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Chapter 2334: ‌Fang‌ ‌Yuan‌ ‌and‌ ‌Giant‌ ‌Sun‌ ‌Fight‌ ‌Star‌ ‌Constellation‌ ‌‌

Intense‌ ‌wind‌ ‌blew‌ ‌as‌ ‌Star‌ ‌Constellation‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Venerable’s‌ ‌hair‌ ‌fluttered‌ ‌behind‌ ‌her.‌ ‌‌

She‌ ‌frowned‌ ‌slightly‌ ‌as‌ ‌the‌ ‌image‌ ‌of‌ ‌Heavenly‌ ‌Court‌ ‌was‌ ‌reflected‌ ‌in‌ ‌her‌ ‌dark‌ ‌pupils.‌ ‌‌

In‌ ‌her‌ ‌memory,‌ ‌Heavenly‌ ‌Court‌ ‌had‌ ‌never‌ ‌been‌ ‌in‌ ‌such‌ ‌a‌ ‌distressed‌ ‌state.‌ ‌‌

The‌ ‌star‌ ‌fog‌ ‌got‌ ‌denser‌ ‌as‌ ‌Spectral‌ ‌Soul‌ ‌Demon‌ ‌Venerable,‌ ‌who‌ ‌was‌ ‌trapped‌ ‌inside,‌ ‌growled‌ ‌and‌ ‌roared,‌ ‌he‌ ‌was‌ ‌increasingly‌ ‌furious‌ ‌and‌ ‌insane,‌ ‌but‌ ‌he‌ ‌could‌ ‌not‌ ‌escape‌ ‌from‌ ‌the‌ ‌star‌ ‌fog.‌ ‌‌

Star‌ ‌Constellation‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Venerable‌ ‌was‌ ‌bullying‌ ‌Spectral‌ ‌Soul‌ ‌Demon‌ ‌Venerable’s‌ ‌lack‌ ‌of‌ ‌sanity,‌ ‌if‌ ‌he‌ ‌was‌ ‌conscious,‌ ‌he‌ ‌would‌ ‌not‌ ‌do‌ ‌such‌ ‌a‌ ‌thing.‌ ‌‌

She‌ ‌was‌ ‌currently‌ ‌inside‌ ‌Heavenly‌ ‌Court,‌ ‌with‌ ‌the‌ ‌amplification‌ ‌of‌ ‌the‌ ‌wisdom‌ ‌path‌ ‌dao‌ ‌marks,‌ ‌she‌ ‌was‌ ‌completely‌ ‌above‌ ‌Spectral‌ ‌Soul‌ ‌Demon‌ ‌Venerable‌ ‌in‌ ‌power.‌ ‌‌

If‌ ‌Spectral‌ ‌Soul‌ ‌Demon‌ ‌Venerable‌ ‌fought‌ ‌without‌ ‌any‌ ‌intention‌ ‌to‌ ‌retreat,‌ ‌it‌ ‌was‌ ‌likely‌ ‌for‌ ‌Star‌ ‌Constellation‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Venerable‌ ‌to‌ ‌use‌ ‌the‌ ‌territorial‌ ‌advantage‌ ‌to‌ ‌kill‌ ‌him!‌ ‌‌

But‌ ‌Star‌ ‌Constellation‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Venerable‌ ‌showed‌ ‌no‌ ‌joy‌ ‌on‌ ‌her‌ ‌face.‌ ‌‌

Ever‌ ‌since‌ ‌the‌ ‌qi‌ ‌explosion,‌ ‌she‌ ‌knew‌ ‌that‌ ‌Heavenly‌ ‌Court’s‌ ‌greatest‌ ‌danger‌ ‌was‌ ‌not‌ ‌the‌ ‌insane‌ ‌Spectral‌ ‌Soul‌ ‌Demon‌ ‌Venerable,‌ ‌but‌ ‌Giant‌ ‌Sun‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Venerable‌ ‌and‌ ‌Heaven‌ ‌Refining‌ ‌Demon‌ ‌Venerable.‌ ‌‌

Between‌ ‌the‌ ‌two,‌ ‌Heaven‌ ‌Refining‌ ‌Demon‌ ‌Venerable‌ ‌was‌ ‌the‌ ‌most‌ ‌threatening.‌ ‌‌

Although‌ ‌Star‌ ‌Constellation‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Venerable‌ ‌had‌ ‌no‌ ‌evidence‌ ‌regarding‌ ‌the‌ ‌explosion‌ ‌of‌ ‌the‌ ‌qi‌ ‌harvest‌ ‌fruit,‌ ‌she‌ ‌was‌ ‌clear‌ ‌that‌ ‌Fang‌ ‌Yuan‌ ‌was‌ ‌the‌ ‌most‌ ‌suspicious‌ ‌one.‌ ‌‌

He‌ ‌would‌ ‌not‌ ‌let‌ ‌this‌ ‌chance‌ ‌slip‌ ‌by.‌ ‌‌

Neither‌ ‌would‌ ‌Giant‌ ‌Sun‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Venerable.‌ ‌‌

If‌ ‌Primordial‌ ‌Origin‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Venerable‌ ‌revived,‌ ‌the‌ ‌balance‌ ‌of‌ ‌the‌ ‌three‌ ‌venerables‌ ‌would‌ ‌be‌ ‌overturned,‌ ‌Giant‌ ‌Sun‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Venerable‌ ‌would‌ ‌not‌ ‌want‌ ‌this‌ ‌to‌ ‌happen.‌ ‌Earlier,‌ ‌he‌ ‌withdrew‌ ‌because‌ ‌there‌ ‌was‌ ‌no‌ ‌hope.‌ ‌‌

But‌ ‌now,‌ ‌the‌ ‌situation‌ ‌changed‌ ‌after‌ ‌the‌ ‌explosion,‌ ‌Heavenly‌ ‌Court‌ ‌was‌ ‌covered‌ ‌in‌ ‌holes,‌ ‌it‌ ‌was‌ ‌basically‌ ‌defenseless.‌ ‌‌

The‌ ‌only‌ ‌concern‌ ‌that‌ ‌Giant‌ ‌Sun‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Venerable‌ ‌had‌ ‌was‌ ‌Star‌ ‌Constellation‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Venerable‌ ‌herself.‌ ‌‌

But‌ ‌in‌ ‌order‌ ‌to‌ ‌protect‌ ‌the‌ ‌qi‌ ‌harvest‌ ‌fruit‌ ‌core,‌ ‌Star‌ ‌Constellation‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Venerable‌ ‌endured‌ ‌most‌ ‌of‌ ‌the‌ ‌force‌ ‌of‌ ‌the‌ ‌explosion,‌ ‌she‌ ‌was‌ ‌currently‌ ‌injured.‌ ‌‌

Furthermore,‌ ‌she‌ ‌could‌ ‌not‌ ‌defeat‌ ‌Spectral‌ ‌Soul‌ ‌Demon‌ ‌Venerable‌ ‌in‌ ‌a‌ ‌short‌ ‌period‌ ‌of‌ ‌time,‌ ‌this‌ ‌gave‌ ‌Giant‌ ‌Sun‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Venerable‌ ‌and‌ ‌Heaven‌ ‌Refining‌ ‌Demon‌ ‌Venerable‌ ‌sufficient‌ ‌time‌ ‌to‌ ‌probe‌ ‌her‌ ‌current‌ ‌condition.‌ ‌‌

As‌ ‌expected,‌ ‌once‌ ‌Star‌ ‌Constellation‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Venerable‌ ‌used‌ ‌her‌ ‌star‌ ‌fog‌ ‌to‌ ‌trap‌ ‌Spectral‌ ‌Soul‌ ‌Demon‌ ‌Venerable,‌ ‌Giant‌ ‌Sun‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Venerable‌ ‌and‌ ‌Heaven‌ ‌Refining‌ ‌Demon‌ ‌Venerable‌ ‌arrived.‌ ‌‌

In‌ ‌the‌ ‌battle‌ ‌regarding‌ ‌the‌ ‌dream‌ ‌realms‌ ‌in‌ ‌spectral‌ ‌heaven‌ ‌earlier,‌ ‌Star‌ ‌Constellation‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Venerable‌ ‌had‌ ‌allied‌ ‌with‌ ‌Giant‌ ‌Sun‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Venerable,‌ ‌but‌ ‌now,‌ ‌she‌ ‌was‌ ‌all‌ ‌alone‌ ‌against‌ ‌the‌ ‌assault‌ ‌three‌ ‌venerables.‌ ‌‌

Star‌ ‌Constellation‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Venerable‌ ‌floated‌ ‌in‌ ‌the‌ ‌sky‌ ‌quietly,‌ ‌she‌ ‌watched‌ ‌as‌ ‌Fang‌ ‌Yuan‌ ‌and‌ ‌Giant‌ ‌Sun‌ ‌arrived.‌ ‌‌

Her‌ ‌gaze‌ ‌swept‌ ‌past‌ ‌Giant‌ ‌Sun‌ ‌and‌ ‌fixed‌ ‌on‌ ‌Fang‌ ‌Yuan,‌ ‌she‌ ‌said:‌ ‌”Heaven‌ ‌Refining‌ ‌Demon‌ ‌Venerable,‌ ‌you‌ ‌are‌ ‌worthily‌ ‌a‌ ‌refinement‌ ‌path‌ ‌venerable,‌ ‌you‌ ‌tampered‌ ‌with‌ ‌the‌ ‌qi‌ ‌harvest‌ ‌fruit‌ ‌to‌ ‌cause‌ ‌the‌ ‌explosion.‌ ‌But‌ ‌I‌ ‌have‌ ‌one‌ ‌question,‌ ‌how‌ ‌are‌ ‌you‌ ‌so‌ ‌clear‌ ‌of‌ ‌my‌ ‌master’s‌ ‌revival‌ ‌arrangements‌ ‌in‌ ‌Heavenly‌ ‌Court?”‌ ‌‌

Fang‌ ‌Yuan‌ ‌was‌ ‌first‌ ‌stunned‌ ‌before‌ ‌laughing:‌ ‌”Star‌ ‌Constellation‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Venerable,‌ ‌you‌ ‌are‌ ‌overestimating‌ ‌me.‌ ‌Remember,‌ ‌the‌ ‌current‌ ‌world‌ ‌is‌ ‌no‌ ‌longer‌ ‌like‌ ‌ancient‌ ‌times,‌ ‌the‌ ‌five‌ ‌regions‌ ‌have‌ ‌become‌ ‌one‌ ‌while‌ ‌the‌ ‌two‌ ‌heavens‌ ‌became‌ ‌spectral‌ ‌heaven.‌ ‌Isn’t‌ ‌it‌ ‌normal‌ ‌for‌ ‌revival‌ ‌methods‌ ‌made‌ ‌three‌ ‌million‌ ‌years‌ ‌ago‌ ‌by‌ ‌Primordial‌ ‌Origin‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Venerable‌ ‌to‌ ‌fail?”‌ ‌‌

“You‌ ‌can‌ ‌think‌ ‌whatever‌ ‌you‌ ‌want,‌ ‌that‌ ‌is‌ ‌none‌ ‌of‌ ‌my‌ ‌concern,‌ ‌but‌ ‌I‌ ‌won’t‌ ‌give‌ ‌you‌ ‌any‌ ‌time‌ ‌to‌ ‌stall‌ ‌further,‌ ‌take‌ ‌this!”‌ ‌‌

Fang‌ ‌Yuan‌ ‌knew‌ ‌that‌ ‌he‌ ‌was‌ ‌the‌ ‌culprit‌ ‌but‌ ‌he‌ ‌had‌ ‌to‌ ‌make‌ ‌Giant‌ ‌Sun‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Venerable‌ ‌stand‌ ‌on‌ ‌his‌ ‌side,‌ ‌so‌ ‌he‌ ‌was‌ ‌not‌ ‌going‌ ‌to‌ ‌let‌ ‌Star‌ ‌Constellation‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Venerable‌ ‌talk‌ ‌anymore.‌ ‌‌

Once‌ ‌he‌ ‌stepped‌ ‌into‌ ‌Heavenly‌ ‌Court,‌ ‌Fang‌ ‌Yuan‌ ‌unleashed‌ ‌a‌ ‌powerful‌ ‌offensive‌ ‌method.‌ ‌‌

Immortal‌ ‌killer‌ ‌move‌ ‌—‌ ‌Shocking‌ ‌Departure‌ ‌of‌ ‌Year‌ ‌Dream‌ ‌Wave‌ ‌and‌ ‌Dang‌ ‌Hun‌ ‌Sound!‌ ‌‌

Meng‌ ‌Qiu‌ ‌Zhen‌ ‌was‌ ‌already‌ ‌placed‌ ‌into‌ ‌the‌ ‌sovereign‌ ‌immortal‌ ‌aperture,‌ ‌now‌ ‌that‌ ‌he‌ ‌regained‌ ‌dream‌ ‌armor‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Gu,‌ ‌this‌ ‌move‌ ‌could‌ ‌be‌ ‌used‌ ‌once‌ ‌again.‌ ‌‌

At‌ ‌the‌ ‌next‌ ‌moment,‌ ‌waves‌ ‌of‌ ‌pink‌ ‌fog‌ ‌emerged‌ ‌from‌ ‌Fang‌ ‌Yuan’s‌ ‌mouth‌ ‌and‌ ‌ears,‌ ‌gathering‌ ‌above‌ ‌Fang‌ ‌Yuan’s‌ ‌head‌ ‌and‌ ‌turning‌ ‌into‌ ‌a‌ ‌small‌ ‌image‌ ‌of‌ ‌Dang‌ ‌Hun‌ ‌Mountain.‌ ‌‌

The‌ ‌small‌ ‌Dang‌ ‌Hun‌ ‌Mountain‌ ‌shook‌ ‌intensely.‌ ‌‌

Ding——‌!‌ ‌‌

Ding——‌!‌ ‌‌

Ding——‌!‌ ‌‌

Sounds‌ ‌of‌ ‌clear‌ ‌crystals‌ ‌colliding‌ ‌resounded‌ ‌in‌ ‌the‌ ‌battlefield,‌ ‌and‌ ‌soon,‌ ‌waves‌ ‌of‌ ‌pink‌ ‌sound‌ ‌waves‌ ‌spread‌ ‌throughout‌ ‌the‌ ‌area.‌ ‌‌

Spectral‌ ‌Soul‌ ‌Demon‌ ‌Venerable‌ ‌who‌ ‌was‌ ‌trapped‌ ‌in‌ ‌the‌ ‌star‌ ‌fog‌ ‌also‌ ‌suffered‌ ‌the‌ ‌attack‌ ‌of‌ ‌the‌ ‌pink‌ ‌sound‌ ‌waves.‌ ‌‌

However,‌ ‌the‌ ‌star‌ ‌fog‌ ‌managed‌ ‌to‌ ‌stabilize‌ ‌after‌ ‌weakening‌ ‌by‌ ‌thirty‌ ‌percent.‌ ‌It‌ ‌rumbled‌ ‌intensely,‌ ‌seemingly‌ ‌adapting‌ ‌and‌ ‌enduring‌ ‌the‌ ‌assault‌ ‌of‌ ‌the‌ ‌powerful‌ ‌pink‌ ‌sound‌ ‌waves.‌ ‌‌

Seeing‌ ‌this,‌ ‌Giant‌ ‌Sun‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Venerable‌ ‌helped‌ ‌out‌ ‌from‌ ‌the‌ ‌side.‌ ‌‌

Immortal‌ ‌killer‌ ‌move‌ ‌—‌ ‌Soft‌ ‌Gold‌ ‌Crashing‌ ‌Pillar!‌ ‌‌

Golden‌ ‌light‌ ‌flowed‌ ‌and‌ ‌turned‌ ‌into‌ ‌tens‌ ‌of‌ ‌crashing‌ ‌pillars‌ ‌that‌ ‌slammed‌ ‌into‌ ‌the‌ ‌star‌ ‌fog.‌ ‌‌

The‌ ‌strong‌ ‌impact‌ ‌of‌ ‌the‌ ‌soft‌ ‌gold‌ ‌crashing‌ ‌pillars‌ ‌made‌ ‌the‌ ‌luck‌ ‌of‌ ‌the‌ ‌star‌ ‌fog‌ ‌shake‌ ‌intensely.‌ ‌‌

Everything‌ ‌in‌ ‌heaven‌ ‌and‌ ‌earth‌ ‌contained‌ ‌luck,‌ ‌even‌ ‌grass‌ ‌and‌ ‌rocks‌ ‌were‌ ‌no‌ ‌exception.‌ ‌‌

This‌ ‌was‌ ‌the‌ ‌profundity‌ ‌of‌ ‌heaven‌ ‌and‌ ‌earth‌ ‌luck.‌ ‌‌

The‌ ‌luck‌ ‌of‌ ‌the‌ ‌star‌ ‌fog‌ ‌was‌ ‌attacked,‌ ‌it‌ ‌influenced‌ ‌the‌ ‌star‌ ‌fog‌ ‌itself,‌ ‌this‌ ‌penetrative‌ ‌force‌ ‌started‌ ‌to‌ ‌disrupt‌ ‌the‌ ‌operations‌ ‌of‌ ‌the‌ ‌star‌ ‌fog.‌ ‌‌

Giant‌ ‌Sun‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Venerable‌ ‌had‌ ‌once‌ ‌used‌ ‌this‌ ‌move‌ ‌on‌ ‌Fang‌ ‌Yuan,‌ ‌at‌ ‌that‌ ‌time,‌ ‌it‌ ‌was‌ ‌not‌ ‌completed‌ ‌yet‌ ‌but‌ ‌it‌ ‌still‌ ‌gave‌ ‌Fang‌ ‌Yuan‌ ‌significant‌ ‌trouble.‌ ‌Now,‌ ‌the‌ ‌move‌ ‌was‌ ‌already‌ ‌in‌ ‌a‌ ‌completed‌ ‌state.‌ ‌‌

However,‌ ‌under‌ ‌Star‌ ‌Constellation‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Venerable’s‌ ‌control,‌ ‌although‌ ‌the‌ ‌star‌ ‌fog‌ ‌shook‌ ‌for‌ ‌a‌ ‌while,‌ ‌it‌ ‌still‌ ‌survived‌ ‌the‌ ‌waves‌ ‌of‌ ‌attacks.‌ ‌‌

This‌ ‌scene‌ ‌made‌ ‌Fang‌ ‌Yuan’s‌ ‌and‌ ‌Giant‌ ‌Sun’s‌ ‌hearts‌ ‌sink.‌ ‌‌

In‌ ‌any‌ ‌other‌ ‌location,‌ ‌these‌ ‌two‌ ‌moves‌ ‌would‌ ‌have‌ ‌succeeded.‌ ‌But‌ ‌in‌ ‌Heavenly‌ ‌Court,‌ ‌Star‌ ‌Constellation‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Venerable‌ ‌had‌ ‌the‌ ‌amplification‌ ‌of‌ ‌Heavenly‌ ‌Court’s‌ ‌vast‌ ‌number‌ ‌of‌ ‌wisdom‌ ‌path‌ ‌dao‌ ‌marks,‌ ‌her‌ ‌strength‌ ‌rose‌ ‌to‌ ‌a‌ ‌terrifying‌ ‌level.‌ ‌‌

The‌ ‌star‌ ‌fog‌ ‌was‌ ‌not‌ ‌her‌ ‌strongest‌ ‌killer‌ ‌move,‌ ‌but‌ ‌using‌ ‌it,‌ ‌she‌ ‌resisted‌ ‌Fang‌ ‌Yuan’s‌ ‌compound‌ ‌killer‌ ‌move‌ ‌and‌ ‌Giant‌ ‌Sun‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Venerable’s‌ ‌new‌ ‌method.‌ ‌‌

“With‌ ‌me‌ ‌here,‌ ‌Heavenly‌ ‌Court‌ ‌will‌ ‌not‌ ‌lose.”‌ ‌Star‌ ‌Constellation‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Venerable‌ ‌said‌ ‌plainly,‌ ‌but‌ ‌her‌ ‌tone‌ ‌was‌ ‌filled‌ ‌with‌ ‌confidence‌ ‌and‌ ‌resolve.‌ ‌‌

“Star‌ ‌Constellation‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Venerable‌ ‌suppressed‌ ‌the‌ ‌two‌ ‌Demon‌ ‌Venerables,‌ ‌Giant‌ ‌Sun‌ ‌and‌ ‌Fang‌ ‌Yuan,‌ ‌on‌ ‌her‌ ‌own!”‌ ‌‌

“That’s‌ ‌right,‌ ‌all‌ ‌of‌ ‌Heavenly‌ ‌Court’s‌ ‌wisdom‌ ‌path‌ ‌dao‌ ‌marks‌ ‌have‌ ‌been‌ ‌refined‌ ‌by‌ ‌Lady‌ ‌Star‌ ‌Constellation‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Venerable.”‌ ‌‌

“Hmph,‌ ‌no‌ ‌matter‌ ‌how‌ ‌much‌ ‌damage‌ ‌Heavenly‌ ‌Court‌ ‌has‌ ‌taken,‌ ‌these‌ ‌demonic‌ ‌path‌ ‌scoundrels‌ ‌cannot‌ ‌take‌ ‌us‌ ‌down.”‌ ‌‌

“After‌ ‌Lady‌ ‌Star‌ ‌Constellation‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Venerable‌ ‌died,‌ ‌she‌ ‌left‌ ‌behind‌ ‌three‌ ‌measures‌ ‌to‌ ‌block‌ ‌the‌ ‌attack‌ ‌of‌ ‌three‌ ‌Demon‌ ‌Venerables‌ ‌for‌ ‌Heavenly‌ ‌Court.‌ ‌Now‌ ‌that‌ ‌she‌ ‌is‌ ‌alive‌ ‌and‌ ‌is‌ ‌personally‌ ‌stopping‌ ‌them,‌ ‌she‌ ‌can‌ ‌definitely‌ ‌defend‌ ‌Heavenly‌ ‌Court,‌ ‌these‌ ‌Demon‌ ‌Venerables‌ ‌will‌ ‌not‌ ‌succeed.”‌ ‌‌

The‌ ‌Gu‌ ‌Immortals‌ ‌of‌ ‌the‌ ‌ten‌ ‌great‌ ‌ancient‌ ‌sects‌ ‌were‌ ‌excited,‌ ‌the‌ ‌Heavenly‌ ‌Court‌ ‌members‌ ‌also‌ ‌showed‌ ‌expressions‌ ‌of‌ ‌joy.‌ ‌‌

Everyone‌ ‌knew‌ ‌about‌ ‌the‌ ‌details‌ ‌of‌ ‌the‌ ‌battle‌ ‌over‌ ‌spectral‌ ‌heaven’s‌ ‌dream‌ ‌realms.‌ ‌‌

The‌ ‌immortals‌ ‌saw‌ ‌that‌ ‌Star‌ ‌Constellation‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Venerable’s‌ ‌strength‌ ‌had‌ ‌risen,‌ ‌they‌ ‌were‌ ‌joyous‌ ‌and‌ ‌felt‌ ‌more‌ ‌confident‌ ‌now.‌ ‌‌

But‌ ‌at‌ ‌the‌ ‌next‌ ‌moment,‌ ‌the‌ ‌immortals‌ ‌heard‌ ‌Fang‌ ‌Yuan’s‌ ‌cold‌ ‌voice:‌ ‌”Star‌ ‌Constellation‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Venerable,‌ ‌Heavenly‌ ‌Court‌ ‌is‌ ‌your‌ ‌strongest‌ ‌territory,‌ ‌but‌ ‌it‌ ‌is‌ ‌also‌ ‌your‌ ‌weakness!‌ ‌Take‌ ‌this!”‌ ‌‌

Immortal‌ ‌killer‌ ‌move‌ ‌—‌ ‌Arrival‌ ‌of‌ ‌Dragon‌ ‌Snake‌ ‌with‌ ‌Dust‌ ‌Fog‌ ‌and‌ ‌Explosive‌ ‌Soul‌ ‌Wind!‌ ‌ ‌‌

Soul‌ ‌fog‌ ‌spread‌ ‌out‌ ‌as‌ ‌dragons‌ ‌and‌ ‌snakes‌ ‌roared.‌ ‌‌

At‌ ‌the‌ ‌same‌ ‌time,‌ ‌the‌ ‌small‌ ‌Dang‌ ‌Hun‌ ‌Mountain‌ ‌above‌ ‌Fang‌ ‌Yuan’s‌ ‌head‌ ‌shot‌ ‌out‌ ‌countless‌ ‌pink‌ ‌sound‌ ‌waves‌ ‌again.‌ ‌‌

Fang‌ ‌Yuan‌ ‌used‌ ‌two‌ ‌moves‌ ‌at‌ ‌once,‌ ‌but‌ ‌he‌ ‌did‌ ‌not‌ ‌target‌ ‌Star‌ ‌Constellation‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Venerable,‌ ‌instead,‌ ‌he‌ ‌aimed‌ ‌at‌ ‌the‌ ‌qi‌ ‌harvest‌ ‌fruit‌ ‌core.‌ ‌‌

Star‌ ‌Constellation‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Venerable’s‌ ‌expression‌ ‌changed,‌ ‌she‌ ‌quickly‌ ‌used‌ ‌methods‌ ‌to‌ ‌block‌ ‌them.‌ ‌Fang‌ ‌Yuan’s‌ ‌two‌ ‌moves‌ ‌worked‌ ‌together‌ ‌but‌ ‌were‌ ‌stopped‌ ‌by‌ ‌her‌ ‌midway,‌ ‌however,‌ ‌he‌ ‌laughed,‌ ‌he‌ ‌held‌ ‌the‌ ‌initiative‌ ‌now.‌ ‌‌

Giant‌ ‌Sun‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Venerable‌ ‌moved‌ ‌like‌ ‌lightning,‌ ‌he‌ ‌quickly‌ ‌went‌ ‌to‌ ‌one‌ ‌side‌ ‌and‌ ‌aimed‌ ‌at‌ ‌the‌ ‌qi‌ ‌harvest‌ ‌fruit‌ ‌core‌ ‌as‌ ‌he‌ ‌attacked.‌ ‌‌

After‌ ‌the‌ ‌earlier‌ ‌test,‌ ‌they‌ ‌realized‌ ‌that‌ ‌Star‌ ‌Constellation‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Venerable‌ ‌was‌ ‌too‌ ‌powerful‌ ‌here,‌ ‌Giant‌ ‌Sun‌ ‌and‌ ‌Fang‌ ‌Yuan‌ ‌could‌ ‌not‌ ‌defeat‌ ‌her‌ ‌even‌ ‌if‌ ‌they‌ ‌worked‌ ‌together.‌ ‌But‌ ‌it‌ ‌did‌ ‌not‌ ‌matter.‌ ‌‌

Giant‌ ‌Sun‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Venerable‌ ‌was‌ ‌most‌ ‌worried‌ ‌about‌ ‌Primordial‌ ‌Origin‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Venerable’s‌ ‌revival.‌ ‌‌

As‌ ‌long‌ ‌as‌ ‌he‌ ‌destroyed‌ ‌the‌ ‌qi‌ ‌harvest‌ ‌fruit‌ ‌core‌ ‌and‌ ‌successfully‌ ‌retreated,‌ ‌his‌ ‌goal‌ ‌would‌ ‌be‌ ‌achieved,‌ ‌he‌ ‌would‌ ‌win‌ ‌this‌ ‌fight.‌ ‌‌

Star‌ ‌Constellation‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Venerable‌ ‌fell‌ ‌into‌ ‌a‌ ‌passive‌ ‌spot‌ ‌indeed.‌ ‌‌

She‌ ‌had‌ ‌to‌ ‌concentrate‌ ‌on‌ ‌defending‌ ‌the‌ ‌qi‌ ‌harvest‌ ‌fruit‌ ‌core,‌ ‌although‌ ‌she‌ ‌was‌ ‌strongest‌ ‌while‌ ‌in‌ ‌Heavenly‌ ‌Court,‌ ‌she‌ ‌could‌ ‌only‌ ‌defend‌ ‌now.‌ ‌‌

After‌ ‌seeing‌ ‌this,‌ ‌the‌ ‌Central‌ ‌Continent‌ ‌Gu‌ ‌Immortals‌ ‌gritted‌ ‌their‌ ‌teeth‌ ‌and‌ ‌scolded‌ ‌continuously.‌ ‌‌

“They‌ ‌are‌ ‌so‌ ‌shameless!”‌ ‌‌

“To‌ ‌think‌ ‌that‌ ‌the‌ ‌grand‌ ‌Giant‌ ‌Sun‌ ‌would‌ ‌act‌ ‌like‌ ‌this.”‌ ‌‌

“Sigh,‌ ‌I‌ ‌really‌ ‌want‌ ‌to‌ ‌help‌ ‌Lady‌ ‌Star‌ ‌Constellation‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Venerable,‌ ‌but‌ ‌I‌ ‌am‌ ‌just‌ ‌too‌ ‌weak.”‌ ‌‌

The‌ ‌battle‌ ‌of‌ ‌venerables‌ ‌caused‌ ‌huge‌ ‌aftermath‌ ‌effects,‌ ‌the‌ ‌various‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Gu‌ ‌Houses‌ ‌retreated‌ ‌time‌ ‌and‌ ‌again.‌ ‌‌

Gu‌ ‌Yue‌ ‌Fang‌ ‌Zheng‌ ‌was‌ ‌situated‌ ‌in‌ ‌Demon‌ ‌Judgment‌ ‌Board,‌ ‌he‌ ‌frowned‌ ‌deeply‌ ‌as‌ ‌he‌ ‌locked‌ ‌his‌ ‌gaze‌ ‌on‌ ‌Fang‌ ‌Yuan.‌ ‌‌

Zhao‌ ‌Lian‌ ‌Yun‌ ‌was‌ ‌doing‌ ‌the‌ ‌same.‌ ‌‌

The‌ ‌Ma‌ ‌Hong‌ ‌Yun‌ ‌that‌ ‌she‌ ‌loved‌ ‌had‌ ‌died‌ ‌in‌ ‌Fang‌ ‌Yuan’s‌ ‌arms.‌ ‌Fang‌ ‌Yuan‌ ‌was‌ ‌currently‌ ‌in‌ ‌possession‌ ‌of‌ ‌Ma‌ ‌Hong‌ ‌Yun’s‌ ‌soul,‌ ‌so‌ ‌even‌ ‌with‌ ‌fate‌ ‌Gu‌ ‌destroyed,‌ ‌Zhao‌ ‌Lian‌ ‌Yun‌ ‌could‌ ‌not‌ ‌revive‌ ‌him.‌ ‌‌

She‌ ‌had‌ ‌to‌ ‌get‌ ‌back‌ ‌Ma‌ ‌Hong‌ ‌Yun‌ ‌from‌ ‌Fang‌ ‌Yuan.‌ ‌‌

“Maybe,‌ ‌I‌ ‌can‌ ‌use‌ ‌the‌ ‌power‌ ‌of‌ ‌love‌ ‌Gu‌ ‌to‌ ‌steal‌ ‌his‌ ‌soul‌ ‌from‌ ‌Fang‌ ‌Yuan’s‌ ‌immortal‌ ‌aperture.‌ ‌After‌ ‌all,‌ ‌love‌ ‌Gu‌ ‌is‌ ‌a‌ ‌rank‌ ‌nine‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Gu,‌ ‌it‌ ‌has‌ ‌countless‌ ‌effects‌ ‌and‌ ‌is‌ ‌capable‌ ‌of‌ ‌doing‌ ‌almost‌ ‌anything!”‌ ‌‌

Zhao‌ ‌Lian‌ ‌Yun‌ ‌thought‌ ‌of‌ ‌this‌ ‌and‌ ‌felt‌ ‌increasingly‌ ‌moved.‌ ‌‌

“Now‌ ‌is‌ ‌not‌ ‌the‌ ‌time.‌ ‌I‌ ‌need‌ ‌to‌ ‌wait‌ ‌patiently‌ ‌until‌ ‌Fang‌ ‌Yuan‌ ‌is‌ ‌at‌ ‌his‌ ‌weakest,‌ ‌when‌ ‌he‌ ‌cannot‌ ‌afford‌ ‌to‌ ‌distract‌ ‌himself,‌ ‌I‌ ‌will‌ ‌make‌ ‌a‌ ‌move!”‌ ‌‌

Qin‌ ‌Ding‌ ‌Ling‌ ‌was‌ ‌waiting‌ ‌to‌ ‌strike.‌ ‌‌

She‌ ‌had‌ ‌the‌ ‌killer‌ ‌move‌ ‌luck‌ ‌gamble,‌ ‌it‌ ‌was‌ ‌created‌ ‌to‌ ‌counter‌ ‌Giant‌ ‌Sun‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Venerable.‌ ‌‌

She‌ ‌could‌ ‌not‌ ‌do‌ ‌anything‌ ‌against‌ ‌Spectral‌ ‌Soul‌ ‌Demon‌ ‌Venerable,‌ ‌but‌ ‌she‌ ‌could‌ ‌deal‌ ‌with‌ ‌Giant‌ ‌Sun‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Venerable.‌ ‌‌

She‌ ‌was‌ ‌waiting‌ ‌for‌ ‌a‌ ‌chance.‌ ‌‌

“Fang‌ ‌Yuan,‌ ‌what‌ ‌other‌ ‌methods‌ ‌do‌ ‌you‌ ‌still‌ ‌have?‌ ‌Hurry‌ ‌up‌ ‌and‌ ‌use‌ ‌them.”‌ ‌After‌ ‌attacking‌ ‌for‌ ‌a‌ ‌long‌ ‌time‌ ‌with‌ ‌no‌ ‌results,‌ ‌Giant‌ ‌Sun‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Venerable‌ ‌started‌ ‌to‌ ‌get‌ ‌anxious,‌ ‌he‌ ‌shouted‌ ‌towards‌ ‌Fang‌ ‌Yuan.‌ ‌‌

Fang‌ ‌Yuan‌ ‌looked‌ ‌down‌ ‌at‌ ‌the‌ ‌Heavenly‌ ‌Court‌ ‌below‌ ‌him.‌ ‌‌

He‌ ‌saw‌ ‌many‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Gu‌ ‌Houses‌ ‌and‌ ‌also‌ ‌huge‌ ‌areas‌ ‌of‌ ‌ruins.‌ ‌‌

He‌ ‌laughed‌ ‌ruthlessly‌ ‌as‌ ‌he‌ ‌said:‌ ‌”Star‌ ‌Constellation‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Venerable,‌ ‌I‌ ‌am‌ ‌going‌ ‌to‌ ‌kill‌ ‌all‌ ‌of‌ ‌Heavenly‌ ‌Court’s‌ ‌Gu‌ ‌Immortals‌ ‌now.‌ ‌Come‌ ‌stop‌ ‌me‌ ‌if‌ ‌you‌ ‌can!”‌ ‌

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  1. Offline
    + 50 -
    Come‌ ‌stop‌ ‌me‌ ‌if‌ ‌you‌ ‌can!”‌


    Final last words from the Legendary Fang Yuan. No one can stop you in the pursuit of Eternal Life

    5:19pm 20/01/2026
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    This was one of the best novel read that I did, in the future if Reverend Insanity revives I will follow it again
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    The River of Time was stolen by the CCP at this moment 15.

    Timestamp can be found on this comment.

    I was about to make a comment about how they were glazing her, then I remembered how there were no more chapters. crybaby

    I finally "finished" this novel so I am taking a break, I would probably hop on back to Shadow Slave after the break. Good luck everyone, it was a nice journey reading this novel, one of the best journeys I have had. Peace ✌️
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      + 30 -
      It was fun reading this alongside you man. Looks like you won the race of finishing this first
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        It was fun reading alongside you as well welldone. I finished first but we will continue in the future when this gets unbanned hokage
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    spring autumn cicada
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    Do you guys think you can read something like this. And this is retelling.

    Chapter 1: The King Who Loved Silence

    Hastinapura woke before the sun.

    The city had learned this habit over generations. Cattle were led from their sheds while the air was still cool. Water was drawn before the heat thickened. Guards finished their rounds as the eastern sky began to pale. Nothing dramatic marked the moment. Life simply continued, as it always had.

    From the upper terrace of the palace, King Shantanu watched it all.

    He stood with his hands resting on the stone railing, fingers curled slightly, as if the habit of holding himself together had become physical. He had stood there most mornings of his reign. The view calmed him. Not because it was beautiful, but because it was predictable.

    Predictability was a rare comfort for a king.

    Shantanu was not a man of loud authority. He did not shout in assembly. He did not rule through fear. When disputes were brought before him, he listened longer than most, sometimes long enough to make others uneasy. His judgments were steady, often unremarkable, and that was why the kingdom endured.

    People mistook this for detachment.

    In truth, it was discipline.

    He had learned early that words, once spoken, could not be taken back. Silence, however, could still be shaped.

    When the court grew too loud, when advice began to sound more like ambition, Shantanu rode alone to the river.

    He did not announce these rides. He did not bring guards. The river had been part of his life long before the throne was. As a boy, he had sat on its banks listening to his father speak of kings who ruled and kings who failed. As a man, he returned to it when decisions pressed too heavily on him.

    That was where he met her.

    She stood near the water, barefoot, her gaze fixed on the current as if listening to something he could not hear. At first, Shantanu assumed she was a fisherwoman or a traveler resting. It was her stillness that made him pause.

    She did not turn when his horse approached.

    “You ride quietly,” she said.

    It was not a compliment. It was an observation.

    Shantanu dismounted, mildly amused. “Kings learn when to make noise,” he replied. “And when not to.”

    She turned then and studied him without curiosity or fear. Her eyes did not flick to his clothes or his bearing. She looked at his face, as though trying to understand something unfinished.

    “You rule by holding back,” she said.

    Shantanu felt a brief, unexpected discomfort. Few spoke to him that way.

    “And you speak freely,” he said. “That is uncommon.”

    “Freedom is a matter of place,” she replied. “Some places demand silence. Others do not.”

    They spoke for a time after that. Not of politics or lineage. Of the river. Of seasons. Of how some things endured simply because they did not resist change.

    Shantanu found himself talking more than he intended. Not confiding, but explaining. It had been years since anyone had listened without waiting to respond.

    When she asked him to marry her, it did not feel abrupt.

    It felt like a continuation of something already decided.

    “There is a condition,” she said.

    He nodded. He expected one.

    “You must never question my actions,” she said. “Not in thought. Not in word.”

    Shantanu did not answer immediately.

    A vow was not a casual thing. In his world, vows shaped lives, bound families, and followed men beyond death. He understood that. He respected it.

    But he also trusted himself.

    He believed that restraint was his strength. That silence had never failed him before.

    “I give my word,” he said at last.

    She inclined her head, once.

    That was enough.


    ---

    The marriage was conducted without excess. The court murmured, then settled. A king’s vow was not lightly dismissed, even when it was poorly understood.

    Life in the palace changed subtly after that.

    The new queen moved through its halls with quiet certainty. She did not interfere. She did not command. Servants learned quickly that she noticed everything, even when she said nothing.

    Shantanu found that he slept more deeply in her presence. The constant tension he carried eased, just slightly. He took this as confirmation that he had chosen well.

    He did not yet understand that some comforts are given only to test how much one is willing to lose.

    When she told him she was with child, he felt a careful joy. Not exuberant. Just steady. The kingdom prepared as it always did.

    And beneath it all, unseen and unspoken, the vow waited.


    ---

    End of Chapter 1
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      Chapter 2: The First Child

      The child was born just before midnight.

      The palace had grown still by then. Lamps burned low in the corridors, their flames steady and patient. The noises of the city had faded into the distance, replaced by the softer sounds of breathing, footsteps, and whispered instruction.

      Shantanu waited outside the chamber.

      He had sent the ministers away earlier, dismissed the priests, and ordered that no announcements be made until morning. This was not a political moment to him. It was a private one. His hands rested against the wall as he listened to the muted voices inside.

      When the cry finally came, it startled him.

      Not because it was loud, but because it was strong.

      The sound cut through the corridor and settled into him at once, sharp and undeniable. Shantanu straightened, his breath catching despite himself. For a brief moment, the weight he carried loosened.

      Alive, he thought. Strong.

      The door opened soon after. A midwife emerged, her face damp with sweat, relief visible in the lines around her eyes.

      “It is a boy,” she said softly. “Healthy.”

      Shantanu nodded. He found he could not speak just yet.

      When he entered the chamber, the smell of warm water and crushed herbs filled the air. His wife sat upright against cushions, her expression unchanged. There was no exhaustion on her face, no relief, no visible joy. She looked as she always did.

      The child was placed in Shantanu’s arms.

      He had held weapons all his life. He had held scrolls, offerings, seals of state. None of that prepared him for the weight of a newborn.

      The boy was small, but solid. Warm. His hands moved restlessly, fingers curling and uncurling as though grasping at something unseen. His cry rose again, indignant and demanding.

      Shantanu laughed quietly.

      The sound surprised him.

      “So much voice,” he murmured.

      The child quieted, eyes opening briefly, unfocused but alert. Shantanu felt something tighten in his chest, something close to fear, close to wonder.

      He looked up at his wife, expecting something. A smile. A glance. Some acknowledgment of what they had brought into the world.

      She was watching him closely.

      Not the child.

      Him.

      After a while, she reached out.

      “I will take him,” she said.

      Her voice was calm. Almost gentle.

      Shantanu hesitated, only for a breath. He told himself the feeling meant nothing. New fathers were always uncertain. He placed the child into her arms carefully, reluctant to let go.

      “I will return,” she said.

      He nodded.

      There was nothing unusual in the words.

      She left the chamber without hurry. The midwives lowered their eyes as she passed. No one followed her. Shantanu remained seated for a time, listening to the quiet left behind.

      Something felt unfinished.

      He told himself it was exhaustion.

      Time passed.

      The lamps burned lower. The palace settled further into sleep. Shantanu found himself standing, then walking, then stopping again. He went to the doorway, listening.

      Nothing.

      After a while, he stepped into the corridor.

      The air was cooler there. The stone beneath his feet felt colder than before. He walked slowly, unsure where he was going, until he realized he was moving toward the river gate.

      He stopped.

      The vow rose in him then, unbidden.

      Do not question.

      The words were not spoken. They did not need to be. They pressed against his thoughts, familiar and heavy, like armor he had worn too long to remember removing.

      He turned back.

      When his wife returned, she did so alone.

      She did not avoid his gaze. She did not seek it either.

      For a moment, neither of them spoke.

      “Where is the child?” Shantanu asked at last.

      The words surprised him.

      He had not planned to ask them.

      She regarded him quietly.

      “You promised,” she said.

      The reminder struck him harder than anger would have. He felt heat rise in his chest, followed by a cold clarity.

      “I did,” he replied.

      Silence filled the chamber.

      Shantanu did not ask again.

      That night, he did not sleep.

      He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the palace breathe. He tried to recall the sound of the child’s cry, but it had already begun to fade, as sounds do when they are not repeated.

      At dawn, the palace resumed its rhythm.

      Servants moved carefully. Whispers followed Shantanu through the halls. No announcement was made. No mourning declared. The nurseries prepared the day before stood empty, their doors closed.

      Shantanu held court as usual.

      He listened to disputes over land and grain. He signed decrees. He dismissed envoys. No one spoke of the child.

      By midday, he found himself walking toward the river without realizing it.

      The water moved steadily, unchanged. Shantanu stood at the bank for a long time, watching it pass. He did not look for anything. He did not pray.

      He told himself that vows mattered.

      He told himself that kings did not break their word because of pain. He told himself that questioning her actions would only deepen his loss.

      These thoughts felt solid when he held them close.

      They felt weaker when he stood alone.

      That night, when he returned to the palace, his wife sat as she always did. Calm. Present. Untouched.

      She did not speak of the child.

      Neither did he.

      Days passed.

      When she told him she was with child again, her voice did not change.

      Shantanu felt a familiar tightening in his chest. Not joy. Not dread. Something in between.

      He nodded.

      Silence, he had learned, could carry many things.

      He did not yet understand how much it would carry for him.


      ---

      End of Chapter 2
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        Chapter 3: The Pattern

        The second child was born quietly.

        There was no gathering this time. No waiting ministers. No anxious pacing in the corridor. Shantanu remained seated in his chamber, listening with half his attention as the sounds of birth reached him through stone and distance.

        When the cry came, it was weaker than the first had been.

        He noticed that immediately, and the noticing frightened him.

        The midwife brought the news with practiced calm. “It is a girl,” she said. “Healthy.”

        Shantanu nodded. He rose, straightened his garments, and followed the same path he had walked before. His steps felt rehearsed, though he did not remember practicing them.

        Inside the chamber, the child lay wrapped in cloth, small and red-faced. She moved little, her eyes closed tight as if refusing the world. Shantanu stood over her, hands resting at his sides, unsure whether to lift her.

        His wife watched him.

        Not with warmth. Not with expectation.

        With attention.

        He lifted the child. She was lighter than the first. Her breath fluttered unevenly against his wrist. Shantanu felt a sudden, sharp urge to speak, to say something ordinary, something grounding.

        He said nothing.

        When his wife reached for the child, he did not hesitate this time.

        “I will return,” she said.

        He nodded.

        The words passed between them like ritual.

        Shantanu did not follow her.

        He remained standing long after the chamber emptied, staring at the place where the child had been. When his wife returned alone, he did not ask where the child was.

        The vow pressed against him, heavy but familiar.

        That night, he dreamed of water.

        Not drowning. Not death.

        Just water, flowing endlessly, washing away footprints as soon as they formed.

        The third child came sooner than he expected.

        Time had begun to feel strange. Days passed quickly. Nights stretched too long. Shantanu found himself avoiding certain corridors of the palace, certain rooms prepared for futures he no longer allowed himself to imagine.

        The palace had learned, too.

        Servants spoke less. Midwives did not linger. The nurseries were prepared and closed with efficient silence. No one asked questions aloud.

        When the third child was born, Shantanu did not enter the chamber immediately. He waited outside, listening to the sounds fade.

        When he finally went in, the child lay still, eyes open, staring at nothing.

        A son again.

        Shantanu held him briefly. The boy did not cry. That unsettled him more than screaming would have.

        His wife took the child without comment.

        Shantanu watched her leave, his hands still curved as if holding something.

        When she returned alone, he sat down slowly, as though his legs had forgotten how to support him.

        He did not go to the river that night.

        He told himself that standing there would change nothing. That watching water move past his feet would not bring answers.

        Instead, he remained in the palace, awake until morning, listening to the sound of servants beginning their day.

        By the fourth pregnancy, Shantanu no longer felt surprise.

        He felt something closer to resignation, though he would not have named it that. He told himself that anticipation was foolish. That expectation only sharpened loss.

        So he stopped expecting.

        He did not visit the nurseries. He did not ask the astrologers for favorable signs. When the child was born, he acknowledged it with a nod and nothing more.

        The palace reacted differently this time.

        Whispers spread beyond servants and midwives. Courtiers watched the queen more closely. Some spoke of curses. Others of divine tests. No one spoke to the king directly.

        Shantanu noticed the change and did not address it.

        Silence had become his answer to everything.

        The fourth child was taken.

        With each birth, something inside Shantanu shifted. Not broken, not healed. Repositioned.

        Grief no longer arrived as a sharp blow. It settled instead, heavy and dull, pressing against his chest until breathing felt like effort. He carried it with him into assembly, into judgment, into sleep.

        He began to feel tired in a way rest did not cure.

        His wife grew quieter.

        Not withdrawn. He did not think of it that way. But the small exchanges they once shared faded. She spoke only when necessary. Her presence filled space without warmth.

        Once, as they passed each other in a corridor, Shantanu realized he could no longer remember the sound of her laughter.

        He wondered, briefly, if it had ever existed.

        The fifth child came and went with barely a ripple.

        Shantanu did not hold the child at all this time. He remained seated, eyes lowered, hands clenched loosely together. When his wife left the chamber, he did not look up.

        When she returned, he did not acknowledge her.

        That night, he went to the river.

        He stood at the bank, staring into the moving water, searching for something he could not name. His reflection wavered, distorted by the current. He barely recognized the face looking back at him.

        He thought of speaking.

        Not to her. Not to anyone.

        Just speaking aloud.

        The vow rose again, steady and unyielding.

        Do not question.

        He turned away.

        By the sixth pregnancy, the palace felt like a place waiting for something to end.

        Shantanu felt it in the way servants watched him. In the way ministers hesitated before speaking. In the way the city beyond the walls seemed distant, as though it belonged to another king entirely.

        He was thinner now. His movements slower. He ate because it was expected, not because he felt hunger.

        When the sixth child was born, Shantanu followed his wife out of the chamber.

        Not immediately. Not with purpose.

        He simply found himself walking behind her, steps unsteady, breath shallow. She did not turn. She did not acknowledge him.

        At the river’s edge, he stopped.

        She stepped into the water.

        The child was quiet.

        Shantanu stood frozen, the vow roaring in his thoughts. His mouth opened. No sound came out.

        She went on.

        The water closed.

        When she returned alone, Shantanu fell to his knees.

        He did not cry.

        He did not speak.

        He remained there until dawn, staring at the stone floor, knowing with a clarity that frightened him that something had gone terribly wrong.

        This was no longer endurance.

        This was damage.

        And it would not stop on its own.


        ---

        End of Chapter 3
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          Chapter 4: The Seventh Night

          The palace noticed before Shantanu did.

          It began with small things. A missed meal. A delayed response in the assembly hall. A hand resting too long on the arm of the throne as he stood. No one spoke of it openly, but eyes lingered where they had not before.

          Shantanu felt tired.

          Not the kind of tiredness that followed a long day, but something deeper. A weight that sat behind his eyes and in his chest, dull and persistent. Sleep no longer refreshed him. He woke each morning already weary, as though the night had taken more than it returned.

          He told himself this was age.

          It was easier to believe that than to examine the other possibility.

          His wife was with child again.

          The knowledge settled into the palace without announcement. There were no preparations this time. No discussions of auspicious signs. The midwives moved quietly, avoiding unnecessary attention. The servants spoke in careful tones, as though sound itself might worsen what was coming.

          Shantanu did not comment.

          He did not ask questions.

          He did not ride to the river anymore.

          The city beyond the palace walls felt distant, like a place he once ruled rather than one he still did. Decisions came slower. His patience, once admired, now felt like absence.

          The ministers adjusted.

          They learned to speak around him rather than to him. When disputes grew sharp, they softened them before presenting them, fearful of provoking a response that did not come.

          Silence, Shantanu realized dimly, had begun to rule in his place.

          The nights were the worst.

          He woke often, heart pounding, the memory of water pressing against his chest. Sometimes he thought he heard a child cry, faint and distant, only to realize it was the wind moving through stone corridors.

          On the seventh night of the pregnancy’s final month, Shantanu did not sleep at all.

          He sat upright in his chamber, staring at the door, waiting for something he could not name. His hands trembled slightly when he noticed them. He pressed them together until the shaking stopped.

          When the midwife arrived, breathless and pale, Shantanu rose too quickly.

          The room swayed. He steadied himself against the wall and forced his voice to remain calm.

          “Is it time?” he asked.

          She nodded.

          The labor was long.

          Shantanu waited outside the chamber, listening to sounds he had learned too well. The hours stretched. Lamps were replaced. Servants came and went. No one spoke unless necessary.

          When the cry came, it was brief.

          Too brief.

          Shantanu felt something in him give way.

          He entered the chamber without waiting for permission.

          The child lay wrapped in cloth, unmoving. A boy. Small. Perfectly formed. Silent.

          For a moment, Shantanu could not breathe.

          His wife sat upright, composed, as she always was. There was no strain in her face, no sign of exhaustion. She looked at the child, then at Shantanu.

          “I will take him,” she said.

          The words struck him harder than any blow.

          “No,” Shantanu said.

          The sound of his own voice startled him.

          The midwives froze.

          His wife paused, her expression unreadable.

          “You promised,” she said.

          The vow rose immediately, heavy and familiar. It pressed against his chest, his throat, his thoughts. Shantanu felt its weight more clearly in that moment than he ever had before.

          He looked at the child again.

          The small chest did not rise.

          Something inside him broke quietly.

          He stepped aside.

          She took the child and left the chamber.

          Shantanu followed.

          Not deliberately. Not with resolve.

          His feet moved as though they no longer belonged to him.

          The corridors were empty. The palace seemed to hold its breath. When they reached the river gate, the night air struck him like cold water.

          She walked ahead, unhurried.

          At the river’s edge, she stopped.

          Shantanu stood behind her, the vow burning in his mind. His mouth opened. No words came.

          She stepped into the water.

          The current rose around her legs, steady and uncaring. The child remained still in her arms.

          Shantanu took a step forward, then another.

          His knees gave way.

          He fell to the ground, the stone biting into his skin. His hands pressed against the earth as though he might anchor himself there.

          Still, he did not speak.

          The water closed.

          When she returned, alone, Shantanu remained where he had fallen.

          Dawn found him there.

          Servants discovered him at first light, unmoving, eyes open, staring at nothing. It took two men to help him stand. He did not resist. He did not speak.

          That day, he did not hold court.

          The ministers gathered in anxious knots. The city whispered openly now. Something was wrong with the king. Something had been wrong for some time.

          Shantanu lay in his chamber, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the palace resume without him.

          For the first time, the thought entered him clearly and without defense.

          This will not end.

          And worse.

          I will not survive it.


          ---

          End of Chapter 4
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            Chapter 5: The Eighth Child

            The palace did not rejoice when the queen conceived again.

            No announcement was made. No priests were summoned. The knowledge passed quietly, as if spoken aloud it might draw something unwelcome. Servants learned by absence. The nurseries were not prepared. The midwives did not speak of dates or signs.

            Hope had become dangerous.

            Shantanu learned of it the way he had learned of everything else.

            By noticing what was no longer done.

            He did not react outwardly. His body betrayed him instead. Sleep came in fragments. His hands trembled when he lifted a cup. He hid this carefully, ashamed of weakness that felt undeserved.

            He did not go to the river.

            He feared what it would demand if he did.

            The queen moved through the palace as she always had. Calm. Unmarked. Once, as they passed in a corridor, she paused.

            “You should rest,” she said.

            It was not concern. It was observation.

            Shantanu inclined his head and said nothing.

            The labor began before dawn.

            Shantanu was already awake. He followed the midwife through corridors that felt narrower than before, the walls pressing close as if listening. The lamps in the birthing chamber burned brighter than they had for any child before.

            The birth was swift.

            The cry came immediately. Loud. Furious. Alive.

            The sound struck Shantanu so hard his knees weakened. He steadied himself against the wall, breath leaving him in a rush.

            Alive.

            The midwife smiled despite herself. “A boy,” she said. “Strong.”

            The child was placed in Shantanu’s arms without hesitation.

            The weight was familiar, yet entirely different. The boy did not quiet when held. His fists clenched and unclenched, his voice rising in protest, as if the world itself had wronged him.

            Shantanu laughed.

            The sound startled the room.

            He looked at his wife.

            For the first time in years, she was not watching him.

            She was watching the child.

            Something in her gaze had sharpened.

            “I will take him,” she said.

            The words struck Shantanu like a blow.

            “No,” he said.

            It was not loud. It was not measured.

            It escaped him.

            The room froze. Midwives stilled. Breath held.

            The vow surged up at once, immense and unforgiving. It pressed against his chest, his throat, his thoughts. He had lived by it. Endured by it. Defined himself by it.

            But beneath it rose something stronger.

            Fear.

            Not of gods. Not of consequence.

            Fear of what would remain of him if he stayed silent again.

            “I cannot,” he said. His voice broke. “I have kept my word. I have kept it too long.”

            “You promised,” she said.

            “I know,” Shantanu replied. His hands tightened around the child. “I know what vows mean. Men have given their lives for less than what I gave you.”

            He met her gaze.

            “But I will not watch this again.”

            For the first time since he had known her, she hesitated.

            The lamps flickered. The air thickened. The smell of water filled the chamber, cold and ancient.

            “You choose attachment over order,” she said quietly.

            “Yes,” Shantanu answered. “I choose love.”

            The child cried, unafraid, alive.

            She stepped back.

            “You have broken your vow,” she said.

            “I have,” he replied.

            She touched the child’s forehead.

            “This one will live,” she said. “Not as mercy. As consequence.”

            The chamber shifted.

            The walls seemed to fall away, replaced by depth and movement. The river rose, not flooding, but existing where the room had been, its sound filling everything.

            “You asked why,” she said.

            Shantanu nodded, unable to speak.

            “Before men measured time in reigns,” she continued, “there were those whose lives were measured in purpose.”

            The presence came before understanding. Eight forces pressed against his awareness. Not faces. Not bodies. Qualities. Certainty. Authority without hesitation.

            “The Vasus,” she said.

            “They were not gods as men imagine gods. They were custodians. Assigned to maintain balance. Earth. Wind. Fire. The quiet laws that endure when kingdoms fall.”

            Her voice did not accuse.

            “They failed.”

            Images pressed into him.

            A sage’s hermitage. Fire ash. A life shaped by discipline.

            “There was a cow,” she said. “Nandini. Not ordinary. She answered sacrifice. She gave what was needed only to those who had earned the right to ask.”

            Shantanu felt the wrong forming before she spoke it.

            “One of the Vasus desired her,” she said. “Not for survival. For his wife. To remove effort from her life.”

            A pause.

            “He believed power entitled him to convenience.”

            The river stirred faintly.

            “He convinced the others,” she continued. “Not by force. By familiarity. By saying this: what use is authority if it cannot spare effort?”

            Shantanu closed his eyes.

            “They took her,” she said. “Not violently. Casually. As one takes what one believes already belongs to him.”

            Her voice hardened.

            “That was the crime.”

            “Not theft,” Shantanu said quietly.

            “No,” she replied. “Presumption.”

            She continued.

            “The sage judged them. Not in anger. In law. They were bound to birth. To limitation. To time.”

            Vastness narrowed.

            “They pleaded,” she said. “Seven asked for release. I granted it.”

            The river moved softly.

            “They would live briefly. Long enough to touch the world they had taken for granted. Their lesson swift.”

            “And the eighth?” Shantanu asked.

            Her gaze fell to the child.

            “He planned,” she said. “He justified. He argued longest that authority excused consequence.”

            The words pressed down on Shantanu like stone.

            “For him, the lesson could not be brief.”

            She stepped closer.

            “He must live as men live,” she said. “He must serve what he does not control. He must bind himself with vows and discover that righteousness wounds as deeply as sin.”

            Shantanu’s breath shook.

            “And the others?” he asked.

            “I did not drown them,” she said. “I returned them.”

            The distinction mattered.

            “You altered the sentence,” she said. “Not by wisdom. By love.”

            Her voice softened, not in forgiveness, but inevitability.

            “You preserved him,” she said. “And the world will answer that preservation in time.”

            The river began to withdraw.

            “You will name him Devavrata,” she said. “He will belong to vows before he belongs to himself. He will live long. Long enough to mistake endurance for virtue.”

            Her form dissolved into the current, leaving only the sound of water fading into stone and breath.

            The palace returned.

            Shantanu stood shaking, the child still in his arms.

            For the first time in many years, he wept.

            Not loudly. Not openly.

            He wept because he understood at last.

            This was not mercy.

            It was postponement.


            ---

            End of Chapter 5
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              Chapter 6: What Was Preserved

              The palace did not know how to behave.

              On the first morning after the birth, servants gathered in the outer corridors before dawn, waiting for instructions that did not come. The bells were not rung. The midwives did not announce anything. The cooks prepared food, then waited to be told where it should go.

              Nothing felt finished.

              Shantanu rose early, as he always had. Habit pulled him from sleep before thought could. For a moment, lying still in the half-light, he expected to feel the familiar weight pressing against his chest.

              It was not there.

              That absence frightened him more than grief ever had.

              He rose and crossed the chamber quietly. The child slept in a cradle placed near the window, wrapped carefully, breathing evenly. Shantanu stopped several steps away, as though the space around the boy were marked.

              He watched for a long time before moving closer.

              Alive, he reminded himself.

              He did not touch the child.

              Not yet.

              When the servants finally entered, they did so cautiously, eyes lowered. One young maid glanced at the cradle and froze, her breath catching before she looked away again.

              “He is awake?” she asked, too quickly.

              “He sleeps,” Shantanu replied.

              The words felt strange in his mouth.

              The day unfolded awkwardly.

              No announcement was made to the court, but the news spread anyway. Ministers arrived uncertain whether to bow in congratulations or condolence. Priests offered blessings that felt rehearsed and incomplete. Each person lingered longer than necessary, as if waiting for something to happen.

              Nothing did.

              The queen did not appear.

              At first, Shantanu expected her return without questioning it. She had always returned before. By the third day, expectation had turned into understanding. The river had taken her back as surely as it had taken the others.

              Only this time, it had left something behind.

              Shantanu named the child Devavrata on the seventh day.

              No ceremony. No gathering.

              He spoke the name alone, kneeling beside the cradle, the syllables deliberate. The word felt heavier than others he had spoken, as if it carried memory within it.

              From that day on, the child was acknowledged.

              Carefully.

              The nurses attended to him in pairs. None stayed long. One elderly woman asked to be reassigned after a week, claiming her hands shook too much to work properly anymore. Another refused to meet the child’s eyes.

              Shantanu noticed these things.

              He did not comment.

              At night, he slept poorly.

              Not from nightmares, but from waiting. He woke often, listening for sounds that did not come. Each time he rose and crossed the chamber to check the cradle, counting breaths until the child stirred or sighed.

              Only then did he return to bed.

              Once, as he leaned over the cradle, Devavrata’s eyes opened.

              They were dark and steady.

              The child did not cry. Did not reach. He simply watched.

              Shantanu felt an inexplicable urge to explain himself.

              He straightened abruptly and stepped back.

              The court adjusted slowly.

              Some spoke of divine mercy. Others spoke of imbalance. A few, more cautious, spoke of nothing at all. Shantanu listened and responded minimally. He found that words failed him more often now.

              When ministers argued in assembly, their voices sounded distant, as if carried through water. He issued judgments out of habit, aware that something essential had shifted and could not be corrected.

              Devavrata grew quietly.

              He did not cry often. When he did, it was brief, controlled, as though sound were a tool rather than an instinct. He learned to sit earlier than expected. When placed among toys, he did not scatter them. He examined them one by one, then left them untouched.

              Once, a servant dropped a bronze tray nearby. The sound rang sharply through the hall.

              Devavrata stiffened.

              Then relaxed.

              Shantanu watched the movement closely.

              “Do you hear that?” he asked, without thinking.

              The child’s gaze followed the echo as it faded, eyes alert, unblinking.

              Something in Shantanu’s chest tightened.

              Weeks passed.

              Life did not return to normal. It rearranged itself around the absence. Meals were quieter. Laughter rarer. Even the city beyond the walls seemed subdued, as if sensing that celebration would be premature.

              Shantanu returned to the river one evening alone.

              He did not approach the water. He stood at a distance, watching the current move past, unchanged. The river offered no accusation. No reassurance.

              Only motion.

              He realized then that what he had done could not be undone or completed. He had not solved anything. He had interrupted it.

              That night, he returned to the palace and lifted the child for the first time since the birth.

              Devavrata was heavier now. Solid. Real.

              The boy did not struggle. He did not cling. He rested against Shantanu’s chest as though this, too, were something to be observed rather than desired.

              Shantanu held him for a long time.

              He felt no joy.

              He felt responsibility.

              And beneath it, a quiet understanding that whatever had been preserved here would demand its cost slowly, patiently, over years rather than nights.

              The palace slept uneasily.

              The river flowed on.

              And the child, born of broken silence and altered judgment, breathed steadily into a world that had not yet decided what to do with him.


              ---

              End of Chapter 6

              ---

              Note:- Much later, we understood that he carried more than anyone should. At the time, we only felt that when he stood nearby, the world steadied itself. Men breathed easier. Even fear seemed to pause. We did not know what it cost him. We only knew we did not want him to leave.
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    Goodbye fellow daoists. Let us meet again on this battlefield if the path of fate favours our hearts.
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  7. Offline
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    So that's it. Felt good while it lasted.. 😔

    Thank you for everything GZR 😭😭
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    He‌ ‌laughed‌ ‌ruthlessly‌ ‌as‌ ‌he‌ ‌said:‌ ‌”Star‌ ‌Constellation‌ ‌Immortal‌ ‌Venerable,‌ ‌I‌ ‌am‌ ‌going‌ ‌to‌ ‌kill‌ ‌all‌ ‌of‌ ‌Heavenly‌ ‌Court’s‌ ‌Gu‌ ‌Immortals‌ ‌now.‌ ‌Come‌ ‌stop‌ ‌me‌ ‌if‌ ‌you‌ ‌can!”‌ ‌

    He should neva had said dis now Im here for my second complete read I still meet this.......guess everything Abt sweet poison is true I know it was banned but I still couldn't refuse to taste... first time writing such long comment for any book this got me emotional
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  9. Offline
    + 30 -
    Haha
    So it ended
    ......
    I will persevere , I will persevere till it comes back
    I will definitely walk my own path
    I will definitely become a true person
    I will always be myself
    GREAT LOVE IMMORTAL VENERABLE
    GREAT LOVE IMMORTAL VENERABLE
    GREAT LOVE IMMORTAL VENERABLE
    GREAT LOVE IMMORTAL VENERABLE
    GREAT LOVE IMMORTAL VENERABLE
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    + 30 -
    GG's
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