“You beast, trying to run?!”

Luk Gu laughed coldly, then immediately surged with a vigorous blood energy. Moving like a ferocious tiger, he closed the distance to the brawny man in brocade robes with a few swift steps.

The brocade-clad man hadn’t expected Luk Gu’s movement technique to be so fast. His face instantly paled. He immediately took out a piece of bone, put it in his mouth, and bit it to碎.

Meanwhile…

Mo Gui left the ancient temple while it was still early. The morning mist hadn’t dissipated, and the mountain path was damp. Dewdrops rolled off the blades of grass, like tears shed by last night’s stars left behind in the human world. He carried his satchel, but his steps were much lighter than when he arrived, as if a thousand jin burden had been lifted from his shoulders, or as if an unextinguishable lamp had been lit in his heart.

The fragmented jade amulet lay against his chest, warm and smooth as before, but it was no longer just a silent token. It had developed an inexplicable resonance with that primordial silk thread. Whenever Mo Gui’s thoughts stirred, subtle currents of light would seep from the jade, circulate through his meridians, and finally converge deep within his Dantian. This wasn’t the operation of a cultivation technique, nor was it the growth of spiritual energy, but a more fundamental transformation: his “fate-pattern” was being quietly reshaped.

He knew he was no longer the lone cultivator who relied on intuition to grope his way forward.

Yet, he also knew that the real storm had only just begun.

Three days later, Mo Gui arrived at Qingyají, a border town. Situated at the crossroads of major north-south routes, it bustled with frequent merchant travel. Though not large, it was incredibly lively. Vendors’ cries rose and fell in the market, teahouses and inns were filled with boisterous chatter, and occasionally cultivators would sweep across the sky on clouds, drawing gasps of wonder from children.

He checked into a simple inn, planning to rest briefly before heading north to the desolate wilderness in search of the legendary “Duanbei Valley.” According to ancient texts, it was where the seven Watchers last fought side-by-side, and perhaps some untainted traces of fate still remained there.

Late at night, in the quiet, Mo Gui sat cross-legged on the bed, meditating. Within his Sea of Consciousness, the information originating from the Hub of Fate’s secret realm rotated slowly like a galaxy. The fragments of laws contained within it were obscure and difficult to comprehend, but he could sense their presence, like an unopened celestial book waiting for the opportune moment to reveal itself.

Suddenly, the fragmented jade amulet on his chest trembled slightly.

It wasn’t a warning, nor a resonance, but a… summons.

Mo Gui opened his eyes, his gaze clear as water. He stood up and pushed open the window, seeing the moonlight like a silken ribbon, spilling over the courtyard. And beneath the old huai tree in the corner of the courtyard, stood a figure.

The person wore plain white robes, with a slender build and an indistinct face, as if shrouded in a thin mist. He didn’t look up, but quietly gazed at the ground, his fingertips gently tracing the tree bark, leaving a very fine mark.

Mo Gui’s heart pounded.

This attire, this posture, was precisely identical to the “Fate Creator” described by the stone statue!

“Who are you?” Mo Gui asked in a low voice, his right hand already subtly grasping the talisman pouch at his waist.

The person slowly raised his head, his voice as faint as the wind: “You don’t recognize me, but I recognize you.”

“Ten years ago, when you said ‘I am willing to go’ before the stone tablet, I saw you.”

“You said you wanted to change your fate.”

“Now, do you still want to?”

Mo Gui was silent for a moment, then stepped out the window, landing on the bluestone slab in the courtyard. “I do,” he said. “Not just to change my fate, but also to change those twisted and obscured fates.”

The person in plain robes chuckled softly and shook his head: “Do you know why all sentient beings in this world are trapped in samsara, unable to attain liberation?”

“It’s not because their cultivation is insufficient, nor because their blessings are shallow.”

“It’s because they have long forgotten the meaning of ‘choice’.”

“Most people live their entire lives without ever truly making a decision of their own. They drift with the current, pulled by desires, dominated by fears, and even their rebellion is merely an imitation of others.”

Mo Gui frowned: “So? What are you trying to tell me?”

“I’m telling you that you have been chosen.” The plain-robed person raised his hand, and a bronze key, almost identical to the one in Mo Gui’s hand but more complete, appeared in his palm, entwined with three threads of fate. “You are the Eighth Watcher.”

Mo Gui’s pupils contracted sharply.

“Impossible!” he blurted out. “The stone tablet revealed seven people burning evil, seven stars illuminating fate! There was never an eighth person!”

“That is old history,” the plain-robed person said calmly, “and a record that has been tampered with. The true Watchers were originally eight individuals acting together. The eighth person was responsible for chronicling, inscribing all truths onto a long scroll to prevent future generations from forgetting. But on the eve of that battle, someone tampered with things, erasing the eighth person’s existence, and that period of history was also sealed away.”

He paused, his gaze deep as an abyss: “And you are the reincarnation of that Chronicler.”

Mo Gui’s mind boomed, countless fragmented images flashing: dreams he often had as a child, in which he sat in a void writing characters, each word transforming into starlight and falling; talismans he unintentionally drew as a youth that could trigger celestial phenomena; and the seven voices constantly whispering in the fragmented jade—it turned out they weren’t seven people chanting together, but seven people awaiting the eighth person’s response!

“Then why do you only appear now?” Mo Gui’s voice trembled slightly.

“Because I cannot actively reveal myself,” the plain-robed person said. “Only when the last primordial thread is awakened, and the eighth star ignites, can I return through a projection of my remnant soul. This is limited by rules, and it is also a price.”

Mo Gui looked down at the key in his hand, his fingertips tracing the broken threads of fate. “So, what should I do next?”

“Go to Duanbei Valley.” The plain-robed person’s tone was solemn. “The remains of the Seventh Watcher are buried there, along with his final prophecy carved before his death. If you can interpret its meaning, you will know the true flaw of the ‘Wheel of Defiance’.”

“But what about the Grey-Robed One…?”

“He has already sensed it,” the plain-robed person interrupted him. “The moment you stepped into the Hub of Fate’s secret realm, the web of karma vibrated, and he knew that the ‘Exuviae Plan’ had changed. He will send people to kill you, not just once, and he will show no mercy.”

As soon as his voice fell, a black shadow flashed across a distant eave.

Mo Gui instantly became alert, and talisman papers shot out, transforming into fiery snakes pouncing towards the shadow. However, before they could get close, the black shadow dissipated like smoke, leaving only a trace of foul stench, slowly condensing into three blood-red characters in the air:

“Godslayer arrives.”

Mo Gui’s face darkened.

The plain-robed person’s expression remained unchanged: “They have come.”

The next morning, Qingyají was as bustling as usual. No one noticed the strange phenomena of the previous night, nor did anyone discover the three corpses on Shili Slope ten li outside the town. They were three assassins disguised as merchants, their meridians severed, their faces frozen in expressions of extreme terror, as if they had seen something unspeakable before death.

Mo Gui set off early, heading north, deliberately avoiding the main road and choosing desolate mountain paths. He knew that the enemy would not give up. As expected, within half a day, he encountered an ambush in a canyon.

Eight figures in black leapt from the rock face, wielding dark short blades, their movements perfectly synchronized, like puppets. They made no sound, no breath, their eyes vacant, filled only with chilling killing intent. More strangely, their shadows were misaligned with their bodies, as if they belonged to a different time and space.

Mo Gui summoned the fragmented jade. With a flash of jade light, a barrier appeared out of thin air, blocking a fatal blow. At the same time, he silently chanted an ancient incantation—a fragment brought back from the Hub of Fate’s secret realm, not yet fully comprehended, but now driven by instinct to be cast.

“Choose light to walk, with defiance as guide!”

In an instant, a golden glow erupted around him, and the ground beneath his feet cracked open. A phantom spiral staircase appeared, albeit for only a fleeting moment, but it caused the eight assassins to freeze simultaneously, then emit inhuman screams, bleeding from their seven orifices before collapsing.

Mo Gui hadn’t yet recovered his breath when he noticed that as soon as these corpses hit the ground, they rapidly decomposed, turning into black viscous liquid that seeped into the soil, vanishing without a trace in the blink of an eye.

“They can’t even leave behind corpses…” he murmured. “They are products of the ‘Dead City,’ completely transformed into living sacrifices.”

Just then, a light sigh came from beside him.

“You used power you shouldn’t have.”

Mo Gui spun around abruptly, seeing the plain-robed person standing behind him at some unknown point, his face as pale as paper.

“That move just now stirred the projected power of the long scroll of fate,” the plain-robed person frowned. “Though brief, it was enough to alert the ‘Enemies of the Watchers.’ They will think you have mastered the core authority, and the ensuing pursuit will only become more frenzied.”

“But I had no choice,” Mo Gui said with a bitter smile. “Without that power, I wouldn’t even have passed the first obstacle.”

The plain-robed person was silent for a long time, then finally nodded: “That’s true. Since you’ve chosen this path, you cannot be timid anymore.”

“But remember, each time you borrow the power of fate, it will leave a ‘mark’ on you. Excessive use will gradually detach you from your mortal body, making you a part of the rules. At that point, you will no longer be able to feel human emotions, nor make true ‘choices’.”

Mo Gui was awe-struck.

He knew this was both a temptation and a corrosion. Like those fallen strong individuals, they initially fought for justice, but eventually, by relying on overly powerful strength, they lost their qualification as “humans.”

Half a month later, Mo Gui finally arrived at Duanbei Valley.

The place was extremely desolate, with jagged rocks and no grass. The sky was perpetually gloomy, with no sun or moon, only strong winds howling, kicking up dust that cut like knives. In the center of the valley stood seven broken stone tablets, arranged in the shape of the Big Dipper, each inscribed with incomplete characters, vaguely visible words like “burn evil,” “unto death,” “no regret.”

Mo Gui slowly walked into the center of the tablet array, took out the bronze key, and held it high above his head.

In an instant, the seven stone tablets trembled simultaneously, dark red light seeping from their cracks, like flowing blood. The ground shook violently, and a sarcophagus, half-buried in the earth, slowly rose—it was a coffin crafted entirely from obsidian, its surface covered with cracks, with a dim star-gem embedded in its center.

Mo Gui knelt and kowtowed three times, then softly said: “Senior, junior Mo Gui, I have come as commanded.”

As his words fell, the coffin lid automatically opened.

Inside, there was no corpse, only a scorched yellow bamboo slip lying quietly. Mo Gui reached out and took it. Upon his touch, the bamboo slip unfurled on its own, lines of ancient text appearing in the air:

“We seven, together burned our life essence, using our bodies as fuel, sealing the Dead City in the void rift. Yet the enemy’s power is not extinguished, the Wheel of Defiance turns, and will ultimately reappear.

There is only one sliver of hope: when the eighth star lights, the chronicler returns, bearing the Key of Dawn, to the Hall of Finality, to rewrite the long scroll.

Remember: at that time, what you face will not only be external demons, but also the deepest obsession within your heart. If your resolve is not firm, the long scroll will backlash, and all realms will be destroyed.”

Mo Gui finished reading, feeling a chill throughout his body.

So everything was already destined, yet full of variables. The so-called “victory” was not about crushing by force, but about one person’s will to redefine “fate” itself.

And that “Hall of Finality,” it was said, was located at the end of the Nine Nethers, accessible only by passing through seven Gates of Fate. Each Gate of Fate corresponded to the dying wish of a Watcher, and only by passing the test could one gain passage.

“You still lack seven keys.” The plain-robed person appeared beside him at some point, his gaze solemn. “And these seven keys are hidden in the places where the seven Watchers fell.”

Mo Gui gripped the bamboo slip, looking up at the overcast sky: “I will find them.”

“But do you know what the hardest part is?” the plain-robed person suddenly asked.

Mo Gui shook his head.

“It is when you collect all the keys and stand before the Hall of Finality, you will understand that ‘rewriting the long scroll’ actually means you must personally erase the existing world order, including all memories and existence of those you love.”

“You must make a choice: maintain the status quo and let darkness fester; or restart everything, even if it means everyone will begin anew, and even no longer remember that you fought for them.”

Mo Gui froze.

After a long silence, he asked in a low voice: “What if I don’t want to?”

“Then you will become the ninth Watcher,” the plain-robed person sighed. “Forever trapped in the缝隙, watching time flow, sentient beings cycle through samsara, yet powerless to change anything.”

That night, Mo Gui camped in Duanbei Valley. The bonfire flickered, illuminating his pensive face.

He thought of his mother, the woman who always mended clothes by lamplight. She never cultivated immortality nor understood the Great Dao, but she taught him one thing: to be a person, one must have a conscience.

He also thought of the ordinary people he met on his journey: villages attacked by demonic beasts, rogue cultivators oppressed by sects, common folk displaced by natural disasters… They had no power, yet they still strove to live, still believed that tomorrow would be better.

These people should not be erased.

But if the long scroll wasn’t rewritten, evil would eventually swallow everything.

Caught between two difficulties, Mo Gui suddenly smiled.

He took out the fragmented jade, placed it in his palm, and softly said: “Tell me, is there a third path?”

The fragmented jade amulet became slightly warm, and the seven whispers sounded again. This time, there was an implicit sense of response.

It seemed that, in the distant past, the seven Watchers had also asked the same question.

The answer, perhaps, was not at the destination, but on the journey.

At the same time, on a distant cliff in the void, the Grey-Robed One sat once again in the center of the newly forged altar. Before him floated a new ancient mirror, its surface as black as before, but with an added golden crack.

“The eighth star has lit up,” a trembling voice came from the mirror.

The Grey-Robed One sneered: “Excellent. Let him continue on his way.”

“The further he goes, the deeper he falls.”

“When he finally stands before the Hall of Finality, he will realize that so-called free will is merely an illusion we allowed him to possess.”

“The true ‘new order’ needs no heroes, only a perfect sacrifice.”

He raised his hand, a drop of blood fell from his fingertip into the mirror. Instantly, thousands of black threads stirred, entwining towards every corner of the human world.

And in a remote mountain village, a sleeping infant suddenly opened its eyes, a crimson gleam flashing deep within its pupils.

The gears of fate had already accelerated.

Yet, even as this darkness spread, a faint but unyielding light was traversing wind and sand and loneliness, steadfastly moving forward.

Mo Gui stood up, extinguished the campfire, and shouldered his satchel.

He knew his next destination was “Chenzhou Island” on the shore of the East Sea—the burial place of the Second Watcher.

The wind swept through the valley, carrying away the embers, and also the hesitation of the past.

This time, his steps were exceptionally firm.