Forty-third Scene: Return [Second Update]

Perhaps it was a year, or ten, or even a hundred; Sang Sang’s cultivation had long reached the peak of the Celestial tier. Both her spiritual power and internal energy had encountered bottlenecks, and each law within her sea of consciousness had been painstakingly refined and understood—yet the fusion of time and space hovered at its limit, with little left to gain. Her innate abilities no longer required augmentation from spiritual power or internal energy to be wielded, but creativity eluded her, and even the cultivation of her special talents had reached a standstill.

Sang Sang was painting—a monumental canvas over ten meters long, depicting the battlefield of the gods: a wasteland strewn with remains, rivers of blood, and drifting clouds of scarlet mist in the air, as if echoing the mournful cries of divine spirits.

This was a world-painting, imbued with the laws of space and time, a self-contained miniature realm capable of housing living beings—provided they could withstand the nearly tangible assault of violent intent within the painting, as well as the underlying will of annihilation.

“God’s Tomb”—Sang Sang inscribed the title on the painting. Suddenly, she withdrew the stone heart and channeled the lingering thoughts of the gods into the canvas. The already vivid and brutal atmosphere grew even more alive; the mist and blood in the painting began to shift, forming indestructible heroic spirits—some engaged in combat, some wandering aimlessly through the graves, some roaring in defiance, others wreaking havoc.

With the addition of the gods’ lingering resentment, “God’s Tomb” came alive. The mist transformed unpredictably, heroic souls multiplied, and even fallen bodies climbed to their feet. A tentacle reached out from the painting, curling menacingly toward Sang Sang.

Sang Sang ignored the octopus-like tentacle and took up the stone heart once more, pressing it into the painting.

“Seal!”

The octopus let out a wretched howl; its tentacle recoiled swiftly. The stone heart spun through the painting, then hovered in midair. A grayish-white moon appeared above the scene; all the indestructible souls were compressed to move only at low altitude, and the animated corpses lay down once again.

The lingering thoughts of the gods and the stone heart resisted each other, their aura contained, imperceptible from the outside.

Satisfied, Sang Sang nodded, then frowned. She brushed her hand across the painting: “Real and unreal, all at once.”

As her fingers moved, the canvas was covered by a watery film. The land of corpses transformed rapidly—remains knit together, blood flowed backward, the dead stood once more. It was as though time reversed, returning the scene to the tense standoff between gods at the outset of battle.

Sang Sang rolled up the painting and drew the rune reserved in a corner of space into her sea of consciousness.

Appearing again on the God’s Tomb Plaza, Sang Sang felt as if she had crossed worlds. Seeing those who had emerged alongside her, she was struck by a sensation of returning to the realm of mortals.

The Nine-Radiance Dragon Emperor enveloped the plaza, departing the God’s Tomb space. Sang Sang stood at the edge of the plaza, reaching out to touch the white teeth of the Dragon Emperor. Through the gaps in the dragon’s teeth, she could see the multicolored spatial corridor outside, streams of light like beautiful meteors, their spatial fluctuations so pronounced she instinctively analyzed and absorbed them.

“We have arrived.” The Dragon Emperor opened its mouth, releasing the Void Plaza.

Sang Sang gazed at the receding dragon’s silhouette, sighing inwardly; had she been granted a little more time, she could have memorized the spatial corridor leading to the God’s Tomb—perhaps it would be useful someday.

As the Void Plaza settled, a middle-aged woman in a grand chief priest’s robe appeared, staff in hand, walking upon a long carpet woven from rosy clouds: “Those who have received the inheritance, please step forward.”

On the plaza, some people were suddenly illuminated by white holy light, beams shooting skyward, impossible to hide even among the crowd. Someone abruptly used a secret art to suppress the light and attempted to teleport away.

“The Five Commandments of Holy Light are firm.”

The chief priest tapped her staff lightly. The space around the fleeing person was immediately sealed, a cage of holy light imprisoned him and flew toward the priest, finally shrinking into a delicate birdcage that she carried in her hand. No matter how the occupant struggled or destroyed, it was futile; even shaking the cage was impossible.

Sang Sang watched the priest’s actions thoughtfully: “Energy isolation, spatial isolation… It looks like a cage, but it’s actually another space, probably leading directly to some place of imprisonment—perhaps the Tribunal’s prison realm?”

“Every time I announce the rules in advance, some fool still tries it. Is the temple’s reward really so easy to earn?” The priest sneered, then continued, “Those who have received the inheritance, please step up on your own. If you haven’t moved in three seconds, I’ll invite you myself.”

Her tone was harsh, distinctly displeased, a far cry from the legendary gentle, kind, and self-sacrificing clergy.

Sang Sang knew that the temple was simply a major power under the name of the gods; it was not the same as the mythic churches representing the deities. Though they called themselves clergy, they were merely employees who drew strength from faith in the holy light, with little requirement for personality or attitude—so long as they didn’t overtly display evil tendencies. Just as a saintess was not the same as the holy mother, these were merely high-level temple representatives; even the source of their faith was transactional and voluntary, not requiring selfless devotion from believers.

Those illuminated by holy light flew onto the cloud carpet. The chief priest took no further action; the people wrapped in the red carpet entered the spindle-shaped starship docked in the distance. Sang Sang saw that the sword immortal named Yi Yu was among them. The remaining people gathered in small groups and were received by the various waiting factions. The academy members were led by teachers to their starship. Sang Sang nodded to those who greeted her and followed Sena to his flying vessel.

Aslan waited inside. Seeing Sang Sang, he immediately frowned, “Celestial-tier peak. How long were you inside?”

Sang Sang bowed. “I didn’t keep track; sometimes time moved quickly, sometimes it slowed.”

“Sit there,” Aslan pointed to the opposite seat.

Sena turned from the pilot’s chair. “I checked the records. This time, the God’s Tomb opened with three artifacts capable of purifying lingering thoughts: the Glass Sword Heart, the Xuanhuang Mother Cauldron, and the Saint Heart of Primal Demon. The Glass Sword Heart went with the sword cultivator brought by Villar. Which did you get—the Mother Cauldron or the Saint Heart?”

Sang Sang pressed her lips. “The Saint Heart of Primal Demon.”

Sena nodded. “The Primal Demon Elder rarely grants inheritance. You were lucky to obtain the Saint Heart. Inheritance boosts strength quickly, but walking another’s path always has its drawbacks—no need to envy others.”

Sang Sang said, “I don’t envy them. Yi Yu… that sword cultivator was the first to receive the third guidance from my Star Sand.”

“Well, first come, first served. You were a step late, but you can’t blame him,” Sena replied, then after a moment added, “If it really bothers you, once you reach the Void-tier peak, you can find a way to get another God’s Tomb entry.”

“I’m not upset,” Sang Sang shook her head. “He gave me his own Star Sand; it still has one guidance left.”

“This person’s interesting—no wonder you remembered his name,” Sena realized, then grew anxious, “You aren’t falling for him, are you? What about the Heavenly Emperor? The Glass Sword Heart is good, but it can’t compare to your Heavenly Emperor’s potential!”

Sang Sang’s expression darkened and she ignored Sena, turning instead to request leave from Aslan, “Teacher, I’d like to rest for a few days and adjust my mood.”