Blood Butcher

The laws of order had structure, like a meticulously designed building, where every brick and every beam had its proper place.

Nor were they like the abyss's laws of nothingness.

The laws of nothingness were "anti-structure," like a demolished building, its bricks scattered everywhere and its beams strewn every which way.

This law had no structure.

It possessed only a single rhythm.

A singular, pure rhythm, without the slightest embellishment.

Like a heartbeat, like breathing, like the tides, like the rising and setting of the sun.

Within that rhythm lay an essence that transcended both order and chaos.

It was neither order nor chaos, but some kind of balance between the two.

Like the thin line where dawn met night, like the threshold between life and death.

Chu Ming crouched down.

His fingertip pressed against the fragment's surface.

The rock felt cold, like iron in winter.

Under the pressure of his finger, the gray dust sank inward, leaving a shallow fingerprint.

At the edges of the print, the dust was pushed aside, revealing the rock beneath.

He used the power of order to analyze that fluctuation.

The power of order surged from his fingertip, turning into countless tiny tendrils. Each one reached deep into the fragment, following the fluctuation's veins as it explored ahead.

The fluctuation's structure was exceedingly simple. So simple that it possessed only one frequency, one amplitude, one phase.

Like a piece of music with only one note, like a painting with only one color.

Yet that "simplicity" was not barren.

It was like a stone scoured by river water for tens of millions of years—smooth on the surface, without a single sharp edge, yet hard as iron within.

It was like a desert swept by the wind countless times. Every grain of sand had been worn