An Irreversible End and an Ancient Threat

Night drew near.

Though the cultivation world and the mortal realm seemed separated by an invisible veil, they ultimately shared the same vast sky, bathing in the same increasingly cool moonlight.

Upon the Star-Gazing Terrace, the sea of clouds lay still, and the last vestiges of warmth had faded from the white jade teacup.

Jiang Jinyue had long since withdrawn her hand, now sitting silently opposite him.

Several times, her lips parted slightly, but her words remained caught in her throat.

Finally, she spoke, her voice barely a whisper, as if fearing to disturb the overly quiet air around them.

“Senior Brother, are you truly no longer considering…”

Mo Tingbei raised a hand, cutting off her words.

His fingertips then crossed half the stone table, pausing precisely at the tip of Jiang Jinyue’s nose, which had instinctively stretched forward in her anxiety.

“There’s no need.”

His gaze swept past the silent lantern at her side, its crystalline glass glowing with a faint, icy blue aura of her spiritual energy as night first descended.

“There is no second ‘Changming’ in this world.”

“Besides,” Mo Tingbei raised the teacup, draining the now-cold tea in a single, sweeping gulp, as if it were potent wine, “even if by some slim chance, through reincarnation, one could wash away their past, would the ‘person’ pieced together still be the ‘Mo Tingbei’ sitting before you now?”

The ‘Changming’ Mo Tingbei spoke of was Jiang Jinyue’s current Natal Artifact, the lantern bearing that very name.

It was precisely under Changming’s protection that Jiang Jinyue’s True Spirit had been able to avoid falling into the cycle of reincarnation.

However, ever since the ancient era was utterly shattered by the Lord of Nine Nether, the path of reincarnation had become fraught with thorns and terror.

Beyond the loss of relevant secret techniques and the destruction of special spiritual treasures, a deeper truth lay in the Heavenly Dao of this realm, which seemed to exhibit an almost disgusted rejection of cultivators’ reincarnation, especially that of high-level cultivators.

The higher one’s cultivation, the greater the likelihood of encountering ‘ominous’ events during reincarnation.

Unlike the grand Heavenly Tribulations, these were a far more chaotic and indescribable terror.

Legends of past lives, present lives, and rekindled immortal destinies had, in this era, long since devolved into ethereal gossip among the common folk, or into anecdotes of dubious veracity whispered by ancient, long-lived monsters.

The Great Dao was merciless, never easily granting a second chance.

Yet, as the saying goes, ‘From the Great Divination of Forty-Nine, one escapes.’

Even in the present age, individuals possessing latent wisdom occasionally appeared in the world, though most lacked immortal destiny and could only contend with the mundane struggles of the mortal realm.

Nevertheless, the cultivation world still retained some vestiges of ancient glory, capable of sheltering certain uniquely gifted individuals, granting them a chance to begin anew.

The Three-Unity Sword Sect, with its ten-thousand-year heritage and profound foundations, indeed harbored a heaven-defying wonder, whose core divine essence, even after enduring immense changes and the ravages of time, remained unextinguished.

Now, it had thoroughly merged with Jiang Jinyue’s life and soul, becoming her Natal Artifact.

That sliver of heavenly opportunity, the one that had ‘escaped,’ was now irrevocably bound to her alone, incapable of being divided, and certainly impossible for a second person to bear.

Moonlight fully enveloped the high platform, elongating their figures and casting them sharply onto the cold jade surface, their silence profound and heavy as a thousand tons.

From afar, the faint clamor of celebration erupted from the sect, having successfully eradicated the monstrous beasts, only serving to accentuate the suffocating silence between them.

That revelry belonged to the living, to the future, while between them lay the insurmountable chasm of an imminent, irreversible end.

Jiang Jinyue’s fingers unconsciously tightened, her knuckles turning white.

She gazed at his profile, made even more handsome by the moonlight, at the gentle yet resolute aura in his brows that, even in his weariness, could not be entirely concealed—an essence unique to Mo Tingbei—and at the undeniable, creeping aura of deathly stillness that permeated his entire being.

It was the dark mark she had once glimpsed beneath the setting sun, etched upon his karmic Fate Aspect, now silently manifesting its effects.

For a long time, all the intense emotions in her eyes gradually settled, transforming into a bottomless, icy despair.

She exhaled a breath, so light and slow, as if trying to expel the heavy anguish along with it.

“…I understand.”

Her voice was faint, yet imbued with a sense of resignation.

She no longer looked at him, instead turning her head to gaze at the boundless, rolling sea of clouds below the terrace, and at the cold moon slowly ascending at its farthest edge.

The clear moonlight reflected in her icy blue eyes, yet they held no ripples, as if a layer of never-melting ice had formed within them; however, in their deeper depths, a dangerously fierce flame seemed to smolder.

Mo Tingbei, too, remained silent.

He simply watched her, his gaze profound, imbued with an ineffable complexity of emotions.

There was concern, apology, an unyielding resolve, and perhaps a faint, deeply hidden reluctance.

He knew she understood.

Understood that he had chosen a finite path, and was determined to walk it alone.

“There are still many things that must be done.”

Mo Tingbei’s voice broke the stagnant silence on the Star-Gazing Terrace, calm as if simply commenting on the next day’s weather.

He stood, his robes gently fluttering in the cool night breeze, without sparing another glance at the now-cold teacup.

“You remain here to guard the sect; I shall take a trip outside.”

He did not linger in that unspoken atmosphere.

Time was cruel, never pausing for anyone’s lingering affection or pity.

Just as he was about to take a step, Jiang Jinyue’s voice rang out again, tinged with a subtle, almost imperceptible urgency.

“Wait, Senior Brother.”

Mo Tingbei paused, turning to look back. “What is it?”

Under the moonlight, Jiang Jinyue’s brow furrowed almost imperceptibly, and a sharp glint appeared in her icy blue eyes, replacing her previous sorrow.

“Earlier, within the sect,” she paused, seemingly weighing her words, “I sensed an extremely unsettling aura, fleeting but distinct.”

Her gaze swept over the sect’s buildings below, still immersed in celebration, and her voice dropped even lower. “That aura… it was very similar to the power that entangled Xiaoxiao before.”

She met Mo Tingbei’s gaze, locking it firmly, and spoke each word distinctly. “But it was far more ancient, malevolent, and domineering. It was certainly not merely of the same origin; rather, it felt like… the ‘Original Source’ to which all streams eventually return.”

“Are you certain?” The words spilled from his lips almost involuntarily.

Yet, before Jiang Jinyue could respond, he shook his head with a self-deprecating air, raising a hand to lightly tap his forehead, his movements revealing a rare, almost vexed weariness.

“My mind is muddled,” he muttered, a faint, bitter smile touching his lips in self-mockery. “I always seem to ask such absurd questions.”

How could he not trust her perception?

The divine sense of a Golden Core Dao Lord, coupled with her inherently acute sensitivity to qi fluctuations, meant she could not possibly be mistaken.

Though faint, the wisp of Nine Nether bloodline carried by Lin Xiaoxiao possessed a purity and ancient quality that was unlike anything he had ever witnessed in his life.

Even compared to the fearsome fiends he had personally slain with his sword during his expeditions deep into Nine Nether, the latent Original Source power within Lin Xiaoxiao’s bloodline seemed even more profound, more… noble.

And now, an aura of Nine Nether, far more ancient, malevolent, and domineering than that wisp of bloodline, had stealthily infiltrated the sect like a phantom, yet remained uncaught by Jiang Jinyue—what could this possibly signify?

A terrifying name, long dormant and almost forgotten by the world, abruptly pierced his mind, accompanied by fragmented memories of blood, fire, and madness.

A chilling premonition, like the tentacles of an abyss, silently coiled around his spirit.

“…Those madmen,” his voice deepened, imbued with a gravitas that felt almost tangible, “they are likely to return.”

Almost in the same instant his words fell, another voice, clear and taut, overlapped with his, echoing his exact words in unison.

“Those madmen are likely to return.”

It was Jiang Jinyue.

She, too, had reached the same conclusion.

Their gazes abruptly met in the air, each seeing in the other’s eyes the ominous, plummeting cloud of terror that had once overshadowed an entire historical period, and, from an even earlier ancient history, the dreadful entity that had once annihilated an entire era.

Without another word needing to be spoken, an unprecedented warning, like biting frost, instantly froze the very air on the Star-Gazing Terrace.