Qing Ling had spoken truthfully when he met Di Jiang.
Though he was merely a wisp of Pangu's hair, he was the only one to have fallen from the Great God Pangu’s person while Pangu was still alive.
After this, Pangu perished, and countless strands of hair fell to the earth, transforming into endless forests, plains, and the veins of the land and water. Yet, no other strand of hair had gained sentience to be born with innate consciousness.
Therefore, Qing Ling carried a trace of Pangu’s vitality. As Pangu shaped the Primordial World, so too did Qing Ling embody its vitality.
Qing Ling set foot upon Mount Buzhou. Throughout history, great beings had ascended Buzhou, considering its summit the pinnacle of the Dao.
Legend had it that Buzhou’s peak was beyond the heavens, the sole connection between the Primordial World and the Chaos. Only from there could one leave the Primordial World and enter the Chaos.
But no one had ever reached it, and thus, no one had ever left the Primordial World.
Perhaps some had, but they were certainly few.
Mount Buzhou had thirty-three tiers, corresponding to the thirty-three heavens.
Qing Ling walked into the divine mountain. There were no flowers, no trees, no living beings upon it.
It was not that Buzhou was barren, but rather that Buzhou’s majesty was such that nothing could withstand it.
Standing upon Buzhou, Qing Ling felt no heaven or earth in his heart; the world was insignificant compared to Buzhou.
He looked up, and the body of Mount Buzhou, inch by inch black and red, ascended into the unattainable unknown.
With each step he took, his primordial spirit grew heavier by a fraction.
This fraction of weight was the will of Buzhou, the will of Pangu. Pangu’s will was unyielding, undefeated, fearless, unbent, unyielding, and unswerving by anything. Hence, it could never be perfected, and thus it was Buzhou.
Pangu forged heaven and earth for one epoch, slaying all gods and demons.
Pangu stood between heaven and earth for one epoch, forever opening the heavens and earth.
Pangu perished and transformed into all things for one epoch, Buzhou enduring eternally.
Failing to achieve the Dao for one epoch, the creation of heaven and earth incomplete for one epoch, and perishing for one epoch, he did not fall.
Qing Ling walked upon the divine mountain forged from Pangu’s flesh and blood. This crimson and black earth, this will that had not dissipated for countless millennia, this towering height of the thirty-three heavens, all were hidden within the mountain.
Buzhou was a pure land, devoid of spirits, of things, of conflict, of slaughter.
Here, there was only the awe of heaven and earth for Pangu, and Pangu’s will for heaven and earth.
Qing Ling’s bare feet touched the ground, and with his fair soles, he felt the will of the divine Pangu, inch by inch.
An inch of mountain soil, an inch of foot; a single bell’s chime, a lingering step.
The soles of his feet connected to Buzhou; he was the master of the Earthly Dao, he accompanied the Earthly Dao, he perceived Pangu’s intentions.
He was a wisp of hair Pangu had lost, now following Buzhou, to recall and cherish Pangu.
He originated from Pangu, yet was lost and strayed.
Qing Ling was like a wanderer returning home; the mystery and grandeur of Buzhou, in his eyes, were all memories of Pangu.
Pangu had birthed many deities, all born after his death. Only Qing Ling was born during his lifetime.
Qing Ling possessed emotions that no other god had. The gods received their being from Pangu, and their feelings for Pangu were present from their birth.
But his emotions were acquired. Pangu was like a mother, a father, a home; he was a wanderer far from home.
He had roamed for many years, forgetting the past.
Now, he had returned, and old feelings resurfaced.
With each step Qing Ling took, each landing, each lifting of his foot, he left a footprint on Buzhou.
He walked, recalling, feeling sorrow.
Qing Ling wept without a name.
Each tear that fell, entered the earth.
Each footprint that was left, remained.
A speck of green broke through the soil, tender sprouts unfurled leaves, a hint of vitality revived.
Qing Ling did not know how long he had walked; he was immersed in unnamed sorrow, his tears endless, his bare footprints unending. Behind him, a long green trail stretched out.
A flower, then a grass, a grass, then a flower; the flowers and grasses formed continuous lines, like an incredibly slender silken thread, stretching upwards from the base of Mount Buzhou.
As Qing Ling walked, he forgot time, forgot heaven and earth, forgot himself.
He only knew that he was a lost strand of Pangu’s hair, finally returned after a long time.
On Mount Buzhou, a single green line grew longer and higher. After an unknown passage of time, this green line ascended into one tier of the mountain, then another, tier upon tier, time upon time, heaven upon heaven, earth upon earth.
This line of green journeyed until the end of time.
Qing Ling’s will, influenced by Pangu’s will and his own divine consciousness, fell into a semi-comatose state.
He knew he was awake, yet he could not control his body. He could only watch, as if from the outside, himself weeping, his bare feet treading, like a wanderer who, upon seeing his homeland, finds it changed beyond recognition, filled with confusion, helplessness, and grief.
But he did not know that on Mount Buzhou, wisps of destiny gathered into streams and flowed into Qing Ling.
On the other side of the mountain, Pangu’s Three Pure Ones were also ascending. An old Daoist led two youths, coming to see Pangu on Buzhou.
Along their path, Pangu’s destiny also flowed into them. However, heaven and earth did not know, and Hongjun did not know. The destiny that should have flowed entirely into them was diverted by the single green line.
Qing Ling climbed the towering mountain step by step. The pressure of Buzhou suppressed countless great beings, but it did not suppress those of the same origin.
Therefore, Qing Ling’s ascent was not fraught with arduous trials, nor were the Three Pure Ones tormented with each step.
Time flowed on Mount Buzhou, becoming exceedingly slow.
Qing Ling walked in the sluggishness of time, on the banks of the river of time, feeling as if heaven and earth had aged.
Yet, he always represented vitality, not just physical vitality, but also the vitality of the primordial spirit.
The Three Pure Ones were the same. They were born from Pangu’s primordial spirit; they were a millionth of Pangu. But a million of them combined were still not Pangu.
Only all of Pangu’s fragments, naturally, were no longer Pangu.
The old Daoist at the forefront walked upon Buzhou as if returning to the Primordial Chaos. He was the silent Pangu who had comprehended the Dao for countless epochs, during which his cultivation advanced immensely; the opening and closing of the universe could not match his speed.
He was also the Pangu who stood between heaven and earth, opposing the heavens and earth.
The greater and vaster heaven and earth became, the older he grew.
The gravity of the chaotic heaven and earth was no longer a mere force, but a grandeur. This grand gravity was enough to age Pangu.
The Daoist grew older with each step, his posture more stooped.
He was Taiqing.
The second Daoist was a long-haired youth. He had opened heaven and earth; he was the Pangu who commanded heaven and earth to open with his Dao cultivation. Although the Primordial Chaos was vast, his Dao was a foot high, and he opened heaven and earth. However, he was no longer young; his hair was streaked with white, his countenance weathered, and he had become middle-aged.
He was Yuqing.
The third Daoist was a youth with sword-like eyebrows.
His eyes held peerless sharpness. He was the killing force of the Primordial Chaos; he alone slaughtered hundreds of thousands of gods and demons, and then annihilated three thousand more. He was Pangu at his most powerful, and also Pangu at his most unrestrained.
Disregarding the Primordial Chaos, unconcerned with the Great Dao, he knew only how to kill.
Therefore, when he returned, he was as he had been originally.
The youth’s long hair was tied with a ribbon, and a myriad of swords surged from his eyes.
He was Shangqing.
The Three Pure Ones and the One Qing met on the ninth tier of Buzhou.
The Three Pure Ones were Pangu who had shed blood, while the One Qing seemed to represent Pangu who had not lost blood.
Their destiny merged, their fortune became one.
Qing Ling awoke abruptly as he encountered the Three Pure Ones.
The Three Pure Ones’ primordial spirits returned as they met Qing Ling.
“Fellow Daoist, well met.”
“Fellow Daoist, well met.”
All four bowed simultaneously.
It was as if Pangu’s residual consciousness had returned, or as if they were reuniting as one source.
Qing Ling had considered many possibilities of meeting the Three Pure Ones.
But he had never imagined that the Three Pure Ones and he would journey together.