The escape through the Mirror Vein Realm had been harrowing, leaving Jianyu's two forms flickering with exhaustion, their qi reserves dangerously low. The visceral memory of Gong Xuelan's tears and kiss, extracted from the vessel's origin, haunted him. It was a fragment of unsettling tenderness from his torturer, a paradox that gnawed at his carefully constructed cynicism. The world now knew his truth, and the fractured perception of him as both saint and heretic would only intensify the hunt. He needed answers, deeper truths about his very existence, and the only place he knew to seek them was Rouling Shan, the Flesh Mountain.
He returned to the grotesque, pulsating landscape, the air heavy with the scent of decay and corrupted life. The spirit beasts, born from failed cultivators, seemed to watch him with more intensity now, their forms shifting in the shadows. He sought the Oracle, the ancient matriarch turned parasitic tumor, hoping she could shed light on the unsettling memory of Xuelan and the true nature of his System.
He found her in the echoing cavern, the phosphorescent fluid dripping from the walls, illuminating her fused form. The Smiling Dead, her face serene yet horrifyingly merged with the mountain's living tissue, seemed to anticipate his presence. Her milky eyes, though unseeing, felt as though they pierced his very soul.
"You return, little bloom," her voice was a dry, rustling whisper, like leaves skittering across bone. "The veil has split. The truth has found you. But do you understand it?"
Jianyu stood before her, his two forms, Jianyu and Niánmei, flickering subtly, a testament to his exhaustion. "I seek understanding," he stated, his voice, as Niánmei, calm despite the turmoil within. "About my origin. About the System. And about… the one who made me."
The Smiling Dead chuckled, a sound like grinding stones. "The mother who birthed you from a wound… she holds many secrets. But your truths are your own, little bloom. And they are bitter."
She offered him three new truths, her voice growing fainter with each pronouncement, as if the effort drained her remaining life force.
"First truth," she whispered, her smile widening, revealing teeth like polished shards of bone. "You were never meant to be reborn. You were meant to be a sacrifice, a catalyst for a greater awakening."
Jianyu felt a cold dread. This resonated with the Moonbone sect's plans for him.
"Second truth," the Oracle continued, her eyes seeming to focus on a point beyond him. "You will father no child—but you will be called Mother, by a progeny not of flesh, but of spirit."
This truth was unsettling, paradoxical. A male body, a female form, and a prophecy of motherhood without physical birth. It twisted his very concept of self.
"Third truth," she concluded, her voice barely a breath, fading into the cavern's echoing silence. "The System within you was not created by Chixia Gong. It was stolen. A fragment of a dying god, implanted into your vessel."
Jianyu's mind reeled. Stolen? Not unique, as the previous Oracle had hinted, but stolen. This contradicted his earlier dismissal of the "other Systems" truth. He had been wrong. The System, his salvation, was a stolen piece of divinity, a parasitic entity.
"Details!" Jianyu demanded, his voice now raw, desperate. "Tell me more about the System! Who stole it? From whom?"
But the Oracle only smiled, her lips stretching wider, even as her body began to bleed, slowly dissolving into fine, gray ash that drifted across the cavern floor. "The truth will find you, little bloom," her voice whispered, fading into nothingness. "But it will not set you free."
He stood alone in the cavern, surrounded by the settling ash, the dripping fluid, and the faint, mournful cries of the spirit beasts outside. He had gained three truths, but they offered no comfort, only deeper layers of horror. He was a sacrifice, a mother of spirit, and a host to a stolen god.
That night, alone in the oppressive silence of Rouling Shan, Jianyu dreamed. He dreamed of his own face, distorted and agonizing, giving birth to itself from a gaping, bloody wound in his chest. But this time, the child that emerged was not a reflection of himself. It was a spectral, shimmering figure, neither male nor female, its eyes ancient and knowing. It looked at him, and whispered: "We were born from lies. Let us end truth."