socalfunplaces Chapter 792 Lu Xueqi and Biyao
Chapter 792 Lu Xueqi and Biyao
Nine hundred floors. Su Han's fingertips were already bloodied and mangled; each dig into the wall felt like cutting flesh with a dull knife. His chaotic energy was depleted in his meridians, reduced to a mere wisp, each circulation bringing a burning pain, as if molten iron had been poured into his limbs. But he was climbing, inching upwards. The wind rushed in from both sides of the tower, carrying the unique sandalwood scent of the Buddhist realm, but now it lashed at his sweat-soaked face like a whip.
Nine hundred and tenth floor. The material of the walls had changed. The once smooth, jade-like stone walls began to reveal dense Sanskrit characters, each character radiating a golden glow. That light wasn't warm; instead, it carried a heavy weight, pressing down on Su Han's back, forcing him to bow his head, to kneel, to give up. Su Han felt his knees trembling, and a voice inside him said, "You've done your best. No one will blame you. Go down, return to the Immortal Realm. You were never a member of the Buddhist order to begin with."
He bit his tongue. The taste of blood exploded in his mouth, bringing a moment of clarity. "I'm here," he said to himself, his voice hoarse and unlike his own, "not because of who I am, but because the human world can't wait."
Nine hundred and twenty floors. His vision began to blur, and the golden wall before him seemed to twist into a vortex. Su Han knew this was a sign of exhaustion; his chaotic power was almost depleted, and he still had some Heavenly Righteous Qi left, but that was a trump card used to fight evil spirits and couldn't be used lightly. He could only rely on his most primal physical strength, digging his fingers into the gaps in the Sanskrit characters on the wall, pulling himself up again and again.
Nine hundred and thirty floors, nine hundred and forty floors. His fingers were numb. Su Han glanced down and saw only ten blurry, blood-red, rod-like objects. His fingernails had long since peeled off, revealing the pale, tender flesh beneath, from which fine beads of blood were seeping. A gust of wind blew, and the wounds felt like salt being rubbed in; the excruciating pain made him convulse, almost causing him to drop. He swung in the air for a moment, then braced his knees against the wall to regain his balance.
"Benefactor," the old monk's voice came from below, penetrating the wind and pressure, still clear as if whispering in your ear, "Nine hundred and forty floors. There are fifty-nine more floors to go, but the pressure of the last fifty floors is the sum of the previous nine hundred. Are you sure you want to continue?"
Su Han didn't turn around. He didn't even have the strength to turn his head, and just squeezed out a single word from his throat: "Crawl."
Nine hundred and fifty floors. The pressure suddenly increased, and Su Han felt his spine cracking, as if it were being broken inch by inch from above. Fine beads of blood seeped from the pores of his skin, staining his gray Daoist robe dark red, clinging to his body, sticky and cold. He remembered when he was still in the Lingxiao Immortal Sect, the sect leader stood on the cloud platform and said to him: "Han'er, you possess the power of chaos, you are the chosen one, but being the chosen one means that the path you walk is more difficult than anyone else's. Are you ready?"
He said he was ready. Now he knows that back then he had no idea what the word "difficult" meant.
Nine hundred and sixty floors. The golden light before his eyes suddenly vanished, replaced by darkness. Su Han froze for a moment, realizing he was still hanging on the wall, his fingers still gripping the gaps in the Sanskrit inscription, but he could see nothing. His hearing remained: the wind, his heartbeat, the patter of blood dripping onto the wall. His sense of touch remained: the coldness of the stone wall, the warmth of his blood, the heavy pressure pressing down on every inch of his skin. But his sight was gone.
This is the final test of the third level—when all your reliance is taken away, when you can't judge the direction, when you can't see the end, will you still continue climbing?
Su Han closed his eyes. He couldn't see anything even with them open, but he instinctively closed them. He regulated his breathing in the darkness, one breath, two breaths, three breaths. He realized he didn't actually need to see; his fingers had memorized every Sanskrit pattern on the wall, and his body had memorized every inch of the crawling rhythm. He continued upward in the darkness, his ten fingers tracing the patterns, inching his body upward.
Nine hundred and seventy floors. The pressure was so immense that his bones were cracking; Su Han suspected he had broken a rib, and each breath was accompanied by a sharp, piercing pain. But he kept crawling. Images of the mortal realm flashed through his mind—the village destroyed by evil spirits, half a wooden comb stuck in the scorched earth, an old woman sitting on the ruins, cradling her grandson's corpse, not crying, just sitting there. At that time, Su Han had just been sent by the sect leader to investigate, standing before that old woman, unable to utter a single word. The old woman looked up at him and said, "The immortal has arrived. Immortal, can you bring them back to life?"
He couldn't. He couldn't then, but now, he can at least do one thing.
Nine hundred and eighty floors. Su Han's consciousness began to blur. His chaotic power was completely exhausted, and his righteous energy churned restlessly in his dantian, like a chained beast trying to break free. Su Han gritted his teeth and suppressed it. He knew that was his last trump card reserved for the mortal realm, and he couldn't use it here. But he could barely climb any further. His arms felt like lead, each lift like carrying a mountain. He pressed his forehead against the wall, the Sanskrit patterns digging into his brow. The golden light seeped into his sea of consciousness, flowing slowly like warm water.
Then he saw something. Memories that didn't belong to him.
He saw a young monk kneeling before a Buddha statue, weeping, saying, "This disciple is foolish and cannot comprehend life and death." Half of the gold paint on the Buddha statue had peeled off, revealing the dusty clay beneath. The monk's tears dripped onto the prayer mat, spreading into dark stains. He saw an old man under a Bodhi tree telling a story to a group of children, the story of sacrificing oneself to feed a tiger. The children listened with bright, shining eyes. When the old man reached the moment the tiger ate the sacrificial man, he stopped, remained silent for a long time, and said, "Actually, that moment was very painful."
Su Han understood. These were the memories of the Buddhist realm, the imprints left by countless people who cultivated, sought the Dao, and attained enlightenment here. They had all experienced moments of hesitation, fear, and retreat, but ultimately they all chose to continue. He lacked his own wisdom and Buddha-nature, but at this moment, the light and shadow left by his predecessors were like lamps, illuminating every place in the darkness where he needed to find a foothold.
Nine hundred and ninety floors. Su Han felt his right little finger break—not cracked, but severed. The sound of the bone dislocating was as clear as snapping a dry twig next to his ear. The excruciating pain made him curl up, but his left hand remained clasped to the wall, leaving him hanging there like a tattered rag tossed by the wind. He glanced down—below was an endless abyss, gold and darkness intertwined, its height indiscernible. He looked at the abyss and suddenly smiled. His lips were cracked, and a smile drew blood. (End of Chapter)