Chapter Fifty-Three: The Shepherd and That Man

Although Li Ruoyu could sense the terrifying power of the Six Words of Buddhism, acquiring such a legacy was by no means an easy feat. Li Ruoyu understood this well. He thus exhausted every ounce of effort to comprehend this transmission, but it seemed as if Heaven itself was playing a cruel joke on him. Though he stood before a mountain of treasures, he could only watch helplessly from afar, his heart filled with unwillingness. Yet, there was nothing more he could do. He had tried, he had given his all. Since fate had decreed it so, he decided it was better to accept it with equanimity.

In the end, the Buddhist Land faded from Li Ruoyu’s mind, and his consciousness returned to the present, to the body of Shi Siku before him. Li Ruoyu’s gaze fell upon the kasaya draped over Shi Siku and the necklace strung with one hundred and eight relic beads; he knew at once that these were extraordinary Buddhist artifacts. However, as Li Ruoyu reached out to claim these treasures, a gentle yet irresistible glow radiated from them. Li Ruoyu immediately understood that both the kasaya and the necklace possessed their own spirits.

Divine artifacts, when imbued with spirit, would remain loyal to their master even after the master’s death, faithfully standing guard over them through the shifting seas of time and the changing of the ages. No matter how many eons passed, they would never abandon the one who had already departed this world.

Since these things could not be forced, Li Ruoyu felt no anger. He understood that some things simply could not be obtained through force. It was like the twilight—one could witness it every day, yet its beauty was fleeting and could not be held fast; one could only watch as the sunset carried it away, and wait another day to see it again. Li Ruoyu bowed deeply toward Shi Siku, then stepped past him and continued onward. The road ahead was fraught with hardship, yet it was a path that had to be walked. Toward Shi Siku, Li Ruoyu felt only gratitude. Even though he had not obtained the Six Words of Buddhism, that was merely the whim of fate. The opportunity had already been given by this living Buddha who had walked the earth, and for that, Li Ruoyu was deeply thankful.

Pressing forward, Li Ruoyu suddenly sensed a familiar aura.

“The power of time…”

Ahead of him stretched a land of black earth. Li Ruoyu understood that this was the mark of time’s relentless flow—everything had decayed to dust, leaving behind a wasteland of ruin. He channeled his Desolate Power to shield himself from this forbidden zone. With each step, black ash was kicked up—remnants of trees, reduced by the ages to nothing but charcoal.

As Li Ruoyu advanced, even with his Desolate Power resisting the passage of time, he could clearly feel a growing strain. His steps slowed. It was only thanks to his unique Desolate Body that he could withstand the ravages of time in this place; any other would have perished like the scattered remains along the path, reduced by time’s force to white ash.

Left with no choice, Li Ruoyu withdrew an object from the World-Destroying Pearl.

“The Grand Spring Sword.”

This treasured sword, acquired from Meng Ningsi of the medical Dao family in the Valley of Fallen Demons, contained the power of time itself. Combined with the bone sword, which shared the same origin as his Desolate Body, the pressure on Li Ruoyu instantly lightened.

As he pressed onward, Li Ruoyu came upon a massive block of blue ice. Sealed within the frozen crystal was a one-armed man, dressed in ancient attire and draped in animal pelts, as if from a primordial era.

Passing the blue ice, Li Ruoyu did not pause. Up ahead stood a huge boulder, its surface inscribed with faint, weathered characters—marks left by the passage of time. Li Ruoyu leaned in to read:

“I leave these words behind so that any from the Celestial Desolation who arrive here may be forewarned. When this battle erupts, none shall survive. There will be no right or wrong—only life and death. Survive, and you will exterminate your foes. Die, and our lineage will perish. I do not know if I will live; I go now in pursuit of that person. Most likely, this is my final testament upon my homeland—The Shepherd.”

“The Shepherd.”

The moment he saw these three words, Li Ruoyu’s pupils contracted, his heart shaken to its core. Even his typically steadfast nature showed a rare flash of shock. He remembered reading in the biographies of prehistoric figures about the terrible sages whose names had entered the annals of the Daoist world.

Among them was “The Shepherd,” one of the few who could bring an era to an end—an existence who could stand alongside Dugu Peak, and whom many believed even surpassed Dugu Peak in every respect. The Shepherd’s name was Mu Cangsheng. As his name suggested, he did not herd sheep, but rather the multitudes of his era. He saw the world as a vast pasture and regarded its people as his flock. To mention Mu Cangsheng in the cultivation world was to speak with awe and trembling—for he was like a god, a Buddha, and an executioner, all in one.

In his eyes, no trace of emotion could be found. Ruthlessness was his hallmark. This was why, even after countless ages, the blood-soaked words still appeared in the histories of the cultivation world: “Mu Cangsheng shepherded his era, reaping the wheat of the age; he raised the sheep of his time, fattening them for slaughter; he grew strong by burying his enemies, ever the most graceful farmer and butcher.”

Such a figure, a veritable god among shepherds, had left behind these carved words. Li Ruoyu realized that, if not for the power Mu Cangsheng had imbued into this stone and these characters, they would long since have been ground to dust by the accelerated passage of time in this place. And yet, even as time faded to emptiness, one could still glimpse the extraordinary heights Mu Cangsheng had attained—he could hardly fathom it.

What Li Ruoyu found even harder to imagine was the utter despair contained in these words. It was reminiscent of what those who lived in Dugu Peak’s era must have felt when facing him: “Do not say there is still a road ahead; at the summit of solitude stands a single peak.” It was the despair of realizing that beyond the end lay only a deeper abyss.

History had once been severed. Li Ruoyu did not know what horrors had transpired in that age to lead Mu Cangsheng—a man like a god—to such depths of despair.

Who, then, was the “person” Mu Cangsheng spoke of? Was it an enemy? Did Mu Cangsheng, in the face of hopelessness, risk everything to infiltrate enemy lines and attempt a beheading strike? Did he succeed, or did he perish?

Or perhaps “that person” was the hope in Mu Cangsheng’s situation—a sage from a previous era, a savior from his own side. Did Mu Cangsheng follow in this person’s footsteps, the path so fraught with peril, strangeness, and unknowns that even he could not be sure he would survive? Was that why he felt such despair?

And what did Mu Cangsheng mean by “our lineage”? Did he refer to his descendants, his legacy, or perhaps the Celestial Desolation Star itself?

Li Ruoyu did not know; his heart was filled with questions. His thoughts turned back to his experiences in the Valley of Fallen Demons, to the words he had heard in the mind of the giant.

“…Forbidden…send men…seek to annihilate life…the heavens will collapse…”

“…Exterminate the Dao…slaughter demons…”

And the white-haired man who had given him the bone sword. All of this left Li Ruoyu with a growing sense of foreboding about that severed chapter of history. Perhaps it had been too terrible, too drenched in blood.

He thought again of the aftermath of the great battle that had recently emanated from the direction of the Valley of Fallen Demons. The more he considered it, the more chilling it became. Even without the full picture, Li Ruoyu had begun to form a faint suspicion—though he could not confirm its truth. Whether or not it was true, he had neither the means nor the strength to seek answers now. With this, he set aside his worries and continued deeper into the Yellow Mountain, toward the direction of the Immortal Blood Body nailed to the mountainside.