The sea of clouds still churned beneath Qingming Peak—but Xie Wuchen had already stepped into the Northern Frontier.
Three days. A thousand miles.
No sword-flight. No cloud-riding. Only his two feet, measuring the dust of the mortal world.
The Sect Master had said:"The Great Dao is not in the Nine Heavens—it dwells in marketplaces and alleyways."
He hadn't believed it.
Not until he saw the city.
Linhé City—its people all crowned with white hair.
The city gate was weathered, its guards stooped like withered timber—snow-haired, eyes dull as ash.
Yet the saber at one guard's waist gleamed new, its hilt carved with the words:"Enlisted at seventeen."
Clearly, a boy.
Xie Wuchen halted.
Within his sleeve, the jade slip warmed faintly—theSoul-Reflecting Mirror, gifted by the Sect.
At his touch, its surface shimmered:
Above the entire city, countless gray-white threads descended from the townsfolk's crowns like a spider's web, all converging toward a ruined temple at the city's heart.
And their soul-lights? Thin as cicada wings—nearly transparent.
—Their karmic causes were being siphoned. Their life-fates unraveling.
He walked slowly through the gates.
The streets were silent. Occasionally, children laughed—but their mirth echoed hollow, like sound bouncing off tomb walls.
An old woman crouched by a well, scrubbing clothes with skeletal fingers. Seeing his snow-white robes, she raised her head and whispered, trembling:
"Young master… have you come to fulfill a vow?"
"A vow?"
"The Temple of the Merciful Child," she pointed toward the city center. "Burn one stick of 'Vow-Fulfilling Incense,' and your burdens lift. My son died in battle… I no longer think of him. Isn't that good?"
Her eyes held no tears, no grief—only barren calm.
Xie Wuchen's chest tightened.
Three years ago, his mother had worn that same expression on her deathbed—serene enough to freeze the blood.
He headed for the Temple of the Merciful Child.
Small. Shadowed. No deity enshrined—only a clay effigy of a grinning boy at its center, eyes crinkled in joy, cradling a humble earthen bowl.
The incense burner smoked with dark-red powder, sweet yet metallic, thick with the stench of blood.
Behind the altar stood a girl in jade-green robes, her smile gentle.
"You carry deep attachments, young master. Would you like to fulfill a vow? With true sincerity… even the causes of the dead may be rewritten."
Xie Wuchen's gaze cut like a blade—straight to her heart.
From her chest stretched a golden thread, vanishing into the clay child's brow.
Wrapped around that thread were hundreds of gray-white filaments—each tethered to a soul in Linhé.
"You're feeding it," he said, voice colder than frost. "With the karma of living beings."
Her smile never wavered. "You misunderstand, young master. We're saving them. The Great Dao is too heavy for mortals to bear. Love, hatred, regret, longing—all are chains. Better to surrender them to the Merciful Child… and gain a lifetime free of sorrow."
She stroked the incense burner. "Look—they no longer weep. No longer fear. No more waking in the night screaming. Is this not compassion?"
Xie Wuchen fell silent.
If the Great Dao truly had no heart… if suffering had no cure…
Was this theft of karma truly sin—or salvation?
In that moment of doubt, the jade slip in his sleeve suddenly chimed!
Its surface revealed a horrifying sight:
Inside the clay child's belly lay a small bronze cauldron, inscribed with four ancient characters:
"All living beings are kindling."
And beneath, in smaller script:
"Heaven's Dao must eat. Karma is its grain."
Xie Wuchen's pupils contracted.
So this was it!
The运转 of Heaven's Dao wasn't natural law—it was sustained by devouring mortal karma!
The more humans suffered, the richer their causal threads grew—and the more "satiated" the Dao became.
And this "Temple of the Merciful Child"? Merely one of Heaven's harvesting stations.
"You…" he murmured, "are shepherds of the Dao?"
The girl's smile finally cracked. "Clever, young master. Pity—those who know too much cannot be allowed to live."
From her sleeves shot a hundred crimson incense sticks, twisting into chains that lashed toward his soul!
Infused with theForgetfulness Curse, they would erase all attachments—leaving him an empty puppet.
But Xie Wuchen stepped forward—not back.
Right hand formed a sword-finger; left hand sealed a talisman. Softly, he intoned:
"Dustless, stain-free—ten thousand dharmas cannot invade."
—The first verse ofThe Dustless Scripture, Qingming Sect's forbidden art.
Using his pure Foundation as a shield, he repelled all external defilement.
The crimson chains struck his robe—and dissolved like snow in boiling water, hissing into nothingness!
The girl paled. "You… you've cultivatedThe Dustless Scripture?! That's—"
Before she could finish, Xie Wuchen stood before her.
His fingertip touched the golden thread at her heart.
"Sever."
A blade of pure light flashed—
The thread snapped.
"Aaah—!"
She screamed as her form shattered, scattering into ash-gray butterflies.
The clay child's eyes wept blood—then exploded with a thunderous crash!
The ground collapsed, revealing a hidden altar below:
A three-zhang-tall bronze cauldron stood silently, its mouth exhaling gray mist. Inside, countless karmic threads writhed like living serpents, whispering in unison:
"…Hungry… Give more… Heaven's Dao must eat…"
Xie Wuchen stood before the cauldron, his white robes now stained with dust.
Then—a chill at his wrist.
He looked down.
A single gray-white karmic thread had already coiled around his pulse, silently burrowing into his flesh.
Far away, the people of Linhé lifted their heads.
One touched his snow-white hair—and fell to his knees, sobbing:
"I remember now… It rained the day my mother died…"
"My child… I lost him…"
"It hurts so much… Why did I forget this pain?!"
Tears fell like rain.
But this time—it wastheir own pain.
Xie Wuchen closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, all hesitation was gone.
He drew the wooden sword from his back—
Blunt. Nameless. His mother's last gift.
Pointing its tip at the bronze cauldron, his voice rang across the city:
**"From this day forth, I, Xie Wuchen,
speak for all living beings—
We refuse to be kindling."**
(End of Chapter Two)