Chapter 54 Acknowledgement, Remembrance

One could see the gaunt prophet wandering across the desolate earth, clad in rags and walking barefoot. He had gouged out his own gemstone-like compound eyes, holding them in his claws.

Uttering blasphemous words, he told the people that the end was nigh, that the wicked beast beneath the earth was about to burst from its shell. The eyes with which he had witnessed everything were the proof, yet aside from a vulgar sort of beauty, no one else could perceive the truth the prophet had beheld.

Someone killed the madman and stole the gemstones. Yet the corpse pushed aside the graveyard soil, cradled the stones, and continued to recount his story.

Someone burned the living corpse and scattered his ashes into the ocean, yet the eyeless spirit, driven by obsession, continued to wander.

He asked Mo Wen, who stood by the roadside: "Have you seen the truth?"

I have seen it.

Centuries later, the planet shattered, the civilization perished, and the prophet's dying words were never taken to heart.

Yet Mo Wen replied: "I have seen it, and I have already spread your prophecy. Many people believe your story, and we are trying to slay that beast."

"Then that is good. Thank you."

The long-dissolved soul returned to the Void Realm, but something had been changed.

One could see the aging leader sitting in a wheelchair, stripped of all clothing, pushed by his most trusted subordinate into the unceasing, bitter winter.

He had done everything in his power. He had transformed a survivor camp of a few dozen people into a city of tens of thousands; he had instilled a lingering obsession for survival in the bewildered populace, united chaotic factions into a single purpose, and pointed the way forward.

He was old, and he was tired. He was not immortal, and so he would use his death to guide the path one last time.

Amidst the howling blizzard, hundreds bade farewell to that stooped figure. He motioned for his assistant to step back, pushing the wheelchair forward himself. As he moved onward, he shouted at the top of his lungs: "We shall conquer the winter!"

Before crossing the threshold of life and death, he squeezed out his final ounce of strength and plunged into the wind and snow.

The leader, restored to his youth, pressed forward through the ice and snow, and saw Mo Wen, who treated the blizzard as if it were nothing. He asked: "Have we conquered the winter?"

The leader died. The city fractured amid council bickering, and the snow eventually swallowed the settlement—the final stronghold of civilization—heralding their extinction.

Mo Wen answered: "We won."

"Won, you say... Thank you for bringing this good news." He ceased walking, turned his head to look back in the direction of the city, saluted, and dissolved into nothingness.

One could see the anxious researcher running calculations over and over again, trying to find the troublesome flaw that vexed him, yet every model appeared flawless.

The hyperspace engine was about to activate; their civilization was about to reach a new stage, planting its flags on every planet, no longer forced to restrict population growth due to overcrowding, nor abandoning development on account of resource scarcity.

Yet he harbored a vague sensation that this would ultimately engender a monumental problem.

"If psionic energy does not dissipate and merge with nature, but instead ultimately converges into some spatial pocket, such that aside from the physical universe, a super-concentrated psionic region exists... Damn it, how could we have overlooked such a crucial issue for all this time?"

"The hyperspace engine must not be activated!" He scrambled frantically, dozens of tentacles propelling him so fast he practically flew.

Then, he caught sight of Mo Wen standing in the corridor, looking at him with the expression one might reserve for a fool: "What's the rush? If you have something important, you can transmit the communication first, and hand over the paper documents afterward."

The researcher paused, bewildered: "Oh, right. I was too hasty and completely forgot. Thank you for the reminder."

He never made it back. The moment he attempted to rewrite the past, he was reduced to nothingness.

This was the Void Realm, not the past. The past cannot be rewritten, nor should it be.

To negate the past is likewise to negate the present—at least, as far as Mo Wen claimed to be an impartial observer. He did not support others doing so. As for himself? He undoubtedly desired to master time, to shape everything according to his own preferences... presumably.

Mo Wen could not remember which person this was, nor did he know how many more awaited him, yet over and over again, he affirmed the significance of these psionic individuals.

Because, in doing so, he was likewise affirming himself.

What lay before him was a boundless, hopeless dead end.

When would he surpass the [Resurrection Point]? He did not know. Was it truly possible to transcend the [Resurrection Point] without anyone obstructing him? He did not know. Was this an eternal torture tailored specifically for him, a sadistic slaughter game? He did not know. Was he still trapped within eternal agony, with all of this merely his own hallucination? He did not know. Could psionic energy be retained into the next world and remain this formidable? He did not know.

He knew nothing at all. The path ahead remained obscured in mist, yet simply by telling these people that a path still existed, he seemed to reap a glimmer of hope.

There had to be meaning. The driving force behind his forward steps was that very meaning.

If nothing in this world held any meaning, then every action would dissolve into emptiness, and pressing forward would be entirely pointless.

Even in the face of utter and complete failure, a value had to be extracted.

Therefore, he must affirm.

Affirm the struggle of exhausting every last ounce of effort; affirm the meaning; affirm... hope.

Hope was an extravagant word, but only such extravagance could keep a person breathing.

These civilizations were not flawless; the psionic individuals who surfaced before his eyes could hardly be called paragons of morality. Their actions might trample countless innocents and ultimately bear bitter fruit, but he still tried his utmost to acknowledge them—to acknowledge these other versions of himself scattered across the world.

One by one, until numbers seemed to lose all conceptual meaning, Mo Wen once again beheld Qi Shiming.

He smiled brilliantly, like the sunshine: "Long time no see. It seems my ultimate trick was quite effective."

"Ultimate trick?" Mo Wen sneered. "It was merely a torrent of information. I could easily withstand it."

Qi Shiming shook his head. "No, a trick like that could never kill you. For this move, I drew upon my own experience of death..."

"In this world, there are those who reject charity from others. No matter how much brilliance is bestowed upon them, they will steadfastly maintain their own selves. But there are also those who, if asked for an embrace, will unfailingly return that embrace."

"Can you feel it? The countless pasts acknowledged by you, and the galaxy about to be illuminated by you."

"They are only one final step away."

To acknowledge requires merely a nod, whereas to change requires power.

Break free from the iridescent light, return to reality, seize a vessel, survive, and then conquer every challenge the world presented, slaughtering every obstacle in his path. If sheer survival was all he wanted, it was already the best choice for Mo Wen.

Yet he desired to acknowledge all meaning, including his own.

Mo Wen sensed the resistance originating from the world itself.

He had reached his absolute limit. All his potential had been tapped to the extreme; even the psionic energy awakened through the birth and death of universes could no longer contend with the full, unreserved counterattack of a true "world."

To be driven out after countless years of futile toil, or to make a resounding uproar before making his exit.

The answer was self-evident.

The clock of time, which fundamentally did not exist, reversed itself for someone, if only for this once.

"Remember, I won this battle. And now, get lost."