Chapter 9: Immortality

The waves at the horizon surged mightily, countless clouds gathering in Liang Yuan’s hands. When the final wisp of cloud stood poised in the heavens, Liang Yuan nodded with satisfaction—his vision was now realized. The “Divine Realm” within the atmosphere was the outcome he had sought.

Though this Divine Realm appeared crude, it was the fruit of nearly a century of meticulous labor. Unlike the haphazard fusion of elements in the creation of planets, letting them grow wild and untamed, everything here was crafted with careful precision. It was barren now, rarely visited by any living soul. Yet one day, it would shine as the most resplendent existence upon this planet.

Just then, a ripple stirred within Liang Yuan’s mind. He raised his gaze to the vault above, surveying the earth below. This so-called Divine Realm offered another advantage—it allowed him to look down upon the world from a lofty perch, granting him clear sight of all lands, a vantage for observing the realms below.

Liang Yuan directed his gaze toward the Jianmu, that towering tree reaching into the clouds, which now appeared to him as a mere speck. Focusing intently, he saw the Jianmu distributing its energy bit by bit among the surrounding trees, endeavoring to bestow intelligence upon them as well.

At this sight, Liang Yuan’s brow furrowed, then relaxed. Jianmu was the first mythic creature he had created, endowed with powers unmatched by ordinary beings. Now, feeling its solitude, it chose to share this energy with its kin. Liang Yuan found no fault in this; he hoped for more intelligent life to emerge.

Yet in all respects, plants had far lower odds than animals. But since Jianmu wished it, he would let it be.

Liang Yuan’s gaze shifted from Jianmu, sweeping across other continents. His eyes gleamed with golden light, and the path of a great bird unfolded before him. The bird launched from Jianmu, flying and flying, crossing from the eastern continent to the northern. There, high above the north, a giant roc seized it in its beak, snapping its neck, and its body tumbled from the heavens, scattering across the land.

Drawn by the essence of life, birds of the north flocked to feast, devouring flesh and bone until nothing remained. Even the blood-soaked flowers and soil were gnawed away. Those who consumed the ancestral bird dispersed across the continent, and after a century of breeding, they began to take on human form.

It was not surprising; birds lived short lives—seven or eight years at most. After nearly a hundred generations, the small birds became swifter, while the larger ones grew into humanoid shapes, though their hands and feet remained clawed, their heads feathered and beaks prominent.

Barring unforeseen events, a thousand years more would see the Avian race fully formed. This sufficed.

Why did all races ultimately evolve toward human form? The reason was simple. The world’s first life sprang from a drop of Liang Yuan’s blood—blood birthing myriad creatures. All beings unconsciously evolved toward humanity, especially those gaining intelligence.

If one day monsters and demons emerge, their transformations should not be in doubt. Yet the stirring within Liang Yuan’s heart was not caused by the unformed Avian race of the north. It came from the depths of the sea.

The sea. Liang Yuan realized with a start—it had been nearly two centuries since he and King Quanxian of the Merfolk parted. How had the Merfolk fared since?

With that thought, Liang Yuan’s divine sense swept through the rolling ocean, diving into the Merfolk royal court beneath the waves.

…

A century of hardship had granted Quanxian two children. The eldest, born to a concubine, was named Quanxi. The younger, the legitimate son, was Quan’an. Together, Xi and An formed the name Quanxian.

Now, Quanxian was aged and weary. After his sons’ birth, he vanquished the last rival Merfolk tribe, the Whitefin Merfolk, and ceased all external warfare, turning his efforts to strengthening the royal court.

As time passed and his children grew, Quanxian found a new emotion stirring within him—an emotion that often woke him in the night, leaving his chest tight and breathless.

This emotion was fear—the fear of death.

His children grew stronger each day, while his own body weakened. Merfolk lived five hundred years, a long-lived race. Yet knowing he had only two hundred years left, Quanxian grew frightened.

He did not wish to die. He wanted to live, to be king forever and ever, for countless generations.

He tried every method, but none availed him. From radiant pearls deep beneath the sea to ancient whales said to have lived thousands of years, nothing could halt the march of time for him.

In the last thirty years, Quanxian recalled the first fifty years after he gained intelligence. At his side had been an existence who created this world, who could grant wisdom with a mere gesture. No matter the calamity—mountain-shattering or sea-sweeping, no matter how powerful the foe—in his presence, all would turn to dust, cease to exist.

That was a god.

All things pass away; only the god remains eternal.

Thus, Quanxian set himself a new goal: to become a god.

He would rule the Merfolk as a god, making them true conquerors of the sea. Not only that—he would lead them to conquer the land, a place he had never set foot.

The first step to godhood was to shed his tail fin and gain legs. In his memory, the greatest difference between himself and the primordial god was that the god had legs while he had only a tail fin.

Once his source of pride, the tail fin had now become a burden—he loathed it, longing to be rid of it.

He employed every Merfolk who claimed they could remove the tail, whether black-tailed or white, royal or slave. Anyone who proposed a method became a guest at his court. Of course, failure meant death.

Over thirty years, hundreds of Merfolk perished in this pursuit.

Before such a king, none dared rebel. The king’s power was divinely granted.

After so much turmoil, Quanxian finally found a way. The Merfolk discovered a clam said to have existed since the ocean’s birth. They pried open its shell and harvested its pearl for Quanxian to consume.

After taking the pearl, Quanxian got his wish—he grew legs.

But all came at a price.

Upon consuming the pearl, his lifespan rapidly dwindled. Once robust with two hundred years left, now his hair was white, his face wrinkled.

Today, suddenly seized by whims, torn between hope and anxiety, or perhaps sensing his end was near, Quanxian brought his two sons to the shore where he had first been granted wisdom.