569: Chapter 569 The Glimmer of Light About to Be Devoured

Wutian wanted to stand up.

This thought, like a red-hot iron nail, was driven fiercely into his remaining consciousness.

He braced his arms—arms that felt heavier than a thousand catties at this moment, with every inch of muscle wailing under the unbearable burden—and thrust his ten fingers violently into the charred, cracked earth beneath him.

His fingertips pierced his skin and embedded themselves into the crevices of the soil and rock; the intense pain of his fingernails splitting and curling back washed over him, but he seemed not to feel it, only gripping tightly, as if trying to pull himself, inch by inch, out of this abyss of despair.

He gritted his teeth.

His jaw muscles were clenched to the limit, veins bulging, almost tearing the skin.

The gaps between his teeth were filled with the acrid taste of blood mixed with dust.

He used every last bit of strength remaining in his body to resist the weight that threatened to crush him, inch by inch, trembling, pushing himself upward—

But his body would not obey.

The shockwave that had just erupted from within Wufa was not a simple tremor of power.

It was a wave carrying the rules of "Annihilation." He had been swept into it, like a withered leaf thrown into a vortex that pulverized everything, tumbling and flung hundreds of feet away.

When he landed, he clearly heard a dull sound from within his body, like the cracking of porcelain.

It was not his bones.

He had broken his bones countless times; he was accustomed to the pain of them shattering and being reforged during body tempering and bone quenching.

It was his Golden Core.

Inside his Dantian, that Golden Core which he had nurtured and refined for countless days and nights, carrying all his Cultivate and hope—

was now covered in fine, spiderweb-like cracks.

It was like a glass bead struck by a giant hammer, barely holding its shape, its light dim and on the verge of shattering.

From every jagged crack, pure Qi, like golden blood, was uncontrollably gushing out.

As soon as this Qi dissipated into the air, it was devoured by the layer of greedy, purple-black mist surrounding Wufa.

The mist let out an almost silent hiss, as if enjoying a feast.

It does not matter.

Wutian said to himself in his heart, or rather, it was more like giving a final order to a version of himself that was about to die.

Stand up.

With his trembling body barely propped up on one side, he lifted his head.

His vision was blurred; blood and sweat mixed together, flowing from his temples into his eye sockets, then evaporated by his scorching body temperature, leaving behind a stinging, salty sensation.

But he still managed to see the face drawing closer.

This face, he was all too familiar with it.

From the soft contours of infancy to the gradually sharpening angles of youth.

The slightly prominent cheekbones, the brow bone shape that was seventy percent similar to his own... and that small, light brown mole on the left brow tip.

Wufa had it since birth. Mother had once held him gently in her arms, softly touching that mole with her fingertip, smiling as she said: "Look at this position, it's as if some mischievous Immortal dabbed ink on his brow. This child, I fear he was born with a mark, a natural beauty from birth."

But at this moment, on this face, there was no smile, no tears, no confusion, and no pain.

There was nothing.

This was a kind of absolute, heart-palpitating emptiness.

These eyes, completely occupied by purple-black, were like two ancient wells filled with eternal night—the surface dark and dead, while deep within, a vortex that devoured everything surged.

No emotion, no temperature, not even a focused "gaze."

It was as if this pair of eyes were merely two windows leading to nothingness, and behind the windows, the Soul that should have existed had already been swallowed by boundless darkness.

No.

That's not right.

Wutian's breathing suddenly stopped.

He stared fixedly at the purple-black abyss, eyes wide enough to almost split their sockets—

In the deepest part of that churning darkness, which seemed capable of dissolving all light and hope, he caught a trace of something unusual.

A speck of light.

Extremely faint, as small as the last flickering flame of a candle in the wind.

It was a pale golden, incomparably familiar radiance—the aura of the Origin power of the Chaos Lightning Demon Body, the hot and pure energy fluctuation belonging to Wufa himself, which he had felt countless times when his younger brother would Cultivate!

It was still shining.

Like a lighthouse on the last isolated island in a violent tsunami, like the last drop of unevaporated dew in a boundless desert.

This light was so faint, so precarious, as if it would be completely extinguished by the surging purple-black darkness in the next second—but it flickered stubbornly, tenaciously, recklessly.

This meant—

Wufa was still there.

That younger brother who would call him "Brother," who would show him an unreserved smile, who would persistently chase after his back—

Had not been completely devoured!

He was still in the deepest part of this shell occupied by a demon, being squeezed and torn by endless darkness, yet using his last ounce of strength, he was gripping that tiny bit of clear consciousness belonging to "Wufa," refusing to let go!

"Wu... fa..."

Wutian opened his mouth, and a broken, hoarse, almost tuneless sound came from his throat.

It was very small, as small as a gasp, easily torn apart by the raging energy turbulence around them.

His vocal cords had been injured in the previous impact, and every time he made a sound, it felt like coarse sandpaper rubbing against his throat, bringing out even more of the metallic taste of blood.

Every word felt like jagged porcelain scraping against his bones, heart-wrenchingly painful.

But Wufa had heard it.

This body, which was slowly drifting over and exuding an aura of destruction—

paused for an extremely brief moment.

It was truly only for an instant; as fast as a hallucination, like an illusion created when light and shadow intersect.

But Wutian had captured it.

He clearly saw that the "thing" occupying his younger brother's body—deep within those hollow purple-black eyes, that trace of pale golden light flickered rapidly.

Like a dying heart beating one last heavy thump.

Along with it, the entire pupil showed a momentary, extremely subtle fluctuation.

Then, a hand was raised.

With distinct joints, long and fair.

These hands, Wutian was so familiar with them that he could trace every line on the palm with his eyes closed.

He remembered these hands—at three years old, so small, yet they would tightly grasp his little finger, refusing to let go even while sleeping; at seven years old, holding up a freshly picked, dew-covered vermilion spirit fruit, clumsily but firmly stuffing it to his mouth, eyes sparkling as he said, "Brother, sweet"; at thirteen years old, the youth, high-spirited, gripping that ancient lightning-patterned longsword almost as tall as himself, his fingertips trembling slightly from excitement, yet his tone was as firm as a mountain: "Brother, I want to become strong, strong enough to... protect you."

Now, one of these hands was raised, and then—

It gripped his throat.

Cold.

This touch was not the chill of skin, but a coldness that seeped into the marrow, belonging not to a living creature.

It was the temperature of nothingness.

It was the temperature of death.

The strength was astonishing, the knuckles turning slightly white from the exertion, the tips of the fingernails easily piercing the skin on the side of his neck, embedding into the flesh, bringing a sharp, stinging pain.

Wutian was easily lifted up by this force, his feet instantly leaving the ground.

The feeling of suffocation rushed over him like a tide; his trachea was compressed, blood rushed to his head, and large patches of black spots and flashing golden stars began to appear before his eyes.

He did not struggle.

Not because he was unable to struggle—although with his Golden Core shattered and spiritual power pouring out wildly, he indeed no longer had the strength to resist.

But because—

He did not dare.

He did not dare to let his spiritual power create a greater fluctuation due to struggling, did not dare to let any extra stimulation impact the extremely fragile balance within his younger brother's body, and accelerate the extinguishing of that faint golden light.

He was thus suspended in mid-air, like a lifeless doll, his limbs hanging limply.

All his strength, all his will, was concentrated in those wide-open eyes, focused on that speck of faint light at the center of the purple-black abyss that was about to be devoured.

His throat was gripped, breathing became increasingly difficult, and his vision became increasingly blurred.

Yet his eyes—

Never closed.