Chapter 41 - The Desolate Heavenly Throne
The embers of the swamp hissed as the last vestiges of moisture vanished into the parched air, turning into a thin, acrid mist that clung to the ground. Where once a stagnant, treacherous mire had stretched for miles, there was now only a vast expanse of calcined earth and drifting grey ash. The tree woman, who had sought to feast upon their life force with her grotesque, wooden appendages, had been reduced to nothing more than a memory of smoke. Her existence had been snuffed out by the divine fire before she could even utter a final plea for mercy or a curse of resentment.
Leng Jing stood at the edge of the wooden raft, his silhouette framed by the shimmering heat waves rising from the scorched earth. His expression was as cold and unyielding as the primordial power he had just unleashed. The raft itself remained miraculously untouched, a small, pristine island of wood in a sea of blackened desolation. Behind him, Leng Qingqing stared at the back of his son’s head, a complex swirl of emotions dancing in his eyes. He had always known Leng Jing was special—after all, he had raised the boy from a "snake egg" in the humble surroundings of the Bihai Cangtao Valley—but the sheer, effortless scale of this destruction was a sobering reminder. The gap between a mere snake demon and the Primordial Dragon God was not a distance, but an unbridgeable chasm.
"The ground is still a bit... toasty," the White Marten remarked, breaking the heavy silence. It gingerly poked a paw at the blackened soil before yanking it back with a sharp yelp. "Young Master, perhaps a bit of cooling mist next time? My fur is quite sensitive to these extreme temperatures, and I’d rather not end up as a roasted marten before we even reach the Rift."
Leng Jing ignored the marten’s complaints, his gaze fixed toward the East. In that direction, the sky was not the vibrant blue of the mortal realm, nor the golden radiance of the legendary Heavens. Instead, it was a bruised, sickly purple, torn by jagged streaks of darkness that seemed to pulse like a slow-beating heart. That was the location of the Rift, the source of the corruption that had turned this celestial paradise into a graveyard of gods.
"We move," Leng Jing commanded, his voice carrying a weight that brooked no argument.
They traveled across the wasteland, the silence of the Nine Heavens pressing down upon them like a physical weight. There were no celestial birds to sing, no divine breezes to rustle the leaves of the withered trees. Everything was stagnant, caught in a state of perpetual decay. As they neared the center of this realm, the ruins of a great civilization began to emerge from the haze. They passed through shattered archways of white jade and over bridges that spanned dried-up rivers of mercury, their footsteps echoing hollowly in the void.
Finally, the Great Heavenly Palace loomed before them. Once, it must have been the pinnacle of architectural splendor, a soaring monument to the power of the gods that ruled the Three Realms. Now, its golden tiles were tarnished and peeling, and the great bells that hung from its eaves were silent, their silken ropes rotted away by decades of neglect.
Leng Jing did not hesitate. He strode through the massive gates, which hung precariously on rusted hinges. Inside the main hall, the air was thick with the scent of stale incense and old dust. At the far end of the hall, seated upon a throne that seemed far too large for his diminished frame, was a solitary figure.
This was the Heavenly Emperor. But he was not the radiant sovereign described in the ancient scrolls. He was a man who looked as though he had been hollowed out from within by fear and regret. His robes, though made of the finest cloud-brocade, were tattered at the hems, and his hair was a wild, unkempt mane of silver. His eyes were fixed on a point in the distance, seeing things that were not there.
"Who comes to witness the end?" the Emperor whispered, his voice cracking like dry parchment.
Leng Jing stepped forward, the sound of his boots echoing sharply against the marble floor. He did not bow. He did not offer the customary greetings of a subordinate. He stood before the throne, a figure of absolute, primordial authority.
"The Primordial Dragon God has returned," Leng Jing stated, his voice ringing through the hollow hall like a clarion call. "And I have come for the truth about the Rift."
The Emperor’s gaze slowly shifted, focusing on Leng Jing. A flicker of recognition—and profound terror—passed through his weary eyes. He began to tremble, his hands clutching the armrests of his throne as if they were the only things keeping him from falling into an eternal abyss.
"You..." the Emperor breathed, his voice trembling. "You shouldn't have come back. There is nothing left to save."
