Chapter 3226: Emperor Plays the Zither, Empress Dances

Chapter 3226: Huang Zhe Fills the Qin, Nu Di Dances

The Xú Wáng River drifted with the unknown.

The Xiǎo Wá with the character "Xing" had feasted for a hundred years but still couldn't devour the Xú Wáng, so it fell back into slumber once more.

This sleep lasted three hundred years.

In the fourth century, when it awoke, there was no giggling laughter, and it didn't pursue Yè Chén. Instead, it slowly walked out of the unknown, so calmly that Yè Chén found it unsettling.

Boom! Rumbling!

Not long after, booming sounds echoed—it was a great battle, a cosmic-scale war that made the entire unknown region hum and shake, lasting a full hundred years. Yè Chén had no idea who was fighting: Zhào Yún? The Xiǎo Wá? Or the purple-robed youth?

No one gave him an answer.

Once the booms faded, both the unknown and the universe fell into a terrifying silence.

From that point on, for a thousand years, the Xiǎo Wá was nowhere to be seen.

For a thousand years, the purple-robed youth and the outer universe's heavenly dao were also absent.

For a thousand years, that eternal melody was never heard.

Yè Chén's wait was desolate, filled with emptiness and darkness. The ruins of cosmic civilization buried legends and myths; he was a lonely living being, a spectator of history, a witness from beginning to end.

Boom!

The deathly silence was finally broken by a boom.

It seemed an outer universe had exploded.

A halo of light swept through destructively, inch by inch obliterating the unknown. Whether it was the emptiness or the darkness, all welcomed the end of the Xú Wáng.

Yè Chén murmured to himself:

"Is this the true end?"

Yè Chén had already set foot on his return journey. He glanced back at the original spacetime, now reduced to the unknown, yet still unable to escape destruction. Legends, myths, and all living beings had become history, buried in the boundless Xú Wáng.

His state of mind was one of sorrow.

Or perhaps, the mortal world was weeping in the shadows, left with no home.

In the Tài Gǔ Hóng Huāng.

At the mountaintop, Hóng Chén had carved out the truth, his expression still wooden, his eyes empty, with tears at the corners, like a crying corpse wandering aimlessly.

Hóng Chén.

Chǔ Língyǔ and Hóng Chén Xuě both approached, finally returning safely.

Then came Yè Chén, stepping out from Hóng Chén's body.

The Nǚ Dì manifested in an instant, accompanied by Shén Zūn, Hóng Yán, and Dì Huáng.

Nǚ Dì said softly:

"How did it go?"

Yè Chén said nothing, standing still for three to five moments, gazing across the heavens.

This spacetime was still the best—it had mountains and rivers, and the smoke of human life.

He had to thank Hóng Chén; without reversing time, he wouldn't be who he was today. Time was merciless, but memories were eternal—they were his most precious treasure.

Yè Chén replied after three to five moments, answering Nǚ Dì's question:

"The eternal melody."

This was the harvest from his journey across spacetime. Perhaps he could use that qin tune to draw it out.

Nǚ Dì frowned slightly:

"Qin tune?"

The others, including Shén Zūn, furrowed their brows as well.

Zhēng!

Yè Chén had already sat down and placed a simple qin before him. Then, the sound of the qin rang out—ancient and melodious, tinged with desolation and sorrow. It echoed through the Tài Gǔ Hóng Huāng and resounded across all realms and heavens. Every note seemed to carry a story, making the emperors feel dazed and the common people lost in their thoughts.

This was the eternal melody.

Yè Chén had spent thousands of years imprinting it in the original spacetime.

Today, he played it for the first time.

This eternal qin tune was truly wonderful; even Nǚ Dì listened in a trance, as if it held an ancient magic that ensnared her mind.

If even she was like this, the others were even more so.

Accompanied by the qin sound, many people subconsciously wiped their eyes—it was wet. How sorrowful must the tune be to make them cry unintentionally?

But Yè Chén knew his version of the eternal melody fell far short.

The qin sound he heard in the original spacetime was the true eternal one. He might have learned it similarly, but certain emotions were impossible to replicate—he would need to comprehend more.

Rén Wáng sighed:

"Truly skilled in qin, chess, calligraphy, and painting."

With that, he wiped away his bitter tears.

He was doing okay, but many others were still sobbing.

This scene spread to every corner of the heavens: women with teary eyes, male cultivators wailing, even babies crying loudly. It was an ethereal immortal tune, yet it sounded like a funeral song, leaving everyone in tears.

Xiè Yún clicked his tongue:

"How many tears are you going to wring from us?"

He was sniffling, wiping his nose and tears on Xiōng Èr.

On Jade Maiden Peak, many murmured:

"We can see it."

The women all had tears at the corners of their eyes. In their haze, they seemed to glimpse blurred scenes—each one featured a figure named Yè Chén: walking alone, battling fiercely across the eight wastelands. These images pieced together his life, full of blood and tears, each moment like eternity.

Those who could see it weren't just them—many others did too.

The commander of the common people carried their beliefs; his qin sound was infused with them. However, he performed this tune with such profound sorrow.

Zhēng!

The qin sound continued, still echoing through the world.

Shén Zūn sat down, silent.

The tune was too sorrowful, bringing tears to his eyes as he recalled Qí Huán.

Dì Huáng was also silent, listening intently.

As for Hóng Yán, she actually fell asleep to the qin sound, sleeping peacefully.

Nǚ Dì, however, was different. Listening to the qin, she began to dance gracefully under the moon, like a butterfly transforming, her divine form elegant and flowing. She danced beautifully, like a dream, an ethereal being among emperors, a deity among gods—untouched by mortal smoke or worldly dust, freezing eternity in every instant.

The emperors watched in a daze:

"Beautiful, truly beautiful."

Especially the Heavenly Court emperors—it was their first time seeing Nǚ Dì dance across the upper and lower epochs. Paired with Yè Chén's qin tune, it was breathtakingly exquisite, dimming the radiance of all other women in the world.

Yè Chén murmured:

"It's you."

When he heard the eternal melody in the original spacetime, he seemed to see a graceful shadow. He couldn't remember it then, but now, watching Nǚ Dì dance, the two figures matched perfectly—equally graceful, equally dreamlike.

But how was that possible?

In the original spacetime, Nǚ Dì had perished along with the common people. How could it be her playing the qin, or her dancing under the moon? It was a contradiction.

The huáng zhě continued playing, and Nǚ Dì kept dancing.

That mountaintop seemed to become their world—one playing the qin, the other dancing gracefully. Petals flew, visions unfolded, etching eternity in the dreamlike scene.

Strangely:

Yè Chén knew he was playing the qin, but Nǚ Dì seemed unaware she was dancing, like a puppet on strings, with his qin sound as the thread.

Xuán Dì stroked his beard and said thoughtfully:

"How about tossing over a bed?"

Guǐ Dì said deeply:

"Believe me, he has one."

It was a large iron bed for dozens, prepared a thousand years ago—who else but Yè Chén, with his big family?

Míng Dì mused:

"One at quasi-desolate great accomplishment, one at quasi-desolate perfection—that commotion..."

Dì Zūn's thoughts were equally unconventional:

"If they have a child, whose would it be?"

This made the emperors all stroke their beards, truly something they hadn't considered. Chǔ Xuán's? Chǔ Líng's? Wǔ Lěi's? Rú Xī's? Or Nǚ Dì's?

Zào Huà Shén Wáng stroked his chin:

"If during that, Nǚ Dì suddenly separates, how awkward would that be?"

This drew side glances from the Emperor Dao F4—they saw potential for him to become Emperor Dao F5. He needed nurturing.

Fortunately, Nǚ Dì didn't know, or they'd all end up half-paralyzed.

At the entrance of Tài Gǔ Hóng Huāng, waves of people arrived, drawn by Yè Chén's qin sound. Seeing the scene on the mountaintop, they were stunned—how perfectly matched could two be?

If they didn't create a child, it would be against heaven's will!

Someone shouted:

"Make a child!"

Yè Chén was still plucking the strings, ignoring these old folks. From start to finish, his eyes were on Nǚ Dì. The graceful shadow he saw in the original spacetime was definitely her. The contradictory puzzle still troubled him.

And as for Nǚ Dì now, dancing to the tune—was it from genuine feeling, involuntary, or did she have some connection to the eternal melody?

Thinking of this, he suddenly stopped the qin sound.

He stopped, and Nǚ Dì stopped, staggering a step in place before regaining her senses. Seeing everyone staring at her, she frowned—was something happening?

Yè Chén said:

"You danced beautifully."

His eyes glowed with golden light as he projected a water screen in the air, showing Nǚ Dì's dance—truly stunning and peerless.

Nǚ Dì's brows furrowed deeper:

"How could this be?"

From Yè Chén's expression and the others' faces, it seemed only she had acted strangely. What was going on? Why had she suddenly started dancing?

Rén Wáng found a spot to sit:

"Since we're idle, play another one."

Like him, many brought their own tables, chairs, and snacks, settling in as if to listen and watch a show, poses ready for the performance to begin.

The emperors' eyes conveyed:

Whether the qin is good or not doesn't matter—it's mainly about watching Nǚ Dì dance.

On the mountaintop, Yè Chén said nothing. He clasped his hands behind his back and circled Nǚ Dì, like admiring a work of art—or perhaps a monkey. He even reached out, pinching her here and there. He had underestimated this woman; if she had no connection to the unknown and the Xiǎo Wá, no one would believe it.

Nǚ Dì said nothing, but her eyes slanted sideways.

That hand of his was particularly unruly—pinching her jade arm was one thing, but now it was getting bold, going for the soft spots!

Yè Chén said seriously:

"Are you related to that Xiǎo Wá?"

Nǚ Dì didn't answer and slapped his hand away, vanishing in an instant.

If this were in the past, when she was still a Huáng Dì, Yè Chén would have gotten a beating. But now, as a quasi-desolate great accomplishment, she seemed unable to win.

Ah!

Not being able to beat Yè Chén was fine—there were others she could beat.

Like Dì Zūn.

Whenever Nǚ Dì was unhappy, he suffered. A full set of attacks rained down, constantly emphasizing one thing: don't misunderstand, you didn't do anything wrong—it's just that I don't like your face.

For such a fresh reason, who knew how many beatings Dì Zūn had taken?

After all these years, the once defiant Dì Zūn had been tamed, and the other three emperors always got dragged in when he was beaten.

Yè Chén paced with his hands clasped:

"What a contradiction!"

A layer of fog he couldn't dispel lingered.