Existence on Another Level

Chapter 91 Another Level of Existence

It's not the bone-eating beetles that have already crawled out, but something deeper and more hidden.

Those that have already climbed out are just withered leaves hanging from the tree crown, visible, tangible, and that can be swept away.

What's truly deadly is never those things.

What's truly deadly is what's buried deep in the soil, hidden in the roots, something you have no idea is there.

Like an anthill on a long dike, like a seed on a boulder, like a thought on a heart—you can't see it, but it's always there, growing, waiting, accumulating for a moment of collapse.

Li Yuan saw that deep inside the ruptured abdominal cavity, there was a dark mass wriggling, breathing, and waiting.

The thing wasn't big; it was curled up in a ball, about the size of a baby's fist.

It huddled there, its body wrapped in countless thin, hair-like blood-red threads.

One end of those silk threads was connected to its body, while the other end was deeply embedded in the flesh and blood of the Gu Master, like the roots of an old tree, having long since become one with its host.

It is breathing

The breathing was extremely slow, contracting and expanding, like a snake hibernating in the depths of winter, or a tortoise sleeping for a thousand years.

What is it waiting for?

Waiting for the host to speak, waiting for that deathbed confession, waiting for a name that should not be uttered to slip from that mouth.

That is the Gu Mother.

The source of all bone-eating beetles.

The black worms that crawled out of the passengers' bodies, surged out of the Gu Master's belly, and densely covered the entire carriage all originated from this fist-sized thing.

It is the mother, the root, the first link in the chain of cause and effect.

It was also the last "insurance" left by the person behind the scenes for this Gu master.

It's not that the insurance keeps him alive, it's that it kills him.

It's not that the insurance saved him from death, it's that it kept him silent forever.

The moment he tries to speak, the moment those words that should not be uttered roll from his tongue, the Gu Mother will explode.

It's not an ordinary frying; it's the kind of frying that turns the host and all living things within a radius of several feet into dust.

It releases all the larvae inside its body, which hatch within a fraction of an incense stick's time and devour everything with flesh and blood.

They eat everything, leaving nothing behind.

It wasn't meant to kill him.

Killing someone doesn't need to be this complicated.

A single poison pill, a dagger, and a curse are all you need.

It wasn't to kill him, but to kill what he was about to say.

People can die, and once they die, they have nothing left.

But the words are different.

Once words are spoken, they are like seeds that have fallen into the soil; you can never take them back.

It will take root, sprout, and grow into something you can't predict.

Therefore, in the eyes of the person behind the scenes, the Gu Master's life is unimportant, the Gu Master's loyalty is unimportant, and everything about the Gu Master is unimportant.

The only important thing is that he cannot speak.

He was a pawn on the chessboard of the person behind the scenes.

Chess pieces cannot speak.

The pieces only need to move, to the designated position, to the pre-arranged move, and then they are captured.

There's no need to know why you're walking, where you're going, or who's devouring you.

The less a piece knows, the cleaner the board; the less a piece says, the safer the game.

This is the fate of the chess pieces.

Li Yuan's gaze lingered on the wriggling thing for a moment.

That moment was short, barely the time it takes to breathe, or the time it takes for a drop of dew to slide off a leaf tip.

But in that instant, something flickered slightly deep within those gentle eyes—not anger, not pity, not any emotion that could be named.

The flicker was like a ripple rising from the depths of an ancient well, or an echo coming from the end of a distant mountain—extremely light, extremely faint, and fleeting.

Then, he raised his hand.

A beam of golden light descended.

That golden light was different from the golden light used to exorcise the poison earlier.

The golden light just now was warm, gentle, and flowed quietly like moonlight.

The golden light at this moment was solid, substantial, and descended from the sky as if it were a tangible substance.

It is not like light, but more like a mountain, an intangible mountain formed from pure light.

The dark, flat mass twitched violently a few times under the golden light.

The convulsions were not a dying struggle, but an instinctive fear—the fear of insects being lifted from a boulder, the fear of darkness being cleaved by light.

It wanted to escape, but had nowhere to escape; it wanted to shrink back, but had nowhere to shrink back.

The golden light was all-pervasive, shining into every crease, every inch of its texture, and every corner where it existed.

Then, it slowly dissipated.

There was no explosion.

The explosion, meticulously planned by the mastermind behind the scenes and capable of turning everything within a radius of several feet into dust, did not occur.

The larvae that should have hatched in the explosion were still asleep in their cocoons when they disappeared along with their mother.

There was no struggle. The crimson threads that had been deeply embedded in the Gu Master's flesh loosened and fell away one by one, like spider webs scattered by the wind, silently.

It simply melted away like ice and snow, silently turning into a wisp of black smoke that drifted away amidst the golden light.

The convulsions weren't from pain, but from resentment—the final struggle of the thing that had been forcibly inserted into his body.

It is unwilling to accept this.

It has been rooted here for who knows how long, has consumed countless lives, and has given birth to countless offspring.

It has become part of this body, like the heart, like the liver, like the beating pulse.

It doesn't want to disappear; it wants to live, it wants to crawl out, and it wants to gnaw on someone's bones.

But under the golden light, all the resentment and struggle were just smoke.

When the smoke clears, there's nothing left.

Like a dream that goes too far, you forget it as soon as you wake up.

Like sand that has been inscribed with words, it is smoothed out by the wind.

The carriage fell silent once again.

That silence was different from the silence just now.

The silence just now was the embers after the storm, the numbness after fear, and the blankness after escaping death before one could even react.

The silence at this moment is the clarity after the dust has settled, the serenity after the heavy rain has stopped.

It is the natural, quiet state that comes after everything that was supposed to happen has happened and everything that was supposed to end has ended, like the sunlight on a late autumn afternoon.

Wei Shufen stood aside, watching all this, speechless for a long time.

She didn't know what to say.

Thank you? That's too little.

The Golden Disc Gu, the Palm-to-Binding Technique, the Sealing Word—how could a single word like "thank you" possibly encompass all of that?

Praise? That's too superficial.

She couldn't even understand what those methods were, nor could she find the source of the golden light. What right did she have to praise it?

Awe? That's too far off.

Awe is the feeling one has when standing at the foot of a mountain and looking up at the summit, but at this moment she couldn't even see where that mountain was.

Those words were too small, too small to contain what was in her heart at that moment.

At this moment, what she was thinking about was the cocoon that was gathering in the golden light, and the index finger that had gently touched the ground.

It was that understated word "seal," and that wisp of black smoke dissipating in the golden light.

It was all of these things combined that made up something she couldn't name.

Like someone who has never seen the sea before, standing on the beach, looking at the boundless blue, a thousand words well up in their heart, yet they cannot utter a single one.

It's not that there are no words, it's that all words are too small in the face of the sea.

She suddenly remembered something; when the black insects were gathered by the golden light, she sensed something.

It was an extremely subtle feeling, almost indescribable in words.

It's not a sound, not a smell, not anything that can be perceived by the five senses.

The feeling was more like the sixth sense, the deepest string of intuition, being gently plucked by something.

It's like sitting alone late at night and suddenly feeling something watching you from behind, but when you turn around, there's nothing there.

It's like walking in a wilderness and suddenly feeling that something is hidden in the ground beneath your feet, but when you look down you can't see anything.

It was as if, within that golden light, countless eyes were watching all of this, countless hands were controlling all of this, and countless thoughts were protecting all of this.

Those eyes weren't human eyes. Human eyes blink, turn, and express emotions, but those eyes didn't blink or turn, they didn't show any emotion, they just stared.

It is as if it has been watching there since time immemorial, as if it had been watching there since the beginning of time.

Just as the birth and death of all things, the rise and fall of dynasties, and the transformation of the sea into mulberry fields are but a fleeting moment in their eyes.

Those hands were not human hands. Human hands have bones and flesh, warmth and touch, but those hands had no bones and flesh, no warmth, only strength.

Pure power, power unbound by any form.

They manipulated the gathering and dispersing of the golden light, the formation of the cocoon, and the falling of the seal, like a craftsman wielding his tools with effortless ease and without leaving a trace.

Those thoughts are not human thoughts. Human thoughts can be good or evil, can take or give up, but those thoughts have no good or evil, no taking or giving up, only one thing: order.

It is not the order of the human world, nor the order of etiquette and law, but the unshakable order of the universe itself.

The feeling lasted only a moment, so short that she almost thought she was hallucinating.

Like lightning streaking across the night sky, you see everything in the world, but after the lightning, the night remains the same, and you're not even sure if you really saw anything.

But she knew it wasn't an illusion—it was real.

Those eyes, those hands, those thoughts—they were all real.

They are in that golden light, under Li Yuan's palm, in this carriage, right now—at this very moment.

She didn't know what it was.

But she knew it must be something she could never reach in her lifetime.

It's not because she's not strong enough, but because it exists on another level, like a two-dimensional figure that can never comprehend the height of three-dimensional space.

It can see the line passing over its head, but it can never see the whole line.

It can sense the shadow that passes by it, but it can never imagine what the owner of that shadow looks like.

She's on this level, and those eyes are on that level.

She can see them, but she can never touch them.

Like a fish in water seeing the reflection of a bird, it sees the shadow skimming across the surface and the shade it casts, but it can never know where the shadow comes from or where it is going.

Li Yuan turned around and looked at the passengers who were still in shock.

His voice remained as gentle and calm as ever, as if the thrilling scene just now was nothing more than a small incident on an ordinary journey.

It's not just a feeling; it's true for him.

Those black insects, that cocoon, that wisp of black smoke—to him, they were all just links in the chain of cause and effect.

Just as flowers bloom when spring arrives, rain falls when clouds gather, and fruit ripens when seeds are planted.

What was meant to come has come, what was meant to leave has left, what was meant to be taken away has been taken away, and what was meant to be sealed off has been sealed off.

That's it.

"It's alright now."

There are only three words.

But those three words, when they reached the ears of those passengers, were more powerful than any lengthy words of comfort.

Because the person who said that has just proven with his actions that he "cannot die," he really can not die;

If he says "it's okay," then it really will be okay.

His words were not just words, they were facts.

Just like the sun rising, it doesn't "tell" you that it's daytime, but rather that daytime has already arrived.

Like spring rain falling, it doesn't "tell" you that the crops should grow, but rather the crops do grow.

There is no distance, no barrier, no "possibility" or "maybe" between his words and the facts.

The moment he uttered those words, the truth was already there.

This is what is meant by "words become law".

No.

The power of words becoming law signifies reaching the pinnacle of Taoist practice, where a single sentence can invoke the power of heaven and earth to accomplish a task.

But he didn't let the power of heaven and earth accomplish it; he made the matter itself a reality.

Just like a chess player placing a piece, it's not about ordering the piece to go there, but rather that move itself constitutes the entire game.

These three words finally made the passengers relax.

Some people slumped to the ground, the strength that had been supporting them just moments before suddenly dissipating. They slumped into their chairs, panting heavily.

Some people held their children and wept silently, tears streaming down their faces, without uttering a sound. They simply hugged their children tighter, so tight that the children squirmed uncomfortably and mumbled something.

Someone was leaning back in their chair, eyes closed, chest heaving violently, lips trembling slightly, yet a rhythm that was gradually calming down could be heard within that trembling.

No one screamed anymore, no one ran away anymore, and no one asked why.

Because they knew that with that figure in the moon-white Taoist robe present, they would not die.

It's not that I knew, it's that I believed.

I believed in that person, believed in that person's words, and believed in that person's light.

This letter arose naturally after I saw it, experienced it, and escaped death.

Just as a seed sees spring and believes it will sprout.

The message is not in the mind, nor in words, nor in any place where it can be spoken.

That faith resides in the bones, in the flesh, and in the depths of the soul washed by golden light.

The golden light just now not only dispelled the Gu worms, but also planted something in the hearts of those people.

That thing is invisible and intangible, yet it is more solid than anything that can be seen or touched.

Like a seed falling into the soil.