Shakyamuni heard this, and a faint, detached smile touched his lips. He was just about to speak—
"What?" Papiyas cut in.
Shakyamuni did not answer, merely smiled faintly. In an instant, boundless heavenly flowers bloomed across the void, drifting down in profusion, untouched by a speck of dust. He plucked one between his fingertips. Pure white and unworldly, it silently smiled with him. "The buddha, too, has feelings."
"Ha ha ha! What a fine 'the buddha, too, has feelings'! You truly have the makings of greatness. Let us leave it at this today—another day, we shall settle who stands higher and who lower!" Papiyas laughed aloud, then turned and vanished into nothingness, leaving no trace behind.
With the two realms now connected, the saintly positions had been set: Shakyamuni occupied one, while Papiyas, the Mara of the Heaven of Self-Mastery, held another. Though several seats remained vacant, they had already drawn countless cultivators into Blood Stains Mountains and Rivers, corpses piled into ridges.
Those saintly positions hung high above the nine heavens—deathless and indestructible, unstained and untainted, unwearied by ten thousand calamities. Heaven and earth could collapse, yet Saints would remain. Longevity might perhaps be sought, but eternal life was difficult to obtain; immortality was no illusion, but a true and tangible supreme authority. That was why countless people willingly hurled themselves into mountains of blades and seas of fire, all to break free from their mortal coils and ascend to the position of a chess player who looked down upon all living beings and held heaven and earth in their grasp.
But how could a saintly position be a peak so easily climbed? From ancient times to the present, how many breathtaking geniuses had struggled and floundered in the bitter sea of the mortal world, exhausted their lifespan, burned