311: Chapter 309 Edge of the Rift

The silver-white passage slowly closed behind Shen Nian, like a bridge submerged by water, sinking section by section into the depths of Chaos.

He stood in a dark blue-green space. There was no longer any flowing gray mist around him, only a silence that felt almost solidified. This silence was completely different from ordinary "quiet"—it was more as if sound itself was absorbed and dissolved by something, so much so that even the energy collisions within Chaos became extremely weak.

Shen Nian did not move immediately. Instead, he stood in place for a moment, allowing his perception to adapt to the environment of this area.

He took out the recording talisman from his robe. The threads of light on its surface had dimmed considerably after leaving the Heart of Tiangong, but they still maintained a faint pulsation, like a thin string with one end tied in his hand and the other still connected to the direction of the Core of Tiangong.

He put away the recording talisman and took his first step.

The sensation beneath his feet was peculiar, as if he were stepping on some material of extremely high density yet immense smoothness; there was no distinct sense of solidity, yet he could feel a faint rebound.

He walked very slowly, extending his Sixteen-Color Power forward in extremely fine threads as he went. Those threads traveled through the dark blue-green Chaos like countless tentacles, gently touching every inch of the surrounding space.

The energy decayed even faster than he had anticipated.

When he was at the edge of the Heart of Tiangong, his power could reach out hundreds of feet while still maintaining clear perception. But here, just dozens of feet away, those threads began to blur, like a rope lowered into deep water—the further it went, the harder it was to perceive.

He stopped in his tracks, condensed his power to be even finer and denser, and then extended it forward once more.

This time, his perception touched a boundary about fifty feet away.

That boundary was different from the edge of the dark zone he had previously seen on the star map of the Core of Tiangong—it was softer, not a clear-cut line, but more like a slow transition, as if something were gradually disappearing from existence into nothingness.

Shen Nian continued to walk forward, without quickening his pace.

When he reached the position of the boundary he had perceived, he noticed an extremely subtle change in the color of the surrounding Chaos.

The dark blue-green grew deeper, like the final layer of ink diffusing in clear water—so faint it was almost invisible, yet it truly existed.

He raised his hand, condensing the Sixteen-Color Power in his palm into a fine needle, and slowly pricked it into the dividing area where the color changed.

The moment the needle's tip entered, he felt an extremely uniform resistance—it was neither repelled nor absorbed, but felt more like an "acceptance," as if his power were being smoothly guided into another space. The feedback from that space was incredibly weak, like a completely calm water surface where a thrown pebble could not stir up any ripples.

He withdrew his power and stood in place for a moment.

The surrounding Chaos remained quiet, and the boundary still lay ahead, neither expanding nor shrinking, just existing there silently, as if it had been there for countless years.

Shen Nian took out a second recording talisman from his robe and pressed it against the surface of the boundary.

The threads of light on the talisman's surface immediately spread in all directions, flowing slowly along the texture of the boundary, as if tracing an extremely fine outline at a very slow pace.

He waited for a while, and only after the threads of light had completely retracted did he remove the recording talisman.

He carefully examined the information captured by the recording talisman—it was extremely sparse, like speaking into an empty grand hall and only catching the faintest echo. However, the rhythm of that echo seemed to bear a certain degree of similarity to the melody he had heard on the stairs.

He put away the recording talisman and continued to walk slowly along the direction of the boundary.

He walked for about several hundred feet, maintaining the same method of perception along the way—using fine threads to scout the path, using the recording talisman to capture outlines, and occasionally stopping to touch the surface of the boundary with his palm, feeling the uniform, slight coolness within it.

After walking for a long time, his footsteps stopped at a slightly sunken spot.

That depression was on the surface of the boundary. Its shape was highly irregular, but the curvature of its edges possessed an extremely subtle regularity, as if something had once passed through here, leaving behind a shallow imprint.

Shen Nian squatted down and carefully studied the shape of the depression.

It did not look like a naturally formed rift; its edges had no burrs or debris, instead presenting a relatively smooth transition, like a joint left after some structure had docked, or like the trace left on a wall after some passage had closed.

He thought of that flight of stairs, of those translucent crystal steps, and of how it felt when the melody came to an abrupt halt on a certain step.

That feeling was very similar to the present—as if a path had reached a certain node and then been cut short.

He reached out and gently inserted his fingertips into the edge of the depression.

The touch was warmer and moister than other parts of the boundary, as if some energy had flowed here for a long time, leaving behind an extremely slight residue.

He closed his eyes, condensed the Sixteen-Color Power into an extremely small stream of light, and slowly injected it into the depression.

The stream of light traveled a distance within the depression, extending forward as if following a narrow pipe.

Then, at a certain node, it came into contact with something—an extremely faint, almost dissipated remnant of consciousness.

That remnant of consciousness was incomplete, more like an image that preserved only the last half of a sentence, emerging extremely vaguely for a brief instant.

"Still here."

Just one word.

There was no subject, no context, and no information that could point to anything specific. Yet, that word left a slight echo in his perception, as if when this sentence was spoken, it had carried an extremely strong sense of confirmation.

Shen Zhao's Origin imprint within the qinglian sword lit up slightly, as if it, too, had been touched by that word.

Shen Nian withdrew his finger and sat down beside the depression.

He sat there for a long time, as if wanting that extremely faint sensation to settle and differentiate in his consciousness before being remembered.

The diameter of that depression shared some connection with the melodic sequence he had felt on the stairs earlier—it was not a direct correspondence, but closer to a parallel structure, as if two different coordinates were telling the same story.

He stood up, carefully recorded the position of this depression, and then lingered at the edge for a while longer. Only after confirming that he had not missed any details did he retrace his steps, slowly returning toward the silver-white passage.

The boundary behind him still lay quietly across the dark blue-green Chaos, and the depression still maintained its silent outline, like a book closed for a long time, waiting in the passage of time for a pair of hands to reopen it, even if just to confirm whether a single line of words within was still there.