When the Cannon Fodder Male Supporting Role Picks Up the Script - Chapter 172

A single point of starlight flickered faintly in the void, swelling until it pierced the darkness. In an instant of blinding brilliance, the chaos gave way to light. Beneath a clear golden sun, a crystal psionic butterfly drifted through the mist and alighted on an endless meadow shimmering with morning dew.

A young man in white robes sat quietly in the grass, his long hair pale as frost. The butterfly fluttered to his fingertips. 

Yun Zhuoran’s lashes trembled, and he slowly opened his eyes—clear and dark as polished obsidian.

His beauty was quiet and distant, his pallor suffused with a trace of divinity, like an immortal untouched by dust.

The haze in his gaze gradually lifted. His eyes followed the luminous butterfly hovering before him. He placed one hand on the grass and sat upright. 

Startled, the butterfly took flight, circling once before vanishing into the soft haze.

A gentle wind swept across the boundless field, carrying the scent of wildflowers and rich spiritual energy. Birds sang faintly in the distance.

Sunlight filtered through drifting clouds, bathing the world in warmth.

It felt like returning to a long-forgotten embrace.

Yun Zhuoran stood slowly. A faint, radiant aura unfurled around him, drawing the spiritual energy in the air to gather at his side. The psionic butterfly reappeared and landed lightly on his shoulder.

“You’re awake.”

He froze. Surprise flickered across his face. Turning his head slightly, he stared at the butterfly perched beside his neck.

“You…”

The butterfly hovered in front of him, its voice soft and androgynous, calm yet devoid of emotion. “I am the consciousness of this new world, born from you. You may call me Tianji.”

“Tianji?” Yun Zhuoran repeated quietly.

“Master.”

The simple word startled him. 

He glanced around the meadow, his tone faintly uncertain. “Then… what is this place?”

“This is the origin of the new world,” Tianji replied. “It has just been created. You have not yet shaped it.”

Yun Zhuoran’s voice was barely above a whisper. “What should I do?”

“You are its ruler,” Tianji answered evenly. “Whatever you will, this world will follow.”

“What I will…” Yun Zhuoran echoed blankly. “But I don’t know what I want.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Tianji said. “You may create everything—or destroy everything.”

A faint glow rippled across the pale golden flame mark between Yun Zhuoran’s brows. 

He looked around the unformed world, lost, his own name the only thing that still carried meaning.

Tianji did not speak further.

Yun Zhuoran stood in silence for a long time. When his gaze lifted to the sky, he noticed the clouds were still, the sun unmoving.

Time?

The moment he thought it, the clouds began to drift and the sun slowly sank westward.

He sat cross-legged on the grass, quietly observing the world move—sunrise, sunset, dusk turning to night, moonlight gliding over a sleeping land. Flowers unfurled, saplings sprouted, the wind grew fragrant.

Three days and nights passed.

At last, he understood—he could not remain here.

He rose and walked forward. 

With each step, the scenery shifted subtly. Sunlight rippled over mountains; before him stood a familiar stone gate. Beyond it, steep steps led to a complex of palaces veiled in mist.

A blank stone tablet stood before the gate.

He entered.

Amid the drifting immortal clouds, a thousand-foot cliff bore rows of solemn halls and training grounds. Yun Zhuoran walked silently through the grand square, studying each structure. The vastness felt empty—too empty.

I shouldn’t be alone here.

Then, faintly, the illusion rippled. Dozens of disciples in Taoist robes appeared, crossing the square, their footsteps light. None looked his way. They passed through him as though he were invisible.

“What is this place?” Yun Zhuoran asked softly.

Tianji’s voice came from behind, steady and emotionless. “This was once the Tiandao Sect.”

“Tiandao Sect…” Yun Zhuoran repeated. A thread of recognition tugged at his memory, yet slipped away before he could grasp it. A dull ache filled his chest.

He followed the disciples toward the rear mountain. 

There, dense bamboo and azure blossoms filled the air with fragrance. A courtyard appeared—a small building nestled among blue flowers. 

He stopped before its gate. It felt familiar, but he had never stepped beyond the threshold.

After a long silence, Tianji spoke. “Do you wish to see other places?”

“Other places?”

“When you awakened the Tiandao Sect, you also formed fragments of other memories,” Tianji explained.

Yun Zhuoran frowned. “Fragments?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Tianji replied. “You can create anything—or erase anything. Whatever you wish.”

Understanding dawned. Yun Zhuoran nodded slightly.

With a single thought, the world shifted. 

He walked through countless landscapes—Yun City’s blue-brick towers, Kunwu Sword Sect’s snowy peaks, the floating immortal city of Shengjing, the crimson isles of Penglai.

Each step stirred familiarity—faces, laughter, fragments of a life long gone.

Finally, he reached the frozen ruins of Tianyan Palace. 

The grand hall still stood, the twin snakes coiled beneath the ancient armillary sphere. 

Disgust flashed across his eyes. When he turned to leave, the entire structure dissolved into light.

He climbed higher, passing the remnants of a three-tiered white pagoda.

The frozen pond was gone; the stone reliefs along the walls no longer stirred. As he left, the pagoda collapsed into snow.

At last, he reached a chain bridge spanning a bottomless abyss.

The moment he stepped onto it, his pulse faltered. Something deep within him stirred—an echo of loss and longing buried too long.

“Master,” Tianji called softly.

Yun Zhuoran looked down at the black abyss, then continued forward. Across the bridge lay the snow-covered slope and the familiar staircase rising toward the mountaintop palace.

He paused at the foot of the stairs. His lips moved, and a name slipped out.

“…Weiran.”

Time stopped.

Yun Zhuoran’s eyes dropped to the steps beneath his feet. His hand pressed against his chest, feeling the sudden, violent rhythm of his heartbeat—each thud echoing that single name.

A suffocating ache tore through him. His vision blurred; a single tear gathered at the corner of his eye, refracting faint light. Within its shimmer, he saw faces—fleeting fragments of memory—until one remained: a youth in red, smiling softly, tilting his head.

Brother…

The pale golden flame mark between his brows glowed faintly. Yun Zhuoran’s memories surged back all at once. His eyes widened as the tear slid down, falling onto the bluestone step with a soft sound that rippled through the world.

“Weiran…” he whispered, voice trembling.

The psionic butterfly dissolved into a strand of pure light. 

Tianji reappeared before him. Yun Zhuoran lifted his head, eyes pale and unfocused.

“Master.”

He steadied his breath and met the small ray of light before him. “Where are they?”

Why was he the only one here? He had thought he and Rong Wuduan had perished together. Yet upon waking, he had become the so-called master of a new world.

Tianji’s tone remained even. “The old world has collapsed. All beings within it have perished.”

“I don’t believe you!” Yun Zhuoran’s eyes burned red. “Then why am I still alive?”

“You are the new Heavenly Dao,” Tianji replied.

Yun Zhuoran froze. “…And Rong Wuduan?”

“Rong Wuduan’s fate was sealed. In the end, you alone survived.”

“So you chose me?”

“The foundation of the new world is the Taiyin True Fire,” Tianji explained. “Only you possess it. Only you could reshape existence. That world is gone, and none who died there can return. But you may craft a new world—any world you wish.”

“I don’t want it!” Yun Zhuoran’s voice shook. Each word was a blade. “I don’t want to be the Heavenly Dao. I just want my master, my friends, my family… my beloved. Even if it means dying.”

Tianji’s voice softened. “Master, in this world, anything you desire can exist.”

“Then I want them back. I want to return to that world.” Yun Zhuoran lifted his gaze. “Can I do that?”

Tianji hesitated. “You could reign above all things. You have already obtained everything. Why cling to what has passed?”

Yun Zhuoran smiled faintly, the expression fragile and tired. Gain and loss—he understood them all too well. But what he had gained was meaningless if he was the only one left.

“I just want to go back.”

“Are you certain?”

Yun Zhuoran’s eyes darkened. He reached toward the hovering light. 

Tianji did not resist. A speck of spiritual radiance settled into his palm.

Even when he had once faced death, he had never felt such loneliness. This empty, perfect world—without Weiran—was worse than any hell.

He took a deep breath and closed his hand.

“Rong Wuduan destroyed the world I built with those I loved. I won’t keep it.”

The light shattered, scattering through his fingers like stardust.

Time froze. The air went still. Snowflakes hung motionless mid-fall.

The world around him cracked like glass. With a single, resounding note, it splintered—each fragment reflecting a thousand scenes of light and shadow.

Yun Zhuoran stood amidst the shards, dazed, as they spiraled upward into the heavens, converging into one blinding point of light.

He shut his eyes against the glare.

Tianji’s fading voice echoed through the collapsing void, tinged with quiet regret. “You could have become the Way of Heaven. But since you reject it…”

The words drowned in the roar of shattering worlds.

When silence returned, the light receded. The sea of stars vanished.

Yun Zhuoran opened his eyes.

He was lying once more upon the snow-covered steps of Tianyan Palace. The palace behind him lay in ruins, its once-golden flames extinguished.

And at the center of the hall, Rong Wuduan’s body remained—still, lifeless, and cold.

Everything was exactly as it had been when Yun Zhuoran had struck down Rong Wuduan and collapsed, moments before he was about to descend the mountain. Even the dried blood on his torn white robes remained.

But the storm had ended. The blizzard was gone. The fire that had rained from the heavens no longer burned. The air was still.

Silence.

He raised his head. 

The horizon lay cloaked in darkness, yet a faint band of white light stretched across the east. Slowly, the first warmth of dawn bled through the clouds.

The sun was rising.

For a long moment, Yun Zhuoran could not move. He stood in the snow, watching the golden light spill over the mountaintop, unable to tell whether this was dream or reality.

Then, from below the stone steps, a familiar voice broke the stillness.

“Lu Yu, hurry up! Xiao Zhuoran and the others have been up there too long!”

That voice—light, impatient, full of life—belonged unmistakably to Penglai Immortal.

Yun Zhuoran’s breath caught. His eyes widened.

Down the long staircase, he saw two figures climbing—their robes disheveled, leaning against each other for balance. 

Lu Yu’s grin was as exasperated as ever, and Penglai Immortal, though covered in dust, looked no less radiant than before. Floating behind them, faint and translucent beneath the morning glow, was a white-robed figure whose calm smile Yun Zhuoran knew by heart.

Gu Shenshu.

How—how could they be here?

The world was still, the wind unmoving. Yun Zhuoran’s throat tightened, but no words came.

Then, from behind him, a voice—clear, warm, and achingly familiar—called softly:

“Brother.”

Yun Zhuoran froze. His heart trembled violently, every beat echoing that single word.

He turned.

Not far away stood a youth clad in scarlet. His hair fluttered gently in the dawn breeze, eyes tinged faintly red at the corners as if from weeping. Seeing Yun Zhuoran’s stunned expression, the young man’s lips curved into a tender smile.

He took a slow step forward, his voice gentle, almost teasing.

“Brother, I’m back.”