The Go battle was at its height, with black and white stones locked in fierce combat, impossible to untangle.

The black stones had formed like a sea tide, raising turbid waves to the heavens, while the white stones seemed like mud oxen entering the sea, unable to move freely.

When Song Qian Ji broke free from the illusion and placed a stone, the white pieces broke through the black tide like a divine dragon emerging from the sea.

A single stone determined the outcome.

Master Wuxiang was stunned: “How can this be? You…”

“I said earlier that I excel at reversing desperate situations,” Song Qian Ji said.

A day in the mountains, a thousand years in the world. Absorbed in the game, the axe handle rots away.

Song Qian Ji had entered the Go board’s illusion, thinking only a few sentences’ worth of time had passed.

Yet on the cliff, the sunset and the moon rose, day and night alternated, and three days swiftly passed.

A full moon leaped out from the sea of clouds.

Faint starlight brushed over the ancient patterns of the withered wooden board, like rippling waves of water.

On this night of the full moon, the night wind whistled, blowing down bodhi leaves from the entire tree.

Master Wuxiang stared at Song Qian Ji: “This Go board is called ‘Sea of Suffering.’ You didn’t break it, so how did you escape? Did you see nothing besides your vegetable garden and flowers?”

The malice of the human world was like a tide covering the sky, boundless and endless. Those who played the game and fell into it would witness all kinds of suffering, greed, anger, ignorance, and resentment, only sinking deeper and deeper, causing their resolve to waver.

Only by destroying the board could one break the illusion.

But Song Qian Ji had not drawn his sword, and the board remained perfectly intact.

“No, I saw everything.”

He saw that outside the secret realm, Xu Yun of the Huawei Sect had emerged from seclusion, full of confidence, readying his troops and horses. Invitations flew like snowflakes to all major sects and families in the Western Continent, with cultivators sharpening their knives, vowing to occupy the fertile Thousand Channels.

He saw the Zither Immortal of the Immortal Sound Sect fall, Wang Shu rebelled, Jiang Yun die, and He Qing Qing flee with her zither, swearing revenge.

He saw cultivators frantically digging up the roots of the Sky-Supporting Tree, plundering the spiritual energy of heaven and earth, and turning fertile mortal lands into barren wastelands.

And he had seen what had happened before—countless wars and killings, blood and raging fires. Thousands upon thousands of people came and went for profit, bustling about, fighting to the death.

Hurrying. Hurrying.

Competing to cross. Competing to cross.

Have you ever had moments when you were utterly weary of life and the world, overwhelmed by greed, fear, anger, and regret, yet powerless, feeling that nothing you did had hope, as if floating on an endless sea of death?

The “Sea of Suffering” was such a terrifying heart-attacking magical artifact.

“I only have one Shadowless Sword, and indeed, it cannot break the ‘Sea of Suffering.’ But I brought this.”

Song Qian Ji took something out of his bosom.

The object was wrapped in red silk, only the size of a palm, slightly warm when held, like a hand warmer.

Master Wuxiang dared not move rashly: “Given to you by Xian Jian Chen? What magical artifact is it?”

Magical artifacts should be kept in a storage pouch, not carried close to the body.

“It’s not a magical artifact,” Song Qian Ji said. “Before entering the secret realm, I bought it from a mortal in the Thousand Channels market. I didn’t want to buy it originally…”

Master Wuxiang didn’t believe him. He closed his eyes and lightly tapped his brow: “Open!”

Just like when he first met Song Qian Ji in Thousand Channels, he once again opened his heavenly eye, determined to see the object’s origin.

“Don’t look,” Song Qian Ji said just as he unveiled the red silk, but Master Wuxiang had already opened his eyes.

Brilliant golden light, like tens of thousands of knives and swords, pierced directly into his eyes!

“Ah—” Master Wuxiang let out a miserable cry, with two streams of bloody tears flowing down.

“Alas, I told you not to look,” Song Qian Ji said regretfully. “Making you fall into the same trap twice makes me seem ungracious.”

The object turned out to be just a wooden statue carved in human form, exquisitely crafted and lifelike.

The warm golden light emanated from it.

“What is this thing?!” Master Wuxiang couldn’t see, his appearance wretched.

How could there still be such intense protective golden light when Song Qian Ji was away from Thousand Channels?

Song Qian Ji said: “It’s me.”

Thousand Channels Prefecture had no temples or golden statues of immortal officials, but millions of households secretly burned incense and made offerings to small clay or wooden figurines.

Sincere and earnest household incense, accumulating day and night, surpassed ten thousand unwilling temple ceremonies.

After the Dragon-Slaying Formation, the Spring Mountain Painting, and the Seven Absolute Zither, Song Qian Ji had another card up his sleeve: the attachment and blessings of millions of people in the mortal world.

Willpower is like a boat, crossing the sea of suffering.

Using human kindness to counter human affliction, flowers blooming on the battlefield, thousands of miles of barren land transforming into continuous green mountains, raging seas of fire turning into golden waves of wheat.

Song Qian Ji stroked the head of the small wooden figurine, wrapped it back up, and tucked it into his bosom.

Master Wuxiang had regained his composure, and the painful expression vanished as if it hadn’t been him whose eyes were blinded.

“Song Qian Ji, everything you saw is true, and every word I said is genuine. Don’t you believe I have the seed of the Sky-Supporting Tree and can create a new world?”

“Yes, I believe you.”

“You don’t believe I truly want to cooperate with you and make you the only cultivator in the new world?”

“I believe that too.”

“Then what’s still wrong?”

Song Qian Ji said with puzzlement: “I’m just a farmer. If you make me a god, what happens to my land? And what about my friends?”

Master Wuxiang found this question strange and childish.

“After the new world is created, you can farm as much land as you want, ten or a hundred Thousand Channels Prefectures could be yours. The old world will be destroyed, and in the new world, humans will be born again. You will have new followers, more loyal to you than the current ones.”

Song Qian Ji shook his head: “But that wouldn’t be my land.”

“What?”

“Only the land I’ve turned with my own hands, watered, sown with seeds, and walked across inch by inch is truly mine.”

The full moon gradually rose higher, hanging in the center of the sky.

Song Qian Ji stood up, looking at the moon in the sky: “Only those who have dealt with me, chatted with me, and written letters to me are my friends. Unfortunately, you don’t understand.”

“Swish!”

Before his words fell, the Shadowless Sword suddenly left its sheath, piercing through the white-robed youth’s body.

Song Qian Ji had thrust his sword so quickly that there wasn’t even a sword shadow.

Master Wuxiang fell backward, collapsing under the bodhi tree.

“Click.”

Crimson blood droplets splashed, scattering on the withered wooden board, and seeping into it.

Amazingly, the decaying wood instantly sprouted branches and leaves, blooming into a small crimson flower.

The flower was fresh and bright, still bearing night dew, smiling alone in the spring breeze.

Song Qian Ji let out a light exclamation, reached out to pick the peach blossom, and like Xian Jian Chen, tucked it into his lapel.

His voice also turned cold:

“In this life, I have no grand ambitions. I don’t care about your beautiful new world built on destruction. I only care about my land and my friends. Whoever wants to destroy my land, I will kill them.”

Blood flowed from the wound in Master Wuxiang’s chest, yet he managed to laugh with his last breath: “It seems we cannot cooperate after all. What a pity, what a pity…”

Song Qian Ji sheathed his sword: “I’m giving you time for two sentences. I wanted to tell you that your plan cannot succeed, and your final avatar will also die at my hands like this.”

“You… look, what’s in the lake?” Master Wuxiang waved his sleeve, and the surrounding night mist suddenly dispersed, like a curtain being lifted.

Below the cliff, the water’s surface shimmered, like a clear glass mirror.

Song Qian Ji glanced at it: “Nothing but the moon.”

“‘On the Three Lives Stone, the old soul essence,’ when others see this lake, they can observe past lives and futures. Why do you only see the moon?” Master Wuxiang extended his finger as if trying to touch the full moon in the sky. “Is it because there’s only the moon in the sky?”

As soon as his words fell, his life force was extinguished, and he died with his eyes open.

Song Qian Ji’s spirit jolted: “Others?!”

A thought flashed through his mind, and he decisively mounted his sword and jumped off the cliff.

The lake’s surface was as still as dead water, yet it seemed to have an attractive force, wanting to pull people into the lake.

Through the vast night mist, Song Qian Ji vaguely saw five figures!

They stood eerily on the lake’s surface as if treading on fragile glass, rigidly motionless.

Closest to the shore were Meng He Ze and Ji Chen, He Qing Qing was in the middle, and Wei Zhen Yu and Miao Yan were near the center of the lake.

How had these people gathered together?

Song Qian Ji descended on his sword to the lakeside: “Was it ‘I’ who led them here?”

He had just been wondering what form Master Wuxiang’s last avatar would take, having already appeared as men, women, old and young.

It turned out to be himself.

“Little Meng!” Song Qian Ji gently shook Meng He Ze’s arm, calling out repeatedly.

Meng He Ze heard nothing, staring straight at the lake water.

Song Qian Ji swore, then awakened True Person Huawei in the wheat field: “What was your situation last time? How long did it take to return to your soul?”