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

The jar was small, only about the size of a fist, with its mouth wide open, and it was empty inside, with nothing in it.

Kong Xuan took out the pottery jar and held it in his palm.

The walls of the jar are very thin, and there is a very fine texture on the surface. It is not engraved, but left during the firing process.

The patterns are continuous, like the traces left by flowing water.

He turned the pottery jar over, and there was a mark on the bottom, a very small circle with a short horizontal line in the center, like an open eye.

Kong Xuan looked at the mark, memorized it, and then put the pottery jar back in its original place and covered it with soil.

He didn't take it with him.

This earthenware jar has been here for so long that its edges have blended into the surrounding soil.

It doesn't belong to him. It belongs to this wasteland, to the roots of this tree.

He stood up and stood under the tree, the wind blowing from the west, brushing against his face.

He looked up and saw a very faint gray-blue outline on the western horizon, like the shadow of a mountain.

He looked at it for a moment, then looked away and focused his gaze on the tree.

The tree swayed gently in the wind, its leaves rustling as if it were telling him something.

Kong Xuan listened for a while, then turned around and returned along the same route without saying anything.

When I returned to the pale purple flower, the sky had darkened even further.

Kong Xuan sat down under the tree.

The Golden-Winged Roc was still awake, leaning against the tree trunk, holding a thin bamboo strip in its hand.

Seeing him sit down, she put down the bamboo strips, turned her head to look at him, and asked, "What's in the North?"

There was a living tree. Underneath the tree was an empty clay pot.

"Empty?"

"It's empty," Kong Xuan said. "It's like it was left there, waiting for a long time."

The Golden-Winged Roc was silent for a moment: "Waiting for what?"

Kong Xuan looked at the white light: "Wait for someone to put things inside."

A breeze emerged from the white light, stirring the pale purple flower, causing its petals to sway gently.

The Golden-Winged Roc followed his gaze to the flower, and after a while, he asked, "So, are you going to release it?"

Kong Xuan did not answer. He leaned against the tree trunk, the seed in his sleeve lying quietly, still warm.

The empty pottery jar is still there, buried under the only living tree in the wasteland.

It has waited a long time; waiting a little longer won't hurt.

Kong Xuan sat under the tree all night.

The seed in my sleeve was quiet and still, without heat or movement.

It simply exists, like a stone warmed by body heat, pressed against the fabric, unhurried and unperturbed.

The wind blew from the south, carrying the lingering fragrance of that pale purple sapling.

The flowers have all fallen, but tiny seeds have formed on the branches, which are swept away by the wind and scattered one by one into the distance.

As dawn approached, Kong Xuan heard a very faint cry.

He opened his eyes.

A bird was standing in the bamboo cage on the branch.

The small, grayish-brown bird was not much bigger than a sparrow.

It stood at the bottom of the cage, tilting its head, preening the feathers under its wings with its beak, as if it had lived there for a long time.

The Golden-Winged Roc was still asleep, breathing steadily, and had not woken up.

Kong Xuan looked at the bird but did not get up.

After preening its feathers, the bird hopped around in its cage twice.

It lowered its head and pecked at the gaps in the bamboo strips at the bottom of the cage, as if checking whether it was comfortable to live in.

Then it raised its head and let out a soft call in the direction of the white light.

The call was short, as if it had said something, and then it stopped speaking.

Kong Xuan did not respond to it, but simply continued to sit, leaning against the tree trunk.

Sunlight streamed up from the edge of the clouds, illuminating the row of tender buds.

The tallest plant has grown to the knee of a golden-winged roc, and the purple stripes on the edges of its leaves gleam warmly in the morning light.

The pale purple flower was still in bloom, its petals drooping slightly, as if it were tired, but it showed no sign of falling.

The tiny speck of light in the heart of the flower still shone, like a lamp that refused to go out.

Kong Xuan got up and walked to the crack.

The wind surged from the white light, slightly heavier than the one from last night.

It looked like something was slowly moving over there, pushing the airflow.

He stood there, letting the wind pass by his side.

A moment later, he sensed that aura.

Extremely faint, like a long-stretched thread that has finally loosened and gently falls.

The aura came from the due west, crossing the wasteland, past the living tree, past the empty pottery jar buried under the tree roots, and extending all the way here.

There was a familiar texture in the scent... dry, old, like stone dust that had been weathered for many years.

It smelled just like the fragments beneath the riverbed.

Kong Xuan did not set off immediately.

He stood there for a while, confirming that the wisp of energy was not something that drifted in by chance, but rather that it had been flowing continuously and steadily.

Like an underground river that has finally found its way out.

The Golden-Winged Roc awoke and sat up from under the tree.

He glanced at Kong Xuan, then at the grayish-brown bird in the cage, without asking where the bird came from. He simply stood up and walked to Kong Xuan's side: "Is there something there?"

"West side."

"The same as the previous ones?"

"The same scent. Fader, but it never stopped."

The golden-winged roc looked westward, where the horizon was a gray expanse with nothing in sight.

"Are you going?"

"Um."

"Then I'll go and shave some more bamboo strips."

The Golden-Winged Roc turned and walked to the tree. "By the time you come back, those seedlings will need trellises."

Kong Xuan didn't say anything more.

He rose into the air and flew westward.

A dry, warm wind blew in my face.

The wasteland beneath my feet gradually changed from grayish-white to grayish-brown, and then to light brown.

Like an old blanket that has been repeatedly spread out and then put away.

He flew over the dark brown ground, over the dry ditch, over the living tree.

He didn't stop and continued westward.

The wasteland gradually became undulating.

The ground rises and falls, like a spine that is slowly breathing.

When Kong Xuanfei passed the seventh low hill, he saw the crack ahead.

The crack was narrow, only an arm's length away.

It split open from the ground, extending downwards into an unfathomable depth.

The edges are neat, as if they were cut by something sharp.

Kong Xuan landed at the edge of the crack and squatted down.

The inner wall of the crack is dark gray and smooth as a mirror, unlike a cross-section formed by natural weathering.

He reached into the crack, and the moment his fingertips touched the inner wall, a very subtle warmth emanated from deep within the stone wall.

It was exactly the same as that wisp of aura.

He withdrew his hand and walked along the edge of the crack for a while.

The crack runs north-south, is straight, and has almost no bends.

Like a line drawn on the ground, it comes from afar and goes to afar.

Kong Xuan stood at the edge of the crack, looking in the north and south directions.

The crack in the north gradually narrowed and eventually disappeared into the depths of the wasteland.

The south, however, is getting wider and deeper, like a wound that is opening up.

He chose to go south.

After walking along the edge of the crack for about an hour, the crack gradually widened from an arm's length to three zhang (approximately 10 meters) in width and became even deeper.

There was a very faint light shimmering at the bottom, like the sunlight reflecting off the surface of deep water.

Kong Xuan stopped at a narrow spot in the crack and stepped down sideways.

He stepped down the protruding rock ridges on the inner wall, one step at a time.

It was colder inside the crack than outside, and there was a faint sense of movement in the air, as if a wind was rising from the depths.

He descended to a depth of about ten feet and saw the thing.

A stone is embedded in the inner wall of the crack.

It's not big, about the size of a fist, and its surface is covered with a dark brown shell, as if it had been wrapped in mud.

It has the same aura as the fragments.

Kong Xuan reached out and grasped the stone.

The shell felt slightly warm in his palm, then began to peel away like a cicada shedding its shell, revealing the bluish-gray stone underneath.

Two lines are carved on the stone surface.

Parallel, one long and one short, with uniform spacing.

He looked at it for a moment, but did not take it.

When he put it back in its original place, the cracks in the shell slowly closed up like flowing water after he let go, and it returned to a whole piece.

Kong Xuan did not disturb it.

He continued south along the crack, and after walking for a while, he saw a second piece.

The same location, embedded in the inner wall, the same aura, the same shell.

He brushed aside the shell, revealing three lines... two parallel and one horizontal, like a pattern simplified to its extreme.

It's like a person with outstretched arms, or like a tree with branches.

Kong Xuan closed the shell layer and did not take it.

He followed the crack southward, and every so often there was a stone embedded in the inner wall.

Each piece has a different pattern; some have a single curved arc, some have three short horizontal lines, and some have an unclosed circle.

The spacing between them is not entirely consistent; sometimes they are very close together, and sometimes they are very far apart.

But they are all in the same direction... South.

Kong Xuan walked to the end of the crack.

The crack narrows here, becoming a thin slit again, making it impossible to pass through.

He stood at the end of the crack, looking up at the sunlight at the top of the crack, which was reduced to a thin line, like a cut wound.

He sensed his surroundings.

There were no more stones beneath the ground at the end of the crack.

The pattern ends here, like a path marked on a map, stopping here.

He climbed up the rock ridge and returned to the ground.

The wind blows from the south, dry and warm.

Kong Xuan stood at the edge of the crack, gazing south.

There was nothing on the horizon—no mountains, no trees, just the same gray-white wasteland as to the north.

But he knew that the patterns on these stones were pointing the way.

They are saying: Go south, keep going south.

He turned back along the edge of the crack and returned to the living tree; by then, the sun was already setting.

He stopped and sat under the tree for a long time, gazing at the faint gray outline to the west.

As dusk began to fall on the horizon, he took to the air and returned along the path he had come from.

When I returned to the crack, dusk was falling.

The Golden-Winged Roc sat under the tree, with several whittled bamboo strips at its feet and a new one being whittled in its hand.

The grayish-brown bird in the cage was asleep, curled up in a ball, its head buried in its wings.

The Golden-Winged Roc looked up at him: "What's to the west?"

"A deep crack, running north to south."

The inner wall is inlaid with stones, each with an engraving. All the engravings point in the same direction.

Kong Xuan sat down next to him, took out the two stone pieces from his sleeve, and placed them side by side on his lap.

"The patterns look like segments, as if the entire road has been disassembled and divided into many stones."

"Follow them, and you'll reach the end of the road."

The Golden-Winged Roc put down the bamboo strips: "Which way does that road lead?"

"South."

Kong Xuan said, "All the patterns are facing south."

"The crack faces south, the stone faces south, and the direction of the carvings also faces south."

The Golden-Winged Roc was silent for a moment: "What's to the south?"

"have no idea."

"I walked a long way, but there was nothing at the end of the crevice."

"But those stones didn't just appear out of nowhere."

He said, "It's like taking a map apart and leaving only a small piece of each stone."

"You have to examine all the stones before you can piece together the complete picture."

He put the two stone pieces back into his sleeve.

"At the end of the crack, there is a stone wall with three lines of carvings on it. The edges are worn, as if it had been blown by the wind for a long time. The carvings point southwest."

After listening, the Golden-Winged Roc did not ask any further questions, but simply lowered his head and continued to whittle the bamboo strip.

The blade gently traced the grain of the bamboo strips, producing a fine, continuous sound.

A night breeze surged from the white light, stirring the pale purple flower, the silver lines along the edges of its petals shimmering faintly in the darkness.

After the Golden-Winged Roc finished cutting the bamboo strip, it looked up at the white light.

"Brother, are you going to find that stone wall?"

Kong Xuan did not answer immediately.

But he had a direction in his heart, a direction that all those fragments, those patterns, and those engravings pointed to.

He said, "It's been waiting there for a long time."

"Waiting another night won't hurt."

After saying that, Kong Xuan did not speak again.

The night wind rushed in through the crack.

The pale purple flower swayed gently in the wind, and the light in its center flickered.

Like a lamp that is thinking.

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

He neatly gathered the shaved bamboo strips and placed them next to the tree roots.

He patted the debris off his hands, leaned against the tree trunk, and closed his eyes.

The grayish-brown bird was already fast asleep in its cage.

Its breathing was very light, and its feathers rose and fell slightly.

That night, the three people, the bird, and the tree were all in silence.

Kong Xuan leaned against the tree trunk, but did not sleep.

He gazed at the white light, then looked southwest.

He has not yet set foot in that area.

But the direction of those fragments and the direction of those patterns all tell him the same truth.

There is something to the southwest.

It could be a plain, it could be a mountain, or it could just be a rock.

But it's there.

As dawn broke, the Golden-Winged Roc awoke.

He didn't open his eyes, but listened carefully to make sure the bird in the cage was still there before sitting up.

"Going today?"

Kong Xuandao: "Let's go today."

He took the two stone pieces from his sleeve, placed them on his lap, and examined them again.

He had already memorized the pattern, but he still looked at it again.

It's like saying goodbye to them.

After looking at it, he put the stone slab back into his sleeve and stood up.

"I'm going southwest and will be back before dark."

The Golden-Winged Roc nodded: "I'll go and set up the trellises for those seedlings."

Kong Xuan stepped into the air and rose into the air.

The morning light fell on his shoulders, illuminating the gold phoenix pattern on his black robe.

He didn't turn around.

A breeze blew in my face, dry yet warm.

The wasteland beneath my feet unfolds in the morning light, gray and white, like an old mirror that has been worn smooth.

He flew over the living trees, over the dried-up ditch, over the bottomless crack.

He paused at the end of the crack.

The crack was still there, its edges smooth, like a wound etched into the earth.

He looked around for a moment, then continued south.

The wasteland began to become uneven.

The ground rises and falls, like a spine that is slowly breathing.

Kong Xuan flew over seven low hills, and then he saw the stone wall.

It is not large, about two people tall and about three zhang wide.

Standing on the wasteland, it resembles an abandoned wall.

It is grayish-white, with weathered patterns on its surface, like an old face wrinkled by the wind.

Kong Xuan landed in front of the stone wall.

He stood very close, close enough to see the fine indentations on the surface of the stone wall.

Those dents were different from the scratches I had seen before; they were shallower and more irregular, as if they had been formed by long-term erosion by rainwater.

However, there are three lines of carvings in the very center of the stone wall.

Neat, clear, and as precise as the patterns on those fragments.

It's as if someone pressed their finger into the stone wall a long time ago, and those marks have remained there ever since.

Kong Xuan looked at the three lines of engraving.

The first line is an arc that extends from left to right, like an inverted bowl.

The second line is a straight line that goes vertically downwards from the starting point of the arc and then turns right.

The third row consists of a row of short horizontal lines, evenly spaced, each of the same length.