Chapter 45: The Myth Is Rapidly Decaying

Ye Chen was bathed in radiant divine light, his whole body cloaked in endless flames.

Within the fire, Ye Chen was reborn.

A spirit butterfly danced lightly, crystalline mist flowing around it, gathering into surging waves of fog.

“Boom!”

In an instant, heaven and earth fell silent. An unimaginable brilliance burst forth, and that spirit butterfly rode the mist waves, soaring across the boundless sky.

“Is this a breakthrough?” Ning Peach Blossom’s heart stirred with curiosity.

The Dream Immortal Butterfly—such a rare spiritual species, with a profound origin. Once it broke through, it would step into an entirely new realm, gaining insights beyond the ordinary.

Ning Peach Blossom could sense Ye Chen’s aura rising higher and higher, but as it reached a certain peak, it stalled, soon flourishing only to quickly wane, unable to advance further.

“What a pity,” Ning Peach Blossom thought with regret. “Though he seized some benefits, after all, this is the Dream Immortal Butterfly. If it were of the dragon lineage, it might have transformed into a flood dragon by now. But to evolve into the Dream Immortal Butterfly, it seems something is still lacking.”

“But what exactly is missing? The Dream Immortal Butterfly is extraordinary, true, but it’s not born as an immortal species. Even if it evolves, its strength might not immediately surge. Why, then, is this transformation so arduous?”

“Moreover, speaking of difficulty, in this tiny land, two Dream Immortal Butterflies are about to appear in succession. Statistically, that is almost impossibly rare.”

“Perhaps it’s pure coincidence, and if so, all the better. But if it’s not coincidence, if it’s the result of someone’s deliberate design, then things become interesting.”

A chill crept through Ning Peach Blossom’s heart, a sense of being manipulated by fate. How could one not feel a thousand twists of emotion, unable to find peace?

Ye Chen was momentarily dazed, paying no heed to the changes within himself.

That fragment of arm, turned to ash, transformed into a spirit butterfly. Ye Chen seized its underlying foundation and essence, but more importantly, he glimpsed a portion of its memories—this was crucial.

A mottled scroll unfolded before Ye Chen’s eyes.

It was like an epic, grand and majestic, yet visible only to himself.

In that scroll, all things appeared desolate—heaven and earth ruined, the void torn apart. Unimaginable waves of energy surged wildly, sweeping away everything in sight.

It was an apocalyptic scene, a corner of some ancient battlefield, the sky bleeding, pierced with gaping holes.

The heavens shattered, howling winds swept across ten million miles of sky, stars reversed, sun and moon fell, all living things nearly annihilated.

Amid such horror, a long river flowed—condensed time itself. Every cresting wave was an intricate manifestation of the mysteries of time.

The River of Time truly existed.

It should have been inscrutable, unreachable, impossible to gaze upon directly, in harmony with the Dao, hidden from mortal eyes.

Perhaps only the greatest immortals could glimpse a fragment of its glory.

Ye Chen’s strength was far too meager; if this was truly the River of Time, he would surely lose himself utterly, dying cleanly and decisively—his only possible fate.

But perhaps this was merely a wisp of the River of Time’s aura leaking out. Though still deeply mysterious, it at least did not cause Ye Chen’s body to explode. Blood streamed from his eyes; he was nearly blind.

Then the power of the Void came rushing in, rapidly healing Ye Chen. The world he saw was tinged with a blood-red shadow. When it faded, he saw spirit butterflies fluttering within the scroll’s world.

“How did those spirit butterflies come to be?” Ye Chen wondered to himself. He watched as the River of Time erupted, its surging waters transforming into immense waves, as if to cleanse this filthy, turbulent world, to wash away dust and grime—perhaps to usher in an age of peace?

The tides rose and fell, overturning all things. Clouds shifted, ages quaked, even ancient history seemed to tremble.

Each wave played out countless glorious and tragic stories.

It was as if myth itself emerged from the riverbed of time, past events buried in mud and sand now selected and polished, shining like pearls, ready to blaze forth.

In the next instant, a wave launched itself into the sky and transformed into a spirit butterfly.

The spirit butterfly bathed in radiant light, brilliant and dazzling, but quickly faded to ash.

This was annihilation—the wave’s manifestation, turning to nothing, and the mythic past it carried also dissipated like smoke.

The past cannot be pursued, yet bit by bit it is worn away.

Ye Chen felt a chill of horror. On careful reflection, he realized the mythic legends glimpsed atop those waves had never been heard before.

Perhaps this was Ye Chen’s own ignorance, or perhaps those stories had been erased from time.

Myth was decaying rapidly!

“Could it be that a great war among cultivators ruined heaven and earth, drawing the world’s wrath, resulting in the erasure of all history related to cultivators?”

“Will the glories of ancient history vanish entirely?”

If not for Ning Peach Blossom mentioning the grand past of this realm, Ye Chen would never have guessed—he would have assumed this was a wasteland for cultivation, the world bleak and untamed, spiritual practices incomplete, requiring arduous trials in the mundane world.

Ye Chen did not dwell on this. Whether ancient history was erased by the heavens mattered little to him.

Yet those waves manifesting as spirit butterflies were intimately connected to Ye Chen.

The waves were mere surface; their essence was a concept—the enactment of myth separated from the River of Time.

Each wave rose and dissipated, seemingly leaving no trace, causing no impact.

But in truth, water wears away stone and produces remarkable results. Those waves, appearing gentle, burst forth from the River of Time, carrying unimaginable power.

The waves transformed into countless spirit butterflies, all decaying. When enough had perished, the accumulated resentment and unwillingness would rise; from the extremity of death would come life. So many spirit butterflies, their lives never truly shining, quickly withered—how could they not rage against the injustice of heaven and earth?

From the ashes of endless spirit butterflies, from their resentment and hatred, a spark remained. It was the convergence of all butterflies’ obsessions. When the obsession grew as vast as mountains and seas, it would birth the most wondrous miracle in existence; finally, within death, the aura of life would blossom.

A spirit butterfly, cloaked in the flames of death, flew against the light. Born powerful, its body was as grand as mountains, immense and majestic.

Yet this butterfly was unique—its entire form devoid of flesh and blood, its bones crystalline, naturally carved, full of beauty. It was both spirit butterfly and bone demon.

Unwilling to heed the whispers of death, it broke free from the graves of the fallen—how could it not be feared? How could it not be deemed a demon?