Upon the Sea of Stars, like a dying ember cast adrift, Suzaku shone, its light a gentle crimson farewell. Far beyond, where mortals might perceive its distant glow, a profound stillness reigned. Yet, within that serenity, an imperceptible mote of dust, the battlefield where Wang Lin dared defy the Celestial Seal, uttered a silent shriek as it crumbled into nothingness.

From that shattered dust, where the ancient War Spirit vanished, ripples spread through the starlit expanse. The echoes grew in strength, weaving a shimmering tapestry that enveloped the cosmos. From within this chaotic weave emerged figures, one by one, their arrival staggered, each a beacon of formidable power: Red Cedar, Southern Cloud, Azure Frost, Lucid Knowledge, and others besides.

They descended not as a unified host, but in measured procession, each casting forth tendrils of divine sense, searching, probing, until at last, all converged upon the point of destruction. Silence fell upon them, heavy and absolute.

The lingering essence of Wang Lin, like the echoes of a vanished melody, eluded their grasp. He was gone, as he had once been lost before, as if death itself had claimed him.

“He… is not dead,” Red Cedar spoke at last, his voice heavy with sorrow. “Not truly.”

“A great war looms,” Azure Frost sighed, her gaze fixed upon the desolate void. “News of this will spread like wildfire beyond the Realm.” Images of Wang Lin, of moments shared and battles fought, flickered across her mind’s eye.

Clear Water, his head lifted towards the endless void, his eyes like chips of ice, exuded an aura of deadly intent. “I… in his stead… shall enter seclusion upon the Cloud Sea Arena.” He closed his eyes, and as he did, his features began to shift, to mold themselves into a perfect replica of Wang Lin’s countenance. He adopted the same cold, resolute bearing, a shadow of the departed hero.

He relinquished his search for his lost daughter, abandoned his hard-won freedom, choosing instead to become a living echo, a symbol of Wang Lin’s defiance.

“Brother, I will see justice done. All who participated in this… should I find even a sliver of opportunity, I will dedicate myself entirely to vengeance!” Within Clear Water’s closed eyes, a grief-stricken vow was forged.

Those gathered understood the grim truth. Wang Lin could not have escaped this carefully orchestrated assassination. The forces beyond the Realm had plotted long and diligently to circumvent their senses and unleash this deadly ambush.

Wang Lin, it was feared, had succumbed.

As the silence deepened, the assembled immortals dispersed, their hearts burdened with an anger that burned like a nascent star.

Far away, Suzaku continued to bathe the cosmos in its soft, sunset light, seemingly impervious to the tragedies that unfolded within its reach. Upon its surface, those who knew and loved Wang Lin remained unaware, immersed in their own lives, oblivious to the darkness that had fallen.

Zhou Wu Tai still sat upon the Suzaku statue, silently drinking.

Within the Imperial Ancestral City of Zhao, the ancient courtyard and its weathered dwellings stood silent guard over the lonely tomb. But gone was the weeping figure that haunted its shadow. Only a few empty wine jugs lay scattered on the ground, bereft of the Zeng Clan’s potent brew.

And the colossal statue of Suzaku, axe of creation in hand, gazed blankly towards the heavens, seemingly frozen in eternal sorrow.

Days later, a young man with a hardened gaze stood before the statue, his face etched with grief. He knelt, his head bowed, and tears streamed down his cheeks. “Master, I, Thirteen, will proclaim myself your disciple before all the Realms, at my most triumphant hour!”

Days later, a woman of striking beauty, her eyes clouded with tears, stood before the statue, her hand gently caressing the cold stone. Beside her stood a grey-muzzled tiger, its sorrow mirroring her own. “Uncle Wang… I am Zhou Ru… I am Little Heart…”

Days later, a towering warrior stood before the statue, his laughter booming through the air. But beneath the mirth, tears flowed freely. He held two jugs of wine, as if to share a final toast with the silent sentinel. When the drink had taken hold, his laughter gave way to sobs. “If only I had not guided you down the path of cultivation… If only we had not crossed paths… If only I had taken your Celestial Jewel… If only you had remained an innocent youth…”

Days later, a woman of unparalleled beauty stood before the statue. She remained there, unmoving, as the sun traced its fiery arc across the sky. Day turned to night, and night gave way to day, a silent vigil spanning countless cycles. Finally, she turned and departed, two solitary tears falling to the ground, shattering like crystal.

She was Mu Bing Mei.

Days later, a woman clad in a water-silk dress of delicate pink, her face weary, arrived upon Suzaku and beheld the statue. A distant memory flickered in her eyes. “You know me not, but I know you…”

Days later, months later… time lost all meaning, like an endless journey through a dream. There were no milestones, no destinations, only two broken figures adrift in a sea of oblivion.

Here, in this void of eternal night, where no life stirred, a faint, crimson glimmer persisted. From this blood-tinged light emanated a halo of gold, encompassing two figures. Within this ethereal prison, Wang Lin’s body lay ravaged, marked by countless wounds.

Beside him, the Madman remained still, his face ashen, seemingly untouched by any injury. Yet, at the center of his brow pulsed a seven-hued light, the essence of the ancient spear. It could not pierce the Madman’s immortal flesh, but it had found purchase within his vulnerable spirit, weakened by a past trauma. The crimson aura, born from the droplet of golden blood Wang Lin had carried, embraced them both, offering fragile sanctuary.

With agonizing effort, Wang Lin forced his eyes open. He knew not how long he had slumbered, but he knew his awakening was fleeting.

A wave of affection washed over him as he gazed upon the unconscious Madman. With a sigh, he raised a trembling hand and made several passes, opening a rift in the void.

Three Dao Fruits emerged and were drawn towards him. As he consumed them, the fruits shrunk, becoming three rays of pure light, infused with the chaotic, immeasurable power of ancient thought.

Wang Lin’s eyes blazed with the final embers of his life. With weary determination, he raised his forefinger. His left hand grasped the Madman, linking them together. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he brought his finger to his brow.

“Dream…”

Summoning the last dregs of his strength, he wove his power into a final act, unleashing the third of his self-created divinities: the Path of Dreams.

With the Dream Path unleashed upon himself, he sought to retreat into the past, to use this dream to fully realize the powers of the three source paths: Truth, Illusion, and Causality.

His right hand fell limp. Wang Lin closed his eyes…

“Brother… Brother, wake up…”

“Ah, how could someone drink so much and pass out like this? My inn is about to close, you really need to wake up…” In a humble inn beside the Imperial Road, a waiter in a patched coat was struggling to wake a young man who had collapsed onto a table.

“How can this be a scholar, he passes out after two glasses.” The waiter pushed again.

“Heaven and Earth are an inn for ten thousand things… and Time itself is but a guest for hundreds of generations… How is life if not a dream, how many times is joy… and how many times, the other… Hahaha, a great verse, a great verse!” The young man lifted his head, his eyes unfocused as he drunkenly laughed to the waiter.

“Haha, I will tell you, but I had a dream just now… I dreamed of becoming immortal…” The young man passed out, passed out on the floor, snoring.