The chessboard battle was fiercely contested, with black and white pieces locked in an inextricable struggle.
The black pieces surged like a tide, stirring up turbulent, murky waves that reached the heavens, while the white pieces resembled clay oxen plunging into the sea, unable to break free.
When Song Qianji broke free from the illusion and made his move, the white pieces shattered the black tide like a divine dragon emerging from the ocean.
A single move decided the fate of the game.
Wuxiang was stunned: "How could this be? You..."
"As I said before, I excel at turning the tables in desperate situations," Song Qianji replied.
A day in the mountains feels like a millennium in the mortal world. Enthralled by the game, the axe handle rots away unnoticed.
Song Qianji had entered the chessboard illusion, thinking only a few moments had passed.
Yet on the mountain cliff, the sun set and the moon rose, day and night alternated, and three days slipped by in the blink of an eye.
A full moon leaped out from the sea of clouds.
Faint starlight brushed over the weathered grain of the withered wood chessboard, like rippling water waves.
On the night of the full moon, the chilly night wind rustled, shaking loose all the Bodhi leaves from the tree.
Wuxiang stared at Song Qianji: "This chessboard is named 'Sea of Suffering.' You didn't shatter it—how did you break free? Did you see nothing but vegetable patches and gardens?"
The malice of the mortal world is like an overwhelming tide, boundless and endless. Those who play the game fall into it, witnessing countless sufferings, greed, anger, and resentment, sinking deeper and shaking their resolve.
Only by destroying the chessboard could one break the illusion.
But Song Qianji did not draw his sword; the chessboard remained intact.
"No, I saw everything."
He saw beyond the secret realm: Xu Yun of the Huawel Sect emerging from seclusion, brimming with ambition, sharpening his weapons and preparing his forces. Invitations flew like snowflakes to the great sects and families of the Western Sky Continent, as cultivators honed their blades, vowing to seize the fertile lands of Thousand Canals.
He saw the fall of Qin Xian of the Celestial Sound Sect, Wangshu making her move, Jiangyun's death, and He Qingqing fleeing with her zither, swearing revenge.
He saw cultivators frantically digging up the roots of the Sky-Supporting Tree, plundering the Spirit Qi of heaven and earth, turning fertile mortal soil into barren wasteland.
And all the countless wars and slaughters that had occurred before—the blood and flames. Millions of people bustling about for profit, never ceasing, never resting.
Rushing. Rushing.
Struggling to cross. Struggling to cross.
Have you ever felt utterly weary of life and the world, drowned in greed, fear, anger, and regret, powerless, feeling that nothing you do holds hope, as if adrift on an endless Dead Sea?
"Sea of Suffering" was precisely such a terrifying, soul-crushing Magical Artifact.
"I only carry the Shadowless Sword with me, and it truly cannot shatter the 'Sea of Suffering.' But I brought this."
Song Qianji pulled out an object from his chest.
Wrapped in red silk, it was no larger than a palm, warm to the touch like a hand warmer.
Wuxiang dared not act rashly: "Did Xian Jianchen give it to you? What kind of Magical Artifact is it?"
Magical Artifacts should be stored in a Storage Bag; why carry it so close to the body?
"It's not a Magical Artifact," Song Qianji said. "I bought it from a mortal in the Thousand Canal Bazaar before entering the secret realm. I didn't want to buy it at first..."
Wuxiang clearly did not believe him. He closed his eyes and lightly tapped his forehead: "Open!"
Just as when he first met Song Qianji in Thousand Canals, he opened his heavenly eye once more, determined to see the origin of this object.
"Don't look." The moment Song Qianji uncovered the red silk, Wuxiang opened his eyes.
A blazing golden light, like countless blades and swords, stabbed straight into his eyes!
"Ah—" Wuxiang let out a cry of agony, two trails of bloody tears streaming down his face.
"Ah, I told you not to look." Song Qianji sighed regretfully. "Making you fall into the same tree pit twice makes me seem rather unkind."The object was merely a wooden statue, carved into the shape of a doll, exquisitely crafted and lifelike.
The warm golden light emanated from it.
"What is this thing?!" Wuxiang, blind and wretched in appearance, cried out.
How could there be such intense protective golden light when Song Qianji wasn't even in Thousand-Ditch Prefecture?
Song Qianji said, "It's me."
Thousand-Ditch Prefecture had no God Temple or golden statues of Immortal Officials. Instead, thousands of households quietly offered incense to small clay or wooden dolls.
The sincere, everyday devotion accumulated day and night surpassed ten thousand unwilling temple rituals.
After the Dragon Slaying Formation, Painted Spring Mountain, and the Seven Wonders Zither, Song Qianji had one last card to play: the affection and blessings of millions of ordinary people in the mortal world.
Their wishes were like a boat, carrying him across the sea of suffering.
Using the kindness of the human world to combat its hardships, the battlefield bloomed with flowers, a thousand miles of barren land turned into rolling green hills, and a raging sea of flames transformed into golden waves of wheat.
Song Qianji patted the little wooden doll's head, wrapped it up again, and tucked it into his chest.
Wuxiang steadied his breathing, his pained expression gone as if his eyes had never been gouged out.
"Song Qianji, everything you've seen is real, and every word I've said is true. Do you not believe that I possess the Sky-Supporting Tree seed and can create a new world?"
"Hmm, I believe you."
"Do you not believe that I truly wish to cooperate with you, making you the only cultivator in this new world?"
"I believe that too."
"Then what is the problem?"
Song Qianji replied strangely, "I am just a farmer. If you make me a god, what will happen to my land? And what about my friends?"
Wuxiang found the question baffling and childish.
"After the new world is created, you can farm as much land as you want—ten, a hundred times the size of Thousand-Ditch Prefecture will be yours. When the old world perishes, a new human race will emerge in the new world. You will have new followers who will be even more loyal to you than those you have now."
Song Qianji shook his head. "But that wouldn't be my land."
"What?"
"Only the land I've tilled, watered, sown with seeds, and walked across inch by inch is truly mine."
The full moon gradually rose, hanging directly overhead.
Song Qianji stood up, gazing at the moon in the sky. "Only those I've interacted with, spoken to, or exchanged letters with are my friends. It's a pity you don't understand."
"Whoosh!"
Before the words faded, the Shadowless Sword unsheathed, piercing through the white-robed youth's body.
Song Qianji's strike was so fast it left no trace of a sword shadow.
Wuxiang fell backward, collapsing under the Bodhi tree.
"Drip."
Crimson droplets of blood splattered onto the withered wooden chessboard, seeping into it.
The decayed wood instantly sprouted branches and blossoms, producing a single vivid pink flower.
The flower was fresh and bright, still glistening with night dew, smiling alone in the spring breeze.
Song Qianji let out a soft exclamation, plucked the peach blossom, and pinned it to his lapel, just as Xian Jianchen would have.
His voice turned cold:
"In this life, I have no grand ambitions. I care not for your beautiful new world born from destruction—I care only for my land and my friends. Whoever seeks to destroy my land, I will kill."
Blood flowed from the wound on Wuxiang's chest, yet he managed a faint, breathless laugh. "It seems cooperation between us is impossible. A pity, a true pity..."
Song Qianji sheathed his sword. "I've given you the time for two sentences to tell you this: your plan will never succeed. Your last remaining clone will die by my hand, just like this."
"You, look—what's in the lake?" Wuxiang waved his sleeve, and the night fog around him suddenly dispersed, as if a curtain had been drawn aside.Beneath the cliff, the shimmering water resembled a polished glass mirror.
Song Qianji glanced at it: "It's just the moon."
"'On the Three Lives Stone rests an ancient spirit'—others who see this lake can glimpse their past and future lives. Why do you only see the moon?" Wuxiang extended a finger as if to touch the full moon in the sky. "Is it because there's only the moon in the heavens?"
As the words faded, all vitality ceased, and he died with eyes wide open.
Song Qianji's heart skipped a beat: "Others?!"
A thought flashed through his mind, and he immediately made a decisive move, leaping off the cliff using Sword Kinesis Flight.
The lake surface was as still as stagnant water, yet it seemed to exert a strange pull, drawing one into its depths.
Through the dense night fog, Song Qianji faintly saw five figures!
They stood eerily on the water's surface, as if treading on fragile glass, rigid and unmoving.
Closest to the shore were Meng Heze and Ji Chen, with He Qingqing in the middle, and Wei Zhenyu and Miaoyan nearer to the lake's center.
How did these people end up together?
Song Qianji descended swiftly by his sword, landing at the lakeshore: "Did 'I' lure them here?"
Just moments ago, he had been wondering—since Wuxiang had taken on every form, male and female, young and old—what would the final incarnation look like?
So it was himself.
"Xiao Meng!" Song Qianji gently shook Meng Heze's arm, calling out repeatedly.
Meng Heze remained deaf to his calls, staring fixedly at the lake.
Song Qianji cursed under his breath and summoned Hua Wei Zhenren from the wheat field: "What happened to you last time? How long did it take for your soul to return?"
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