Another three thousand years passed.
"Have we reached the limit of our growth?"
Within the vast, ancient palace came a faint sigh. In a hoarse voice, he said, "Three thousand years. A full three thousand years of doing nothing."
After all, in later ages, Seventh-Order Heavenly Emperors were the ultimate limit of flesh-and-blood life, having fully unearthed every potential of their bodies.
In a mature universe, the eighth order was a qualitative transformation. One would begin ascending dimensions and become a high-dimensional being. Yet this required climbing the High-Dimensional Space-Time Road—a road that had never existed before and had to be carved out.
To Yi Mang, "growth" was not actually important.
In this murky, chaotic Primordial Universe, there was only them. What use was such immense power? He merely wanted something to do, a purpose for living. His obsession with sculpting was also just a way to pass the time.
Cultivation was the same.
In a long life that stretched into eternity, one had to find something to do, something to pursue.
"Is life only briefly tedious right now, or will it always be this tedious?"
His fingertips gently stroked an exquisite diamond-shaped statue, as though tenderly caressing a lover.
His talent for sculptural art had already reached its peak.
His works seemed alive. Every edge, even every microscopic particle, was so perfect that it was breathtaking.
Yet after twenty thousand years, he had long since lost interest in sculpture.
Unable to cultivate,
Unable to sculpt, he could only remain still, repeating the same dull days over and over.
He suddenly felt loneliness unlike anything he had ever known.
Loneliness was unavoidable for every life. Even the greatest hero could not escape it.
It was a form of torture. Locking someone in a pitch-black room with nothing at all for