Chapter 1304: Unique State!

Chapter 1304: The Singular State!

The cold wind blew in through the window, and as the candlelight flickered, the pages of this grand chart of civilizational cycles turned on their own.

Upon that chart were inscribed the rise and fall of every dynasty, and under his meticulous arrangement, all these trajectories converged into a closed circle—like the path the moon traces through the endless night.

Gazing at this circle, he suddenly understood: every character in history books, every reign title, was merely the mark left by a rolling wheel—and the wheel itself had never ceased turning.

Thus, propping up his failing body with sheer will, he spent the last moments of his life engraving all he had realized onto twelve bronze slips.

He knew full well that the truth he had pursued his entire life—the very truth now etched onto these twelve slips, crafted to withstand the erosion of time—was but a tiny ripple in the vast river of cycles.

Yet he did it anyway.

Those blurred overlaps of time, obscured by dynastic historians under some unseen force; those truths of destruction veiled beneath myth; those identical prophecies wrapped in different scripts—all revealed their true forms beneath his chisel.

When the final stroke carved the eight characters “All things cycle, returning at last to silence,” a thunderclap split the heavens outside!

The sky roared, rain poured down in torrents, pelting the earth, striking the glazed tiles.

That rhythm, that cadence—it left Chen Mo dazed. Vaguely, he felt it echoed the rhythm of the apocalyptic rain described a thousand years ago in the *Feng Gong*.

“I must go now…”

Chen Mo murmured. His life began to fade; the world before his eyes grew hazy.

His life had been like a boat adrift in an ocean of histories—uncomprehended by the world, yet leaving behind faint traces.

“Still… some regrets remain…”

Chen Mo whispered softly.

In these final moments before death claimed him, he struggled to lift his head and gazed out at the storm beyond the window.

Perhaps stirred by that lingering regret, for just an instant—whether from blurring vision or something deeper—he saw his shadow cast upon the wall by a flash of lightning merge seamlessly with the engravings on the bronze slips, with the Nine Illuminations Hexagram of the Spirit Empress, with the ancient bone-script carvings, and with the coiled dragon motif on this dynasty’s golden-foil edicts—forming one singular silhouette.

Chen Mo froze, then his eyes lit with sudden clarity.

“Everyone who tries to grasp the trajectory of history eventually becomes the trajectory itself.”

Chen Mo smiled.

Let the chill of the rain wash over the wrinkles of his face—he no longer felt like a boat lost in the sea of history. Instead, he had become the lantern held in the boatman’s hand.

That lantern might not pierce eternity’s fog, but at least it showed those who came after that, in the countless gaps between destruction and rebirth, someone had stubbornly held aloft a light—and carved into the river of time a faint yet unmistakable mark.

Perhaps in another thousand years, some other historian, sorting through ancient scrolls on an autumn night, would suddenly glimpse that mark and sense the glow across time and space.

And like him, they too would awaken to the realization: that this faint yet eternal signal had passed from civilization to civilization through cycles of ruin and renewal.

They would become another version of himself—a kindred spirit across time.

“That is enough!”

This moment of understanding brought not ecstatic revelation, but the quiet stillness of spring ice melting.

He finally saw: every word in history was a scale of the great cycle. And the truth he had chased his whole life was never about forcing all civilizations to bow to a single answer.

It was about seeing how all answers flowed along the same circle.

That—that was true unity.

At that instant, the candle in the post station flickered wildly, as if shadows of countless dynasties overlapped in the shifting light, forming one recurring silhouette of the cycle.

Candlelight and starlight illuminated each other, and within their mingling radiance, a jade cicada seemed to shimmer.

And Chen Mo, smiling gently, closed his eyes.

…

The cicada’s song continued.

So did its wings.

Scene after scene, fragment after fragment, shard after shard—all reflected lives unfolding across different times and spaces, sharing the same origin yet blossoming into myriad forms through divergent paths.

Vivid and varied, each bloomed into its own vision of unity.

These visions rose from time and space, flowing back into Xu Qing’s consciousness, strengthening it endlessly. They let him live countless lives, and made his presence an invisible hand that again and again plucked the strings of cosmic law.

More and more notes emerged, weaving into a melody—an anthem named “Law” waiting to be performed.

But…

The composition kept building, yet no sound ever escaped.

Because…

“One is still missing.”

Xu Qing opened his eyes and looked into the void.

There, in the final timeline, stood another version of himself—one who had never formed the thought of unity. Not even the authority of the God of Suffering could sway his mind.

He was a painter.

Once, he had burned all his scrolls, leaving only a single sheet of rice paper upon which he drew the character “One.”

Now, five more strokes had appeared on that paper.

The “One” had become “Come.”

That first stroke was also the opening stroke of the character “Come.”

It was an invitation—spanning time and space.

After gazing for a long while, Xu Qing rose to his feet and stepped once into the void.

With that step, he entered time itself, crossed into parallel realms, and appeared within the old painter’s study.

The moment he materialized, the old man—who had paused his brush above the paper—lifted his head. Wrinkles bloomed across his face as he looked at Xu Qing and smiled.

“I’ve waited a long time for you to make this stroke.”

“And don’t speak—just listen.”

“In my youth, I studied painting, reached its peak, and used art as my boundary. In old age, I awakened to the workings of heaven and earth…”

“In my paintings, I saw all beings—I saw everything: Liu Xuanji, Chen Mo… even you…”

“Then I burned it all and sat here, because I understood: perhaps I, and the world I inhabit, never truly existed. We exist only because you needed us to.”

“And what you require—I saw it in my painting twenty years ago.”

Having spoken, the old painter raised his hand, took a fresh sheet of rice paper, drew a deep breath, ground ink carefully, then picked up his brush, dipped it, and suddenly painted.

Not a masterpiece of prosperity—but simple, sparse strokes outlining many small squares.

He paused, then dipped his brush anew and drew a single line!

That line connected every square!

Each stroke seemed to drain the last of his strength. As he set down the brush, his breath began to fade, his grip loosening—even the brush nearly slipping from his fingers. Only his hoarse, aged voice echoed through the study:

“Unity encompasses not only space—but time.”

“Time is a line. It has no present, no past, no future.”

“Space consists of individual squares—each static by nature—yet when strung together by the thread of time, they begin to move.”

“Like this painting: each little square holds our selves, containing beginning and end.”

“A single timeline threads through every tiny cell, binding them all into the complete, parallel existence of a lifetime.”

“Thus, our path is to extract and absorb this thread of time itself, until we become time incarnate.”

“Next, we absorb every one of those now-static cells.”

“Having done this, parallel existences merge into oneness—and you become the sole.”

“This state of singularity, I name… Wei!”

“The Tenth Pole of our becoming!”

As the old painter uttered his final word, he closed his eyes.

In the study, Xu Qing stepped forward, gazing intently at the rice paper—while the world… began to shatter.