Chapter 473 - Unending Oath (II)
Chapter 473
Unending Oath (II)
The most prominent memories, contrary to most every other human it had ever met, were not of grandiose achievements--not of winning a tournament, or slaying a powerful beast, or breaking through after a struggle.
Rather, most prominent memories weren't even ones of success, but rather agony.
The man, or at least one part of him, was not of this world; in his, he was an ordinary mortal, saddled with an ordinary life, enjoying ordinary living. The one memory that seemed like a searing star eclipsing all others was of a rainy, ashen day and of a gathered group of people above a dent in the ground, where a strange yet ordinary sarcophagus was being laid down.
The memory was silent--not that the event itself was, it supposed, but that the man had blocked out all sound, all things, and could only remember the sarcophagus being put into the ground.
It was so bright that it was blinding, so colorfully overcome with emotion that it struggled to unravel it. This was a memory of the broken, torn, shattered crown that seemed to govern the man's very soul.
The man's counterpart of this world similarly held memories of agony--though the man was corrupt, and though he was arrogant, and though he was boisterous, beneath it all he was ashamed. He was terrified. He was beyond angry at his own failures, at his incompetence.
Though the two men were distinct, it recognized why the man was able to overtake the body so seamlessly: at their cores, their selves were defined by their either real or perceived failures.
The one of this world failed to be a proper cultivator, failed to achieve much of anything in his life, and surrendered inevitably to his incompetency.
The one of the other world thought himself guilty for living on when the love of his life perished; he surrendered to darkness, to ambivalence, and to the insipid life of loneliness.
As it continued glancing past the distant memories, newer ones began to appear; in them, he was surrounded by a gaggle of human children, and they were as warm as a fire in the furnace. The children laughed, they screamed, and they seemed to worship the man as though he were a god.
But there was no fear there.
No force.
No instilled compulsion.
The man's kindness, when the children only ever saw the dark, was more than enough.
... no. It wasn't merely one act of kindness. It was having the sky that would never fall, and one that never, not once, seemed to do them any harm.
He was no saint, far from it. But there were no saints among humans, for even between those who lived for millions and tens of millions of years, they were unable to shed the armor of man. While it was precisely that armor which allowed them to ascend and become the dominant race, it simply meant that certain paths of Dao could never be treaded.
Above all else, he was deemed worthy by someone far greater than itself--it had recognized the strange 'mirror' from the first memory in which the man beheld it. As he reluctantly used it, and always kept it in his palm whenever a dangerous situation occurred.
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It had always known it was a piece of shell, a remnant of an old god that may or may not even be alive at this point. The eternal guardian, as unending as its oath was.
That in and of itself was already a seal to give the man its heart--all Children of Eternity were tasked with providing whatever they needed to for the chosen, and the man in front of him was more than 'just' a chosen. Beyond that, however, beyond the oath it swore at the day of its birth... the man did not bring it out.
He had learned the true nature of that shell not too long ago, and he could have simply taken it out in front of it and would not have had to endure any of this.
But he did not.
Why?
It did not know. Though it could read hearts and minds of men, this man's was... shrouded. There was a strange veneer over it, and though the man had wholly opened himself up to it, that veneer would not go. Which meant that it was not of his own make--it was likely whatever it was that was guiding him.
Lesser learned would claim it was Dao--after all, the man fashioned items and arts from seemingly nowhere, as though he had access to an inexhaustible vault of treasures, something that nobody could do. The only answer was Dao, to many.
But... the man was not beholden to Dao. If anything, he was its antithesis. A necessity to mend the broken shards of it.
It pulled back, and the man regained consciousness, seeming a bit confused.
"Uh... are, are you going to start?" he asked. There was almost paradoxical innocence in his expression and in his gestures, one that nearly yielded a laugh, something it had not done in innumerable years.
"I've begun and ended my inquiry," it said.
"Oh. Sorry about all the... less flavorful things."
"Such as?"
"Don't make me say it..."
"...you are an odd specimen. Though, you know that yourself already. As I said, I shall not divulge the secret of your origin to anyone--though, if I were you, I would not fret. There have been others not unlike yourself; perhaps not of the same world as you, but certainly not of this one. Travelers, we call them. Though I have not known any worlds outside the ones we inhabit, there are ancient tales from my predecessors that, once upon a time, the cosmos teemed with life. That you could look beyond the night sky and out into the dark void, point in any direction, and find millions of worlds, a number of which were lived in.
"When a life is extinguished here, it returns to Dao--but that is because Dao binds it, tethers it. A cycle of life is made through it, and without it... the same thing would happen as it did to all those other worlds. The souls would have no chains and would wander off into the eternal dark, forever and ever. My predecessor thought that was where the Travelers come from--that, on occasion, a stray soul wanders near enough Dao that it is captured and brought in, reincarnated into the world for some higher purpose.
"Whether true or not, we are unlikely to ever know. But... your purpose seems to be even greater than I had imagined."
"You... you know what my purpose is?" The man seemed restless, almost like a child that had asked for something and now believed it would get it.
"No, not in the absolutes. One's purpose is as elusive as one's origin, little human. What is my purpose? Is it to be chained in this nowhere-land, holding back that which sheds? You have seen it--through the flower. The reality of this world. It is a graveyard of things, of concepts, of realities all unrecognized; dimensions warp and swarm and collide and twist, and all things come undone. It is not chaos, no--but something even purer than that. Something so fundamental that even Dao itself seems incapable of controlling it.
"Little one, you have come here seeking my heart and my heart alone," it said as its tired, weathered soul began to surge with life once more. "And you've come with no pretense, hoping against hope. I shall give you my heart so that you may achieve your desire--but, in turn, you must do something for me."
"What?"
"With my death, this realm will... collapse. Per the creator's desires, the moment the realm's heart recognizes the instability, it will sever the bridge between this world and yours--and there will be no way to return. It will float away into infinity, joining in with the unending leviathans beyond our borders. But, without it, the corrupted, uncontrollable parts of reality will untether; there will be no place to hold them, to imprison them. Within ten years--I beseech you--find a way to build another prison. With my heart you shall receive knowledge on how to recreate this very place. It will not be easy, and I envy you not, but it must be done. Should you fail... there is no telling what shall become of our worlds.
"Close your eyes now, child. Take in my heart, and remake your mortal coil. I hope, whatever Dao needs of you, you finish. If you do not... I fear this truly might be the end of everything."