The gray-white mists of the Wildlands still drifted between the heavens and earth, as if the entire world had been compressed into a single tone. Even the wind seemed frozen in the air. Ye Chenyu and his companions slowly traversed the ruins of the Wildlands. The petrified skeletons of colossal beasts stretched like mountain ranges, faint lights flickering through the cracks of shattered bones, as if recounting the long-forgotten ancient stories of this world. In the distance, rifts in the void churned with swirling black shadows—the remnants of "Chaos"—twisting the rhythm of the heavens and earth, stretching and compressing the flow of time infinitely.
Ye Chenyu's steps were heavy, each one like plunging into an endless abyss. The Wildlands whispered around him—low echoes of the faceless god's gaze, the breath of the Ruin, the Wildlands itself summoning him. His chest felt gripped by invisible hands, his breathing almost halted under the pressure of the distorted air. Liyue Ying and Xuan Ye followed closely, while Xing Lan's gaze occasionally flickered toward the depths of the Wildlands. The pulse of her bloodline resonated faintly with her ancient oceanic pact, a subtle warning line stretching taut between the four of them.
Suddenly, the ground shivered. The void rift at the center of the Wildlands emitted a flash of light. A spiraling column of light shot skyward, lifting debris and dust, as if the entire wasteland trembled in that instant. Within the gray-white mist, the vague outlines of ancient forms appeared—four wings, six limbs, faceless shapes—nightmarish reflections of reality. Xing Lan felt the pulse of blood coursing within her, her face turning pale as she whispered, "Do not be consumed by its gaze." Liyue Ying's voice cut sharply, suppressing the faintly shifting illusions around them, while Xuan Ye deployed a protective array, sheltering Ye Chenyu and Xing Lan at the center from the tearing energies of the Wildlands.
Ye Chenyu clenched his fists as echoes of his origin flickered through his mind—the inheritance of Zhu Jiuyin trembling faintly within him. He had countless times sensed himself as an extension of the Wildlands, a descendant of the ancient god, and now he could almost feel the faceless god's presence merging with him. He wished to escape, but knew his steps could not carry him away; the rhythm of the Wildlands had already bound him, Liyue Ying, Xuan Ye, and Xing Lan to the same line of fate. Every stone, every gust of wind seemed to remind them: no matter how far you go, the Wildlands are watching, waiting.
At the center of the Wildlands, beside the vortex, Ye Chenyu paused. He crouched down, spreading out the pen and tattered paper he carried. His hands trembled but were resolute. Memories, illusions, echoes of his origin, and the whispers of the Wildlands intertwined in his mind. He had to record everything—even if the world collapsed, even if the void consumed all, this record would remain proof of his existence. He dipped his pen in blood and wrote, documenting every experience from the South Mountains, West Mountains, and East Sea to the Wildlands—the trials of the five territories of the Spirit Realm, the lingering shadows of beasts, echoes of his origin, the apocalyptic landscape of the Wildlands, and every encounter and battle alongside Liyue Ying, Xuan Ye, and Xing Lan. He even recorded the texture of the light mists, the petrified skeletons of colossal beasts, and the subtle changes in the faceless god's contours projected within the vortex.
As he wrote, his consciousness seemed to pass through the paper, penetrating the void of the Wildlands. The gray-white mist thickened, and the light pillar from the vortex rose as if from the depths, lifting endless shards of bone. Ye Chenyu felt the rhythm of the Wildlands synchronize with his own breath; his blood resonated with it, each heartbeat striking the ultimate creature hidden deep within the void. Xing Lan noticed the resonance he created while recording, her brows knitted as the faint glow of her bloodline tried to stabilize the surrounding currents. Liyue Ying and Xuan Ye exchanged glances, eyes tense and alert, yet they did not interfere—he had to complete this record himself. This was their only hope.
The void of the Wildlands intensified. The faceless god's shadow stretched within the light column of the vortex, its four wings and six limbs intermittently visible, each beat pressing upon the four companions' chests. Bones, dust, mist, even the residual winds within the vortex whispered: you cannot escape, you cannot resist, you can only record. Ye Chenyu's fingers were cold, the tip of his bloodied pen steady. He wrote down every heartbeat, every illusion, every creature's form and presence.
After finishing the last line, Ye Chenyu felt a portion of the Wildlands' power within him slowly subside. He lifted his head, observing the surroundings. The vortex gradually receded, the gray-white mists began to disperse, and the void rift slowly closed. The faceless god's lingering shadow still hovered faintly, seemingly watching, silently waiting. His heart raced, yet a clarity settled within him: even if the Wildlands consumed all, memory and will could persist through words.
Liyue Ying stepped beside him, softly saying, "What you recorded is not just the events, but your existence as well." Her voice was cold yet carried a faint note of acknowledgment. Xuan Ye nodded, and Xing Lan's gaze turned toward the still-churning distant mist, as if sensing the hidden forces within the depths of the Wildlands. Their silhouettes stretched within the gray-white mist, gradually merging with the apocalyptic scenery of the Wildlands.
Finally, Ye Chenyu gathered his pen and paper, naming the record Lingyu Chronicles. It was not only his personal experience but also a testament to all the Wildlands, beasts, altars, runes, and deities of the Spirit Realm. The words were like a slender thread, weaving through the void of the Wildlands, binding the will of the four. Even if the world collapsed, this record would endure.
The gray-white mists of the Wildlands slowly withdrew. The four stood before the gradually closing void rift, gazing toward the unknown world beyond. In the distance, massive shadows lingered faintly—the faceless god, the Gate of Chaos, the residual ripples of the Ruin's vortex—reminders that the Wildlands were far from truly finished. But for now, the record was complete, and their will remained. Ye Chenyu drew a deep breath, stepping forward with determination, the four leaving the gray-white mists of the Wildlands side by side.
At the edge of the gray wasteland, the world seemed to regain a faint order, though the vast sky still carried an ineffable sense of emptiness. The four spoke no words; their shared glances contained both understanding and caution. The desolate abyss of the Wildlands, the endless whispers of the void, the suffocating gaze of the deities, and the apocalyptic collapse of the world—all had been recorded, becoming a testament to their will.
Ye Chenyu knew in his heart: no matter how the Wildlands, Spirit Realm, the five territories, or the faceless god existed, human will could always persist through words. What his pen recorded was not only horror and despair but also the small yet stubborn existence of humanity in the face of gods and the Wildlands. The wind of the Wildlands whispered as it passed: You cannot escape, but you have left a mark.
The four walked along the edge of the Wildlands, stepping into the end of the void rift. The gray-white mists gradually dissipated along the distant horizon. The first page of Lingyu Chronicles trembled slightly in Ye Chenyu's hands; the words flickered like flames amidst the gray void of the Wildlands—a clash of human will against divine power, and the eternal echo left by Ye Chenyu.