The Heavens: A Qing, the Yue Girl at the beginning

In the third side compartment of the bridge, Caesar Gattuso stood in front of a huge diamond-shaped observation window, his right eye pressed against a monocular telescope, almost covered with a composite crystalline film that could withstand micrometeorite impacts.

Outside the window, Saturn's rings rotate eternally, like a record left behind by the gods, their pale, metallic gray-white hue reflecting the distant sun's pale light.

Nearby is a sheepdog satellite about 2km in diameter. A temporary external factory for producing liquid hydrogen and liquid oxygen has been built on its walnut-shaped ridge. The small engineering units are unable to carry fusion reactors and fission engines and are still using primitive chemical fuels.

Further away, you can see that Saturn's northern hemisphere is blue, while its southern hemisphere is golden.

The blue color in the Northern Hemisphere is caused by the same reason as the blue sky on Earth: blue light is more easily scattered. When the weather is "clear," air molecules can scatter more blue light, which makes the atmosphere appear blue overall.

Caesar has maintained this position for over forty minutes.

He pursed his lips, his icy blue pupils shrinking to a point behind the telescope's eyepiece as he strained to find, against the backdrop of the dazzling rings of Saturn's massive, elegantly striped sphere, that dim, blue-white dot of light that should be there.

But he saw nothing. Only a deeper darkness, scattered with some blurry spots of light—stars, indifferently fixed on the sky, unchanged for millions of years.

Caesar tightened the focusing ring and turned the knob extremely slowly, from the lowest magnification to the highest, and then back again.

The starry sky in my field of vision was both blurry and clear, clear and blurry, giving rise to an increasingly heavy sense of suffocation, mockery and sorrow.

It was heavy and dull, as if someone had used an ice pick to slowly and carefully carve a regular-shaped hole in his chest cavity.

The wind passed through there without an echo.

"Pasie".

Caesar spoke, but his voice was hoarser than he had expected.

"Young Master." A response came from the shadows.

Pascal Gattuso was always there, neither near nor far, like a second shadow cast on the deck. The young man's blond hair was meticulously combed back, and he wore a harmless expression.

“I can’t see,” Caesar said.

"Can't you see anything, young master?"

“Earth,” Caesar said.

He moved the telescope away from his eyes, the brass tube leaving a cold ring on his palm. "That pale blue dot they were talking about. It should be there. In Saturn's sky. But I can't see it."

Percy was silent for two seconds. In those two seconds, Caesar heard the sound of his own blood rushing against his eardrums, a rumbling sound, like the low-frequency vibrations of the ion engine in the distance coming through the bulkhead.

“Young Master,” Percy’s voice was as calm as if he were reporting today’s menu, “the telescope you are using has an 80mm objective lens and a theoretical limiting magnitude of about 11.5 at 60x maximum magnification. Earth’s apparent magnitude at Saturn is about +8.5, so theoretically it should be visible.”

"Then why can't I see it?" Caesar asked.

He felt the emptiness in his chest widening, and a fine, needle-like pricking pain began to emanate from its edges.

Percy took half a step forward, positioning himself fully in the light.

“Because of apparent diameter, sir,” he said, “the Earth’s angular diameter in Saturn’s sky is only about 2.2 arcseconds. In comparison, the Moon’s angular diameter as seen from Earth is about 30 arcminutes, or 1800 arcseconds. The Earth appears about 800 times smaller from Saturn than the Moon appears from Earth.”

Caesar stared at him.

“This Swarovski in your hand,” Passy continued, “has a theoretical resolvable angle of about 2.3 arcseconds at 60x magnification. That’s just close to its diffraction limit. That means that even when aligned, the Earth is almost an indistinguishable point in the field of view, easily drowned out by background light noise and optical system aberrations.”

"more importantly……"

He took another step forward.

Now there are only three meters between them.

"...Saturn's rotation period is approximately 10 hours and 33 minutes. This means that if you don't continuously adjust the direction of your telescope, Earth will move out of your view approximately every two minutes. And you don't have a motorized tracking equatorial mount installed."

Caesar heard a very soft sound from his throat, somewhere between a cold laugh and a sob.

“So,” he said, “my telescope wasn’t good enough.”

“The equipment has its physical limitations, sir,” Percy said. “It’s not your fault. In fact, it’s elegant and respectable enough for a stargazing party on a yacht by the sea.”

"Whose fault is that?" Caesar asked. He suddenly laughed and tossed the telescope onto the instrument table beside him.

The metal struck the composite material with a dull thud. "Is it the fault of my dear family, who shoved me into this wrecked ship and brought me to this godforsaken place where you can't even see the earth?"

Percy didn't answer. He just stood there, looking at Caesar with that calm, professional, insane gaze.

That's the look in his eyes.

This is the kind of gaze that is always correct, always appropriate, and always reminds you that "all your emotions are unnecessary, unprofessional, and immature."

Caesar felt that dull pain suddenly explode, turning into a raging, scalding mass that wanted to tear something apart.

It gushed out from the hole in his chest, turning into boiling dragon blood that surged to his limbs and rushed to the top of his head.

The next second, he pounced on him.

He swung his left fist and smashed it down! His right hand reached down to his lower back and pulled out the Dictator that he had secretly brought into the bridge!
But Percy didn't even retreat. He merely shifted his body slightly to the side, and Caesar's sure-fire move missed.

Unable to stop his forward momentum, the boy's hand seemingly casually lifted and guided his elbow, and Caesar immediately felt an irresistible force that spun him around half a circle, as if he had willingly offered his back to the other.

Immediately afterwards, an invisible pressure quietly converged from all directions, gently yet resolutely "fixing" him in place.

At the opportune moment, Percy tapped Caesar's wrist with his finger, and a tingling sensation exploded from Caesar's wrist, instantly shooting up to his shoulder blades, causing his arms to lose strength.

The hunting knife was nimbly snatched away and then returned to its sheath.

“You did not receive an inhibitor injection today, young master.”

After a moment of silence, Percy dispelled the "dust-free zone" and suddenly spoke: "Emotional fluctuations can affect hormone levels, which in turn interfere with nerve reaction speed and muscle control precision. I do not recommend that you engage in high-risk physical altercations when you are not in a standard physiological state."

Caesar stared at him, his chest heaving violently.

The feeling of loss of control in my arm is fading, and a tingling sensation is creeping back along my meridians, bringing with it a lingering, needle-like pain.

He wanted to curse, to yell, to smash the cold, instrument-filled bridge to pieces.

But he just kept breathing and stared intently at Percy.

"You look down on me."

Caesar said this in a voice so low it was almost inaudible.

Percy looked up at him. “I have never looked down on you, sir,” he said. “I was just doing my duty.”

“Duty.” Caesar repeated the word, then laughed. “Your duty is to follow me, monitor me, easily pin me to the ground when I go crazy, and then tell me, ‘Young Master, this isn’t right’? ‘It doesn’t solve anything’?”

Percy was silent for a few seconds.

“My duty,” he said slowly, “is to ensure you live, until you are able to decide for yourself whether or not to live.”

Caesar was stunned.

“The Earth is there, whether you can see it or not.” Percy paused, observing Caesar’s expression. “If you want to see it for yourself, there are two ways.”

"First, I can allocate a Celestron C14 Schmidt-Cassegrain telescope for you within thirty minutes. It has a 14-inch aperture, equipped with the StarSense automatic star-finding system and an ultra-precise motorized equatorial mount. In Saturn's orbit, its light-gathering power and resolution are sufficient to allow you to clearly see the Earth's disk and possibly even distinguish the outlines of the continents."

Caesar's face remained expressionless.

“Second,” Parcy continued, “the family still retains some signal relay satellites in low Earth orbit, although most of them were destroyed in the electromagnetic storms of the ‘farewell’ period. A few still maintain intermittent connections with the Deep Space Network via encrypted laser links. In theory, we could request the transmission of some recent optical or synthetic aperture radar images.”

He waited a while. Caesar simply kept his head down, rubbing the anti-slip texture on the hilt of his sword with his thumb.

"Young Master?" Percy asked softly.

“Percy,” Caesar said, without looking up.

"exist."

"If I ordered you to open the airlock and throw me out, would you do it?"

This time, Percy's silence lasted even longer. Long enough that Caesar thought he wouldn't answer.

“No, sir,” Percy said. “My duty is to ensure your survival, even if it goes against your current wishes.”

Caesar gave a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. It looked like a smile, but not quite.

“Then go get them,” he said, turning back to face the all-consuming darkness outside the observation window. “The telescope. And the satellite photos. I want to see them all.”

"Understood." Percy bowed slightly and left the bridge. His footsteps were swallowed up by the heavy sound-absorbing deck and disappeared completely.

About half an hour later, a black cylindrical telescope that needed to be fixed in place was delivered and assembled and calibrated next to the porthole.

Almost simultaneously, a corner of the main screen on the bridge lit up, and an image that had undergone complex decoding and noise reduction began to load.

Image timestamps show that the signal source is a high-orbit reconnaissance satellite, and the image was taken approximately ninety standard minutes ago. The familiar blue planet is in the center of the image, but the cloud distribution is abnormal, and the polar vortex is visibly violent.

Caesar did not immediately begin to tinker with the brand-new C14.

He stood there, staring at the screen.

The image is playing a short, dynamic clip that lasts only a few seconds.

At first, it's an overhead view of the North Atlantic, then the perspective zooms in and rotates toward the Arctic Circle at an incredible speed.

At the edge of the image, a striking crimson "fire line" seems to extend from the depths of the polar region, meandering rapidly southward in a strange, slightly spiraling pattern.

It was as if an invisible giant brush, using the continent as a scroll and lava as ink, was freely wielding its pen in the air.

That wasn't a volcanic eruption, nor a forest fire. Its scale, shape, and mode of movement all exuded a certain...will.

A certain magnificent, great, and inhuman will.

When adversity manifests, auspicious clouds and rainbows appear.

"What is this?" Caesar asked in a low voice.

Percy, who had just returned, stood to his side and slightly behind, also watching the line of fire: "No matching pattern found in the database."

"Unknown natural or man-made weapon phenomenon... The signal was interrupted approximately seven minutes after this segment of footage was transmitted. Source satellite status: Lost."

It was at this moment that the cabin door opened again, and a gentleman with graying temples strode in.

He is Dr. Duden, a senior expert on doomsday themes.

"The Supreme One has specifically requested to see you. Proceed to the Final Sanctuary immediately!"

Duden brought a cup of hot cocoa, his smile both strange and benevolent.

……

On the eastern coast of the Sinai Peninsula in the Red Sea, at a makeshift military pier, the blazing afternoon sun poured down relentlessly, turning everything white and the air distorted in the heat.

The salty sea breeze, which should have brought coolness, was instead mixed with another strong, lingering smell—rust, gunpowder smoke, and a fishy stench as if from a prehistoric abyss.

A huge shadow was cast over the dock.

That's not the shadow of the building.

It was a corpse. The corpse of a dragon.

It lay fallen on the makeshift, reinforced dock, like a rugged mountain range made of bronze, black iron, and decaying flesh.

Even in death, its enormous size still exuded a suffocating aura. Most of the scales on its body had crumbled and flipped open, revealing the strange, dark golden bones beneath, which looked like molten glass.

Some bones still had tiny, pale flames, as cold as the moon, that had not yet gone out.

The three-headed ancient dragon. A mythical creature that was finally hunted down by the US and European militaries using all available conventional and unconventional methods, even at unimaginable cost.

The only relatively intact corpse was taken to a nearby encampment, where experts from multiple countries conducted intensive sampling, analysis, and processing in an attempt to extract secrets about the dragon race, about the power of words, and about the nature of their terrifying power.

The powerful beams of the dockside searchlights shone on the rough ground and the dragon skeleton, cutting out a sharp line between light and shadow.

Two old people stood at the boundary between light and darkness.

One was Angers, wearing a suit with the collar slightly open. Perhaps to dissipate the body heat accumulated during the blood explosion, he held a Panama hat in his hand and gently fanned himself.

The other was Beowulf, a taller and more robust man in an old-fashioned officer's coat with a face crisscrossed with scars. He was the most stubborn representative of the dragon-slaying family, and he leaned on a greatsword that was almost as tall as him, with a freshly chipped blade.

Angers reached out and shook his hand.

Both elderly people's hands were steady, dry, and strong.

"Don't talk nonsense."

“I’ll ask you only one question,” Beowulf leaned forward slightly, “…Are you ready to draw your sword, Hilbert?”

"You, and those 'academics' under your command who are used to balls and afternoon tea, are you really... ready to draw your sword again?" He exerted force on the back of his hand, and fine white dragon scales appeared.

Opening and closing, like breathing. "Like our ancestors, facing monsters that could truly tear the sky apart and burn the earth, we'd tear out our hearts and livers, grip the hilt of our swords, and risk our lives to carve out a bloody path that might never see tomorrow—" Beowulf composed himself, repeating the question:
"are you ready?"

Angers released his grip and smiled slightly: "A knife? Beowulf, times have changed." He pointed to the sky, then to the steel ship turning and departing on the distant sea.

“Others are already using guns, cannons, and forces we never dared to dream of when we were young.” He paused, his tone calm yet profound, “Using knives is too primitive.”

High in the sky, where the clouds are thin, several huge, translucent bands of light, flowing with indescribably beautiful colors, can be vaguely discerned, drifting and changing.

“The blade is fast enough,” Beowulf followed his gaze, his scar on his face twitching slightly before he shook his head, his voice carrying the weight of a blade that could cut through iron and metal, “so it will never be primitive.”

"Moreover, some things can only be cut with a knife. Some roads can only be walked forward if you grip the knife handle tightly."

Angers did not refute.

"Maybe."

He said in a very soft voice, and continued to look up at the sky.

Those bands of light slowly rotated and extended, stretching out as if they were alive, cutting the sky into strange and magnificent fragments.

Sunlight shines through them, refracted and scattered, casting dappled and ever-changing light and shadow, falling on the dock, on the dragon skeleton, and on the faces of the two old men, etched with the wrinkles of time.

That's not the aurora.

The aurora will not appear near the equator at 1 p.m.

It was an unprecedented "tensioned integral ring" based on electromagnetic fluid active support technology.

Its length exceeds 200,000 kilometers and it is located at an altitude of 80 kilometers. It is just an aggregation of countless tiny ice crystals, yet it provides unimaginable near-Earth orbit carrying capacity and element siphon effect.

Guided by this simulated "celestial vein" that gradually sweeps across the entire Northern Hemisphere and operates in a cyclical manner, the atmospheric density within the Arctic Circle is decreasing at an alarming rate, the elements are becoming increasingly thin, and ultraviolet light and cosmic rays are penetrating deeply, eroding out huge holes.

This is the "Fenfeng" strategy planned by Zhao Qing.

Objective: To drastically weaken the activity of wind elements in the Arctic atmosphere by destructively stimulating the bond energy of specific elements, and to purify water element aerosols that may be contaminated by the Black King's will.

The ultra-high intensity ultraviolet refining will be enough to break the inherent energy transmission chain of the wind element, making it "sluggish" and difficult to aggregate, which is equivalent to a thorough "disinfection" and "weakening", depriving the Black King of its ability to control polar storms and water vapor.

Angers stared at the light for a long time.

Then, he slowly and genuinely laughed.

There was no desolation or resentment at being abandoned by the times in that smile; only a heartfelt joy at witnessing those who came after him rushing toward the goals he had once strived for in ways he had never imagined, and a steely understanding hidden beneath that joy.

This made his soul tremble and his blood boil.

“Yes,” Angers said softly, as if talking to himself, or as if answering Beowulf, answering the sea, answering the sky that was changing dramatically, “a knife that is fast enough will never be primitive.”

"So, my answer is..."

He turned back to look at Beowulf, his crimson-gold pupils gleaming intensely in the eerie light.

"I, and my knife, are ready."

"We've always been preparing."

"Never returned to its sheath."

The blade may eventually grow old, but the person who wields it has never feared the tides of time.

They are simply adjusting their posture, preparing to face a new battlefield.

……

At the same time, in Kourou Space Centre, French Guiana.

The Ariane rocket stood quietly on the launch pad at the edge of the launch pad, which had long been cleared at the highest level and all irrelevant personnel had been evacuated, like a silent giant pointing towards the gray sky.

But it is not the main focus today.

In a hardened bunker observation room about one kilometer from the main launch tower, Elizabeth Laurent put down the briefing she had just finished: "...the final ethical assessment report of the 'Ghosting' program still has not passed the vote of the Pan-European Commission."

"The resistance is greater than expected. It's not just about technological risks or resource issues," Cadmus added coldly.

"There is opposition from top to bottom. No one will trust this plan that is significantly beyond the current level of technology and looks like a scam."

Mr. Vanderbilt twirled his antique silver ring: “In every random survey, only one in a hundred people agree with the idea, and they suspect that it is actually a trap for the powerful, a variant of murder.”

"Upload consciousness, abandon the physical body, and become a... energy-state information life form?" another well-dressed elder of the Secret Society spoke up; he was a representative of the Sigurd family:
“Look outside, how many people are still worrying about bread, jobs, and whether they'll be drafted tomorrow? You talk to them about the eternity of the soul? About a digital Eden? They'll respond with spit and stones. That's more unacceptable than announcing the end of the world.”

“Once trust is broken, no plan can be executed.”

"But to be honest, once you become a ghost, you don't need to eat, wear clothes, or have a place to live. Your daily expenses are as low as half a pound, so what is there to worry about?"

Mr. Turing commented from the side, having transformed into a semi-transparent mass, floating in front of the holographic screen: "The greatest freedom is to be unrestrained."

“You fear the unknown, but I have experienced it. This is not the end, but... a dimensional ascension. Even the power of words has been strengthened.”

"Your 'experience' sample is only one, and it is voluntary."

Cadmus was blunt: "Forcing billions of people to undergo irreversible transformations is no different from massacre. Besides, how can we ensure that the consciousness after the upload is still the original person, and not a sophisticated phantom with your memories?"

"Logical paradox, Cadmus. How can you prove that you were yesterday and you are today are the same person? Just a continuum of memories."

Turing responded calmly.

"enough."

Elizabeth interrupted what could have been an endless philosophical debate by switching to a different briefing page, where key data was highlighted:
"Ethical debates cannot solve the imminent extinction crisis. But technology can partially circumvent it—the 'Global Gene and Somatic Cell Sample Bank' project is currently 76.2% complete."

"It covers most of the non-severely underdeveloped areas and is being transported to the moon in batches for storage. Once entered into the database, the complete genetic information of each sampled individual will be preserved."

"In theory, even if 'ghostification' is completed, when the technology matures in the future, the consciousness can be downloaded into a clone cultivated based on that information."

The so-called "severely backward areas" generally refer to half of Africa, a small part of South America, and certain ethnic groups' "reserved areas," etc. Due to political instability, paralyzed grassroots organizations, and even deep hostility towards the "outside world," there is a lack of order and cooperation, resulting in extremely poor progress and problems in implementation.

Given the limited human and material resources, some trade-offs must be made.

A low murmur rippled through the room.

This information has clearly not been fully disclosed.

“A clone?” Cadmus still frowned. “That takes time to grow, and a blank shell without memories or experience, is it still ‘you’? It’s more like creating a genetically related brother and stuffing your ‘ghost’ into it. Ethically, it’s more messy than a simple ‘digital ascension’.”

"These are technical details that can be resolved later."

Turing's light and shadow flickered. "The key is that once the sampling is complete, the backup is available. The 'form' of civilization's genetic information is preserved. But 'ghostification' preserves the 'god'—or at least the most important part of the god. Only with both form and spirit can there be a future. Without the 'god,' it's just a specimen in the gene pool."

"Why didn't you say so sooner?" Sigurd asked.

"Because the 'consciousness download' technology currently only exists in the theoretical model provided by Zhao Qing, we have no basis for it. To talk about it would be more like an unfulfilled promise, or another scam."

Elizabeth admitted, "But now, before the final window opens, I need you to understand the big picture."

"So, voting is actually..."

Vanderbilt seemed to be deep in thought.

“Voting is just a procedure. The real preparations never stop.”

Elizabeth pointed out the window: "'Elemental Beam Ring' undulates in a wave-like pattern at high and low altitudes, sweeping across the mid-to-low latitudes every 4 hours, spreading 'True Qi-Soul Containers' over an area of ​​4.4 million square kilometers, all of which are connected by traction ropes."

Although it possesses a terrifying carrying capacity that far exceeds that of traditional spaceflight by a million times, its passengers can only be "superhumans" who can withstand accelerations of thousands of Gs, and basically only "ghost immortals" meet this condition.

As for somatic cell sampling? Of course, it's sent over in other ways, such as by a new alchemical rocket that's about to be launched outside.

"Is everyone hooked on a fishing line? Can they be cast into space at any time?" Turing's metaphors are always so vivid.

The meeting room fell silent as the elders couldn't help but imagine a horrifying scene: billions of people, at some unpredictable moment, simultaneously "going offline," their consciousness drained away like streams flowing into the sea, leaving only slumped bodies.

“It’s not a fishhook, it’s a lifeline,” Elizabeth corrected. “Only those whose vital signs have disappeared will trigger the automatic upload before the ‘Elemental Binding Ring’ is on the verge of destruction.”

"It doesn't need your consent, just like when a tsunami hits, the lifeboats don't ask passengers if they believe in the captain's god first."

Simply put, it's not much different from going to "heaven" after death, and it doesn't conflict with traditional refuge fortifications; it just serves as a final safeguard.

"But are we really going to gamble the future of our entire civilization on a path that we ourselves only have a vague understanding of?"

Sigurd murmured.

“Gamble?” Elizabeth stood up. “Do we have the right not to gamble? There is no perfect solution,” she said, her gaze sweeping over each elder. “There are only options that are not so bad.”

“Alright then, you and Cadmus will give up,” she said, staring at the two who had objected most vehemently just moments before. “Now, sign the withdrawal agreement, take your families, leave this room, leave all the access nodes of the ‘Ark Project.’ Go and uphold your ethics, your flesh and blood, your dignity as ‘human beings.’”

“But the price is,” Elizabeth’s voice was icy, “that you and your family will not appear on any of the 'sampling database' lists, nor will you receive the key to ascend to 'Ghost Immortal' status. When the final tide engulfs everything, you will sink completely, along with the 'humanity' you cherish, leaving no trace.”

"This is the final choice. Now, make a decision."

Cadmus and Sigurd abruptly stood up, their golden eyes blazing, their expressions instantly turning extremely grim. They looked at each other, then at Elizabeth's expressionless face, and finally, their gazes settled on Turing's inhuman, serene light and shadow.

After a long ten seconds, Cadmus took a deep breath, slowly sat back in his chair, and looked away.

Sigurd did not move, nor did he speak again.

When a desperate charge becomes like a moth flying towards the sun.

Weighing options, yielding, preserving... these thoughts, which were once considered cowardly or even treacherous, have now become the very nature that should be unleashed.

The fact that they are sitting here discussing "ghostification," the ultimate means of escape and disaster avoidance, speaks volumes.

The end of reason is often decadence and nihilism.

However, the courage did not disappear; it was simply diluted by the overwhelming shadow into a faint, bitter sense of bewilderment.

“Very good.” Elizabeth sat down again and clapped her hands.

……

Under the same sky, while those who determine the fate of the world gaze at the stars, devise strategies, or grapple with philosophical dilemmas, the most fundamental and primal sorrow of humanity continues to flow and spread silently in every corner, following its own inertia:
Homeless people still gather under bridges and in abandoned buildings, sharing dirty syringes or tin foil, trembling in the ecstasy brought on by chemicals, and imagining the broken glass and cigarette butts scattered on the street as colorful candies, crawling to grab them and stuffing them into their mouths to suck.
Men or women, with sallow complexions and barely clothed, silently walked past the brightly decorated Christmas tree, just as they had done for thousands of days before, and went into private clinics to sell their blood in exchange for extra money for the holidays, thus bringing a small amount of happiness in the promise of a full meal for their hungry children at home.

There was a middle-aged man in a suit who was wiped out by the stock market crash and fell silently from a skyscraper, his wide-open eyes reflecting the blue sky and buildings rushing past; there were also people who collected nameless corpses from alleys and corners along the way, skillfully dismembered and processed them in a van, turning the remains into medical materials and pharmaceutical raw materials.
The head of the stowaway who was tortured to death by lynching was cut off, and his flesh was pierced by iron chains. It was hung high on the truss of a bridge with passing vehicles. The dried bloodstains turned dark brown, attracting flies.

Casino thugs escort other men's wives and daughters, and even elderly parents, who have just lost to their boss, into the back door of a strip club; prostitutes returning late from soliciting customers, covered in sores, swallow painkillers while learning to use a clothes hanger to make abortion hooks for themselves.

In the sewers of a bustling city, "moles" scramble for their spots closer to the aging, leaking steam heating pipes from over a century ago, trying to feel a sliver of light from the outside world through the tiny holes in the manhole covers. They numbly watch as the dredging company uses high-pressure water jets mixed with sandblasting and acid to wash them down, only to perish from the corrosion.

An elderly man in a wheelchair begs, his hands red from the cold, holding up a sign that begs for alms, while a bustling crowd surrounds him.

Along the shore where the yachts were moored, the seabed was covered with human corpses, some already skeletons, some just beginning to decompose, being eaten by schools of fish, and crawling with wriggling starfish, sea cucumbers, crabs, and snails.

Sunlight shines equally on magnificent palaces and putrid ditches, while crisis seeps evenly into sophisticated command centers and filthy slums. Human joys and sorrows may be as insignificant as the tremor of a speck of dust on the scale of the universe, but in the world of each sufferer, they are a cataclysmic upheaval.

……

December 25, 0:01, the neighboring world of Sword Dynasty.

Zhao Qing's true form "awakened" after a long period of secluded cultivation, rising lightly from the bottom of the Fountain of Immortality. The half-illusory, half-real membrane of heaven and earth shone brightly a thousand feet away, playing the resounding Daoist music.

The inner universe's evolutionary stage, "Heaven Opens at Zi," is now complete, with only a few hours remaining before the work is finished.

"Just a little bit short of mastering the universe, yet still more than half of the power is restricted. Perhaps this is the connection of fate."

She smiled calmly, indicating that everything was as expected, neither too fast nor too slow. "If I can't rely too much on my own strength, then I'll borrow strength. The stars in the sky and the thoughts of all living beings are all at my disposal!"

The stillness of metal and stone, and the movement of humankind, each possess their own nature and follow their own principles; both are manifestations of the alternation of Yin and Yang and the continuous arising of causes and conditions.

In an instant, Zhao Qing floated into the air, casually inhaled, and caused all the spring water to turn into condensed white ribbons, which he then swallowed.

She failed to break the one-month time limit set by the Zihui Society, which was her pursuit of stability. However, other conventions, such as the requirements for gathering and refining the Yin and Yang six energies of the earth, could not stump her methods of change.

In just two decades, the essence of this "fountain of youth" has been purified, extracting abundant solar cold water energy and yin damp earth energy.

It can manifest the changes of Yin and Yang, and combine them to form the basis for the regulation of the six Qi.

This increased her total mana and recovery speed by about 50%, and significantly enhanced her ability to interfere with and control the corresponding elemental laws of the outside world, allowing her to define the domain under her control for a longer period of time.

The two gradually merged into Zhao Qing's eyes, which had long reflected the sun and moon, and condensed into the first stage of her forged Dharma body and Dao body, naturally radiating the primordial power that was about to arrive, rotating and ascending.

Then, she pointed her fingers into a sword shape and pointed it into the void.

……

At the North Pole of the Dragon Clan world, billions of tiny, dust-like crystalline hazes converged thousands of feet above the ground, forming an ever-extending sword shape. (End of Chapter)