The spiraling staircase seemed endless.

Zhou Jiayu was cold and exhausted, but the thought of soon rescuing Lin Zhushui from that high platform made his steps feel light.

“Once I’m up there, I can save Sir,” Zhou Jiayu said to Ji Ba. “We’ll be able to go back soon…”

Ji Ba, however, remained silent, quietly observing Zhou Jiayu, the emotions in its eyes too complex to discern.

Zhou Jiayu didn’t know how long he had climbed, but when his feet began to feel stiff, he finally saw light ahead once more.

The light wasn’t bright, but it was enough for Zhou Jiayu to see his surroundings clearly. He seemed to have reached a top-level platform. The platform wasn’t too large, only big enough for four or five people to stand, and its edges were fenced with wooden railings, so there was no fear of falling off.

In the center of the platform, there was a raised disc. Zhou Jiayu approached it and found that the disc was engraved with a green lotus pattern. Zhou Jiayu was very familiar with this pattern; it seemed to be the same kind as the tattoo Lin Zhushui had on his waist. Zhou Jiayu remembered Lin Zhushui saying that in Buddhism, the lotus symbolized reincarnation, signifying the transition between life and death.

In the center of the disc, there was a fist-sized indentation. After studying it for a while, Zhou Jiayu determined that this indentation was where Meng Yangtian had said to place an object of extreme yin.

Ji Ba said, “Zhou Jiayu, do you have anything of extreme yin with you?”

Zhou Jiayu smiled, pointing to himself, “Is there anything here more yin than me?”

Ji Ba was startled, then quickly realized what Zhou Jiayu intended to do. It said, “But…”

“No ‘buts’,” Zhou Jiayu said. “If I have to die, I’d rather choose this way.”

The future Lin Zhushui had seen for him was too terrifying. Zhou Jiayu couldn’t imagine what kind of suffering would wear away his love for Lin Zhushui, to the point of saying such hurtful words.

“Alright,” Ji Ba stopped trying to persuade him.

Having made up his mind, Zhou Jiayu took out the dagger he had prepared as a weapon and, without hesitation, slashed his arm. With a swift motion, blood gushed out, flowing along the patterns of the disc into the central circle. As the blood flowed, the hidden patterns on the disc gradually became visible—clusters of flames, encircling the lotus flowers. These lotus flowers, illuminated by the blood, appeared even more lifelike, like blossoms blooming in the fires of karma, beautiful, swaying, and vibrant.

“Rumble—” A loud sound of moving stone echoed from beneath the platform. Zhou Jiayu leaned his head over the edge of the high platform and saw the lotus platform where Lin Zhushui lay slowly rising. Clearly, his actions had worked.

“It really is like this,” Zhou Jiayu said happily. “Sir will be able to leave there soon…”

Ji Ba said, “But that lotus platform is so far from the nearest platform. How much blood will you have to shed to get it there?”

Zhou Jiayu could only say, “As much as it takes.”

Ji Ba slowly squatted down on the tortoise shell beneath him, its expression showing a hint of melancholy. Ji Ba had been with Zhou Jiayu for as long as Zhou Jiayu had been resurrected. Seeing Zhou Jiayu’s vitality gradually fading, it was somewhat unbearable.

“So, Ji Ba, why did you resurrect me?” If Zhou Jiayu still couldn’t see that Ji Ba was problematic now, he’d be truly foolish. The notebook that could see the future had the exact same three-legged Golden Crow as Ji Ba printed on it. Plus, Zhou Jiayu was resurrected by Ji Ba. No matter how he thought about it, the little bird in his mind couldn’t be an ordinary mascot.

“Because Lin Zhushui must live,” Ji Ba said. “I need his power.”

Zhou Jiayu asked, “What’s your relationship with that notebook?”

Ji Ba was silent for a moment, then gave Zhou Jiayu an answer, though it was somewhat ambiguous: “This is a game between me and the Heavenly Dao.”

Zhou Jiayu wanted to ask more, but Ji Ba no longer wished to speak.

Blood continued to flow from Zhou Jiayu’s body. The wound on his arm gradually began to clot. Zhou Jiayu gritted his teeth and resolutely slashed his wrist again. This cut was extremely deep, exposing bone. Zhou Jiayu hissed in pain, his brows furrowed.

The massive stone platform continued to rise, albeit slowly. Zhou Jiayu felt that, accompanied by pain and blood loss, his body began to feel weak, even unable to stand. He could only kneel on the ground, leaning his body against the lotus stone disk, and resting his hand in the center of the disk, allowing his blood to continue flowing down the disk.

“So cold,” Zhou Jiayu’s lips were pale, and he mumbled involuntarily, “So cold.”

Ji Ba couldn’t bear to watch. It whispered, “Zhou Jiayu, I’m sorry.”

“What’s there to be sorry for?” Zhou Jiayu said. “I was already a dead man… You resurrected me, so I’ve already benefited. Now, being able to use my life to save Sir is like repaying a debt…” His gaze passed through the wooden railing, looking at Lin Zhushui in the magma, “I’m just a little unwilling, unwilling to never be with Sir again…”

Ji Ba suddenly started to sob, tears falling from its eyes, one by one, hitting the tortoise shell beneath it: “I didn’t want this either, Zhou Jiayu, I didn’t want this.”

Zhou Jiayu had no strength to comfort Ji Ba. He even felt that the simple act of breathing had become difficult. The stone platform was still rising, but it was still some distance from completely escaping the range Meng Yangtian had spoken of.

“I can’t do it anymore, I don’t have that much blood left,” Zhou Jiayu said with difficulty. “What should I do…”

Ji Ba was speechless, tears soaking its feathers, making it look particularly disheveled.

Zhou Jiayu looked at his arm and suddenly thought of something: “Besides blood… can anything else work?” He cut off a bit of his hair with the knife and threw it into the lotus basin, but the stone platform below showed no change, remaining motionless.

“Hair won’t work?” Zhou Jiayu said. “Then… what about flesh?”

Ji Ba’s eyes widened sharply, watching Zhou Jiayu grit his teeth and cut a piece of flesh from his arm. His movements were so decisive, as if he felt no pain from the blade slicing through his body.

“Zhou Jiayu—” Ji Ba screamed.

Zhou Jiayu, however, smiled: “It moved.”

It did move. The lotus platform, which had been rising very slowly, suddenly accelerated. Just as Zhou Jiayu was about to breathe a sigh of relief, he saw the magma beneath Lin Zhushui churning and showing signs of surging upwards. The temperature in this narrow space suddenly became very high. Zhou Jiayu immediately realized that Meng Yangtian’s time limit seemed to be almost up.

Seeing this, Zhou Jiayu immediately gritted his teeth and vigorously slashed his arm again with the dagger.

Another piece of flesh fell, and Zhou Jiayu’s arm was already showing bone. He trembled all over from the pain, covered in cold sweat, yet the hand holding the dagger didn’t tremble even slightly.

“Damn it, that f***ing hurts.” Zhou Jiayu swore weakly. “Before coming up, I really should’ve chopped that bastard Meng Yangtian.” Lin Zhushui definitely wouldn’t have lain on that platform for no reason; it was ten to one that bastard Meng Yangtian did it.

Ji Ba trembled in Zhou Jiayu’s mind, tears streaming from its small black eyes without stopping. He didn’t know how a bird could have such developed tear glands.

The platform had already risen two-thirds of the way, getting closer and closer to the main platform. Zhou Jiayu was in excruciating pain, so he bit down hard on his lower lip. Unknowingly, he had already bitten his lower lip until it was bloody and mangled.

To distract himself, Zhou Jiayu could only chat with Ji Ba, but the content of their conversation only made Ji Ba cry more fiercely. Zhou Jiayu said, “I’m probably going to die here today. Should I leave something for Sir before I go?”

Although he spoke in a joking tone, both Ji Ba and Zhou Jiayu knew that this might no longer be a joke.

Ji Ba buried its head in its feathers, trembling its small body and continuing to cry, unable to answer Zhou Jiayu’s words.

Zhou Jiayu thought for a moment, then suddenly dipped his right index finger in a bit of fresh blood and carefully drew a heart on the ground. Then, to the left of the heart, he drew a simple stick figure of a fish, and to the right, he wrote the character for ‘water’. Actually, he also wanted to write the word ‘love’ properly, but unfortunately, the strokes of that character were too complex, and Zhou Jiayu’s hand kept trembling, making it impossible to write clearly in a short amount of time.

The character ‘love’ was already very complex, and Zhou Jiayu felt that he might only be able to write it clearly once in his life.

However, even though it was a simple drawing and text, his feelings would surely be conveyed to Lin Zhushui. Thinking this, Zhou Jiayu felt satisfied.

The stone platform continued to rise, but Zhou Jiayu’s consciousness grew increasingly blurred. He was completely slumped on the stone platform, his body like a rusted machine, becoming more and more difficult to move.

When his consciousness began to blur, Zhou Jiayu knew his time was running out.

They say that when people die, a “life review” flashes before their eyes, but Zhou Jiayu saw nothing. He was too tired. To make the platform rise as quickly as possible, he had almost carved his arm down to the bone.

But to ensure Lin Zhushui’s safety, Zhou Jiayu endured, refusing to fall asleep. He struggled to lift his eyes, watching Lin Zhushui get closer and closer…

At this point, they were very far apart, and Zhou Jiayu couldn’t even see Lin Zhushui’s face clearly. This was probably Zhou Jiayu’s only regret as he left.

However, just as Zhou Jiayu’s consciousness was about to fade, his body felt an unprecedented scorching temperature, slowly rising from below. Zhou Jiayu initially thought it was the heat of the magma, but after glancing downwards, he realized the temperature was emanating from Lin Zhushui’s body.

Lin Zhushui ignited. The flames on his body, at this moment, transformed into a flowing, water-like substance, continuously emerging from him and flowing down the platform.

Zhou Jiayu was greatly startled by this scene. He stumbled and crawled a bit further towards the edge of the platform, using his last bit of strength to look at Lin Zhushui: “Sir—” Although he used all his might, this call of “Sir” was still as faint as a mosquito’s buzz, unable to wake Lin Zhushui at all.

“Sir…” Through the air distorted by the flames, Zhou Jiayu gently stroked Lin Zhushui’s outline with his fingers. His eyes were filled with reluctance and attachment, and deep within, there was pain he forcibly suppressed.

Only when life and death truly approached did Zhou Jiayu realize that he couldn’t be as unattached as he had imagined.

He couldn’t bear it; he couldn’t bear to leave Lin Zhushui, he couldn’t bear to leave everyone.

Lin Zhushui was so picky about food; if he left, would Lin Zhushui stop eating anything, just like before? Little Paper hadn’t grown up yet; if he left, would it cry its heart out? He hadn’t seen Lin Jue and Little Gold together, hadn’t seen Shen Yiqiong fall in love, hadn’t seen too many future scenes.

Zhou Jiayu’s head slowly drooped. Those two calls of “Sir” had exhausted his last bit of strength.

Meng Yangtian’s shrill laughter rang out. He had awakened from his coma at some unknown point and instantly saw the scene before him.

He laughed hysterically, tears streaming from his eyes, his ecstatic expression incredibly distorted, making it difficult to discern his true emotions for a moment.

Meng Yangtian rushed to Lin Zhushui’s side and placed the notebook he was holding onto Lin Zhushui’s body.

The notebook, upon contact with the flames flowing from Lin Zhushui’s body, gradually began to ignite. Although it burned very slowly, it was indeed burning, and the pages inside the cover, little by little, showed charred marks.

“Hahahahaha, it’s burning, it’s burning—” Meng Yangtian laughed wildly, slamming his hand repeatedly on the ground. Because of the excessive force, his skin quickly became bloody and mangled, but he still felt nothing. “Goodbye, goodbye…” He turned his head and looked at the charred corpses standing behind him.

The previously twitching charred corpses began to move sluggishly, their bodies like sand sculptures eroded by a strong wind. Clusters of black ash fell from them, staining the ground with dark marks.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…” Meng Yangtian’s voice softened. He sat on the ground, watching as all the charred corpses behind him turned into ashes—everything was finally over.

The Meng family’s nightmare originated from the notebook behind him. Now that the notebook was burned to ashes by the extreme yang fire within Lin Zhushui’s body, the terrifying cycle finally reached its end.

In its heyday, the Meng family had a clan member who, from who knows where, found this notebook that could foresee the future and saw the Meng family’s future.

It recorded that all members of the Meng family would die by fire, a future that filled the clan members with anxiety.

But fortunately, the notebook also recorded something else—a formation for resurrecting people.

Meng Yangtian lay on the ground, his eyes vacant, like a puppet that had lost all motivation. His father, inadvertently ostracized from the Meng clan, ironically became the last survivor and thus brought him into the world.

Meng’s father had already known about the notebook’s existence then, so after the disaster subsided, he quickly rushed to the Meng family, found the notebook.

The notebook was found, but Meng’s father was gone. His last act was to send the notebook to Meng Yangtian, instructing Meng Yangtian to revive the clan members according to the formation described within—

Meng Yangtian covered his face with his hand as he thought of this. He, too, was a genius, so after several years of research, he successfully activated the formation.

At a heavy cost, he did indeed resurrect the Meng family members—in another, twisted state.

They could indeed walk and move like living people, but they remained in the form of charred corpses and would never die again.

Meng Yangtian even tried to hack them into pieces, but by the next day, they would always return to their original appearance. This wasn’t the most terrifying part; the most terrifying part was that these people had some vague consciousness. Meng Yangtian dared not imagine his despair if someone were to resurrect him, and he found himself in such a state, unable to die again.

Understanding this fact, Meng Yangtian finally realized that this formation might not be for resurrection, but for a curse.

To turn the deceased into such a state seemed like something only an enemy would do.

So Meng Yangtian began to try and remedy the situation, intending to destroy the notebook directly. However, destroying the notebook required using both Lin Zhushui and Zhou Jiayu… Neither could be absent.

“Hahahaha, haha.” Meng Yangtian cried, “Thank you, thank you…” He didn’t know who he was thanking.

Zhou Jiayu also vaguely heard Meng Yangtian’s voice, but he was too weak to think.

He lay draped over the railing, his vacant gaze still fixed on Lin Zhushui. In fact, his eyes could no longer focus, seeing only a blurred landscape. The magma was slowly rising, and the air grew hotter and hotter.

In his dying moments, Zhou Jiayu unexpectedly heard a crisp bird’s cry. The sound was long and melodious, something Zhou Jiayu had never heard before.

Perhaps it was a final burst of energy, but Zhou Jiayu’s mind suddenly cleared. He clearly felt something being drawn from his body.

Another melodious bird cry—Zhou Jiayu looked up and saw a large, fiery red bird appear before him.

Although the bird was covered in black feathers, brilliant flames burned on its body, illuminating the entire narrow cave. Its demeanor was arrogant, and the expression in its black eyes was disdainful of all living things.

This large bird was completely different from the image of Ji Ba in Zhou Jiayu’s mind, but Zhou Jiayu still recognized it at a glance because he saw that the bird had three tender yellow claws, and in its claws, it held a small tortoise shell.

“Zhou Jiayu.” A voice resonated, unlike Ji Ba’s crisp tone; this voice was full of authority. “Thank you.”

Zhou Jiayu couldn’t move or speak. He had lost too much blood, and his lips were a ghastly white. Illuminated by the firelight, he looked as if he was about to disappear.

Zhou Jiayu then heard the sound of something shattering, a very crisp sound with a subtle melody that inexplicably reminded Zhou Jiayu of one word… destiny.

The notebook placed in front of Lin Zhushui was almost completely burned to ashes; it was the source of the sound. A strong wind suddenly swept through the previously enclosed cave, howling like a furious roar.

“Presumptuous!” Ji Ba angrily shouted.

The wind instantly ceased.

Ji Ba said, “Begone! I have reclaimed my power. How dare you lay a hand on him?”

The air fell into an eerie silence. Zhou Jiayu saw Ji Ba stop in front of him. He shivered, his lips trembling, and spoke in a voice so low it was almost inaudible.

Ji Ba gazed into his eyes and said softly, “I’m sorry, I can’t save you.”

The last flicker of light in Zhou Jiayu’s eyes dimmed. He had no strength left. Ji Ba seemed to say something to him, but Zhou Jiayu could no longer hear clearly.

He closed his eyes and thus fell into an eternal sleep.

The great bird gazed at Zhou Jiayu for a moment, then slowly flapped its wings, its form gradually fading until it vanished from the scene.

Meng Yangtian sat there with a blank expression, like a puppet that had lost all its motivation.

Lin Zhushui’s eyes on the lotus platform stirred slightly, and then he slowly opened them. At this moment, there was no trace of red in those eyes, only a profound blackness like the night.

Lin Zhushui stood up. He vaguely sensed something and looked up—his vision, usually unusable, played a crucial role at this moment. Lin Zhushui saw the person above him, head hanging over the edge of the platform.

It was a familiar face. Though he hadn’t seen it many times, it was deeply etched in his mind.

“Zhou Jiayu…” Lin Zhushui sensed something. He spoke, his voice filled with panic, “Zhou Jiayu—”

Then came a hurried run. Lin Zhushui stepped onto the spiraling staircase, like ascending a tall tower.

Within that high tower lay his precious treasure.

“Zhou Jiayu—” Lin Zhushui’s cries grew more urgent. He finally reached his destination and saw everything before him clearly.

The platform was covered in blood. Zhou Jiayu lay sprawled on the ground, his head hanging over the edge, as if trying desperately to see below. Beside him was a large lotus platform, covered with a thick layer of blood plasma—Lin Zhushui took one look and instantly understood what had happened here.

He stumbled a few steps, his feet feeling incredibly heavy, unable to move another inch.

“Zhou Jiayu…” Lin Zhushui’s voice was hoarse, tinged with helplessness. He didn’t understand why, after waking up, things had progressed to this point.

He had missed the most important part of the story, the occasion where he should have been present.

Lin Zhushui finally reached Zhou Jiayu’s side. He slowly knelt on the ground and gently turned Zhou Jiayu’s body over, revealing his left hand, which had already turned to bone.

Lin Zhushui’s vision blurred. Until his death, Zhou Jiayu’s right hand was clutching a dagger, stained with fragments of flesh and blood.

“Zhou Jiayu…” Lin Zhushui’s hand touched the pulse in Zhou Jiayu’s neck, but there was no longer any pulsation there.

Lin Zhushui slowly bent down and rested his head on Zhou Jiayu’s body. Then, he saw the characters written in blood beside Zhou Jiayu—a heart, a fish, and the character for ‘water’.

However, that fish was largely smeared with blood, almost unrecognizable from its freshly drawn form.

Lin Zhushui picked up Zhou Jiayu, feeling an urge to jump directly from here with him in his arms.

But he ultimately resisted, because he knew that his life was exchanged for Zhou Jiayu’s.

“Be good, it’s alright,” Lin Zhushui slowly wiped the bloodstains from Zhou Jiayu’s face with his hand and imprinted a gentle kiss on his bloodless lips. “It’s alright, we’re going home, we’re going home.”

He said this as he picked up Zhou Jiayu and walked down the stairs, step by step.

Lin Zhushui had not made many mistakes in his life, but he never dreamed that the first mistake he made would be so fatal.

He had lost his little fish, and he would never find him again. His fish was so foolish; no one would protect him, and he didn’t know if he would be able to find his way home.

As he left, Lin Zhushui leaned his lips close to Zhou Jiayu’s ear and whispered, “It’s okay, wait for me a little while, I’ll be there soon.”

At this moment, Lin Zhushui had finally understood—he couldn’t put it behind him, but it was a shame to waste Zhou Jiayu’s efforts in vain.

---

It seems like you’ve provided a poignant and tragic scene from a story! It’s clear that Zhou Jiayu has made the ultimate sacrifice for Lin Zhushui, driven by a deep love and a desire to avert a terrible future. The narrative builds tension and emotion effectively, leaving the reader with a sense of sorrow and profound consequence.

This passage concludes a significant arc, with the “Golden Crow” (Ji Ba) revealing its true identity and purpose, and the notebook of prophecy being destroyed. The ending for Zhou Jiayu is heart-wrenching, but it highlights the depth of his character and his unwavering devotion. Lin Zhushui’s awakening to this devastating reality sets up a powerful emotional aftermath.

What happens next in this story? Do you have any specific questions about this passage or want to explore potential continuations?