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

"Although the passage of time can erase the cycle of life, destiny will never sever humanity."

"The birth and death of all things are nothing more than the manifestation of the cycle of Yin and Yang."

With a slight thought, Zhao Qing pushed the sword away into the distance, the movement very light and slow, as if afraid of disturbing a newly born dream.

"Go."

The sword light was colorless, but after slicing through the pale halo, it burst forth with crimson blood light, surging and boiling like lava, yet instantly solidifying into dazzling patterns like ice crystals.

Just like time itself congeals, hardens, and peels off at the wound.

If viewed from above, it would be easy to notice that the entire circular field of fate suddenly has a noticeable indentation at this corner, like a lunar or solar eclipse.

The more distant heavens and earth suddenly trembled violently, as if hundreds of living dragons were roaring, trying to break free from the hellish prison of countless years ago.

That was the last resistance of countless threads of fate forcibly "repatriated" from history before being completely erased.

These resistances should have been futile. But at the nick of time created by the sword's flash, they found a brief "fulcrum".

When faced with an avalanche in the dimension of time, the appropriate response is certainly not to blindly draw your sword and strike.

Instead, it first uses the solar entropy change to melt large chunks of snow into water with the intense heat of the sword intent, and then reverses the flow to generate the yin energy, which immediately refreezes them and shapes them into solid ice walls and dams.

In a sense, this is actually the ultimate evolution of the "Dike Sword Manual" in the space-time dimension, which can slow down and differentiate the surging trend.

Use order to guide disorder, and use change to cope with constancy.

The great roads lead to the same destination.

The long river of time and the torrent of fate are essentially nothing more than a grander kind of "flow".

Since both involve "flow," the wisdom of "guidance" is equally applicable.

"The sword's size, hardness, and toughness are still far from adequate," Zhao Qing's gaze sharpened as he sensed the changes in the surrounding environment. "After all, the amount of material is too small and the age is too young. How can we forge a peerless sword? We should find some ancient fungi and fossils..."

In addition, the "Ugly Meeting" finally arrived, where heavy and turbid substances condensed downwards, containing water, fire, mountains, stones, and earth, which are called the Five Elements.

When heaven and earth were separated and the two polarities were distinguished, shapes were formed, and then the Dao patterns arose. The spirit has no fixed form, but its nature has substance. The circle is endless and cannot be fathomed.

The atmosphere naturally manifests itself, and the light of heaven reveals its transformations.

Unlike ordinary cultivators, she had just reached this stage. Even though she was only a beginner, she used the methods of "transformation" and "absorption" to bear and replenish her burdens, and her realm had stabilized. She could now unleash her full power without any more constraints.

In a very short period of time, its magical power nearly doubled.

The sword's "age" is also increasing.

Having gone through this round of "diffraction" and the elimination of resources, Zhao Qing has thoroughly understood the role of so-called relatives and clans, and has become completely confident in breaking through to the Ninth Realm of Immortality.

"Perhaps, this could be called an 'anchor point' on the timeline? A reference point for 'Tao' and its laws?"

……

Almost at the same time.

The top of the Tower of Babel.

The ripples in the blood pool had subsided completely at some point, and the surface of the water was as smooth as a piece of solidified dark red amber, reflecting the shimmering light flowing from the dome, as well as Shi Yiguang's calm and waiting face.

“She did it,” the king suddenly said.

The voice was no longer dull as before, but instead carried a long-lost lightness, as if it had just awakened from a long period of contemplation.

Shi Yiguang nodded gently: "She always manages to do it."

"Borrowing the ripples of all 'life' to fight against the silence of 'end'."

"Can she handle it?" the other person asked thoughtfully. "The three-dimensional time structure means she must exist simultaneously in countless 'nows.' Each decision point will split into a new worldline, and she must maintain the coherence of her 'self' across all worldlines..."

"But the dealer is still the dealer, and the rules are still the rules."

"There are no guaranteed wins in the world, only games of probability."

“Perhaps,” Shi Yiguang said after a moment of silence, “So, will you still tell the third story you prepared?”

The question was somewhat abrupt, but the king understood its deeper meaning.

The first two stories—"Shadow and Tower" and "Moon and Tree"—are told just before Zhao Qingyi was about to make a crucial breakthrough.

Those stories are like a test, or a revelation, using the lessons of ancient civilizations to light warnings for those who come after. But now that they have forged a completely new path, do those warnings still hold any meaning?
“If you’re willing to listen, I will tell you.” The pure white king remained noncommittal, but his tone held a deep sense of inquiry: “But before I tell you this story, I would like to ask you a few questions.”

Shi Yiguang said solemnly, "Please."

"first question."

His golden eyes stared at her. "What do you think a consciousness would become if it lived for hundreds of millions of years?"

Shi Yiguang was slightly taken aback.

This was not the beginning of the story she had envisioned.

She pondered for a moment before cautiously speaking: "Time loses its meaning, just as the ocean is merely 'water' to a fish, not 'the ocean.' All changes become repetitions, all novelty becomes familiarity. Living itself becomes a kind of... inertia."

“Inertia.” The king repeated the word, chuckling softly.

"So, the second question: what if this consciousness, over these hundreds of millions of years, did not live linearly, but instead 'was born and died, died and was born' in a continuous cycle?"

“Then death will lose its meaning,” Shi Yiguang said. “It will no longer be the end, but just… a long slumber. And resurrection will no longer be a new life, but just waking up. The boundary between life and death will be blurred, and existence will become a dream without beginning or end.”

"Just a dream?" the king murmured. "Very well."

"Third question: What do you think is the essential difference between 'Stellar Will' and collective consciousness or Gestalt consciousness?"

Shi Yiguang was deep in thought.

She knew the White King wouldn't ask questions without reason, and the answers to these questions might be the key to the third story.

Then she replied: "Language."

"Ok?"

“The will of the stars… is a consciousness field that emerges from the long evolution of a planet as a physical entity, synchronized with the geological timescale.” Shi Yiguang attempted to express his understanding. “It may not have a clear boundary of ‘self’ because its ‘body’ is the entire planetary system.”

"Its thought rate may be synchronized with plate tectonics and mantle convection, and a single thought may span millions of years."

"The collective consciousness and Gestalt derived from intelligent life are emergent phenomena built on the real-time interaction of countless independent individuals. Its existence depends on the activity of individual consciousness, and its 'thinking' speed is synchronized with the activities of civilization, changing in an instant."

"so?"

“Therefore, the will of the stars may possess unparalleled ‘breadth’ and ‘depth’, but lack ‘resolution’ and ‘rate of change’,” Shi Yiguang said. “The latter two are the opposite.”

"One side is like a deep but almost still ocean, and the other side is like a shallow but turbulent river."

"You've already crossed the line."

“Language shapes wisdom, and communication creates language.” She continued, “It not only expresses thoughts, but also shapes thoughts themselves.”

"Just as the Inuit have dozens of words to describe 'snow,' so the 'snow' they see is something completely different from the 'snow' most people see; just as the Pirahã language only has vague quantitative concepts of 1, 2, and 'many,' and cannot perform addition and subtraction operations of more than ten."

"More importantly, language only truly exists in communication—monologue is merely a potential language."

“True language is born between at least two consciousnesses, a system of symbols created in order to understand each other.”

"The will of the stars will not create 'language' on its own, even though it possesses unparalleled power and geological memories accumulated over billions of years."

"But intelligent beings are different."

Shih Yi-kuang looked up and said, “We created language—not to describe the world that already exists, but to construct a world that does not exist. We weave meaning in communication, establish relationships in dialogue, and define boundaries in debate. Language is not a tool, but an organ that grows from wisdom itself.”

"In other words, without the existence of a 'dialogue partner,' there can be no true 'language,'" the king concluded. "And without true language, consciousness is forever trapped in the cage of monologue."

"No matter how many memories it accumulates, it's just... the repeated chewing of internal data, unable to form true 'thought'!"

"That kind of consciousness is less wisdom and more a kind of 'weirdness' that operates based on complex physical laws and has a certain tendency. A vast, ancient, silent 'field' composed of countless 'weirdness' aggregates."

"Words without an echo will wither into monologues; thoughts without a response will collapse into madness."

"Wisdom... is born in dialogue. Even if the two sides of the dialogue are separated by the chasm of species, the barrier of dimensions, or even—the insurmountable chasm between gods and humans."

Shi Yiguang suddenly understood many things.

“Your third story,” she said softly, “is about… the birth of a conversation?”

“It is a beginning,” the king corrected, his voice becoming distant, as if piercing through the thick curtain of time, “and it is also an end.”

"It began with a chance encounter and a long gamble that brought together deception, redemption, and betrayal."

……

The image of the blood pool finally began to solidify into something concrete.

This time, the image is no longer crystal clear, but instead has a raw, rough texture.

It's like looking at the world through ancient volcanic ash.

"That was a very, very long time ago, so long ago that dragons were just powerful creatures scattered across this planet, so long ago that the word 'civilization' had not yet been invented, and we were still in the primordial darkness."

At that time, on the vast land, dragons were still just a few scattered, powerful creatures. They soared through the sky and lurked in the abyss, possessing the power to shake mountains and control the elements. With their long lifespans, they were undoubtedly the pinnacle of all living beings.

They hunt, hibernate, fight or mate, but they have no writing, no architecture, no complex social order, and not even the awareness to plan for the "future".

They live simply because they live.

The narrator added, "Just as natural as mountains rising, seas rising, and winds blowing, so too... it's utterly meaningless."

There is no 'purpose' that transcends individual survival.

The view then changes, casting a reflection of a precipice overlooking the sea, with an incredibly huge tree growing atop the cliff.

The tree canopy is like a cloud, and its roots are like dragons, deeply embedded in the rock strata, with some branches extending out of the cliff and drooping towards the roaring sea below.

The tree is peculiar. Its trunk is silvery-gray, and its leaves are deep purple during the day and glow with a faint blue light at night.

This tree has no name. In those days, most things didn't have names. It simply existed, like part of the cliff itself.

Beneath the tree, a figure was entrenched.

Its jet-black dragon wings were folded at its sides, its head rested on its forepaws, and its golden eyes were half-closed, as if it were dozing or deep in thought.

"The Black Emperor".

"At the same time, Nidhogg, the ancestor of all dragons, was far from being as huge as the mountain you saw later when he confronted your friend in the Arctic; he was only about a hundred meters tall."

He chose to stay here simply because it was quiet, had a great view, and was perfect for overlooking the changing sea of ​​clouds and starry sky.

That's it.

As they traveled, the dragon's wings, which blotted out the sun, and its majestic power that stirred up storms and thunder, were seen from afar by several primitive human tribes in the surrounding area who lived by hunting and gathering. Their ignorance and fear gradually gave rise to the most primitive form of worship.

They regarded Him as a god who controlled the heavens and ruled over life and death, and began to worship in the direction of the holy mountain, offering the best food they could find—usually the heart of their prey, rare fruits, or even captured and maimed members of their own kind.

"When we say 'human,' we are actually closer to the transition between ape and human, belonging to the ancestors of late Homo sapiens—they would use crude stone tools, try to collect and preserve rare 'heavenly fire,' have simple syllable changes to express basic needs, and use animal skins and grass to keep warm, but that's all."

"They don't even know how to make fire or build houses."

"Their lifespan is short, most not living past thirty. Death can come at any time: wild animal attacks, tribal conflicts, a severe cold, a harsh winter with food shortages..."

Over time, simple altars, crude rituals, and regular ceremonies developed at the foot of the mountain, attracting human settlements from further afield to come and worship, and eventually migrate and settle there.

Did the Black Emperor know of the existence of these ants?

knew.

It's like knowing there's an anthill under your feet. As long as they don't crawl on you or disturb your peace, you can't be bothered with them.

To Him, the actions of these two-legged creatures were, like birds building nests and wild beasts courting, meaningless noises in the natural cycle. For tens of thousands of years, this group of apes had been repeating the same foolish behavior over and over again, building simple nests, only to have them destroyed by fighting or natural disasters.

This cycle repeats itself, which is quite ridiculous.

He intends to stay here until he gets tired of it.

Perhaps I'll sleep a few more times, or perhaps I'll wait for that silver-gray tree to bloom again next season—that will take more than three hundred years—and then I'll leave to go to the other side of the ocean to find some new, still-unseen scenery.

The tribe, of course, had no idea of ​​the "god's" plans.

They simply held increasingly solemn and devout sacrificial rites, firmly believing that their piety had earned them divine "protection," allowing the tribe to survive one harsh winter and famine after another.

The camera focuses on the largest tribe at the foot of the mountain.

Hundreds of people gathered around the stone altar.

It was deep winter, and the scene was completely different from the previous "favorable weather"—the earth was covered with thick snow, the trees were frozen to death, the animals had disappeared, and even the most cold-resistant berries were nowhere to be seen.

Hunger and despair were etched on people's faces.

The scale of the cold wave exceeded any previous record.

The blizzard lasted for a whole month, and the temperature dropped so low that even the most cold-resistant mammoths froze to death in large numbers.

The tribe's food supplies ran out, and the elderly and children died in droves. Even the strongest hunters were frozen into ice sculptures while out searching for food.

Around the few remaining campfires, the tribe's elders, after debate and divination, quickly reached a consensus:

"We must pray to the gods! This is a test from the gods, and we must prove our piety!"

"How can you prove it?" the leader asked.

He was a tall, middle-aged man, but at this moment he was skin and bones, haggard, with sunken eyes and cracked lips.

“According to ancient custom,” the priest said, “when facing the crisis of extinction, we offer the gods…the most precious offerings.”

The most precious offering.

In that era, for primitive tribes, the most precious thing was not gold or jewels, but people—especially young, healthy, and pure girls. They were the hope for the tribe's continuation, the future mothers, and the symbol of life.

Offering such a sacrifice signifies that the tribe is giving up its most precious future in exchange for its present survival.

For over a century, whenever faced with similar major crises, the tribe would hold such a sacrifice. They believed that it was this "sacrifice" that earned the mercy of the gods.

Each time they miraculously survived, their faith grew stronger.

This time will be no exception.

The self-deception of reversing cause and effect is one of the oldest tricks of intelligent life.

……

The tribe chose that girl.

She was about fifteen years old and had long, light silver hair and silver eyes, which her tribe considered "inauspicious"—it was said that her mother dreamed of glaciers under the moonlight when she was pregnant with her.

But the girl was healthy, intelligent, and extremely beautiful, and was regarded by boys her age as a pure existence like morning dew.

Now, she has become a sacrifice.

Two old women used bone needles and animal sinew to sew a relatively intact piece of white animal hide into a simple "ritual robe".

Another old woman used a stone knife to cut off the girl's hair, leaving it only to her shoulders, and then used grass juice and mineral powder to paint patterns on her face, and put on a necklace made of colored pebbles.

No one asked her if she was willing.

In the face of the survival of the tribe, the will of the individual is meaningless.

The girl was very quiet.

She didn't cry, didn't make a fuss, and didn't even show any expression.

They just sat quietly, letting the old women do as they pleased.

It seems they had already accepted their fate.

But her eyes were bright, and she kept looking at the exit of the shack.

She gazed at the tribe outside who were offering her up...

……

On the day of the sacrifice, the wind and snow subsided slightly.

The girl was bound to a stone pillar in the center of the altar with ropes soaked in holy water. The altar was situated beside a river whose flow had slowed due to the extreme cold, but which was still turbulent. Across the river stood a majestic cliff, shrouded in mist and considered sacred.

According to custom, the sacrificial process is as follows: first, the elders recite the prayer, then cut the throat of the offering with a flint knife, and then push the body into the water, so that the blood, life and the soul of the deceased can float with the water towards the holy mountain as proof of the offering.

The stone knife was already raised, facing the bleak winter sun.

The cold wind, carrying snowflakes, howled as it swept across the river.

The girl suddenly spoke up.

“I have a question!”

She cried out, “Just cut their throats and push them into the water. Their bodies will sink before they reach the holy mountain, or be smashed by the rocks.”

"How can a mutilated, cold body communicate with the gods and convey the tribe's devout prayers?"

The priest was stunned.

Everyone was stunned. In past rituals, no sacrifice had ever spoken at the last moment. They were either terrified or had already been given hallucinogenic herbs and fallen into a coma.

"What...do you mean?" The priest frowned.

The girl didn't look at him, but instead turned her gaze to the leader: "If the gods really need sacrifices, then they must also need a living messenger who can speak."

“Dead sacrifices can only be offered with flesh and blood, but living sacrifices can convey the tribe’s prayers and hear the gods’ instructions.”

"I wish to be that messenger."

"Let me live through this."

"To live and reach the divine."

"Let me personally convey the tribe's suffering and prayers."

"Only living messengers can truly deliver our thoughts to the ears of the gods."

“At least,” the girl’s voice softened, even taking on a pleading tone, “let me enter the sacred river intact. Let my eyes still see the path to the sacred mountain, let my lips still utter my final prayer before I sink.”

"Is not a whole, conscious sacrifice a better testament to our piety than a silent corpse?"

She paused, then uttered the most crucial question: "Or is it that deep down, you all don't truly believe that God can 'listen,' so you only need to go through the bloodshed?"

This statement was too sharp, too deadly. It touched upon the priestly class's most hidden fears: Did they truly believe, or were they merely upholding a set of rituals that granted them power?
After a long, suffocating silence, the old priest slowly put down his stone knife and looked at the chief with a hesitant expression.

Although it doesn't follow the rules, in dire straits, any glimmer of "unusual" hope is enough to make someone cling to it.

"Give her a piece of driftwood."

The leader wavered: "May the gods have mercy on us."

……

Several men brought over a thick wooden plank, untied the girl from the stone pillar, and re-tied her to the plank with ropes.

The women wove a new crown of flowers for her, using the few remaining white flowers of winter to form a dense ring, and placed it on her head.

“The flower crown was beautiful,” the narrator said, his voice rising and falling with emotion. “White petals, yellow stamens, and green stems and leaves intertwined in a ring. On the snow-covered shore, that color seemed so unreal, so… vibrant.”

Then, amidst the priest's solemn prayers, the plank was pushed off the cliff and into the turbulent, churning black river water.

It rushed downstream, towards the sacred mountain.

The tribespeople watched from the riverbank, holding their breath, until that tiny figure disappeared around the bend in the river. (End of Chapter)