A single green lamp flickered like a bean, swaying in the wind, yet never dimming. Its warm, golden glow bathed the gray stone temple, reaching every corner, dispelling the darkness of the Nine Nether and the mist of demonic energy.
Xulun and Bulan instantly felt as though their entire bodies were illuminated, the blackness in their hearts gradually clearing. They experienced an unprecedented tranquility, yet also an inexplicable discomfort from deep within. Their eyes tightly shut, they stumbled back several steps, trying to escape the lamp’s radiance.
This was the irreconcilable conflict between their innate nature and this state—like vengeful spirits encountering the purest yang energy, their entire beings felt as though they were bathed in light, on the verge of dissolving!
Were it not for the overwhelming peace in their hearts, the two Asuras might have let out piercing screams.
The man in dark red robes shielded his eyes, as if transported back to his youth, when he had fought a zombie skilled in dark arts. The zombie had resorted to a mutual destruction technique, summoning the true fire of the sun, melting away demonic energy and nearly reducing him to smoke.
After a brief adjustment, he narrowed his eyes and gazed at Meng Qi’s back as he stood before the green lamp. In a deep voice, he asked, “Is this the Buddha who attained the Dao Fruit?”
“Indeed. This old man once dealt with Him and would not mistake the unique aura of this temple,” Meng Qi replied, his tone carrying the weight of time, as if reminiscing about the past and recalling glorious years.
Dealt with the Buddha? Is He one of the ancient immortals of the Nine Nether? The man in dark red robes tensed, instinctively stepping back to widen the distance.
According to his innate divine sense, the other was not lying!
Meng Qi did not answer, his gaze still fixed on the faceless Buddha. He murmured to himself, “He built these stone temples, seemingly to seal and suppress something.”
Of course, he had dealt with the Buddha—obtaining the Green Lamp Before the Buddha, mastering the Tathāgata’s Divine Palm, witnessing the Golden Cicada’s Molt, and beholding the Supreme True Buddha. How could that not count as dealing with the Buddha?
“Legends of sealing terrifying beings are indeed widespread,” the man in dark red robes said cautiously, keeping his words brief. “But what does this have to do with the whereabouts of the River of Forgetfulness’ reincarnation?”
“Everything,” Meng Qi said, turning with his hands behind his back and standing beneath the faceless Buddha. “If the trail of the River of Forgetfulness’ reincarnation ends here, the only witness to what happened—and the one who knows its subsequent whereabouts—must be whatever has been suppressed here all along.”
He sighed deeply, his voice aged and weary. “Unfortunately, the Buddha’s seal is beyond our power to break. Unless we find the right method, only a true Other Shore being could do it. We’d best continue searching for other clues nearby.”
As he spoke, he shook his head and vanished from the temple in a few flickers, his brocade robes disappearing into the distance.
The man in dark red robes felt the same. With a single step, he strode into the wasteland, piercing through the mist of demonic energy under the black sun’s glow, swiftly vanishing.
Xulun and Bulan exchanged bewildered glances, stunned by their eerie neglect, as if caught in a dream.
“That strange man was the reincarnation of the ancient evil god, the River of Forgetfulness? He returned at the end of the kalpa?” Bulan muttered in disbelief.
They belonged to a tribe of the Asura race, occupying the nearby region. Many of their kin had seen the River of Forgetfulness’ reincarnation, but in the Nine Nether, bizarre beings were countless, and its appearance was utterly unremarkable. None had thought it special, assuming it was just another wandering demon or ghost. Now, hearing the conversation, Bulan realized it was the reincarnation of the ancient evil god—the master of the surging River of Forgetfulness itself!
Meanwhile, Xulun broke out in crimson sweat, staring fearfully at the faceless Buddha and the bean-sized green lamp. “So this was built by the Buddha of Lingshan… What exactly is sealed here?”
Suppressing his instincts, Bulan gritted his teeth. “This is too important. We must report to the Ancestor at the Sacred Mountain at once!”
Two streaks of light soared across the dark red wasteland, first returning to their tribe to inform the chieftain, then guided by him through the demonic mountains to a peak shaped like a jagged fang.
The mountain was deep red, as if perpetually soaked in blood, littered with unblinking heads, mutilated corpses, and severed limbs.
This was the Sacred Mountain of the Asura race, often referred to by the strong of the real world as the “Asura Battlefield.”
After the chieftain reported to the mountain’s guardian spirits, a near-black crimson light descended, enveloping him, Xulun, and Bulan.
When the light faded, they stood in a sunless dark hall. Before them was a throne of piled bones, draped with the skins of various creatures—demons, monsters, and humans—woven together into a seat of slaughter and war.
A twisting mass of black mist, formless and indistinct, sat upon the throne, idly stroking the eyeballs embedded in its armrests. Its voice was like a blunt knife, scraping and cutting into the minds of all who heard:
“Tell me everything you encountered, from beginning to end. Leave no detail out.”
This was the first Asura, born shortly after the Nine Nether’s creation—half-god, half-demon, immensely powerful, capable of rivaling great supernatural beings within the Nether.
Long ago, it had severed its own left hand to create the first female Asura, giving rise to the Asura race, who revered it as the Ancestor.
It was ancient, so old it had not left its throne of slaughter and war in ages, so old that many of its contemporaries had long perished.
The River of Forgetfulness, tied to life and death and the Origin, was precisely what the Ancestor—seeking to transcend its current state—cared about.
To survive until now, it had nearly sealed itself, slowing the passage of its lifespan to a crawl.
As Xulun and Bulan took turns recounting their tale, the formless Ancestor listened silently, as if drifting back into slumber.
After a long pause, it spoke coldly: “Why did they not kill you?”
Evil gods, demons, and vengeful spirits knew no mercy. Why leave witnesses?
Bulan, unable to lift his head, stammered, “Perhaps… the Buddha’s influence in the temple dispelled their murderous intent.”
“Leave,” the Ancestor said flatly, offering no judgment.
As Xulun, Bulan, and the others departed, the dark hall returned to its eternal silence.
—
The man in dark red robes was a rising star of the Nethersea Clan, self-styled “Daoist Bloodslayer,” aspiring to rival the legendary Daoist Heavenslayer.
He searched the wasteland for a long time, until the black sun set and the dark moon rose, the demonic mist thickening and icy winds howling. Suddenly, he jolted in realization: “I didn’t kill those two Asuras! I let them hear about the River of Forgetfulness and walk away!”
This was utterly unlike him.
“Was it the influence of that mysterious elder? But what benefit would spreading the secret of the River of Forgetfulness’ return bring him?” Bloodslayer frowned in thought. “Or was it the Buddha’s temple that dispelled my killing intent? I did feel unusually calm, devoid of any urge to kill… At first, when I slew that hundred-armed demon, the effect wasn’t obvious, but after that stone lamp was lit… It seems the elder was also affected by the lamp’s Buddha-nature.”
Transforming into a crimson streak, he shot through the dark mist and wasteland toward the Asura tribe, intent on rectifying his mistake by killing the two and erasing all nearby witnesses.
But as he neared the tribe, the black mist ahead churned, coalescing into a shifting shadow. A voice like a scraping blade pierced his mind:
“Begone!”
The command shook his soul, suppressing his killing intent and sending tremors through his body. Bloodslayer immediately turned and fled, not daring to linger.
The Asura Ancestor—sealed for so long—had emerged!
It must know about the River of Forgetfulness’ return.
But the Ancestor’s lifespan was nearly exhausted. It wouldn’t dare fight at full strength. There was still a chance!
The River of Forgetfulness’ banks returned to their usual state—echoing with ghostly wails and littered with lamentations.
—
Days later, deep in the night, a shadowy figure appeared inside the gray stone temple.
It was an elderly man with sparse white hair, wrinkled skin deep enough to trap mosquitoes, cloudy eyes, and missing teeth—so ancient he seemed on the verge of collapse. Only the third eye on his forehead, crimson and crystalline, marked him as extraordinary.
This was the manifested form of the Asura Ancestor!
Approaching the faceless Buddha, it waved a hand, igniting the green lamp.
Light flooded the Three Realms, reaching the Ten Directions. In the warm, golden glow, the Ancestor suddenly spoke: “Come out.”
A chuckle echoed as a gray-haired elder in brocade robes materialized—Meng Qi. He smiled lightly. “This old man has been waiting for you.”
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