Chapter Sixty-six: Meng Po of the Netherworld

The Buzhou Mountain, which had stood for billions of years, trembled under the furious roar and headlong strike of the Patriarch Gonggong. The one who shouted was Houtu, who had just arrived at Buzhou Mountain. Houtu had witnessed her elder brother's demise with her own eyes; the scene was seared into her memory. When she went to retrieve Gonggong's corpse, a sudden change occurred.

Buzhou Mountain was formed from the vertebrae of King Pangu. It stood at the very center of the primordial world, supporting the heavens. As the sacred land of the Wu Tribe, many life forms here had yet to assume human shape. Though the main trunk of Buzhou Mountain, battered by Gonggong, had not yet collapsed, stones began to tumble from its slopes, crushing the grass and lesser spirits below. Gradually, the summit of Buzhou Mountain trembled more violently.

The falling rocks grew in size, and the shapeless life forms perished beneath them. Yet Buzhou Mountain was the instrument that suppressed the innate turbid miasma. Without its restraint, that foul energy erupted like a volcano. All this transpired in but a moment. The innate miasma clung to the souls of the newly dead, usurping them, and surged toward Gonggong's lifeless body, intent on seizing it. If these foul spirits could possess the powerful body and skills of the Patriarch Gonggong, they would find a way to survive in this world.

Houtu understood that the matter had already transcended the conflict between the Wu and Demon Tribes; now it concerned the fate of the entire primordial world. The innate turbid miasma was the most malevolent of all beings, knowing only slaughter and the devouring of others' essence to strengthen itself.

The skills of the Wu Tribe's patriarchs were born from Pangu's divine blood and further enhanced by absorbing much of the innate miasma. Even the few patriarchs who absorbed only a little were already so formidable—if these spirits born of the miasma gained free rein, the entire world would be thrown into chaos.

Such a thought sent chills through Houtu. Realizing the gravity of the situation, she unleashed the power of earth to annihilate the weaker spirits. Yet the force of karma branded itself onto Gonggong's body, shattering it to dust.

Houtu knew her time was running out; Buzhou Mountain was about to collapse, and even her own strength and will were beginning to break.

All along, she had believed that, with her understanding of the mysteries of the Six Paths of Reincarnation, she could change the outcome of this war. Yet, in the end, it had come to this: her brothers gone because she misjudged the situation, her sister slain on the battlefield for lack of strength, perishing with the enemy, and their sons and warriors driven to the brink of extinction by the demon saints. If she had not appeared at the last moment, the consequences would have been unimaginable.

With tears streaming down her face, Houtu flew toward the realm of the underworld, arriving in the blink of an eye.

By now, her tears had run dry. She felt utterly useless. Her dreams were nothing but fantasies, impossible to realize in this harsh reality. Gazing at the effigy of Lady Houtu in her palace, she asked, "Was I wrong?"

A voice echoed from within the palace: "All dharmas are but emptiness. Have you not yet seen through them, fellow Daoist?"

Houtu forced a bitter smile. "This is the essence and blood of my nine brothers."

She had prepared for the worst outcome of the war, secretly drawing out the spiritual essence of several patriarchs. Yet the essences of Zhu Rong and Gonggong were missing, for both had stubbornly refused. Di Jiang and the others tried to persuade them, but to no avail, and Houtu could only give up. Destiny had its own plans: the trigger for Buzhou Mountain's collapse was Zhu Rong's death, which drove Gonggong to suicide—a cycle of retribution that could not be escaped.

"Some memories are hard for mortals to let go. Beside the underworld lies the foulest Blood Sea of the primordial world, but it cannot purify the souls of the dead. Yet the essence and blood of the Wu Patriarchs can. Place the spiritual essence of the nine patriarchs before the Terrace of Longing."

A faint shadow appeared in the palace, gazing at the desolate Houtu.

"Very well," Houtu replied, placing the essence and blood before the Terrace of Longing.

The shadow brushed its hand, and the nine streams of essence and blood flowed together to form a river. Any soul crossing it would recall all the joys and sorrows of life, only to forget them the next moment. Thus was born the River of Forgetfulness.

Beneath the Six Paths of Reincarnation, nine springs emerged—these became the legendary Nine Springs.

Houtu nodded gently. "Since you have arranged thus, I am at peace."

Then, beside the river, Houtu set up a cauldron, plucked fresh grass leaves formed from her own hair, and dropped them into the boiling water, murmuring, "Come, drink the Lady Meng's Soup—delicious and warm."

In this way, Houtu channeled her shattered dreams into a new form. Lady Meng's Soup was brewed from the waters of the River of Forgetfulness and her own hair. Within it were all the memories, laughter, and love of the Wu patriarchs, giving the soup five flavors—sweet, bitter, spicy, sour, and salty.

Above the River of Forgetfulness appeared a white bridge—the inescapable Bridge of Helplessness.

The shadow in Houtu Palace, none other than Lady Houtu herself, sighed softly.

Those in the Purple Cloud Palace, witnessing the scene, were deeply shaken: "No matter how great your power or magic, lacking knowledge of fate and the grand design, you too shall turn to dust."

At that moment, Ancestor Hongjun addressed them: "The catastrophe of the Wu and Demon Tribes is over, and Buzhou Mountain has fallen. Now you may go and save the living beings of the primordial world." With that, he vanished.

Yet none present in the Purple Cloud Palace rushed to repair the disaster; instead, they sat in silent contemplation of the Dao.

Only Tongtian grew restless, knowing that the collapse of Buzhou Mountain threatened the safety of the entire world. Although the waters beyond the heavens had not yet poured down, he could not understand why. Was it not said that, with Buzhou Mountain's fall, the heavenly waters would cascade into the world?

What was going on?

No one realized that the Weak Water—the Heavenly River—had only just begun to form in the underworld, slowly stretching toward the sky, not yet reaching the place Buzhou Mountain once supported. Even if it did, it could not spill forth, for there was someone holding it back.