179: Chapter 179 Experimental Verification

Mount Buzhou Ruins, early morning.

Lu Mingyuan hadn't slept all night. He sat on the mountaintop, watching the east turn pale. The stars faded one by one, and the sky brightened little by little. A light was also growing in his heart, and that light was called 'try'.

The bai ze perched on his shoulder, also watching the dawn.

'Bai ze,' Lu Mingyuan said, 'I want to try.'

'Try what?'

'What you said. To use mending instead of confrontation. To use protection instead of slaying.'

The bai ze turned its head to look at him. 'How?'

'Find a small Rift. Find a person corrupted by Devilish Qi. Do not kill, do not Seal, do not suppress. Try to mend them, try to redeem them, try to transform them. See if the Devilish Qi will decrease, see if The Rift will shrink.'

The bai ze was silent for a moment. 'Have you thought this through? It's very dangerous. The Devilish Qi can backlash, can corrupt, can devour. Your Dao Heart has just stabilized, what if—'

'I know,' Lu Mingyuan interrupted it. 'But if we don't try, we'll never know. If we don't know, we can only ever confront. If we can only confront, we can never mend the darkness. Bai ze, you said,

. But slow doesn't mean not moving. Slow is taking one step at a time. Today, I take the first step.'

The bai ze looked at him, at this person who had become steady overnight. There was no impatience in his eyes, only resolve. That resolve wasn't the impulse of surging passion; it was a choice made after deep consideration.

'Alright,' the bai ze said. 'I'll accompany you.'

---

Three hundred li north of Mount Buzhou, there was a small Rift.

The Rift was not large, thirty feet long and two feet wide, like a wound on the earth. Black Devilish Qi seeped from The Rift, strand by strand, like blood, like tears, like sighs. Around The Rift, not a blade of grass grew. The ground was black, the stones were black, the air was black. A black that made one's heart panic, a black that made one despair, a black that made one want to flee.

Lu Mingyuan did not flee. He stood a hundred feet from The Rift, looking at that wound.

'Is there anyone corrupted by Devilish Qi?' he asked.

The bai ze unfurled the bai ze map. A flash of golden light. 'Yes. Three li east of The Rift, there is one. Not a demon soldier, an ordinary Cultivator. Their mind has been corrupted by Devilish Qi, wandering over there. Their cultivation isn't high, Golden Core Stage.'

'Take me there.'

---

Three li east of The Rift, in a grove of withered trees, a middle-aged man was wandering.

He wore Daoist robes, but they were tattered, torn into shreds. His eyes were black, black like ink, black like night, black like a starless sky. He was muttering, but his words were unclear. His hands trembled, his feet trembled, his whole body trembled. He was afraid. Afraid of what? Afraid of himself. Afraid of the Devilish Qi on his body. Afraid of becoming a demon. Afraid of having killed people. Afraid of being unable to turn back.

Lu Mingyuan stood a hundred feet away, looking at this man. He thought of himself—remembering the trembling of his hands when he first saw the Demon Puppets in the Songgang Demon Cave, remembering the fear when sealing The Rift in the Black Water Marsh, remembering the despair watching comrades die at the South Heaven Gate. This man was like him. Not a demon, but a human. A person corrupted by Devilish Qi. A person who could still be saved.

'Fellow Daoist,' Lu Mingyuan called out.

The man lifted his head, his pitch-black eyes fixed on him. There was no light in those eyes, only blackness. But within that blackness was a faint trace of something, a trace of 'save me.' It was very weak, weak like a candle flame in the wind. But it was there, in the deepest part of the darkness, at the very bottom of despair, at the last line of defense before collapse.

'Sa...ve... me...' The man uttered a hoarse voice, like a rusty iron gate opening.

'I will save you,' Lu Mingyuan said.

---

He walked up to the man, reached out, and placed his hand on the man's head.

Wanxiang True Qi circulated, surging from his Dantian, passing through his Meridians, flowing through his Acupoints, reaching his palm. That Qi was warm, warm like spring sunlight. That Qi was bright, bright like the full moon. That Qi was alive, alive like a newly sprouted seed.

The Devilish Qi sensed it and began to backlash. Black Qi surged from the man's body, like snakes, like vines, like chains, coiling around Lu Mingyuan's hand, his arm, his shoulder. That Devilish Qi was cold, cold like ancient ice. That Devilish Qi was painful, painful like being sliced by a thousand blades. That Devilish Qi was despairing, despairing like falling into a bottomless abyss.

Lu Mingyuan did not retreat. He remembered the bai ze's words—'use love to mend his lack, use compassion to transform his resentment, use light to illuminate his darkness.' In his heart, the small tree stirred. Not growing, but swaying. Swaying violently, like a small tree in a storm. But it did not fall. Its roots were still in the soil, its trunk still standing firm, its branches and leaves still reaching for the light.

His Wanxiang True Qi did not confront the Devilish Qi, did not eliminate it, did not Seal it. It mended—it mended the man's heart corrupted by Devilish Qi, mended the man's spirit occupied by fear, mended the man's soul devoured by despair. Like mending clothes, stitching stitch by stitch. Like mending a wall, brick by brick. Like mending a heart, warming it bit by bit.

It was slow. Slow as a snail's crawl. But it was mending.

A quarter of an hour passed. Half an hour passed. An hour passed.

In the man's eyes, the blackness began to recede. Strand by strand it receded, like the tide going out, like night receding, like darkness dispersing. It receded slowly, so slowly it made one anxious. But it was receding. Where it receded, there was light. That light was weak, weak as a firefly's glow. But that light was there, in the places where the blackness receded, where despair receded, where fear receded.

Two hours later, the blackness in the man's eyes had completely receded. His eyes were brown, brown like earth, brown like trees, brown like something alive. He looked at Lu Mingyuan, at the person who had saved him, and tears streamed down.

'Thank you...' He knelt. 'Thank you for saving me...'

'No need for thanks,' Lu Mingyuan helped him up. 'Your Devilish Qi hasn't completely dissipated yet; you still need to recuperate. Find a quiet place, recuperate well, cultivate well. Don't go near Rifts again.'

'I... can I go back?'

'Yes. As long as you want to go back, you can. The road is beneath your feet; just walk it.'

The man left, weeping, looking back every few steps. Lu Mingyuan watched his receding figure. The small tree in his heart stopped swaying. It was still growing, slowly, steadily, resolutely.

'It worked,' the bai ze said. 'You really did it.'

'It's not over yet,' Lu Mingyuan said, looking towards The Rift. 'I still have to try on The Rift.'

---

Before The Rift, Lu Mingyuan stood.

He extended both hands, palms facing The Rift. Wanxiang True Qi surged forth, not to confront, but to mend. That Qi was like thread, weaving strand by strand into The Rift. Like weaving cloth, warp and weft intersecting. Like mending the heavens, melting the Five-Colored Stones. Like mending the heart, bit by bit.

Devilish Qi surged out, more violently than before. Within that Devilish Qi was hatred—the Witch Race's hatred for the Yao Race, the Yao Race's hatred for the Witch Race. Within that Devilish Qi was resentment—Loose Immortals resenting the Heavenly Dao, monsters resenting fate. Within that Devilish Qi was enmity—the dead's enmity towards the living, the weak's enmity towards the strong. Within that Devilish Qi was pain—the pain of being killed, the pain of loss, the pain of despair. Within that Devilish Qi was fear—the fear of death, the fear of darkness, the fear of loneliness.

All of it rushed towards Lu Mingyuan, like a flood, like a landslide, like a tsunami. They wanted to devour him, to corrupt him, to assimilate him. They wanted him to become part of the darkness, part of the hatred, part of the resentment.

Lu Mingyuan did not retreat. He stood there, before The Rift, between darkness and light, standing.

His Wanxiang True Qi was not confrontation; it was understanding. He understood the Witch Race's hatred—they had lost brothers, sisters, parents, children. He understood the Yao Race's resentment—they were hunted, driven out, discriminated against, slaughtered. He understood the dead's enmity—they didn't want to die, shouldn't have died, couldn't die, yet they died. He understood the pain of all living beings—to live is pain, to love is pain, to lose is pain, to die is pain.

He understood. Therefore, he mended. Not to eliminate hatred, but to understand it. Not to suppress resentment, but to dissolve it. Not to Seal enmity, but to soothe it. Not to confront pain, but to heal it.

The Wanxiang True Qi was like a mother's hand, caressing that hatred, resentment, enmity, and pain. Like a spring breeze, dispersing that cold, blackness, despair, and fear. Like stars in the night, illuminating those who were lost, those lost hearts, those lost souls.

The Rift was shrinking. Very slowly, slow as a snail's crawl. But it was shrinking. Thirty feet became twenty-nine, twenty-nine became twenty-eight. Shrinking strand by strand, inch by inch, foot by foot.

An hour later, The Rift shrank from thirty feet to twenty. Two hours later, from twenty feet to ten. Three hours later, from ten feet to five.

Lu Mingyuan stood there, standing. His face was pale, sweat beaded on his forehead, his hands trembled. The Wanxiang True Qi was nearly exhausted, his Dantian almost empty, his body about to give out. But he did not retreat, still mending. Foot by foot, inch by inch, strand by strand.

'Enough!' the bai ze shouted. 'If you keep mending, you won't be able to hold on!'

'A little more,' Lu Mingyuan said through gritted teeth. 'A little more, and it will be sealed.'

Five feet became four, four became three, three became two, two became one.

One foot. Only the last bit remained.

Lu Mingyuan poured the last strand of Wanxiang True Qi into The Rift. That strand of Qi was weak, weak as a candle flame in the wind. But it entered, entered the deepest part of The Rift, the deepest part of the hatred, the deepest part of the resentment, the deepest part of the pain.

The Rift was sealed.

The wound on the earth closed. Black Devilish Qi no longer surged forth, cold hatred no longer surged forth, despairing pain no longer surged forth. The ground was still black, but that blackness was fading, strand by strand. The stones were still black, but that blackness was dispersing, bit by bit. The air was still black, but that blackness was lightening, patch by patch.

Lu Mingyuan collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath. His Dantian was empty, his Meridians injured, his body weak. But he was smiling, smiling like a child.

'It worked,' he said. 'It really worked. Confrontation is useless; mending is the Righteous Path. Bai ze, you were right. Mending can truly mend.'

The bai ze landed on his chest, gently patting his face with its wing. 'You're insane. You nearly sacrificed yourself.'

'But it's sealed. A Rift, sealed. By mending, not by sealing. By redeeming, not by killing. By transforming, not by suppressing. Bai ze, did you see? It's sealed!'

'I saw,' the bai ze's voice was slightly choked. 'I saw. You did it. You proved that mending is right.'

---

Mount Buzhou Ruins, night.

Lu Mingyuan lay on the mountaintop, looking at the stars in the sky. A few more stars had appeared. He knew they were The Rift he mended today, the person he saved, the hatred he transformed. They had become stars, hanging in the sky, shining, warming, alive.

His Dantian was still empty, his Meridians still injured, his body still weak. But his heart was full. Full as the full moon, full as an autumn rice field, full as a freshly filled wine cup.

He remembered what the Dark Heavenly Emperor had said—'Your love cannot mend my lack.' He remembered what he had said—'A grain of sand can build a pagoda.' He remembered today's events—a grain of sand truly can build a pagoda. A drop of water truly can form a sea. A single firefly truly can light up the night.

Not lit in a single day. Lit day by day. Mending a little each day, three hundred and sixty-five bits mended in a year. Thirty-six thousand five hundred bits mended in a hundred years. Three million six hundred and fifty thousand bits mended in ten thousand years. Mending and mending, and it becomes more. More, and it becomes bright. Bright, and the night recedes.

'Bai ze,' Lu Mingyuan said. 'Tomorrow, we'll find another Rift.'

'Alright.'

'The day after, another.'

'Alright.'

'The day after that, another.'

'Alright.'

'Mend one a day, three hundred and sixty-five a year. Thirty-six thousand five hundred in a hundred years. Three million six hundred and fifty thousand in ten thousand years. Mending and mending, and the heavens will be mended.'

The bai ze looked at him, at this scholar who had walked out of Heyin, at this person who had nearly sacrificed himself today. There was no more ash in his eyes, no more impatience, no more restlessness. Only light. That light was weak, weak as a firefly's glow. But that light would not go out, no matter how strong the wind, no matter how deep the darkness, no matter how heavy the despair.

That light was called belief. That light was called perseverance. That light was called Lu Mingyuan.

---

Above Mount Buzhou, the moon was bright, the stars sparse.

Lu Mingyuan closed his eyes and fell asleep. His Dantian was slowly recovering, his Meridians slowly repairing, his body slowly restoring. In his heart, the small tree was still growing. Nine feet, ten feet, eleven feet. Slowly, slow as a snail's crawl. But it was growing, growing in the darkness, in the resentment, in the despair. As long as it grows, it will become big. When it's big, it can mend more. Mending more, it can brighten more. Brightening more, the night can recede.

On Mount Buzhou, the wind rose. That wind carried the scent of blood, of sweat, of tears. But that wind also carried something—the light that emanated from those who had been mended. That light was weak, weak as a firefly's glow. But that light would not go out, no matter how strong the wind, no matter how deep the darkness, no matter how heavy the despair.

That light was called mending. That light was called protection. That light was called love. That light was called Lu Mingyuan.