Primordial Era: Starting by overwhelming the Sages, Hongjun was stunned!

The afternoon sun was setting in the west, and the wind picked up again.

This time, the wind surged from the white light.

It wasn't the kind of tentative, light breeze.

It's heavier and gives you a better sense of direction.

It was as if a door had been pushed open half a foot, and the wind squeezed in through the crack.

The wind blew past Kong Xuan, fluttering his robes.

Then he sensed that aura.

Extremely pale, like a withered leaf that has been baked, dry and old.

It didn't seem like it was brought by a living creature; it was more like a lingering scent carried by the wind from a great distance.

But it followed that golden line, stretching all the way from the riverbed in the northwest to the crack.

It stopped at his feet.

Kong Xuan lowered his head.

The wisp of breath lingered for a moment in front of his boot tip, like a lost moth.

Then it dispersed and merged into the clouds.

Like a drop of water falling into the sand.

Nothing was left behind.

The Golden-Winged Roc sensed it too. He stood up and walked over to stand beside Kong Xuan: "What was that just now?"

"A wisp of energy."

"Where did you come from?"

"Over there on the riverbed. We came along that golden line."

The Golden-Winged Roc frowned: "Is the fragment delivering something?"

Kong Xuan shook his head: "The fragments merely paved the way. The wind is traversing this path."

"The scent was carried by the wind."

"The wind, carrying the flaking dust from the fragments, swept along the golden thread all the way here."

The Golden-Winged Roc remained silent.

He crouched down and pressed his palm against the cloud, as if sensing some lingering warmth.

After a moment, he withdrew his hand: "Shell powder? The fragments of the shell are still peeling off?"

"Yes. Every time a layer peels off, a little bit of powder is carried away by the wind."

"The wind spread these powders on the road, like a thin layer of ash."

"Once the ash is applied thickly, the road will be more solid."

The Golden-Winged Roc stood up: "Then what will this road eventually become?"

Kong Xuan looked northwest: "Make it a walkable road."

"Where can we go?"

"It can carry things. It can also carry people."

The Golden-Winged Roc did not ask any further questions.

He returned to the tree and sat down, continuing to pinch the blade of grass.

The wind is still blowing.

After that dry, old scent dissipated, a new scent slid down from the gold thread.

The same dryness, the same oldness.

Like a piece of land slowly weathering away, it gradually disperses itself, carrying it along the road.

Kong Xuan stood there, letting those auras pass by him.

He neither stopped them nor took it away.

The aura dissipated at his feet.

Like a river flowing into the sea.

The wind kept bringing things over all afternoon.

Breath, dust, and fine heat.

Each wisp is extremely faint, yet they flow endlessly.

Like a river slowly awakening.

At dusk, a tiny thing was carried by the wind.

It was finer than a grain of sand, and it landed on Kong Xuan's sleeve, lightly touching it before sliding off.

Kong Xuan looked down.

The thing landed on the cloud, grayish-white, like a small piece of seashell crushed by the wind.

He crouched down and picked it up.

It feels dry to the touch and has sharp edges.

Like a fragment that has just been peeled off from some object.

It has the same material as the fragment at the bottom of the riverbed.

It's just smaller and thinner.

Like a single scale from that fragment.

Kong Xuan placed the scale in his palm and looked at it for a while.

The scales did not glow or generate heat.

It was just a small, quiet place.

But then he suddenly understood.

The fragment had been buried underground for who knows how long, remaining dormant.

Until that day he squatted down and reached out to touch it.

It woke up.

After waking up, it began to peel off its own shell.

Each shed shell fragment carries a piece of its memory.

These shell fragments, carried by the wind, spread along the golden thread all the way to his feet.

It's like sending him a letter.

Piece by piece, slowly, I told him about the thing that had been there a long time ago.

Kong Xuan tucked the scales into his sleeve.

The leaves, grass stems, petals, and feathers in the sleeve touched it, but did not move.

It's like it's waiting for itself to settle down.

After nightfall, the wind stopped.

No more gold thread was delivered.

The debris at the bottom of the riverbed fell silent, as if it had closed its eyes again.

Kong Xuan sat under the tree, not asleep.

He reached into his sleeve and gently touched the small, fragmented things with his fingertips.

Finally, what I encountered was that single scale.

The scales were still warm.

He withdrew his hand.

The night was deep, and the sky was covered with stars.

The white light shone quietly, like a stitch sewn into the sky.

Kong Xuan sat there, gazing at the white light.

He wondered where the fragment came from.

It was buried too deep and for too long.

It's been there since the beginning of time, as if it existed there at the very beginning of the universe.

It's as if someone buried it long before this world was even formed.

What was that person thinking when they buried it?

Is it intended for later generations to find it?

Or do you want it to remain dormant forever?

Kong Xuan had no answer.

But he had a vague feeling that the fragments weren't placed there by someone.

It's more like a door, a door panel.

It was dismantled and buried underground a long, long time ago.

And now, he is standing where that door used to be.

The golden thread stretched from the riverbed all the way down to his feet, and then circled around.

It's as if it's saying: The place where you're standing is where the door used to be.

Kong Xuan closed his eyes.

The night breeze gently brushed his cheeks, carrying a cool, moist mist.

That wasn't the wind blowing from the other side of the crack.

It is the wind of this world itself.

It rose from beneath the clouds, passed through the row of tender buds, brushed past the pale purple flower, and swept across his robes.

He opened his eyes.

It's almost dawn.

As the morning light spreads from the east, it dyes the clouds a warm orange hue.

The Golden-Winged Roc rolled over and sat up from its sleep.

He rubbed his eyes, and the first thing he saw was Kong Xuan.

The second thing I noticed was the gold thread at Kong Xuan's feet.

It's a bit brighter than last night.

It looks like it's been washed by dew.

Kong Xuan also saw it.

The gold thread was a bit thicker than before, extending from the riverbed all the way to his feet, and then forming a shallow circle.

The golden sheen at the edge of the circle was brighter than at the center, as if marking something.

He crouched down and traced the edge of the gold thread with his finger.

Where my fingertips touched, the wisps of cloud dipped slightly.

It's like walking on a path that's been walked many times before.

The road has already been built.

The wind blew from the northwest again.

This time, a fragment slightly larger than a scale was carried in the wind.

It's about the size of a thumbnail, with rounded edges, like a stone slab that has been washed by river water for a long time.

It landed at Kong Xuan's feet with a soft sound and then stopped.

Kong Xuan picked it up.

It was warm to the touch.

The surface has a very thin texture, like leaf veins or fingerprints.

The lines are continuous, extending from one end of the fragment to the other, without any breaks.

Like a complete line.

He stared at it for a long time.

He then placed the fragments and scales side by side and tucked them into his sleeve.

The Golden-Winged Roc walked over: "It's still delivering."

"Um."

"It won't stop until it has completely dismantled itself."

Kong Xuan did not respond.

He stood up, returned to the crack, and stood there as usual.

The wind keeps blowing, and the fragments are still on their way.

As the first rays of dawn broke through, the fragment in Kong Xuan's sleeve suddenly felt hot.

It wasn't scorching hot, but the temperature of a stone that had been baked in the sun all day, the temperature you feel when you hold it in your palm.

He took out the fragments and spread them in his palm.

Last night, the surface patterns of that thumb-sized stone fragment were slowly moving, like an awakened earthworm, meandering along the edge of the fragment.

The lines climbed to one end of the fragment and stopped.

Then it turned back and climbed to the other end.

After three round trips, the pattern settled in a new position.

It's different from before.

The Golden-Winged Roc approached, looked down at it for a moment, and said, "It's changing."

"Um."

"Like writing."

Kong Xuan did not deny it.

The patterns did indeed resemble some kind of ancient script, each stroke unrecognizable yet possessing a natural sense of order.

It looked as if someone had pressed a mark onto the stone with their fingertips.

He didn't rush to interpret it. He simply put the fragment back into his sleeve.

A breeze surged from the white light, blowing across the row of tender buds.

The tallest one has grown up to the knees of the Golden-Winged Roc.

The purple stripes along the edges of the leaves became increasingly clear, as if someone had redrawn them with a fine brush.

It stood at the very front, its branches slightly tilted towards the white light, as if it were exploring the way.

Kong Xuan looked at it and suddenly remembered something.

"You said yesterday that the grain of sand was like a road sign."

The Golden-Winged Roc nodded: "Mm."

You have a point.

The Golden-Winged Roc turned its head, waiting for him to continue.

"After that golden thread stretched out beneath my feet, fragments of shells followed it, as if they were recognizing their way."

"But what happens after it has figured out the way?" Kong Xuan said. "The fragments are still delivering things. It's not figuring out the way, it's pointing the way."

"It's telling me where that road leads."

The Golden-Winged Roc paused for a moment, then spoke: "So you know?"

Kong Xuan did not answer.

But his gaze fell on the tallest bud, on the direction it tilted, and on the white light.

He had a vague outline in his mind, like a shadow shrouded in mist on a distant mountain ridge.

He knew the outline was there, but he still couldn't make out what it was.

He needs more fragments.

More textures.

Only then can the painting be pieced together.

In the afternoon, the Golden-Winged Roc sat under a tree, splitting a thin bamboo that he had brought back from the south.

He wanted to weave a cage out of bamboo strips.

Cages woven from grass stems are not durable; they become brittle after just a few days of exposure to wind and sun.

Bamboo is harder and can last longer.

He cut very slowly, each cut steady.

Kong Xuan stood in front of the crack, not looking at him.

But hearing the crisp sound of thin bamboo being split open, he felt at ease.

Suddenly, there was another movement in the sleeve.

It wasn't hot. It was a slight tremor, like a stone being tapped.

Kong Xuan reached into his sleeve, his fingertips touching the fragment.

The patterns on the surface of the fragments are changing drastically, much faster than before, like a startled snake slithering away rapidly.

After swimming a few laps, the patterns stopped.

It freezes into a new shape.

This time, Kong Xuan understood.

That was a line.

It is curved, with a gentle arc, extending from one end of the fragment to the other.

Like the horizon.

He took out the fragments and held them up to his eyes.

Sunlight streamed through the edges of the fragments, casting a pale blue shadow on the wispy clouds.

In the shadow, the curved line was clearly imprinted on the cloud.

Like the silhouette of a distant mountain.

The Golden-Winged Roc put down the bamboo strips, walked over, and glanced at the shadow: "Mountain?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe not."

Kong Xuan put the fragment down, and the shadow disappeared.

He gazed at the northwest horizon, where a distant mountain lay quietly on the horizon.

It's not high; it's like a raised ridge in the earth, or the back of a sleeping giant.

He had never seen that mountain.

But the patterns on the fragments told him that the mountain did exist.

Someone has been there.

I went there, and then I came back.

After returning, he buried the mountain he had marked on the stone tablet in the ground.

"That fragment points to that mountain," said the Golden-Winged Roc. "It wants us to go to that mountain."

Kong Xuan did not respond.

He stood before the crack, and the wind rushed in from the white light, stirring his robes.

He looked down at the fragment in his hand. Its edges were smooth and warm, and the patterns lay quietly on its surface, like a map that had been folded many times and was finally unfolded in his palm.

"I'll go take a look," he said.

"Now?"

"Now."

The Golden-Winged Roc stood up: "I'll go with you."

Kong Xuan shook his head: "Look at the tree."

"Trees don't run away."

"The tree doesn't move, but the cracks do."

The Golden-Winged Roc did not fight any further.

He placed the bamboo strip, which had been split in half, under the tree and said, "Then I'll wait for you to come back."

"Is it far?"

Kong Xuan looked northwest: "Not far."

"I can see that mountain."

"If you can see it, you can walk to it."

He rose into the air and flew towards the distant mountain in the northwest.

A gust of wind surged up from below, pushing against his robes.

He flies very fast.

The distant mountain range drew closer and closer on the horizon, its outline becoming increasingly clear.

After flying for about half an hour, he landed at the foot of the mountain.

The mountain is not high, but it stretches across the wasteland like an abandoned wall.

The mountain is grayish-white, and its surface is covered with weathered cracks, as if it had been blown by the wind for a very long time.

Kong Xuan walked along the foot of the mountain for a while, his boots making a soft rustling sound as they stepped on the gravel.

Then he stopped.

At the foot of the mountain, there is a very shallow carving.

It looks like a mark left by something.

He crouched down and examined the engraving closely.

It's very deep, with smooth edges, and doesn't look like it was formed naturally.

It looked more like a stone slab that had been forcefully pressed into the rock wall and then dragged along.

It trails out in a curved arc.

It's exactly the same as the curved line on the fragment.

Kong Xuan reached out and gently traced the engraving with his fingertips.

The texture is rough, like the astringency of a stone after it has been polished.

At the end of the scratch, there is a shallow indentation, as if it had been struck by a blunt object.

He withdrew his hand, stood up, and walked towards the mountainside along the direction of the engraving.

The higher you go, the narrower the road becomes.

The cracks on the mountain are increasing, like a dried-up riverbed being baked to its limit.

When he reached the middle of the mountain, he saw a protruding rock face.

The rock face is smooth as a mirror, a stark contrast to the rough, weathered surface around it.

It's as if someone has repeatedly polished it, smoothing away all its rough edges.

Kong Xuan stopped in front of that rock wall.

There is a set of engravings on the rock face.

Unlike the fine lines on a fragment, it looks more like someone pressed their finger directly into the stone.

Five in a row.

It looks like five fingerprints, all the same size and depth.

Kong Xuan raised his hand and pressed his five fingers on it.

The five finger marks lit up for a moment the instant the fingertips touched the rock face.

Pale golden light seeped from the fingerprints, flowing along his fingertips into his palm, and then spreading upwards along his meridians.

Then, a scene appeared before his eyes.

The wasteland was gray and white, and the wind was strong.

A person stood on the mountainside, with his back to him, so his face was not visible.

The man was wearing a gray-white linen robe with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

He crouched down and dug a hole in the ground.

He took a stone shard from his pocket and put it into the pit.

Then he pressed the soil down with his palm and filled the hole.

After doing all that, he stood up and dusted off his hands.

Without looking back, he walked towards the distant gray-white wasteland.

The screen disappeared.

Kong Xuan withdrew his hand, and the light from the five finger marks dimmed.

The rock face has returned to normal.

Kong Xuan stood in front of that rock wall and remained silent for a long time.

The person he just saw was not him.

It was the person he was before.

The person who buried the fragments in the riverbed long ago.

After burying the fragments, he left without looking back.

It's as if you've finished doing something that needs to be done, and then you stop there.

A thought popped into Kong Xuan's mind: he didn't know who that person was, but he wanted to know where that person had gone.