Lian knelt before the bronze gate as black slime welled up from beneath her skin, flowing incessantly into the crevices of the gate.
Her body grew increasingly withered, and the last remaining glint in her gray, hazy eyes was on the verge of vanishing.
“Lord... I’m so cold...”
Suddenly, the divine script on the bronze gate flared with intense light, illuminating the entire ruins. The glare was so blinding that even Chen Zhou had to squint.
In the brilliance, Lian’s pupils turned blood-red as another wave of memories surged through her.
In the memory, Lian saw that goddess again.
Dressed in green, she stood barefoot atop a high mountain peak, holding a handful of clay.
Now, Lian knew her name: Nüba.
Beneath her feet lay a barren ridge where not a single blade of grass grew. She looked down at the clay in her hands, then squatted and pressed the lump into a crack in the rock.
The moment the clay sank in, the stone split open.
From the crack, a tender green sprout poked its head out, its first leaf unfurling tremulously against the wind.
Nüba watched that leaf, the corners of her mouth turning up slightly.
That was likely the closest she ever came to a smile.
She was the daughter of the God Emperor, born of noble blood and high status.
But she was different from the other Emperor's Daughters.
While others enjoyed conquest, power struggles, debating in the Divine Court, or socializing at banquets, she did not.
She disliked speaking, disliked crowds, and disliked busy places.
She always stayed alone in her divine kingdom, treading barefoot upon the soil, bending over to press seeds into the earth one by one.
Sometimes she would squat by a flowerbed and stare at a newly sprouted seedling for an entire day, not saying a word or doing anything else, just watching quietly.
Her elderly servants had long since grown accustomed to this.
“Your Highness, there is a banquet at the Divine Court. Will you not attend?”
“No.”
“Your Highness, the Western Heavenly King requests an audience, saying there are important matters to discuss.”
“I will not see him.”
“Your Highness, you have been squatting in the flowerbed for three thousand years. Would you like to rest?”
“No need.”
The conversations usually ended there.
It was not that Nüba was arrogant; she simply truly disliked speaking.
To her, talking to a plant was much easier than talking to a person.
Plants did not rush her, did not offer hollow pleasantries, and were never two-faced.
Plants only needed sunlight, water, and her Living Soil to grow quietly, bloom quietly, and die quietly.
She loved that simplicity.
Her divine kingdom was the most unique among the Thirty-Six Heavens.
There were no palaces, no pavilions, and no magnificent buildings—only flowerbeds after flowerbeds, spirit fields after spirit fields, and forest after forest.
All the plants grew so well that even gods from other divine kingdoms wanted to visit.
But they could not enter.
Nüba did not like outsiders entering her divine kingdom because those gods were too loud.
They would talk loudly in her flowerbeds, stepping on newly grown seedlings while pointing and criticizing everything.
“What flower is this? It blooms well enough. If I plucked a few to wear in my hair, would they not further highlight my beauty?”
“This tree has grown crooked. Wild growth is inferior, after all. It should be pruned more so it can become a beautiful bonsai.”
“What use does Nüba have for planting these things? They cannot be eaten and they cannot fight.”
She did not get angry upon hearing this; she would simply silently escort them out. Then, she would squat before the trampled seedlings, smoothing the soil with her hands and propping up the broken stems.
Sometimes they could be saved, sometimes they could not.
When they could not be saved, she would gather the dead plants, bury them in a corner of the flowerbed, and sit beside them, staring blankly for a while.
No one knew what she was thinking.
Perhaps she thought of nothing at all and was simply keeping the dead flower company for a time.
Many in the divine realm mocked her.
“The one who looks the least like an Emperor's Daughter.”
“While others are conquering the north and south, she is planting flowers.”
“While others are forming factions, she is raising grass.”
“Even if she were made the God Emperor one day, she would probably just turn the Divine Court into a garden.”
She knew of these words, but she did not care.
She never cared how others saw her.
The things she cared about were few—only two: her Living Soil and her divine kingdom.
The Living Soil was her most precious possession.
That lump of clay was the very first pinch of earth born from chaos when heaven and earth first split; it could nurture all things and sustain all life.
She held the Living Soil in her hands, taking it wherever she went, never letting it leave her side.
With the Living Soil, she could grow flowers in any barren place.
Even in a dead land where nothing grew, a battlefield strewn with corpses, or ruins devoid of spiritual energy.
As long as she pressed the Living Soil into the ground, life would break through the soil.
Because of her solitary nature and her lack of competitive drive, she was naturally the last in line when the God Emperor distributed territories to his children.
What remained for her was the most barren land in the outer provinces—a place where ley lines were exhausted, nothing grew, and even birds refused to pass through.
That was the predecessor of the Ancient Kingdom of Southern Tang.
While the other Emperor's Sons and Daughters were busy building cities, gathering faith, and making allies in their fertile lands, she did nothing of the sort.
She simply held her Living Soil and squatted on that wasteland, pressing it into the earth piece by piece.
In the spring, a field of grass grew; in the autumn, a field of flowers; and after three years, a forest emerged. The entire region had no palaces, no cities, and no armies—only lush greenery covering the mountains and plains.
She thought this was quite good.
It was quiet, no one disturbed her, and she could plant whatever she wished.
Later, refugees passed by and, seeing this oasis, decided to settle down.
Nüba did not drive them away, nor did she go out of her way to protect them. She simply continued to plant her flowers and raise her grass.
The refugees built houses and cleared fields at the forest’s edge, slowly forming villages, which then grew into towns.
The people were grateful to the goddess who sheltered this land and for the oasis she brought. They called her the Oasis Goddess, spontaneously offering their devout faith and worship.
And as she watched those people go from nothing to something, from few to many, she felt neither particularly happy nor unhappy.
She just felt that living was good, regardless of who was doing the living.
Eventually, the abundance of this land caused the population to grow even larger, and many auspicious beasts were also drawn to the prosperous soil, settling there one after another.
Who could have guessed that the most barren land of the past would become the ancient kingdom with the richest spiritual rhythm?
Then, the Heavenly Tribulation descended.
The first to be polluted were the ancient gods on the front lines. Those who faced the Heavenly Tribulation head-on either died, went mad, or mutated.
When the news reached her divine kingdom, she was squatting in a flowerbed, loosening the soil for a spirit lingzhi.
She looked up at the divine messenger who brought the word, then lowered her head and continued her work.
“Your Highness, are you not worried?” the messenger asked.
“Worry is useless,” she replied.
“My divine power is meager. Facing such a fierce anomaly, there is nothing I can do.”
Though she said this, as soon as the messenger left, Nüba immediately set down her tools. She left the Thirty-Six Heavens of the celestial realm and rushed toward her own territory in the mortal realm.
Only after seeing that the Ancient Kingdom of Southern Tang was still prosperous, with fertile soil and water, did she heave a long sigh of relief.
The pollution that followed came quickly.
The Heavenly Tribulation was not a person; it did not listen to reason, follow rules, or respect status.
It did not care if you were an Emperor's Daughter or an ordinary deity, a general who conquered the world or a young girl who only knew how to plant flowers in a garden.
On the day the pollution spread to her territory, she was standing atop a high mountain, holding the Living Soil in her hands as she looked down at the ancient kingdom.
The people of the kingdom were working in the fields, children were running in the streets, elders were resting in the shade of trees, and auspicious beasts were roaming the forests.
Everything was wonderful.
Then, the sky changed.
A torrential rain poured down, the water turbid and reddish, carrying a foul stench.
Crops withered, houses collapsed, and the people struggled in the floods.
She raised the Living Soil, trying to disperse the storm, but the rain was too heavy—it was as if the sky itself had collapsed, and it could not be stopped.
She knelt in the muddy water, hands clasped in prayer, bowing to the heavens, but there was no response.
The image of Nüba’s bow froze for a moment, then began to blur.
Lian could only vaguely sense that as Nüba prayed and pleaded, she seemed to glimpse something indescribable.
Then, that fragment of memory was deliberately hidden, leaving only a chaotic, unrecognizable blur of light and shadow.
Later, a white beast arrived.
It emerged from the storm. Nüba remained silent for a moment before deciding to stay and fight, even though she knew no powerful offensive divine techniques.
When the ancient beast lunged, she raised the Living Soil to block it.
The Living Soil emitted a light she had never seen before.
Golden, blinding, and searing—it was like the sun.
The beam struck the beast’s head, shattering its scales and piercing its skull.
But the ancient beast did not die.
It shook its head, opened its massive maw, and bit into Nüba’s left arm.
Pain spread from her arm to her entire body, as if something were tearing at her soul, activating the seed left in her body after she had gazed upon “It.”
She struggled desperately, throwing off the beast and stumbling back several steps.
On her left arm, the edges of the wound began to turn white.
The white discoloration spread from her arm to her shoulder, and from her shoulder to her chest.
She knew what that was.
It was the pollution of the Heavenly Tribulation.
Nüba had seen it on many ancient gods who had been corrupted.
Some of those gods had turned into monsters, some into walking corpses, and some had taken their own lives in agony.
Her body also began to dry up.
Her once-full figure became like a mummified corpse, her green robe hanging empty and loose upon her frame.
Nüba looked down at the Living Soil and remained silent for a long time.
She knew what would happen next.
She had faced “It” directly, and thus she was infected. Her divine power was twisting, changing from creation to destruction.
The Living Soil could no longer bring life; it would only make the land more arid, the rivers more dry, and the crops die faster.
After the white beast fled, the storm did indeed stop, and the floods receded.
But days without rain were even more terrifying than the downpour.
The sun beat down mercilessly upon the earth, the ground cracked, crops withered, and the people died of hunger in droves.
Her very existence had become a calamity.
Nüba made a decision.
She would seal herself away.
She could not let the pollution continue to spread; she could not let more people die because of her.
Kneeling on the dried-up riverbed, she reached out and gouged out her left eye.
Her withered body could no longer bleed. Her eye socket was hollow, and the parched tissue inside was visible.
Then, she gouged out her right eye.
These eyes had glimpsed that indescribable thing. Once seen, one would be watched in return, marked by “It” until finally consumed by pollution.
She could not allow these eyes to continue to exist.
Next, she pulled a hemp thread from the hem of her robe and passed it through her lips.
One stitch, two stitches, three stitches.
Her lips were sewn together with the coarse thread, the knots stained with black blood.
She must not speak.
Not a single word.
That thing’s name, its appearance, its very existence—none of it could be revealed through her mouth.
Once spoken, once more people knew and were watched by “It,” more would be marked and polluted.
She stripped all the twisted divine power from her body, leaving not a drop, and sealed it all into the Living Soil.
She was no longer a goddess who could bring oases and life. After her divine power was polluted, only the power to create disasters remained. Such power, like herself, should sleep eternally underground.
She buried the Living Soil deep within the dry riverbed, using the last of her strength to place a seal upon it.
Then she lay down upon the salt flats, facing the sky.
The sky was very blue, without clouds, rain, or sun.
A wind blew from afar, carrying the scent of sand and death.
She closed her eyes and waited quietly.
Waiting for her own total demise.
The memory ended there.
Lian snapped back from the fragments, finding herself still squatting before the bronze gate, her hands pressed against it, her body drenched in sweat.
She was crying hard, her face a mess of tears and snot, an indescribable feeling welling up in her heart.
There was envy, inferiority, and a deeper emotion—a profound sense of moving reunion, as if meeting an old friend she had known for many years.
“So that’s the kind of person you were,” Lian murmured to herself.
She had always felt she was unworthy of occupying this skeleton, believing her past life must have been a flawless, great figure, and seeing herself as a thief who had usurped another’s place.
But now she knew that Nüba was not flawless.
She did not like to talk, did not like excitement, and did not like dealing with people.
She only knew how to squat in a garden planting flowers, walking across barren lands with a lump of clay in her hands.
She was mocked by other gods, but she did not care.
She simply did what she wanted to do and protected what she wanted to protect.
Even if it meant being polluted, sealed, and forgotten in the end.
She had no regrets.
“So quiet...” Lian tilted her head, wiping her tears with her shoulder. “Completely different from me.”
She was a talkative person. She might appear very reserved in front of strangers, but she loved talking to those close to her, loved rambling, and loved speaking her thoughts aloud.
It was not because she wanted to express anything in particular, but because of the thousand years of isolation in the Western Region, the thousand years lying in a coffin. If she did not speak, she would feel as though she did not exist.
She was a monster born within the divine remains, a creature formed from filth and resentment.
She had no past, no name, and no identity.
She did not know who she was, what she was supposed to do, or why she existed.
So she wanted to confirm she was alive through talking, to confirm she was not just a puff of air through her rambling.
Rate on N.U.
