Outside Of Time

1786  The Singular State!

The cold wind slipped through the window, causing the candle flame to flicker—and with it, the pages of the Atlas of Civilizational Cycles stirred.

The diagrams within traced the rise and fall of every dynasty, all converging under his meticulous hand into a closed circle—like the moonʼs eternal path across the long night.

Gazing at this circle, Chen Mo suddenly understood: every character in the historical records, every era name, was merely the imprint of a wheelʼs passage. The wheel itself never ceased turning.

And so, with the last of his strength, he spent his final hours carving a lifetime of realizations onto twelve bronze slips.

Even though he knew—the truth he had chased all his life, these twelve bronze slips meant to withstand the erosion of time—were but a tiny ripple in the river of cycles.

He did it anyway.

Under his chisel, the obscured overlaps of dynastic timelines, the cataclysmic truths buried beneath myth, the identical prophecies wrapped in different scripts—all were laid bare.

When the final stroke etched the seven words: ”All things cycle, returning to one silence,” a deafening thunderclap exploded outside!

The heavens split open. Rain plummeted, hammering the earth, drumming against glazed tiles.

The rhythm, the cadence—it left Chen Mo dazed. For a fleeting moment, he thought it mirrored the annihilating storm recorded in The Tribute of Seals a thousand years prior.

”My time has come…”

Chen Mo murmured as his life began to gutter out, the existence before him blurring.

His existence had been that of a boatman lost in the sea of history—unseen by the world, yet leaving traces behind.

”Still… some regrets remain.”

His voice was soft.

And so, in these final moments awaiting death, he laboriously lifted his head to watch the storm outside.

Perhaps it was the weight of those regrets—or perhaps just his failing vision—but for an instant, when lightning flashed, his shadow cast upon the wall seemed to overlap with the inscriptions on the bronze slips, with the Nine Lights Divination of the Ling Empress, with the etchings on ancient bones, with the coiling dragon patterns of imperial edicts… All converging into a single silhouette.

Chen Mo stiffened—then his eyes ignited with brilliant light.

”Every person who tries to grasp historyʼs trajectory ultimately becomes part of that trajectory.”

Chen Mo smiled.

As the rainʼs chill seeped into his wrinkles, he no longer felt like a boatman lost at sea, but rather the lantern in that boatmanʼs hand.

This lantern might never pierce the eternal fog, but at least it would let those who came after know—that in the intervals between countless destructions and rebirths, someone had stubbornly held up a light, carving a faint yet indelible mark in the river of time.

Perhaps a millennium later, another historian poring over ancient texts on some autumn night would glimpse this mark, sense that distant lantern in the spacetime continuum—

And like him, realize it was the faint yet eternal signal passed between civilizations perishing and reborn.

They would become kindred spirits across time.

”This… is enough.”

This epiphany carried no ecstatic revelation, only the quiet of spring ice beginning to thaw.

He finally understood: every character in the histories was but a scale on the wheel of cycles. The fact he had chased all his life was never about forcing all civilizations to submit to a single answer—

Flame and starlight intertwined—and within their glow, a jade cicada seemed to flicker.

Chen Mo closed his eyes, still smiling.

…

The cicadaʼs song endured.

So too its wings.

Scene after scene, fragment upon fragment—each reflecting different spacetimes, sharing the same origin yet blossoming into kaleidoscopic lives through diverging paths.

A riot of colors, each flowering with thoughts of Return to One.

These thoughts rose through spacetime, returning to Xu Qingʼs consciousness, expanding it—making him live countless lives, his aura becoming an invisible hand that plucked the strings of Ordinance again and again.

The notes multiplied, weaving into a melody meant to culminate in a supreme chord called ”Law.”

Yet… though the composition swelled, no sound emerged.

Because…

”One is still missing.”

Xu Qing opened his eyes, gazing into the void.

The last version of himself across spacetime had never conceived the thought of Return to One—even the God of Painʼs authority couldnʼt sway him.

He was the painter.

The old man who had burned all his works, leaving only a single stroke on blank paper.

Now, that stroke had gained five more lines.

The character ”一” had become ”来”.

The first stroke had always been the beginning of ”Come.”

This step carried him across spacetime, across parallels—into the old painterʼs study.

The moment he appeared, the old man—whose brush had just paused—looked up. Wrinkles deepened as he smiled at Xu Qing.

”Iʼve waited long for this stroke.”

”Donʼt speak. Just listen.”

”In my youth, I mastered painting. Reached its pinnacle. In old age, I realized the workings of heaven and earth through my art…”

”Within my paintings, I saw all living things. I saw everything—Liu Xuanji, Chen Mo… even you.”

”So I burned them all. Sat here. Because I understood: my world might never have existed. We exist only because you needed us to.”

”As for what you seek—I saw it in my artworks twenty years ago.”

With that, the old painter took fresh paper, ground ink, and with a deep breath—Painted.

Not some masterpiece, but simple strokes outlining small squares.

Then a pause. Fresh ink.

A single line connecting every square!

Each stroke seemed to drain his remaining strength. As the brush trembled in his failing grip, his hoarse voice echoed through the study:

”Return to One isnʼt just about space—but time.”

”Time is a line. It has no present, no past, no future.”

”Space is these squares—static until timeʼs thread strings them into motion.”

”Like this painting: each square is a version of us, containing beginning to end.”

”A timeline connects them—this is a complete parallel existence.”

”So our path is to extract and absorb timeʼs thread—until you become time itself.”

”Then absorb all static squares.”

”Do this, and you achieve parallel unification. You… become singular.”

”This singular state—I call it… Dimension .”

”Our Tenth Extremity.”

With the last word, the old painter closed his eyes.

In the study, Xu Qing stepped forward to examine the painting as the world began to shatter.