CHAPTER 32 — The Price of a Prophet (Part One)
The courtyard was quiet again.
Too quiet.
The kind of silence that came after something unseen had shifted… and everyone could feel it, even if no one dared speak it aloud.
Zheng Wen Te stood at the edge of the stone platform, his hands still trembling faintly.
Not from fear.
Not anymore.
From weight.
Because for the first time since Shangdi's judgment, since the sky cracked open, since myth and immortals returned…
He understood something clearly:
This world was not saving him.
It was using him.
Across from him, Elder Mo's gaze remained fixed like iron.
Lian stood slightly ahead, her sword still sheathed, but her posture guarded.
The disciples around them whispered in nervous fragments.
"Heart Severing Scripture…"
"That's the scripture the Ancestor sealed…"
"Why would Heaven's Prophet touch something like that?"
Zheng Wen Te didn't know.
He didn't want to know.
He only knew what it felt like.
That scripture was not paper.
It was not ink.
It was a wound.
A living wound left behind by Heaven itself.
The sect Ancestor finally spoke.
His voice was calm, but it carried the pressure of a mountain.
"You have been chosen."
Zheng Wen Te's throat tightened.
"I didn't ask for it."
The Ancestor's eyes narrowed slightly.
"No prophet ever does."
That sentence struck deeper than any insult.
Zheng Wen Te laughed once—dry, hollow.
"Prophet… I was a shopkeeper. A failure. A man who couldn't even keep his family."
The disciples flinched at the bluntness.
Cultivators did not speak like this.
Not in front of immortals.
Not in front of legends.
But Zheng Wen Te was not raised in this world.
He was raised in a world where gods stayed silent.
Where suffering did not come with meaning.
The Ancestor regarded him quietly.
Then he said:
"Do you think Heaven chose you because you were strong?"
Zheng Wen Te froze.
The question hung like a blade.
Lian's eyes sharpened.
Elder Mo's expression shifted slightly.
The Ancestor continued.
"Heaven does not choose its prophets from palaces."
His gaze turned distant, as if seeing beyond the sect.
"It chooses them from ashes."
Zheng Wen Te's fingers curled.
Ashes.
That was exactly what he had become.
The Ancestor's voice lowered.
"Because only a man who has lost everything…"
"…can carry the voice of Shangdi without breaking."
A long silence followed.
The wind moved through the courtyard.
Somewhere far away, a bell rang.
Zheng Wen Te's chest felt tight.
He didn't want this honor.
He didn't want this burden.
He wanted what he had wanted for years:
Sleep.
Peace.
Nothingness.
But Shangdi had denied him even that.
Lian finally spoke, voice sharp.
"Ancestor… what is the Heart Severing Scripture?"
The disciples all leaned unconsciously.
Even Elder Mo's breath paused.
The Ancestor's gaze flickered toward her.
"That scripture…"
He paused.
Then, for the first time, something like caution entered his tone.
"…was not written to cultivate power."
Zheng Wen Te swallowed.
"Then what is it for?"
The Ancestor looked directly at him.
"It is for cutting fate."
The words fell like thunder.
Zheng Wen Te's blood turned cold.
Cutting fate?
Lian's hand tightened at her side.
"That's impossible," she muttered.
The Ancestor replied simply:
"It is forbidden."
A disciple whispered:
"Then why bring it out?"
The Ancestor's answer was quiet.
"Because Shangdi's last prophet has arrived."
Zheng Wen Te's stomach sank.
The courtyard suddenly felt too small.
As if the sky itself was leaning closer.
The Ancestor stepped forward.
The scripture floated up, pages fluttering though there was no wind.
And then—
The words on the pages…
moved.
Not like ink.
Like living scars.
Zheng Wen Te stared.
And in that moment…
He heard something.
Not the Ancestor.
Not the disciples.
Not even the wind.
A voice.
Deep.
Ancient.
Not Shangdi.
Something else.
Something that had been sealed inside the scripture for countless years.
It whispered only one sentence:
"Prophet… do you regret being born?"
Zheng Wen Te's breath stopped.
Because the voice...
was his own.