Chapter 113
And the Manuscript Ink, blacker than black itself, shot past Ling Xu's upper body, which he had barely managed to evade with his desperate backbend—moving at a speed no eye could follow, with a precision no one could escape except those who had died eleven times and learned that life was about dodging, about surviving, about refusing to die before the appointed moment, about never allowing anyone—not even the author sitting in a cramped room with a cold cup of coffee—to end his story before he had the chance to say "I love you" to Huan Zheng, before he had avenged his mother, before he had seen The Silent One fall and never rise again, before he had reached Complexity Dao and understood that behind every hatred lay shattered love, behind every death lay a life that never had the chance to begin, behind every evil lay Goodness that failed to grow because the soil was too barren, because the water was too acidic, because the sunlight burned too fiercely.
And the Manuscript Ink struck the space behind Ling Xu's position, not a wall or floor or ceiling, because within the void emptied by The Silent One, there were no walls, no floors, no ceilings. There was only nothingness, only emptiness, only a blank canvas waiting to be scribbled upon. And the Manuscript Ink, with all its darkness, all its power, all its ability to realize whatever the author desired, pierced into that nothingness.
From the point where it struck, a fragment of a sentence instantly emerged, appeared, was born—like a baby leaving its mother's womb after hours of pain, like the sun rising on the eastern horizon after a long and endless night, like hope appearing in the middle of despair even though you know that hope is false, that it will only disappoint you, that it will never come true, yet you continue hoping because hope is the only thing left when every door has closed, every path has ended, and everyone has abandoned you alone within the cold and silent void.
"I will kill you."
Five syllables. Twelve letters. One short sentence emerging from the ink embedded within the void, glowing with a blood-red light like an open wound carved into the chest of the universe, like a promise no one could ever deny because the promise had been written by Manuscript Ink, because the promise was part of the story, because the promise was destiny itself—unchangeable, unavoidable, impossible to resist no matter how hard you struggled, no matter how much you cried, no matter how deeply you prayed.
Amid the emptiness still pulsing with the remnants of terror left behind by the blood-red sentence "I will kill you" shining within the void—between the flesh of the Cancer plague that had begun creeping more aggressively, more hungrily, more furiously because its host had nearly become a victim of the Manuscript Ink, because its host had nearly vanished as though he had never existed, because its host had nearly been erased from the story before avenging his mother, before saying "I love you" to Huan Zheng, before seeing The Silent One fall and never rise again—Ling Xu launched his counterattack.
Not with movements carefully calculated, not with layered strategies meticulously prepared, but with rage, with vengeance, with all the hatred he had buried for years within the darkest corner of his heart, hatred that had never truly gone out, only slept briefly while waiting for the perfect moment to ignite once more.
And from the tips of his fingers still pulsing with the flesh of the Cancer plague, from his third eye glowing with pure white light like lightning flashing across a sky untouched by rain, from every pore of his skin still releasing aura, slime, and an indescribable presence, something grayish-black began to emerge.
Not Manuscript Ink like the one hurled by The Silent One, not golden light like when the soul of the God of the Vast Cosmos summoned its physical nature, but something in between, something born from the fusion of the Cancer plague older than time itself and the Manuscript Ink that had nearly erased him moments ago. Something moving fast, unimaginably fast, so fast that even time—which was still struggling to remember the function of ticking—could not keep up. It shot from Ling Xu's position toward The Silent One, splitting through the hollow emptiness like a blade cutting through expensive silk, leaving behind a trail of gray light pulsing in the same strange rhythm as Ling Xu's pounding heart, still racing from rage, fear, and an unyielding determination that would never fade.
"Ling Xu!" shouted the Cancer plague Consciousness, its voice no longer broken and wet as when it screamed warnings about Manuscript Ink, no longer deep and resonant as when it explained Humanity Head, but hurried, like someone desperately trying to deliver crucial information before it was too late, before the attack reached its target, before everything ended.
"There is one realm I have not yet mentioned in my explanation of Leg Humanity, Abdomen of Humanity, and Head Humanity. And that realm is another realm, an additional Realm. A realm unknown to almost everyone. Even Huan Zheng and The Singer—who sit together within the bamboo pavilion at the edge of the universe, laughing together, sharing stories about a dark past and an uncertain future—never knew of this realm. Only The Silent One, Ling Xu. Only the soul of the God of the Vast Cosmos currently controlling his consciousness knows of this realm. A realm called— Complexity Dao."
And amidst the attack still streaking through the void—still moving, still flying, still not yet reaching The Silent One, still requiring around two more seconds if the concept of time could even apply within a place that should not possess time at all because this place was a blank manuscript, because this place was the beginning of everything, because this place was the very first page of the novel Wheel of Cultivation: The Last Descendant of Reincarnation before it had ever truly been written, still utterly empty except for the fragment of the sentence "I will kill you" written by The Silent One using his Manuscript Ink—Ling Xu spoke.
His voice was no longer curious like when he first asked about Complexity Dao before the attack, no longer shocked like when he saw the Manuscript Ink flying toward him, but firm, unwavering, like someone who had already decided that he would reach that realm, that he would overcome any trial, sacrifice anything necessary, because he knew—he knew with absolute certainty—that only by attaining Complexity Dao could he defeat The Silent One, defeat the soul of the God of the Vast Cosmos, defeat the Manuscript Ink blacker than black itself.
"What is Complexity Dao, Humanity Star Consciousness? And how do I reach it? Tell me. Now."
To be continued…