792: Chapter 792 Lu Xueqi and Biyao (171)

Nine hundred floors. Su Han's fingertips were already mangled, and every time he hooked them into the wall, it felt like bone and flesh being sliced by a dull knife.

The Chaos Power in his Meridians was so depleted that only a sliver remained, and every circulation brought a burning pain, as if someone were pouring molten iron into his limbs and bones.

But he kept climbing, inching his way upward.

The wind rushed up from both sides of the tower, carrying the sandalwood scent unique to the Buddhist Realm, but at this moment, it whipped against his sweat-drenched face like a lash.

Nine hundred and ten floors. The material of the wall had changed.

The wall, originally as smooth as jade, began to manifest dense Sanskrit characters, each one emitting a faint golden light.

That light was not warm; instead, it carried a heavy weight that pressed down on Su Han's back, forcing him to lower his head, forcing him to kneel, forcing him to give up.

Su Han felt his knees trembling, and a voice inside his body said: "You have done your best. No one will blame you. Go down, return to the Immortal Realm; you were never one of the Buddhist faith to begin with."

He bit the tip of his tongue.

The taste of blood exploded in his mouth, bringing a moment of clarity.

"I came," he said to himself in his heart, his voice so hoarse it did not sound like his own, "not because of who I am, but because the Human Realm cannot afford to wait."

Nine hundred and twenty floors. His vision began to blur, and the golden wall before him seemed to twist into a vortex.

Su Han knew this was a sign of extreme physical exhaustion. His Chaos Power was nearly bottomed out. He still had some Heavenly Gang Righteous Qi, but that was his trump card for fighting evil entities and could not be used lightly.

He could only rely on the most primitive physical strength, hooking his fingers into the gaps between the Sanskrit characters on the wall, one pull after another, dragging himself upward.

Nine hundred and thirty floors, nine hundred and forty floors.

His fingers had lost all sensation. Su Han looked down and saw only ten blurry, blood-colored sticks; his fingernails had long since torn off, revealing the tender, pinkish-white flesh beneath, from which fine beads of blood were seeping out.

The wind blew, and the wounds felt as if salt had been sprinkled on them; the intense pain caused his whole body to spasm, and he nearly lost his grip and fell.

He swung in the air, using his knees to press firmly against the wall to stabilize his body.

"Benefactor," the old monk's voice came from below, piercing through the wind and pressure, still as clear as a whisper in his ear, "You are at nine hundred and forty floors. There are fifty-nine floors left in this trial, but the pressure of the final fifty floors is the sum of the previous nine hundred. Are you sure you wish to continue?"

Su Han did not turn back. He could not afford to waste the strength even to turn his head, so he merely squeezed a single word from his throat: "Climb."

Nine hundred and fifty floors. The pressure surged, and Su Han felt his spine cracking, as if someone were snapping it inch by inch from above.

Fine beads of blood seeped from his pores, and his gray Daoist robe was dyed dark red, sticking to his body, both sticky and cold.

He remembered when he was still at the Lingxiao Immortal Sect, the Sect Master standing on the cloud platform and saying to him: "Han'er, you possess the Chaos Power; you are the chosen one. But being the chosen one means the path you must walk is harder than anyone else's. Are you prepared?"

He had said he was prepared at the time. Now he knew that the version of himself back then had no idea what the word "hard" truly meant.

Nine hundred and sixty floors. The golden light before his eyes suddenly vanished, replaced by darkness.

Su Han paused for a moment, discovering he was still hanging on the wall, his fingers still hooked into the gaps of the Sanskrit characters, but he could see nothing at all.

His hearing remained—the sound of the wind, the sound of his heartbeat, the patter of blood dripping onto the wall.

His sense of touch remained—the coldness of the stone wall, the warmth of his blood, the heavy pressure bearing down on every inch of his skin. But his vision was gone.

This was the final trial of the third stage—when all your dependencies are stripped away, when you cannot judge the direction, when you cannot see the end, will you still continue to climb?

Su Han closed his eyes. In truth, even if they were open, he could not see, but he closed them instinctively.

He adjusted his breathing in the darkness—one, two, three.

He discovered that he actually did not need to see; his fingers had memorized the texture of every Sanskrit character on the wall, and his body had memorized the rhythm of every inch of climbing.

He continued upward in the darkness, his ten fingers groping along the textures, inching his body upward.

Nine hundred and seventy floors. The pressure had become so great that it made his bones crack; Su Han suspected one of his ribs had broken, and every breath brought a sharp, stabbing pain.

But he climbed on.

Images of the Human Realm flashed through his mind—the village destroyed by evil entities, a broken wooden comb stuck in the charred earth, an old woman holding her grandson's corpse while sitting on the ruins, not crying, just sitting there.

At that time, Su Han had just been sent by the Sect Master to investigate the situation, and standing before that old woman, he could not say a single word.

The old woman looked up at him and said: "The Immortal has come. Immortal, can you bring them back to life?"

He could not. He could not then, but now, he could at least do one thing.

Nine hundred and eighty floors. Su Han's consciousness began to blur. His Chaos Power was completely exhausted, and the Heavenly Gang Righteous Qi in his Dantian was churning restlessly, like a locked-up beast wanting to break free.

Su Han gritted his teeth and forced it back down; he knew that was his final trump card left for the Human Realm, and it could not be used here.

But he could barely climb anymore. His arms felt as if they were filled with lead, and every time he lifted one, it felt like lifting a mountain.

He pressed his forehead against the wall, the textures of the Sanskrit characters digging into his brow, and that golden light seeped into his Sea of Consciousness, flowing slowly like warm water.

Then he saw some things. Memories that did not belong to him.

He saw a young monk kneeling before a Buddha statue, weeping and saying: "This Disciple is dull-witted and cannot comprehend life and death."

Half of the gold lacquer on the Buddha statue had peeled off, revealing the dusty clay beneath. The monk's tears dripped onto the prayer mat, spreading into dark water stains.

He saw an old man telling stories to a group of young children under a Bodhi tree; he was telling the story of sacrificing one's body to feed a tiger, and the children listened with bright, shining eyes.

When the old man reached the moment the tiger devoured the one who sacrificed himself, he paused, fell silent for a long time, and said: "In truth, that moment is very painful."

Su Han understood. These were the memories of the Buddhist Realm, the imprints left by countless people who had Cultivated, sought the Dao, and realized the Dao here.

They all had moments of hesitation, fear, and retreat, but in the end, they all chose to continue.

He lacked his own wisdom roots and his own Buddha-nature, but at this moment, the light and shadows left by those predecessors were like lanterns, lined up along the path of his climb, illuminating every place in the darkness where he needed to place his hands.

Nine hundred and ninety floors. Su Han felt the little finger of his right hand break—not cracked, but broken—and the sound of the bone dislocating was as clear as snapping a dry twig right beside his ear.

The intense pain caused his whole body to curl up, but his left hand was still hooked onto the wall, and he hung there like a rag being blown by the wind.

He looked down—below was an endless abyss, gold and darkness intertwined, the height indiscernible.

He looked at that abyss and suddenly smiled. His lips were chapped, and the smile tore them open, drawing blood. (End of Chapter)