Chapter Sixteen: Do Not Ascend! Do Not Ascend!

“Winter has come.”

Mu sat atop the mountain peak, gazing at the ever-shifting sea of clouds below. He was no longer young; now over forty, the years had slipped swiftly past, always eluding one's grasp like reins in the wind.

He had become singular in the world—on the Sacred Mountain he founded a sanctuary of martial arts, took on three thousand disciples, authored three volumes, imparted all his martial wisdom to the world without the slightest reservation.

His selflessness earned him the respect and reverence of the world. Yet they also feared him, for he had once wrought devastation across the martial realm. Even the peerless masters of the previous generation—the Plum Blossom Sword Sovereign and the Absolute Martialist—had fallen by his hand. Rising stars who sought to challenge him, like the Sword and the Demon twenty years ago, also met their end beneath his blade. A decade back, the King of Blades and the Spear Overlord perished the same way. Even now, new talents emerged—one, famed as the Death-Dealing Sword, sought to challenge him, only to be slain with a single glance.

“In every age, new heroes rise; we can only laugh as the heavens are shattered,” Mu murmured in reflection.

He had long pondered the mysteries of the heavens, seeking to comprehend that elusive, ethereal Dao of Heaven.

The Martial God had once offered him guidance, and Mu had fervently pursued it, but found no answer. He descended the mountain, and the Plum Blossom Sword Sovereign and the Absolute Martialist each spoke of their understanding of the Dao of Heaven, but theirs was far from his own.

In the end, he returned to the Sacred Mountain, his ancestral home, hoping that by sitting where the Martial God once sat, some blessing might be bestowed, granting him insight into the secrets of the Dao.

But it was all in vain.

The Martial God he sought had vanished since the night he escaped that dungeon; Mu never saw him again, nor knew where he had gone. All he could do was wait.

As for the Martial God's golden body, it too was lost, vanished without a trace—Mu scoured the world, but never found it.

“The Dao of Heaven, the Dao of Heaven—what is it? Is it you?” Mu raised his eyes to the sky, clear and blue as polished sapphire, not a cloud in sight.

No answer came.

He plucked a blade of wild grass, flicked it with his finger; with a sharp whistle, the light leaf shot through the air like an arrow, piercing the trunk of an ancient tree halfway down the mountain.

To pluck a flower or toss a leaf, and both could be deadly weapons—such was his mastery now.

Grass and wood could serve as sword or spear; his vital energy could project thirty feet from his body. He had unraveled the mysteries of the human form and touched upon the enigmatic realm of spirit.

Should an enemy appear, he could bind their soul from a hundred miles away, track them across a thousand. He named this state—Saint.

Transcending the ordinary to reach sainthood, yet still not a Martial God.

He had not found the Dao of Heaven, nor merged with it—how could he dare call himself a god?

He remembered clearly the day he witnessed that vast blood mist, a crimson haze filling the sky like the glow of sunset, suffusing his vision.

Later generations studied the extent of the blood mist that once surrounded the Martial God's golden body and found it nearly a hundred yards across. But Mu had seen it with his own eyes—far greater than that, nearer a thousand yards.

Such vastness was beyond him even now.

“I recall the Martial God expelling all his vital energy from his body—was that the only way to ascend in a rainbow of light, to merge with the Dao of Heaven?” Mu mused.

Yet he knew full well—if he were to expel all his vital energy, he would surely perish on the spot. Even seventy percent would kill him.

He could not project his energy to envelop a thousand yards—at most, a hundred feet. He would have to empty himself entirely to achieve even that.

But the Martial God had succeeded.

“Universe Unbound Technique!” Mu activated the supreme martial art the Martial God had once taught him.

He pondered its essence deeply. Over the years, he had refined and altered it greatly. He never expected he could improve upon a technique created by the Martial God, yet with growing mastery and practical application, he sensed its obscurities and boldly revised it, shaping it into its current form.

It now consisted of eighty-one moves, each with thirty-six variations, totaling two thousand nine hundred and sixteen techniques, honing his body inside and out, leaving no part untrained.

At its highest level, body and spirit fused, granting mastery of a divine martial art aligned with the Dao of Heaven. Drawing on secret methods left by the Absolute Martialist and others, he had already achieved one such divine technique. Now, he possessed two.

Yet no matter how he trained, he could not gain a third. The key to this eluded him still.

His neck grew sore from gazing upward; he lowered his head.

He picked up a withered stalk from the ground. At its tip was a small greenish-yellow seed.

A grass seed.

Mu regarded it closely, then let out a long breath.

“I understand now,” he said quietly.

He exhaled, and a surge of blood-red light erupted around him.

Down below, his disciples were watching, and all were struck with alarm. What was their master doing? Was some great enemy approaching?

A wild wind rose, sweeping down the mountain—not a wind from east, west, south, or north, but a blinding storm of sand tinged with blood, sweeping down from above.

This was—

“Master is merging with the Dao of Heaven!”

For years, Mu had spoken of seeking the Dao of Heaven, searching for the way forward. His disciples, by now, all knew of this ambition; indeed, the whole world knew that Mu, the Martial Sage, sought to follow the path of the Martial God.

Now, the blood-red radiance atop the mountain surged ever brighter, forcing the sea of clouds aside and bathing the peak in blazing sunlight.

Though the sunlight was harsh, none of the disciples blinked—they stared wide-eyed at the summit.

The blood light soared skyward, enveloping a hundred feet around, and in that moment, a martial scripture was imprinted into their minds.

“The secret of the Dao of Heaven?” The disciples were filled with excitement.

They knew well how generous their master had always been. Sensing this new knowledge etched in their memories, they could not contain their elation.

But it was followed by a pang of loss.

Their master was following the Martial God’s path—transcending the mortal world, ascending in a rainbow to merge with the Dao of Heaven.

They would never see him again.

Suddenly, the ground beneath them shuddered, the mountain stones at the summit tumbling down.

Yet no one flinched; they all gazed upward. Those falling rocks would scarcely scratch their skin, let alone pierce the surging vital energy that protected them.

A blinding flash of lightning split the sky.

“Why is there thunder?” the disciples murmured in confusion.

Then, the blood-red light atop the mountain drifted down like snow, each flake brilliantly crimson and strangely ominous.

Suddenly, a point of golden light shot from the summit—seen from afar, it resembled a single golden pearl.

It soared swiftly toward the heavens and, reaching a certain height, vanished without a trace.

In its wake, the mountain stilled, the clouds ceased their drifting, and the blood-red energy hardened atop the peak, just as it had in the days of the Martial God.

Seeing this, the disciples were unsure whether to breathe a sigh of relief or weep aloud.

Their master had at last achieved his lifelong wish, but they had lost him forever.

Just as they regained their senses, a whispering wind passed their ears: “Do not ascend! Do not ascend!”