Yang fish chasing each other endlessly in the Taiji Diagram, like matter and antimatter annihilating and being reborn in collision, like birth and death being two sides of the same coin.

A color never seen before was born.

You could not describe it with language—if you looked at it for too long, your left eye would freeze, and your right eye would be scorched; if you thought about it for too long, the memories of the first half of your life would freeze, and the destiny of the second half would burn.

This was a color of Law.

It was the harmonious unity achieved by the two opposing concepts of "cold" and "hot" at a very high dimension.

The entire longsword transformed into gold and blue.

Every marking on the sword body was breathing, and every pulsation caused the millions of star stone slabs on the plaza to flicker in synchronization—like billions of hearts beating at the same frequency.

Then—Roar——————————

The first Dragon roar burst forth from the deep blue.

This was not sound; it was the embodiment of temperature.

Wherever the sound reached, everything fell silent—no, the concept of "vibration" was erased.

Molecules stopped moving, atoms stopped oscillating, and even the uncertainty at the quantum level was frozen into "certain" death.

An Ice Soul Dragon broke out of the sword.

Its body was not ice, but conceptualized "coldness."

Every Dragon scale was a miniature absolute-zero star, its whiskers were falling aurorae, and the Void Realm trodden by its Dragon claws left frost marks that would never dissipate.

It breathed—snow fell for a hundred miles, not water snow, but solidified time fragments.

It blinked—all things stagnated, not frozen by ice, but written into the Law of "eternal stillness."

Those deep blue Dragon eyes were like two stellar remains imprisoned at the end of time.

Cold.

Ancient.

Ruthless.

Its very existence was a rebellion against "entropy increase"—it wanted this Universe to return to heat death.

Roar——————————

The second Dragon roar exploded from the red-gold core.

This was the cry of creation.

Where the sound passed, the Void Realm burned—no, the concept of "burning" was forcibly injected into a Domain where there should not be anything burning.

Space was burning, time was burning, and even "nothingness" itself was crackling, bursting with pure white flames.

A Flame Sovereign Dragon soared into the sky.

Its body was not fire, but materialized "creation."

Every Dragon scale was the core of a newborn star; as the Dragon tail swept by, reality was melted through, revealing the boiling Chaos behind it; as it breathed, even the concept of "non-existence" was ignited into "existence."

Wherever it existed, all things boiled, evolved, grew wildly, and transcended.

Those red-gold vertical pupils were like two doomsday suns undergoing helium flashes.

Scorching.

Domineering.

Unquestionable.

Its will was to make everything burn, transform, and give birth to a more brilliant new life from the ashes.

One ice and one fire, one end and one beginning, one stillness and one motion.

They were not hostile.

They began to dance together.

With the gold-blue longsword as the axis, the two Dragons circled.

At first, it was slow, like two binary stars orbiting each other, following a rhythm so ancient it surpassed the age of this Universe.

Then it accelerated.

Ten times.

A hundred times.

A thousand times—

In the end, their bodies turned into two entangled streams of light, one deep blue like an icy river, one red-gold like molten lava, weaving a living Taiji Diagram above the plaza.

It was not two-dimensional, but three-dimensional, four-dimensional, a Taiji that traversed the timeline.

A Dragon tornado rose.

It was not a tornado formed by wind, but a tornado formed by Law.

The blue and gold streams of light soared into the sky, tearing through the clouds, tearing through the atmosphere, tearing through the barriers of this world, and plowing a—creation scar—spanning tens of thousands of light-years in the endless Void Realm.

From this day on, all practitioners in this world, as long as they looked up at the night sky, could see that scar: a blue and gold interwoven, never-healing crack spanning the firmament.

Later generations called it: "Sword Scar Celestial Rift."

And it was rumored that if one could comprehend the Dao rules contained within that crack, one could reach the ultimate of the Sword Dao.

The entire Sword Mountain was wailing.

No, it was paying homage.

The Sword Qi, Sword Intent, and sword Souls accumulated over billions of years surged toward the plaza like a tide, but when they touched the edge, they were gently smoothed out by an invisible force—like a mischievous child rushing toward their father, only to have the father gently press their hand on the child's head.

One hundred and eight stone pillars lit up in unison.

They were not being lit, but were responding.

The sword patterns on the pillars squirmed, flowed, and reorganized as if coming to life, finally transforming into one hundred and eight distinct truths of the Sword Dao, soaring into the sky and merging into the light stream woven by the two Dragons.

The phantoms on top of the stone pillars all looked up.

There was no surprise, no fear in their eyes.

Only a feeling that had crossed endless Reincarnation— "Long time no see, old friend."

Then—the Dragon roar gradually subsided.

The two Dragons stopped circling, separated to both sides, lowered their heads, and crouched.

Their posture was not submission, but returning to their place—like the sun and moon returning to the firmament, like rivers returning to the sea, like the concepts of "cold" and "hot" returning to "temperature," the higher-dimensional ruler.

And that gold-blue longsword slowly descended.

It was not falling, but descending.

The light on the sword body began to flow, condense, and take shape—

This was not a change, but a "manifestation."

This existence had always presented itself in the form of a "sword" only because all living beings were dull and could only understand the form of a "sword."

But at this moment, when needed, He revealed a form closer to the Origin—a human form.

First was the skeleton.

The gold-blue light outlined the silhouette: tall, upright, shoulders broad as mountains, waist narrow as a blade, spine straight as the Buzhou Heavenly Pillar—that was the spine that supported the firmament.

Then the musculature.

The chest was broad, capable of containing the star sea; the arm muscles were coiled like Dragon tendons, and every fiber flowed with the power to create the world; the waist and abdomen were tight, containing the explosive power to shatter continents.

Finally, the face—sword-like eyebrows slanted upwards like two unsheathed peerless fierce weapons, the tips of the brows disappearing into the temples, as if wanting to carve the concept of "sharp edge" into bone and blood.

Starry eyes were deep, the left eye molten gold, the right eye a cold pool, the pupils vertical like a Dragon's—those were not biological pupils, they were two miniature black holes that, after devouring all light, fed back a truth so pure it was maddening.

The bridge of the nose was high and straight like the ridge of a sacred mountain, the lips thin as blades, pursed into an arc of extreme indifference.

The skin shimmered with a faint gold-blue light; that was not pigment, but Dao patterns naturally formed on the surface of the body by the divine Bloodline—every line was a Law of heaven and earth refined into the body.

Silver-white long hair hung down to the waist, moving without wind.

Every strand of hair was an embodiment of a timeline—if you looked closely, you could see the rise and fall of countless civilizations, the life and death of stars, and even the sigh of some Mortal on a certain afternoon flowing within the strands of hair.

He opened his eyes.

Time stopped.

A true stop.

Not slow, not stagnant, but an absolute, thorough, root-level stop.

Those gold-blue interwoven Dragon pupils, like a creation that had smelted stars and the abyss, calmly swept across the entire plaza.

Wherever his gaze reached, the air solidified.

Not a metaphor—it was a true solidification.

Floating dust froze in mid-air, the flowing wind died in place, and even time itself hesitated for an instant under this gaze.

The one hundred and eight heaven-reaching stone pillars trembled slightly under the gaze.

The ancient runes engraved on the pillars lit up one by one and then extinguished one by one, as if paying instinctive reverence to some supreme existence.

Those Sword Master phantoms—the heroic spirits who once dominated the heavens and earth—lowered the swords in their hands in unison as this gaze swept past.

It was not fear, but a silent acknowledgment of hierarchical order.

There was no emotion in his gaze.

No temperature.

No love or hate, no curiosity or boredom.

It was a thorough emptiness—emptiness to the extreme, which instead became the purest "existence."

Those Dragon pupils themselves were defining the scale of "existence."

He was not looking.

Mortal "looking" required light refraction, neural conduction, understanding, and interpretation.

He was not.

He was examining—with the gaze of a Creator inspecting creation, weighing the rationality and necessity of every thing's existence.

He was judging—using time itself as a gavel, Karma as the Law, adjudicating what should exist and what should be destroyed.

He was defining—within the range covered by his gaze, "existence" was no longer a settled fact, but a permit waiting to be signed.

The point where his gaze landed was the coordinate of "being allowed to exist"; his gaze's omission was the verdict of "never having existed."