The road ends at Shakyamuni!

This surpassed everyone’s expectations. Even Ye Fan was stunned. The elderly monks prostrated themselves with overwhelming emotion — utterly devout, chanting the name of the Buddha, touching their foreheads to the ground.

Flower petals drifted and fell — crystalline blossoms descending one after another with a soft rustling. Yet somehow they rendered the world around them even more tranquil. An ancient bodhi tree was rooted there, and beneath it a transcendent man sat in meditation — merged with all things, co-arising with the Great Dao.

His eyes were closed. Shimmering petals fell upon him. He looked as though he had not moved in a thousand lives and ten thousand cycles — serene and utterly transcendent.

When a person appears identical to the statue of a Buddha in a temple, it is unmistakably an auspicious sign — one that commands both reverence and awe.

Simalti and the others bowed with every step they took forward, their hearts overflowing with emotion as they went to behold Shakyamuni. Even if they were to die in this very moment, they would have no regrets.

This had been the greatest wish of their lives — only to behold the true Buddha, to prostrate before the Thus-Come-One. Upon the ancient road leading to Lingshan, their wish had come true. They had beheld the form of the Buddha with their own eyes.

A Quasi-Emperor — Shakyamuni!

Even Ye Fan’s heart trembled inwardly. This was a figure who existed only in legend — yet here, beyond all expectation, stood the proof of that legend.

Shakyamuni was an ancient figure from twenty-five hundred years ago. Possessed of great wisdom, he had studied the Vedas, examined the methods of Brahmanism, and ultimately unified Lingshan and founded Buddhism — leaving behind a resounding and sacred name that echoed across history and throughout every land under the heavens.

The masters who had come from India bowed with every step forward, advancing through falling petals, murmuring softly, gradually drawing to within a short distance of the ancient bodhi tree.

Ye Fan also moved forward. He did not kneel or prostrate himself — he simply looked, unblinking, at the Quasi-Emperor seated beneath that tree. The transcendent quality of that presence was such that it seemed to carry one beyond the world, as though it could dispel every sorrow and burden in the world of mortals.

Dong…

In the distant mountains, the deep toll of a Brahma bell sounded — carrying from tens or even a hundred li away — resounding and penetrating, as though cleansing the spirit, pouring clarity into the mind, purifying everything within oneself.

A temple bell in a deep mountain. A Buddha seated beneath a bodhi tree. All of it was as though a dream. This place held not a single speck of dust. Shakyamuni did not move. Without a single word spoken, the Dharma was transmitted throughout the three-thousand-fold world.

“You have come too late. Lingshan is closed. Only when the sea runs dry can it appear in the mortal world again.” A gentle vibration transmitted itself — the figure with closed eyes beneath the bodhi tree spoke softly, as though conversing with them across the spans of time and space.

“Great Buddha!” Simalti and the others cried out in unison. They continued to prostrate themselves ceaselessly. They had heard the true Buddha speak to them directly — beyond excited, beyond any capacity for words.

“Why too late? We have come bearing the sacred object that opens the ancient road to Lingshan.” Ye Fan stood not far from the bodhi tree and posed his question.

“Lingshan has withered. It cannot appear in the mortal world. Even with a sacred object, without the esoteric phrases, the road cannot be opened.” Shakyamuni did not stir. It was as though he sat in the primordial age, and yet simultaneously lectured on the Dao in the far future. Streams of sacred waves from the Great Dao emanated from him, forming a divine halo — making him appear utterly beyond the ordinary.

Ye Fan was filled with doubt. Was this truly Shakyamuni? Had he not already crossed the starry sky and journeyed deep into the cosmos? How was it possible to encounter him here?

In years past, he had seen the silhouette of the Beginningless Emperor — Wushi — inside the Purple Mountain. Initially he had believed it to be real, yet afterward he discovered it had been merely a shadow imprinted many tens of thousands of years prior.

Could what lay before his eyes be the same?

But then why was this figure able to converse with them, and why was it merged with the Great Dao of heaven and earth, emanating an unrivaled aura that could suppress the myriad heavens across all ages?

“The road to Lingshan is at its end. Turn back, for the far shore is here.” Beneath the ancient bodhi tree, the transcendent middle-aged man spoke gently, his eyes still closed, his expression serene and tranquil. Every falling petal was luminous, condensing within it the divine charm of the Great Dao.

Simalti and the others received this as a Dharma edict and retreated step by step. But Ye Fan did not move — for in this very moment he saw the lush green bodhi tree turning to stone, and even the man seated beneath it was becoming a statue.

Petals fell and struck the ground, becoming stone flowers. The vibrations of life disappeared. All that could be seen had become stone carvings — utterly unlike the scene of moments ago. This was the power of the Dharma.

Ye Fan was at peace. Shakyamuni had walked the ancient road through the starry sky and departed. It was not possible for him to still be on Earth. All of this had been manifested through the great power of the Dharma from ages past.

Moreover, had this truly been a Quasi-Emperor in the flesh, they might not have been able to draw this close to his physical body at all. When the Great Dao merges with all things and all things are unified, what one beholds is only the Dharma from a past age — not the body of this present day.

“This is…” The elderly monks who had come from India all trembled.

They recalled a certain tradition: the Buddha had ten great disciples. Before his true self departed, the ten of them had worked together to fashion a form of Shakyamuni, which was placed upon the road leading to Lingshan.

This must be the work of the ten great disciples. This transformative form of Shakyamuni could manifest a portion of the Buddha’s divine arts — so what they had just witnessed was by no means unreal. From this, one could also infer that Lingshan was close — just ahead, not far.

Yet Simalti and the others came to a halt. Not one of them was willing to take another step forward. They were strictly following the Dharma edict of Shakyamuni and did not dare to violate it.

“Lingshan is in sight — you came here wishing to enter, did you not? Even if you cannot necessarily succeed, why not go to the very edge and take a look?” Ye Fan said.

“A transgression.” The masters all pressed their palms together and simultaneously urged Ye Fan not to proceed any further — to turn back at this point.

Ye Fan paid no attention. He walked around the petrified bodhi tree and the stone form of Shakyamuni and continued forward. The elderly monks stood rooted to the spot, staring after him with dazed expressions.

The ancient road wound on. After advancing several more li, it finally came to a complete end. Ahead, barely visible through the haze, an immense mountain mass occupied the very edge of heaven and earth.

There was nothing vital or living about it. What it held was only a vast, ocean-like pulsation of Buddhist energy. The entire mountain held no trace of life — not a single auspicious creature or sacred bird could be seen.

Ye Fan opened his celestial eye, yet found that it remained indistinct. The immense body of Lingshan could not be clearly perceived — only an impression of mountain-deep stillness and ancient monastery silence.

It was clearly right before him, only a few dozen li away at most. How could it be said that Lingshan was closed? He thought for a moment, then pressed forward with great strides. Even without a road, he intended to advance — to forge his own path.

However, the moment he took his first step, chaos came surging forward immediately. Lingshan grew ever more indistinct — and yet it was as though he could hear the sound of ancient Buddhas chanting in the distance.

Ye Fan did not stop. He continued forward. But then a Buddhist lion’s roar resounded — as though an arhat was reciting an incantation, pressing toward him with a demon-subduing staff in hand, all of it formed from radiant Buddhist light.

He gave a sharp shout, spread his golden sacred domain open — ten thousand techniques unable to approach — and with a tremendous thunderous crash he sent the demon-subduing staff flying backward, continuing his advance with powerful strides.

In the distance, Simalti and the others watched with wide eyes and open mouths. Was he going to force his way into Lingshan by battling the bodhisattvas of the myriad heavens?

Boom!

In that very instant, everything ahead erupted into turmoil. Chaos raged. Lingshan loomed impossibly high — as though it were about to come crashing down — making it impossible to breathe.

“Om!”

Ye Fan let out a great shout, uttering the true word of the Buddhist teaching. In that moment, he was subjected to an overwhelming pressure. Even with his Holy Body, there was a feeling as though he might be shattered to dust and ash.

This was the oppressive might of Lingshan — the surging waves of boundless Buddhist power — the accumulated force of will from untold numbers of living beings who had gathered here through the ages. No one could resist it.

The chaotic mist crashed forward. The Eight Divisions of Heavenly Beings emerged: Yaksha, Asura, Gandharva, Garuda, and the rest — all formed from the divine light of the Buddhist energy — rushing toward Ye Fan in a torrent. Even the “Om” syllable no longer carried such effect, shattering only a portion.

Ye Fan fell back. He had absorbed an enormous pressure. He believed that in another person’s place, they would have long since been reduced to dust and ash. Even his Holy Body could no longer hold out.

Lingshan — worthy of its name as the most renowned primordial sacred ground of the ancient era. Inviolable. Impossible to approach.

This place was protected by a world-shaking great formation. To be this far away — tens or even a hundred li distant — and already be subjected to this — what would happen if one truly forced one’s way to its very gates? The answer would surely be total and utter annihilation.

Ye Fan looked at the small stone Buddha in his hand and furrowed his brow. Without the esoteric phrases, even with this sacred object, entry was impossible. Surely something world-shaking had been left within — otherwise such fierce protection would make no sense.

He knew that getting inside would be enormously difficult, but he still wanted to draw close enough to see what had happened to Lingshan — why it had come to this state. With a long howl, the golden sacred blood within him surged into a boil, like rivers after rivers flooding into every meridian, sending out wave after wave of thunder — shaking the nine heavens and resonating with the Great Dao.

Ye Fan shone with light from head to toe. Treading the steps of the Movement Characters Technique and expanding all manner of extraordinary phenomena, he cut straight through — and finally drew close enough for a brief, hazy glimpse. On the cliff faces, beside the Buddhist altars, elderly monks sat in their death postures one after another — a stillness like death.

Not a single blade of grass or tree. Everything was withered. The sacred springs and pools had dried to their beds. Not a single trace of life remained — as though no living being had set foot there from the primordial age until now.

A withered and desolate Lingshan!

This was the truth of it. Ancient monasteries rose high, temple halls spread in great number — yet there was not a single person, not a single bodhisattva, not a single ancient Buddha, no living being of any kind could be seen.

Silent as death. Yet one could see Buddhist treasures and great artifacts everywhere — dust-covered, lying where they had long been abandoned — and not a single living soul among them, all of it with the stillness of death.

The mountain’s might was boundless and immeasurable — more terrifying than even a true ancient star. Ye Fan was unable to draw near, driven back by those vast and overwhelming waves. A thin trickle of golden blood seeped from the corner of his mouth.

He did not force it any further. He retreated. Lingshan had withered — struck by some great calamity. No wonder it had been closed.

But what he had seen was surely only the mountain gate. Everything in the depths of Lingshan was dim and obscure. A grove of ancient bodhi trees was there — their leaves all fallen — yet traces of the Dao appeared within, blocking the main body of Lingshan from view.

And then, in that very moment, the great mountain ranges all grew indistinct. The main body of Lingshan itself disappeared entirely. No effort of will could reverse this. Even channeling his spiritual power to bless the small stone Buddha was useless.

Boom!

At last, a boundless wave of energy came crashing forward, driving him back more than ten li. Everything vanished.

The sky above was a deep, clear blue — like a slab of blue crystal. A few white clouds drifted past, making the sky seem so close one felt a single leap could touch it. The air was uncommonly fresh.

Ye Fan stood there, staring. He found himself in the Tibetan region. Those mountains of tens of thousands of zhang, that vast and unfathomable Lingshan, that mysterious ancient road — all of it had become as smoke, utterly gone from sight.

Several li away, the group of Indian monks was equally bewildered, unable to understand why they had suddenly returned to the familiar world. The ancient road had disappeared.

Ye Fan crossed through the air and arrived before them. He then swept his gaze across the four directions. Tibet sat at great altitude with towering mountains — but nothing that could compare to what they had just witnessed.

“Just where is it hidden? Does that ancient road — and Lingshan itself — still lie somewhere within the Tibetan region?” That was the question shared in all their hearts.

Ye Fan had them wait while he transformed into a bolt of lightning and flew through the sky, releasing his powerful divine sense to sweep across every inch of ground in a careful search. In the end, he came away empty-handed.

At last, he flew more than a thousand li away and descended upon a majestic and vast mountain range, where he felt a sense of vast antiquity — yet could not detect the slightest trace of anything supernatural. It was the Kunlun Mountains, stretching across the Qinghai-Tibet Plateau in all their grandeur.

Ye Fan felt a heavy sense of unease. Lingshan was mysterious enough as it was — no one knew in which region it lay concealed. And Kunlun was surely no less extraordinary. It was the foremost mountain of Chinese ancient mythology, the ancestor of all mountain veins, and every legend of the immortals was connected to it in some way.

Not long after, Ye Fan returned to City B. The others returned to India. Before parting, several of the masters made a promise: they would return home and seek among others for the esoteric phrases of Lingshan, and no matter whether they found anything or not, they would come again to visit and consult with him.

Ye Fan had barely returned when he sensed something was wrong. The lawn outside the old villa was pitted and scarred all over — as though it had been struck repeatedly by lightning, utterly ruined. The old villa itself appeared unchanged, for he had inscribed several simple formation patterns into it that would keep it from being easily damaged even under heavy assault. Yet the area all around it was a scene of wreckage, clearly the site of a battle.

“Xiao Song!”

Ye Fan was shocked. In a flash he entered the villa — but it was cold and empty, with nothing inside.

Where had the little purple creature gone? His heart went cold at once. He searched the surrounding area, releasing his powerful divine sense and calling out: “Xiao Song…”

Some distance away, beside a rubbish bin, a dirty, bedraggled little figure timidly poked its head out — then transformed into a streak of purple light and threw itself at him, clinging to him and trembling.

“What… happened to you?” Ye Fan’s heart was far less calm than his words. He carried it back inside and set it on the sofa.

Xiao Song’s leg was injured — it walked with a limp — and it had clearly been badly frightened. Yet it made a show of being carefree and casual. To coax a smile out of Ye Fan, it tried to turn a somersault right there, only to flinch in pain mid-way — but still it smiled with pure, innocent joy.

Seeing this, Ye Fan’s heart ached. Whoever had hurt this little purple creature — his intent to kill had already stirred.