Lou Xun didn’t know what was wrong with him. He just felt a headache and his vision was a little blurry.
"What just happened?" he thought in a daze.
But somehow, he thought of a memory that did not belong to him.
The "people" in his memory seemed to have no fixed perspective, and all the memories were very chaotic and disorganized. He had an indescribable feeling of horror, shock, and reversal of time and space.
He felt his huge body lying in the folds of flame.
The temperatureless flames licked his back, like countless cold snakes crawling under his skin.
This land—if this mass of solidified thirst can be called land—is sucking in the falling starlight from the sky with its cracked lips.
The scarlet sand grains burned in the void, yet always maintained their sharp edges, each one an unfinished tombstone.
In the deepest place, that is, the deepest place where his body was buried, golden light surged, and countless wealth and gold, silver and jewelry piled up into a viscous liquid and flowed through his body.
And above, the starry sky was decaying.
Those bright spots of light were not stars, but pus seeping through the festering wounds of another universe.
As they dripped, they solidified into diamond-like scabs, and on the way down, they were gnawed into honeycomb-like residue by invisible mouths.
He felt that he suddenly understood that perhaps the owner of this body was lying on the ulcerated surface of some giant creature, with decaying organs at his feet and a disintegrating soul above his head.
Confused but indifferent.
He didn't seem to know where this place was. It was comfortable here anyway, so he decided to stay there.
No matter what he was thinking, he closed his eyes and opened them again and again, and he didn't know how much time had passed.
In his life, he seemed to have no idea how to write the word "loneliness". He had many eyes, and he could see the changing appearance of the starry sky above the flames every day.
Some strange little things grew out of the land burned by flames.
He also tried to communicate with those things when he woke up sometimes, but it didn't have much effect.
Those little creatures either died instantly or went crazy and smashed their heads against their own bodies.
So he sank deeper and deeper.
Flames flowed and magma gushed out.
He buried himself deeper and deeper in the endless molten gold and silver liquid.
But sometimes his eyes would glance up at the world he had chosen to leave.
But it seemed to be an area that even he found somewhat surprising.
Clearly born from the flames of magma, these little creatures share the same origin. They work together to build miracles that even he can feel amazed, one world after another.
It's strange that he never thought of doing these things.
Fire is the foundation here, and magma is the flowing blood.
In this absurd and fiery world, tiny creatures use charred bones and molten metal to build their castles on the boiling red.
Their houses were sharp as knives and towering as thorns, with pitch-black spires extending upward as if to nail themselves into the sky.
Perhaps they long to touch the boundless starry sky, but are afraid of its vastness, so they can only turn their fear into buildings and let the sharp roofs pierce into the void on their behalf.
But the dwelling they built for Him was completely different.
It was a broad, flat, square hall, with no spires or corners, only silent squareness and eternal stability.
Golden lines flow on the dark wall, like solidified lava or tamed thunder.
He did not dislike the house—even though it was made of the same black stone and gold veins as the little people's spire—but at least it did not cause him any pain.
Little people often come here and dig up the golden things in the border where He sleeps.
He didn't care, because to him, these things were just scraps of skin peeling off or residue seeping out of dreams.
Sometimes, He would open His eyes slightly and watch those tiny figures busy at the edge of the magma.
Their presence gave Him a sense of amusement, allowing Him to occasionally remain awake for a few moments during His long sleep.
But He is ultimately too big and too old.
Even a slight breath or an unintentional gaze is enough to make the nearby little person collapse and melt in fear, falling into eternal flames.
Then He sighed, then He closed His eyes, then the magma surged again and swallowed everything.
And the world continues to hang on the abyss in burning absurdity.
Until a ray of moonlight parted the curtain of pus and blood.
He woke up again, but this time, the flames and flowing liquid also brought him a miracle.
He saw the miracle very clearly.
The cluster of white feathers grew out of the flame core with a sound like an organ being peeled off.
It is not a pearl, it is more like the last undigested bone residue that this scorched earth is forced to vomit out.
The translucent feather tubes were flowing with marrow fluid flowing back from the star abyss, and at the end of each hair hung a galaxy that was shrunk to the extreme.
As hot winds pass by, those miniature universes emit gravitational waves like a baby crying.
The moment he reached out to touch it, he heard the roar of chains breaking from deep within the earth.
The feathers turned into liquid light and seeped into the gaps between the fingers, while a new starry sky began to grow in the palm lines.
The cluster of white feathers curled up in the burning wasteland, like a ball of unmelted snow, or like a tear that refused to solidify.
He gazed at it—this strange white seemed so out of place in the world of scarlet and dark gold, like a wrong syllable that was forcibly inserted, a pause that should not exist.
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