Chapter Eight: The Prophet
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A sweeping storm of yellow sand engulfed the entire golden desert.
Life—life—where is life? Where does it exist?
A scorching wind roared across the desolate sands, while some nameless, dried-up bones slowly crumbled to dust in the grit, exposing a small patch of bleached skeleton.
This was once the frame of some immense, unknown creature, yet now only a pitted, battered fragment remained, so frail it seemed a gentle tap would shatter it.
Life—the world’s greatest miracle, and yet so fragile!
Golden sand whirled everywhere, storms raged in every direction, and death reigned supreme.
A chill of terror gripped Guan Qian’s heart. What sort of place had he come to? His awareness still lingered in the Sacred Virtue Palace, yet the instant he opened his eyes, he found himself in an endless desert!
The Sahara Desert? That was Guan Qian’s first thought.
No sooner had he considered it than he was startled by the idea.
A moment ago he’d been in the Sacred Virtue Palace—now, in the blink of an eye, he’d been transported, as if by some bizarre magic, into the world’s greatest desert.
It was as incredible as a tale from the Arabian Nights.
The Sahara Desert, lying south of the Atlas Mountains and the Mediterranean Sea, stretching from the Atlantic coast in the west to the shores of the Red Sea in the east, spanned the breadth of northern Africa—5,600 kilometers from east to west, about 1,600 kilometers from north to south—making it the most famous desert on earth.
Boundless sands, suffused with the scent of death. Guan Qian narrowed his eyes, gazing into the distance, waves of shock roiling in his heart. Yet this familiar Sahara felt somehow wrong.
But as Guan Qian calmed himself and looked down, a cold sweat broke out all over him.
A blurred, spectral version of himself drifted ghostlike through the desert!
This—was beyond all reason!
An overwhelming visual shock sent panic surging through him.
Dead? Was he dead?
He remembered clearly: near the Sacred Virtue Palace, he’d found the crystal skull. Yet when he grasped the small black box containing the skull, a stabbing pain like a scorpion’s sting made him swoon, his consciousness tumbling into confusion.
Had he really died? Was it not said that when people die, they cross the Bridge of Reincarnation?
But…
What truly was the mysterious crystal skull? Why had disaster struck him for no reason, his death so inexplicable?
Doubt, unease, and terror wholly occupied Guan Qian’s thoughts.
His spectral, ethereal self floated aimlessly, lost in confusion.
A sandstorm swept through his body, but he felt nothing and continued drifting in a single direction, searching for an answer, for the reason he had appeared here.
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A prophetic intuition told him that something momentous awaited here.
And sure enough, after drifting for a very long time, he finally discovered signs of life ahead.
Footprints! Human footprints!
Guan Qian’s heart leapt—he hurried after the faint tracks, chasing after people ahead.
On a sandy slope, he finally saw living souls—a group of humans clad in ragged clothes.
Their garments were torn and filthy, some with only strips of fabric hanging over their bodies. Their sallow skin was marked with scars and grime; the passage of years etched deep wrinkles into their parched faces. Their clouded eyes brimmed with bewilderment and helplessness.
They clung tightly to one another’s hands, migrating slowly and weakly.
This was a stricken band of people—an utterly heartrending sight.
Guan Qian quickly floated behind them. No one noticed his presence, no one sensed his existence. In silence, he followed in their wake, step after step.
But as they crossed a dune, Guan Qian suddenly realized these people were not from the modern world.
Their ancient garments, uniform in style, clearly belonged to no known era.
He scrutinized them closely but could not match their clothing to any historical dynasty.
Ancient, unknown humans? Or was this not even Earth at all?
Guan Qian furrowed his brow, his mind a chaotic tangle of confusion and pain.
No—this must be the Sahara Desert; the prophet’s intuition could not be mistaken.
Then could this be a time from the distant past? Was he adrift in the long river of time itself?
Such a world-shattering thought sent shivers through his mind.
He stared at these people, uncertain, suspicion and shock warring within him.
From afar, blowing sand dimmed the harsh sunlight.
Suddenly, a boy of eight or nine stumbled and fell, exhausted by the long march and lack of water. He collapsed onto the burning sand.
The scorching grains seared his wheat-colored skin, and the child instinctively squirmed to ease the discomfort.
No one paid him any heed; no one paused to help the poor boy. Gradually, he lagged behind, abandoned like a single grain of sand in the desert, deemed insignificant.
Indifference, numbness, cruelty.
What kind of people were these?
Guan Qian looked back at the small, receding figure, a pain beyond words welling up inside him.
In this endless desert, how many more would perish besides that child?
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This was a road of no return—a blood-soaked path paved with countless corpses!
Survival!
They needed to survive!
To escape the desert, to escape endless death!
In that distant, unknown era—what had truly happened?
Humanity? Were these the last remnants of humanity?
Guan Qian gazed at the swirling sands, the trackless desert, and the group ahead—soon to become little more than walking corpses. Sorrow overwhelmed him, and tears streamed down his face.
Suddenly, a thunderclap split the sky, halting everyone in their tracks. Shouts of terror rose, chilling the soul.
The group broke apart in panic, scattering in all directions.
Floating in midair, Guan Qian raised his eyes to the distant sky. His pupils contracted sharply as he cried out in shock, “Damn! Is God about to appear?”
A mass of red and white light descended from the heavens, its brilliance outshining the sun.
It hovered in the air, gazing down on the terrified people below. Its flickering glow filled the air with oppressive tension.
With a hiss, a faint, hazy beam shot from the sphere and enveloped a boy of about eleven or twelve. The boy, his face set with stubborn resolve, rose into the air, slowly drawn toward the ball of light.
As the beam faded, the boy’s figure was swallowed entirely by the radiance.
All those below immediately knelt and bowed, chanting unknown words, their faces reverent and devout, clearly begging for mercy.
Before long, the orb suddenly expanded, and a figure was cast out from within.
The same garments, the same build, the same stubborn face.
The boy was set gently down, unharmed. The orb circled in the sky, then shrank and sped away, vanishing from sight.
In midair, Guan Qian’s heart churned violently. He stared fixedly at the boy—an indescribable sense of kinship stirring within him.
White pupils—it was white pupils!
The boy opened his eyes, and a pair of white irises gazed out at the people before him!
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