Chapter 116
That fragment of a sentence grew like a plant whose roots were never satisfied with the soil it lived in, crawling to the left, to the right, upward, downward, writing word after word, sentence after sentence, and its sound was:
"I will poison you, I will sever your head, I will stab your body just as you humans blindly indulged yourselves in my mother's body. And when you die, when you lie upon the ground with your eyes still open and your mouth still half agape, you will understand—you will understand that there is nothing more painful than losing everything, nothing more horrifying than realizing that everything you built over thousands of years was nothing but dust waiting to be blown away by the wind, nothing more lethal than love—love that makes someone willing to die eleven times and die yet again for the twelfth, thirteenth, and countless more times, so long as the person they love can smile without fear. NEVER EVER!!!"
Ling Xu did not read the fragment of sentences forming behind The Silent One.
He had neither the time, the energy, nor the desire to read the words spilling out from his body without his permission. What he did—after swallowing his own blood, after ignoring the pain in his stomach that felt as though his own insides were devouring him from within, after hearing the voice of the Cancer plague Consciousness whispering in the darkest corner of his mind with a tone that was strangely calm, strangely gentle, like a grandmother whispering bedtime stories to her grandchild frightened by the storm outside—was focus the Cancer plague.
Not only the one residing within the foundation of his cultivation, not only the one coating every Heavenly Longitude and every Vast Cosmos crystals he had seized, but the one dwelling in every joint, every vein, every strand of muscle that had endured the agony of dying eleven times and rising eleven times.
He released around eighty percent of the Cancer plague's potential—released it like a mother letting her child walk alone for the first time, released it like a lover letting go of their partner's hand at a train station because the train was about to depart, released it like a farmer scattering seeds upon barren land while praying rain would fall before the seeds died of thirst.
And when that potential was unleashed, when eighty percent of what made the Cancer plague feared by all Gods and Goddesses across the boundless universe flowed from Ling Xu's body like a river overflowing after rain that had never ceased for forty days and forty nights, The Silent One—who had always looked calm, always looked unshakable, always looked like a statue that had never learned pain—screamed.
Not a long scream filled with rage or despair, but a short cry ripped from his throat like a reflex, like someone accidentally touching a burning stove and jerking their hand away before their mind could process what had happened.
The Silent One's body, from his right shoulder down to his left hip, burned—burned not by wood, gasoline, or magic, but by the Cancer plague devouring his flesh, devouring his muscles, devouring his veins, bones, and marrow, leaving behind scars that no one could ever heal, not even a God.
"You… you…" The Silent One whispered, his voice no longer flat and hollow, but broken and trembling, like someone trying to speak while enduring pain beyond what words could ever describe.
"You're truly insane, Ling Xu."
But before The Silent One could finish his sentence—before he could say anything about Ling Xu's madness in unleashing eighty percent of the Cancer plague's potential without caring about the risks to himself, without caring that his body might not withstand such power, without caring that he could become a monster devoid of consciousness, devoid of emotion, devoid of everything except an insatiable hunger—something moved behind his eyes.
Not a visible movement, not something Ling Xu could see while struggling to steady his ragged breathing, but a movement at the level of consciousness, at the level of the soul, at the level where the God of the Vast Cosmos—who had blown himself apart during the Conflict of Harmony, whose physical nature fully resided within The Singer who still lay motionless on the ground, whose soul had latched onto The Silent One's consciousness after the explosion and since then had only remained silent, observing, waiting for the perfect moment to take control—finally decided to surface.
And when that soul seized control, when The Silent One's consciousness was shoved into the darkest corner of his own mind like a king overthrown by a coup he never anticipated, The Silent One's half-burned body trembled.
Not out of fear, because the God of the Vast Cosmos knew no fear, but because he was adjusting, remembering, relearning what it felt like to possess a body after so long existing as nothing more than a wandering soul in darkness with no home to return to.
And from the tips of The Silent One's pale and slender fingers—which only moments ago had been burned by the Cancer plague and were now recovering at an unnatural speed, as though time around those fingers was reversing, as though the wounds had never existed, as though the flames had merely been a nightmare unworthy of remembrance—golden light emerged. Not a warm and comforting light like the morning sun, but a cold and arrogant radiance like a crown placed upon the head of a king who believed himself above all humans, holier than all Gods, more deserving of ruling the universe than any being that had ever lived or died throughout infinite history.
"My power," The Silent One whispered—or rather, the soul of the God of the Vast Cosmos speaking through The Silent One's mouth, his voice no longer carrying The Silent One's hollow monotony, but heavy and deep, like thunder rumbling in the distance before a storm truly arrived, "even if it is only a fragment, even if it is merely the remnants of what I once possessed, is still enough to destroy you, Ling Xu."
Ling Xu did not answer.
He had neither the time, the energy, nor the desire to waste the increasingly short, increasingly thin breaths that felt like inhaling air atop the highest mountain where oxygen itself had forgotten its purpose of keeping living beings alive.
What he did—after hearing the warning of the Cancer plague Consciousness whispering into his inner ears with a tone growing faster, more frantic, more unlike itself because even the Cancer plague, older than time itself, could sense that Ling Xu stood at the edge of destruction, that if he continued forcing out eighty percent of its potential, his body would collapse, his foundation would shatter, and he would become a monster even Huan Zheng—who lay weak upon the ground with his eyes slowly opening as he regained consciousness—would no longer recognize—was push forward.
Not pushing his body forward to attack, not pushing the Cancer plague's potential beyond eighty percent toward ninety or even one hundred percent, but pushing the Cancer plague Consciousness itself to grant him more power, more energy, more anything that could keep him enduring, keep him standing, keep him fighting even as every strand of muscle screamed for him to stop, every vein pulsed with indescribable agony, every part of his body mutilated by death and resurrection eleven times reminded him that he was a restricted Goddess, that he was not human, that he possessed limits he could never surpass no matter how much he cried, screamed, or prayed to all the Gods and Goddesses who had already died.
To be continued…