182: Chapter 182 Ao Chan Has Passed Away, Meng Po Lives Forever

Meng Po trembled violently, her eyes welled up, and a single tear of blood slowly slid down, trickling along the deep furrows of her cheeks. It condensed into a crimson bead at her chin before falling into the dust.

At that moment, memories flooded back like a surging tide.

Jiang Chen's words from back then echoed in her ears once more—

“If you are fated, you will eventually meet again. Only then, he will no longer recognize you.”

Now, he had come.

Standing before her, his killing intent soared to the heavens and his cultivation reached the sky; he was already the Asura Dao Lord, standing above tens of thousands.

Yet the way he looked at her was cold and unfamiliar, as if he were looking at a speck of dust or a pile of withered bones.

She was no longer the peerlessly elegant woman of those years. Her appearance was destroyed, she looked like an old crone, her flesh was shriveled, and her face was hideous.

But her heart had never changed.

That romance had been buried for ten million years, as deep as the River of Forgetfulness, and it had never faded.

She had fantasized about their reunion—that he would be stunned, that he would hesitate, that he would recognize a hint of her silhouette.

But the reality was, he asked her: Why do you not kneel?

Her heart twisted violently, the pain so great she almost collapsed to her knees.

Back then, she had been deceived by the Heavenly Dao, triggering the Love Tribulation of the Styx. He had fallen in love, his killing intent had crumbled, and his path was about to be severed.

Jiang Chen forced her to commit suicide, to sever the relationship with death and break his obsession.

She did as she was told.

A sword pierced her heart, her soul dissipated, and only a wisp of her remnant soul was cast into the River of Forgetfulness to become Meng Po. She would guard this bridge forever, brewing soup and sending off souls, never to achieve liberation.

And he had proven his Dao through slaughter, treading on blood to reach the summit, becoming the Lord of the Asura, transcending reincarnation.

What about her?

She could only sit at the head of the bridge day after day, gazing at the foul waters leading to the Sea of Blood, silently chanting a single person's name.

“In the end... you forgot me.”

Blood tears fell in a string as she wailed silently like an abandoned child.

But that crying was hoarse and unpleasant, like the friction of rusted iron or the creaking of broken wood, sounding exceptionally shrill in the silence of the Yellow Spring.

Ming He looked at the heart-wrenching pain on her face, and his heart suddenly felt a sting.

A long-lost dull ache rose from the depths of his soul, so familiar it made his heart throb.

His eyes shifted slightly, and his voice involuntarily softened by a few degrees:

“You... who are you?”

Meng Po closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and slowly knelt down, her aged voice as calm as stagnant water:

“This old one is Meng Po. Greetings, Asura Dao Lord.”

Ming He stepped onto the Naihe Bridge, looking down at her from above, his brow clouded with suspicion:

“This Path Master... seems to have seen you somewhere before.”

Meng Po looked up, her eyes no longer showing any ripples, leaving only a desolate sorrow.

“The Path Master must be joking,” she said softly. “You have never set foot on this bridge, and I have been trapped here since my birth. You and I... have never met.”

Ming He was silent for a moment before nodding: “True, this is my first time coming to the Naihe Bridge.”

As soon as he finished speaking, he turned to leave, his destination being the Palace of King Qin Guang.

But the moment he took a step, his heart suddenly jolted!

That indestructible heart of slaughter, which had never wavered through billions of killings, actually throbbed violently.

He turned back abruptly, his gaze like lightning, locking onto Meng Po:

“Just now... what did you say your name was?”

It was as if they had brushed past each other in countless reincarnations; it was so familiar it made his heart tremble, yet he simply could not recall that severed memory.

Meng Po's body swayed slightly as she looked up at Ming He, almost blurting out her true name.

But in the end, she bit her lip—Jiang Chen had said that Ao Chan was dead, and from then on, she could only be Meng Po.

She lowered her head, a surge of bitter inferiority rising in her heart. Her current appearance was completely ruined and withered, while Ming He was an existence standing at the peak of the Primordial world, the Asura Dao Lord, in control of life, death, and slaughter.

In terms of appearance or status, she was no longer worthy of standing by his side.

“Replying to the Asura Dao Lord, this old one... is named Meng Po.” She spoke in a hoarse voice, forcing out a desolate smile.

“Meng Po...” Ming He murmured softly, his brow furrowing slightly. The name was as unfamiliar as dust and did not stir the slightest ripple in his heart.

“Perhaps it was just an illusion,” he sighed inwardly.

With those words, his figure flickered and he headed straight for the Palace of King Qin Guang, leaving only a cold back that pierced into Meng Po's eyes.

The long-suppressed tears finally fell, and her heart felt as if it were being repeatedly gouged by a sharp blade, the pain so intense she could hardly breathe.

“Wuwuwu—”

The low, hoarse sound of crying permeated the Naihe Bridge and echoed along the Yellow Spring Road.

The many ghosts and ghost messengers all looked over in surprise and suspicion: Why was the usually cold and impartial Meng Po losing her composure repeatedly, weeping inconsolably?

The Lycoris Radiata by the roadside suddenly swayed gently, as if sensing her sorrow, releasing bits of fluorescent light that gathered into an illusory hand, tenderly stroking her wrinkled cheek.

Perhaps in this gloomy Underworld, only these spiritual red flowers knew who she once was.

—

Deep within the Outer Chaos, a patch of purple mist churned, mysterious and unpredictable.

This was the birthplace of the Heavenly Dao, where every wisp of purple gas contained the power of the supreme laws, known as the Heavenly Dao Purple Qi.

And in the mouths of the Primordial Myriad Clans, it had an even more resounding name—hongmeng purple qi!

Legend had it that hongmeng purple qi was the foundation for becoming a Saint. To ascend to the position of a Heavenly Dao Saint, one must obtain a strand of this qi. With the purple qi as a guide, the true spirit could be entrusted to the Heavenly Dao, allowing one to live as long as heaven and earth, eternal through ten thousand tribulations.

At this moment, in the core of this chaos, there actually resided countless strands of hongmeng purple qi, dazzling like a galaxy and incomparably noble.

If the top experts of the Primordial world knew that such a massive amount of purple qi was hidden here, they would likely fight for it madly, tearing through the void to get here.

Unfortunately, this place was sealed by the will of the Heavenly Dao, isolated from all worlds. Let alone ordinary powerhouses, even Hongjun, who had merged with the Heavenly Dao, knew nothing of this place.

In the center of this purple qi, a huge purple bubble floated, constantly devouring the surrounding hongmeng purple qi to strengthen itself.

This was the Hongmeng Realm—a world nurtured by the Heavenly Dao's own hands.

The Hongmeng Realm was as beautiful as a dream, with blue skies, white clouds, mountains, rivers, and lush vegetation, seemingly no different from the mortal world.

But upon closer inspection, one would find the entire world was an intersection of reality and illusion, like a projection floating outside of reality.

The living beings here were the same; their forms were ethereal, having no physical bodies, all manifesting through their Nascent Souls.

In other words, their Nascent Souls were their physical bodies.

In the center of the Hongmeng Realm stood a towering mountain range, devoid of any vegetation, desolate and silent.

At this moment, nine figures stood upon it. Eight were kneeling on the ground, while only one stood proudly, looking down upon all living things.

“Less than half of this epoch has passed. How are your preparations coming along?” the Heavenly Dao spoke, its voice flat, yet it silenced heaven and earth.

The eight kneeling people were precisely the Eight Hongmeng Ancestors—the eight supreme existences first born in the Hongmeng Realm, enlightened by the Heavenly Dao itself.

Ancestor Tian, Ancestor Di, Ancestor Xuan, Ancestor Huang, Ancestor Yu, Ancestor Zhou, Ancestor Hong, and Ancestor Huang.

Corresponding to Heaven, Earth, Black, Yellow, Universe, Space, Flood, and Desolation.

These eight ancestors were all newly born in this epoch; except for Ancestor Tian who had already entered the Heavenly Venerate Realm, the other seven were still lingering at the Half-step Heavenly Venerate level.

“Replying to Your Eminence, the disciples of the clan are cultivating diligently, awaiting the summons. To date, thirty-three have proven their Dao and become Saints,” Ancestor Tian said respectfully with his head lowered.

“Only thirty-three?” The Heavenly Dao's brow furrowed slightly, its tone a bit cold.

The Hongmeng Realm was formed from the essence of the Outer Chaos, and the aptitude of its inhabitants was heaven-defying, far beyond what those in the Primordial world could compare to.

Seeing this, the eight ancestors all felt terrified.

Ancestor Xuan hurried forward: “Please appease your anger, Your Eminence. It is truly because the clan has enjoyed peace for too long, with no war or strife. While it is stable for a time, over time it easily makes people lax, and their fighting spirit vanishes completely.”

Pausing, he said solemnly: “The eight of us originally intended to stir up internal strife to temper the younger generation through the flames of war, only waiting for Your Eminence's permission.”