Ziwei had arrived—or rather, drawn near—to the edge of Mount Buzhou. But to say he had "reached" it would be to misunderstand the nature of what stood before him.
He was still miles from its foot. Yet the air had already thickened to lead. The sky above folded inwards like a wounded scroll. Space around the mountain twisted and rippled, reshaped by some unspeakable gravity. Even time itself slowed, drawn into the endless breath of a thing far older than Heaven.
Ziwei's cultivation—already exalted beyond Quasi-Saint, shaped by a Martial Dao no Heaven had ordained—dimmed before that silent pressure. He felt like a child gazing up at a god carved from the spine of eternity.
This was no mountain.
This was the last bone of Pangu.
The spine of the Creator.
"To approach the Father's spine with wings," Ziwei murmured within, "is arrogance. But to approach it with steps… is worship."
So he did not fly.
He walked.
Each step a quiet thunder, parting the laws of time like silk torn by longing. With each pace, the universe bent, but not in resistance—in recognition.
And then, without thought or trigger, a memory rose—not from the mind, but from somewhere deeper. From the marrow of the soul.
The tale of Ancestor Wu.
A war god of the ancient eras. Mad with fury, he had hurled his skull against the sacred mountain and cracked it.
The story was myth. A lesson to the prideful.
And yet…
Ziwei's golden eyes narrowed as the tale flickered behind his gaze.
Impossible.
Even standing at this distance, with the strength of countless lifetimes blooming through every meridian, he could barely keep his footing. The mountain's stones were not stones, but Dao Bones—fragments of Pangu's essence, anchors of the three realms. Not even a Saint could scar them.
So how had that tale been true?
"Someone intervened," Ziwei whispered.
But who?
The Heavenly Dao?
Too limited. Too constrained.
His senses stirred. Not with clarity, but with unease.
A force older than laws. Deeper than time.
Something that did not rule, but devoured.
"If Mount Buzhou was ever truly broken," he said, more to the mountain than to himself, "then Father's Dao Fruit was stolen. Incomplete. And I… I have inherited a wound I did not see."
The mountain said nothing.
But the pressure shifted—subtly.
A weight not of strength, but of meaning.
Will.
A sleeping will, vast and unawakened, whispering not in sound, but in silence.
Ziwei stepped forward again.
Each motion sent soft quakes through the strands of fate.
And behind him, quiet as mist, someone followed.
He did not turn.
He did not need to.
His divine senses unfolded like starlight across a lake. The one behind him was strong—at the peak of Great Luo Golden Immortal. But there was no killing intent. No ambition. No deceit. Merely a presence. Like a leaf beside a tree.
Ziwei walked on.
"When an ant walks beside your heel," he mused, "do you crush it… or let it follow?"
He let it follow.
Until the footsteps behind him stopped.
And a voice—calm, low, and respectful—rose like incense under the mountain's breath.
"Senior… may I walk with you, a little farther?"
Ziwei paused.
There was no flattery in the voice. No calculation. Only a quiet sincerity.
He turned, the mists parting before his gaze.
His eyes glowed with the soft brilliance of a night sky untouched by suffering.
"I can carry you forward," he said. "But first—who are you? And why do you seek to climb?"
A figure emerged from the swirling haze. Tall, poised, ancient.
"I am Lin Zu," the man said with a bow. "Ancestor of the Qilin Clan."
Ziwei's gaze deepened.
The Qilin—noble beasts born of Pangu's bones, symbols of harmony and Heaven's grace. They walked when sages were born, and vanished when chaos reigned. Their presence was not power, but prophecy.
Ziwei had already guessed the truth.
But it mattered that Lin Zu had spoken it aloud.
Because here, in the shadow of Pangu's will, falsehood could not exist.
Ziwei bore four eternal laws in his presence:
The Way of All Living Beings.
The Law of Nature.
The Law of Creation.
And the Law of Destruction.
To speak a lie before those truths was not to sin.
It was to be erased.
Lin Zu felt them. Not as threat, but as warmth.
Three laws wrapped around him like sunlight that remembered his name.
The fourth simply waited.
So he bowed again, deeper than before.
"I came to offer thanks to the Creator," he said. "For this world… and for the breath He gave me."
Ziwei smiled.
And the mountain responded.
Golden light spilled from between the clouds. Ancient trees bloomed with flowers that had not existed in a billion years. Primordial butterflies danced into being, spun from dust and memory. Even the wind softened—like the land itself was sighing in joy.
All of it happened because Ziwei smiled.
Because in that moment, he was not the wielder of divine law.
He was a son.
A son who remembered.
A son born not of blood, but of sacrifice.
In a world where saints chased eternity and gods bartered with karma, Ziwei had chosen reverence. He did not seek to reign over the legacy of Pangu.
He sought to complete it.
And for that…
He had earned the mountain's breath.
His voice lowered.
"I am Ziwei," he said gently. "If you wish, you may call me elder brother."
Lin Zu froze.
Then fell to his knees.
"Little Qilin greets the Supreme Emperor."
But Ziwei had already turned away.
"Go," he said. "Offer your thanks. Then leave this place. We will meet again, someday."
Lin Zu bowed once more and moved forward, step by step, toward the mountain's sacred edge.
And at that precise moment…
The pressure changed.
It grew heavier—not with threat, but with significance.
Ziwei's eyes sharpened.
"It deepened. Why?"
He listened—not with ears, but with essence.
The answer did not come as thought, but as law.
Because Lin Zu—born of Pangu's body—had bowed in reverence.
And Fate had answered.
The Power of Fate—a cosmic law older than intent, deeper than choice.
It binds all beings by their origin.
When a soul returns to its source,
When reverence aligns with root,
Destiny stirs.
The strings of karma tighten.
The sleeping will of gods begins to breathe.
And from that breath…
Ziwei felt it.
Not a roar.
A whisper.
But enough.
Enough to plant a seed within his divine heart.
Not a seed of conquest.
But of reunion.
Not ambition.
But restoration.
"Perhaps," he thought, eyes flickering like a forgotten star, "I can awaken my father… sooner than I dreamed."
And with that—
The silence of the mountain changed.
It no longer waited.
It listened.
And far above, beyond the stars that held their breath…
A thought turned in the dark.
And the world awaited the next step.