Immortal Paladin

[The Cloud Mist Sect Master, Jia Sen]

It had been months since the world cracked open at the seams of its order, since the heavens bore witness to what was now whispered as the ‘Sundering of the Summit’. In taverns and temples, in quiet corners of crumbling monasteries and newly fortified strongholds, the tale was told and retold with awe, dread, and confusion. Two hundred and thirty-seven cultivators had gathered under the banner of unity atop the summit, and fewer than sixty had emerged alive. The rest had fallen to a single man, an enigma cloaked in dogma, delivering slaughter as if it were scripture. He preached peace even as his hands dripped with the blood of sages and sect leaders. Those who listened either lost their minds or lost themselves to zealotry.

But Jia Sen, the Sect Leader of the Cloud Mist Sect, belonged to neither madness nor faith.

He stood now at the fringe of the Unnamed City, a name coined by survivors too afraid to recall what the place had once been. Once, it was destined to be the forward operating base for the new realm descending into this era. It was meant as a bastion of civilization. Now, it was a monument to failure, encased in a dome of sanctified light. Above, strange angels with jagged wings and halos like fractured crowns hovered silently, their watch eternal and unfathomable. They had arrived shortly after the incident, taking roost as if summoned by the carnage. All attempts to breach deeper into the city had ended in death or disfigurement.

Jia Sen combed his beard with a slow, pensive hand. His gaze, sharp as tempered steel, didn’t waver from the dome. It pulsed faintly, as if breathing.

“Father,” came a voice beside him, soft but no longer uncertain. “Is it true?”

He turned only slightly. His daughter stood there, silver-haired and vulpine-eyed, her aura humming with barely-contained power. Jia Yun had grown, and quickly. Too quickly. The Seventh Realm had bent to her will in mere months, aided by the absorption of the Immortal Beast her sect had protected for generations. She had taken its strength, and with it, its burdens.

Jia Sen recalled how just a few months ago, her daughter had dark hair, and now, look at her, an immortal fairy walking among mortals.

“I see you’ve dropped that obnoxious habit of speaking in third person,” he said, dryly. “But did you have to replace it with endless questions?”

“Is curiosity really that bad?” she challenged with a faint smile ghosting on her lips.

“Yes,” he said flatly. Then, after a moment of silence between them, “But since your curiosity burns so bright, I will answer. It’s true. The man called Da Wei… the same one you once shared idle words and perhaps more with… is the one now named the Holy Taint. He’s the butcher who turned the Summit into a charnel ground, who preaches peace as he drowns the world in his brand of justice.”

“No…” Her voice trembled. “That can’t be true.”

His gaze turned to her, hard and cold. She faltered under it, her breath catching.

“You want it to be false,” he said, “but truth does not bend for comfort. You should have told me about the artifact. The one he used to change his form… perfectly enough to fool even me. Even a Tenth Realm Grandmaster couldn’t detect him. He slipped through the cracks because of that, because of your silence.”

A flicker of guilt passed through her eyes. She bowed her head, shoulders stiff.

“I didn’t know he would… I thought…” Her words trailed off.

“You thought he was a good man,” Jia Sen finished for her. Then, he laughed. It was a low and bitter laugh. “Since when did my daughter become so naïve? Was your little vacation to the branch sect really so enlightening that you forgot what world we live in?”

Jia Yun’s jaw clenched, but she said nothing.

He turned his gaze back to the dome. “War is coming. Not just between sects or rival schools, but a war to shape the very soul of this world. The Heavenly Temple will not sit idle. The Empire’s leash has grown too long, its teeth too sharp. We’ll remind them who built this world from dust and divine will.”

“And Da Wei?” she asked, and her voice was barely a whisper.

“He’ll die. Or he’ll burn the world trying to save it. Either way,” Jia Sen said, “we will not stand by. Well, chances were, we don’t have to worry about him anymore.”

…

..

.

[Mistress of Ten Thousand Tools, Zai Ai]

Zai Ai cut through the sky like a streak of silver fury, her sword artifact blurring against the clouds. Her form vanished and reappeared, each movement faster than thought and sound. It was a testament to her standing as a Tenth Realm Master. The winds parted for her. The heavens held their breath. She had been flying like this for months, crossing oceans, deserts, frozen lands, and cursed valleys, all in pursuit of a single soul… her disciple.

He had disappeared in the chaos after the Sundering of the Summit, and ever since, she had chased nothing but rumors and phantoms. In truth, the world was far too vast and far too treacherous for even someone of her caliber to comb clean. If she continued like this, she would grow weary and her cultivation would be spent before she even caught the shadow of him. And time, though kinder to those who cultivated the higher paths, was still an enemy to the anxious heart.

The wind died around her as she withdrew her blade into her pocket dimension. She descended into the courtyard of the Imperial Palace like a blade herself. She was sharp, sudden, and inevitable.

Immediately, Phoenix Guards in golden cuirasses surrounded her. They moved with trained synchronicity, their cultivations ranging between the Fifth and Seventh Realms. Their spears glinted in the morning light, and yet not one dared to take the first step forward.

“Stand down,” came a deep, sonorous voice.

A giant of a man approached, his armor dark as onyx and eyes steady as a calm storm. Zhu Shin, the Iron Bull of the Empire. Loyal, unwavering, and bound to the Emperor like flesh to bone.

“His Majesty is expecting you,” he said, his voice a respectful rumble. “Please, follow me, Master Zai.”

The guards hesitated for a beat longer, but at the sight of Zhu Shin’s calm presence, they dispersed in silence. Some turned away quickly. Others lingered, casting curious, uneasy glances before they too vanished behind palace columns.

“You will be compensated for your trouble,” Zhu Shin added.

Zai Ai’s lip curled. “Compensated?” she repeated with disdain. “Word is the Emperor’s little friend is the same lunatic who razed the Summit. What was his name again? Da Wei? You want to compensate me for a disciple stolen, for a slaughter unpunished?”

Zhu Shin’s expression didn’t change, but his body moved before reason could restrain it. He turned and drove a fist into a nearby marble pillar. The stone exploded, showering dust across the courtyard.

“Apologies for showing something unsightly,” he said. “Da Wei is a hero of the Empire. That is a fact. Beyond that, I know nothing.”

He looked her in the eye then. “How about you, Master Zai? Are you so certain he’s what people say he is?”

Zai Ai faltered. She hated herself for it, but she did. Because the truth was... she hadn’t seen the massacre. She’d been there, yes. But not present. That damnable Da Wei had put her to sleep… her, a Tenth Realm Master… without ever raising his power.

“I didn’t see it,” she admitted bitterly. “But what does it matter? He’s a stranger to me. My disciple is not.”

They walked in silence until they reached the throne room. It was grand in the imperial fashion from the crimson banners, golden drapes, and steps leading up to a throne carved from black jade. Upon that throne sat Emperor Nongmin, the sovereign of the Grand Ascension Empire. His face was unaged, regal, and impassive. But his eyes were covered with a strip of white silk.

Zai Ai probed him with her senses. Her brow creased.

“What happened to your eyes?” she asked.

“I donated them,” he said with a strange sort of calm.

Zai Ai’s fury returned in full. “Then you’re useless to me,” she snapped. “How am I supposed to find my disciple if the only one who could have pierced the veil of time and space no longer can?”

Nongmin did not flinch. “Your disciple is alive,” he said simply. “But I cannot tell you where he is.”

Zai Ai stepped forward, her aura spiking. “And why would I believe a blind man?”

“I may be blind,” Nongmin replied, “but I see far more than you ever will. And to soothe your doubts, I make this vow: I shall never lie to you again.”

Zai Ai sneered. “Empty words, Nongmin. The last time I believed you, you broke my heart.”

Nongmin’s voice was unwavering. “Then I will vow upon Heaven and Earth. Should I ever lie to you again, let lightning strike me where I stand.”

The world paused. The qi of the realm trembled. Ancient, primordial forces stirred. The heavens listened.

Even Zai Ai, who was no stranger to oaths, felt her spine stiffen. She looked at him again, really looked, and saw not just a blind man… but a sovereign still in command of fate.

“Your disciple is alive,” he repeated, gentler this time. “And I promise you will see him again. But in exchange, I need to know everything you know about the Heavenly Temple.”

Zai Ai’s lip trembled as she bit down on it. She was no longer part of that wretched faction who pretended to be as righteous as they claimed to be. Nongmin had made sure of that when he schemed against her, back when she still believed in his promises.

“I was cast out,” she said coldly. “You made sure of that.”

Nongmin didn’t respond.

She stood in silence for a moment, then closed her eyes. It was for her disciple. For that boy who had once called her ‘Master’ with eyes full of awe. She had vowed to protect him, even from the skies themselves.

She exhaled. “Fine. I’ll tell you everything.”

…

..

.

[Final Emperor, Nongmin]

The great doors groaned closed behind her, their echo still resonating through the chamber like a slow drumbeat of fate. But Nongmin, the Emperor of the Grand Ascension Empire, did not move. He sat upon his throne, draped in black and gold robes, blindfolded and still… He was an unmoving mountain at the center of the storm.

Zai Ai’s presence had receded like the tide, her fury leaving an emptiness behind. But Nongmin did not sigh. He merely leaned back, folding one hand over the other. Though his eyes were gone, taken willingly and given to another, he could still see. Maybe not with an organ like the ‘eyes’,  but through the residue of understanding, memory, and the immeasurable depth of his cultivation. The blessing of the Heavenly Eye was no longer his, but vision? No, that had never belonged to the eyes alone.

Zhu Shin still stood at attention.

“War is coming,” Nongmin said softly, yet the air trembled under his voice. “Be alert. Begin preparations.”

Zhu Shin’s chin dipped. “Shall I inform the other Great Generals?”

“That is your task,” the Emperor replied. “Do not come to me asking if your legs can walk. Go, Western General. See to your duties at once.”

Zhu Shin bowed deeply, his voice resolute. “Yes, Your Majesty!”

The giant of a man turned and left, the doors closing behind him with a thunderous finality.

Silence reclaimed the hall.

Only then did Nongmin relax, his shoulders softening as he turned his inner senses toward the world. With but a thought, the threads of fate unraveled before him… not clearly, not like before… but like smoke rising in the wind. He examined the invisible marks he had laid on certain individuals across the world, people of potential, people of consequence. In his youth, he had called them “knots”…the inevitable tethers in the weave of destiny. He had long known who mattered most.

Among those threads glimmered one more volatile than the rest: Mao Xian.

The name alone summoned conflicted memories. Zai Ai’s disciple. Guildmaster of the Adventurer’s Guild. Innocuous, even affable in many timelines, but in far too many futures, he had ended up bound to Da Wei’s journey… and more than once, he had helped the man destroy the world. Other iterations painted Mao Xian as a loyal friend, a comrade, a prophet, and, in some tragic renditions, the hand that forced the world to the brink.

And now, in this life, it seemed Mao Xian had played some role in luring Da Wei into the Unnamed City, and Nongmin had allowed it to happen. Nongmin didn’t yet know how or why… it was one knot too tangled to unbind. He rubbed his temple as another migraine crept in. Even attempting to reach into the future now was like grasping thorns in the dark. The price of losing the Heavenly Eye was steep. He had given it to Gu Jie, knowing full well what it meant.

Still, he had no regrets.

If there was even the slightest chance that Da Wei could be saved from this iteration’s madness, or from the guilt of past ones, Nongmin had to try. It was ironic. Da Wei had caused unimaginable suffering across countless timelines. He had ended empires, broken heavens, and killed kings. It might not mean much compared to the combined suffering he had caused, but Da Wei had done good.

And Nongmin, foolish as he might be, believed that effort mattered.

He chuckled softly to himself. “I should wish you dead, Da Wei. You’ve cost me more than any enemy ever has.” He tilted his blindfolded face toward the high windows. “But here I am, hoping you’re still alive.”

He leaned forward, the tips of his fingers brushing the armrest. “Da Wei,” he whispered, then corrected himself, “David.” His voice was low, reverent, not as an Emperor but as something far more human.

“I pray you’re not dead yet,” he said, almost to himself. “Because I might feel just a tad sad with you leaving.”

It was the closest thing to affection he had ever voiced in a lifetime of rule. In all his years of isolation, surrounded by advisors, wives, lovers, generals, and admirers, he had rarely made friends. People had loved him, yes. But to be loved was different from being understood. And David… strange, stubborn, righteous David… had understood him in ways none of the others could.

Even if they stood on opposite ends of the countless wars that they shared.

The thought lingered like smoke in the room.

Then the great doors opened again. A figure entered, tall and graceful, wearing a cloak that shimmered like silk touched by moonlight.

Nongmin turned his head toward the sound.

The name surfaced on his tongue before the figure spoke: “Aili Si.”

But the pronunciation was false. He corrected himself, this time with care.

“Alice.”

And the room grew cold.

…

..

.

[The Vampire from Another World, Alice]

The throne room of the Grand Ascension Empire shimmered under the midday sun that filtered through vaulted stained glass, casting celestial patterns upon the gleaming floor. Alice stepped forward, her boots echoing against marble as ancient as some of the gods whispered about in this realm. Ornate columns lined her path, carved with dragon motifs and ancient script, but none of it awed her. She had walked through stranger halls, knelt before stranger thrones. This one did not intimidate her.

What did surprise her, however, was the blindfolded Emperor sitting at the far end of the hall, speaking her name with unerring precision.

“Alice,” Nongmin greeted, his voice calm, composed, without a trace of the reverence or fear others might have added when facing her. “How may I help you?”

That made her pause for half a breath. These people never got her name right… Aili Si, they usually said, like a song slightly out of tune. The effort he had taken wasn’t lost on her, and that made her more suspicious, not less.

“How long,” she asked coolly, “are you planning to confine us here?”

Her voice echoed with the cadence of old power, silken and venomous, cold as blood, yet burning at the edges. She had no weapons drawn, but the mana that shimmered just beneath her skin made the guards stationed outside the chamber flinch. None dared enter.

“Just a word of advice,” she continued. “I don’t like being confined. And trust me, you wouldn’t like me in a fight. You definitely wouldn’t want to suffer my wrath.”

Nongmin sat still, unmoved by her threat. “I have no intention of confining you,” he said. “You’re free to leave at any time. But be forewarned… once you do, you’ll be exposed. The enemies of the Empire are many, and David’s affiliation with me is no longer a secret.”

Alice narrowed her eyes. “I know your kind,” she said, folding her arms. “I come from a race that thrives on politics, deceit, and layers upon layers of scheming. I can smell manipulation like blood in the wind.”

She stepped forward, her crimson cloak brushing the ground behind her. “My kind has two responses to scheming. One, we out-scheme you. Or two, we burn you. I’m leaning toward the latter, Emperor. Two reasons. One, Gu Jie still hasn’t woken up since she arrived. And two, there’s a civil war fermenting under your precious palace, and I’m not letting me and my kids get caught in the crossfire.”

“They’re not even your children,” Nongmin snapped, suddenly rising to his feet. “They are David’s disciples. And after everything he’s done for this Empire, I am bound by duty and debt to protect them. Even from you.”

“Protect them?” Alice scoffed, her fangs barely veiled now. “That’s rich. The man who delivered David to his death now pretends to play guardian? I’ve heard better lies in courtrooms full of demons.”

“You think you’re safe out there?” Nongmin asked, qi now radiating from his form like the light of a dying star. “You’re not. Even with your mysterious power. You’ll only be making targets of them… David’s name is already a brand on their backs, and your aura, your legacy, only paints a larger one.”

The palace trembled. A chill swept the throne room as Alice’s power bled from her skin. Blood began to pool across the marble, rising from the floor like dew from cracks in the world. The scent of iron flooded the air. Curtains fluttered violently. Paintings peeled from the walls. Servants in adjacent corridors ran screaming.

And still, the Emperor stood.

He bathed in his qi like an ancient god withstanding the hurricane. His voice, though strained, remained steady. “Where would you even go?”

Alice didn’t answer immediately. She bit her tongue, hard. Because she had no answer. That was the truth she couldn’t say out loud. She had tried. She had tried to cast the planar escape spells… had poured every drop of her Warlock mana into the ritual… but each time, the spell shattered. Each time, her soul had been lashed with planar rebound. Something in this world had locked it shut, had sealed the sky and buried the stars.

She was trapped here.

“We wouldn’t even be having this conversation,” she said, quieter now, “if I had a way out of this gods-forsaken plane.”

She exhaled, long and slow, the blood receding as her mana waned. But her eyes still glowed crimson, and her words were razor sharp.

“Outside,” she finally answered. “That’s where I’ll go.”

Her gaze locked with Nongmin’s. “Now tell me... how do I do that?”

…

..

.

[Heavenly Grace and Worldly Mother, Tian En]

From the uppermost balcony of her secluded manor, Tian En watched the mortals rebuild. The breeze smelled faintly of pine and wet soil, the sounds of hammering wood and quiet laughter below dancing in the air like drifting petals. The mortals had sprung back to life more swiftly than she’d expected. These were the same mortals she had tucked away into her pocket dimension… men, women, and children who would have been annihilated had they remained in the Unnamed City when that madman, Da Wei, enacted whatever impossible calamity had followed him.

Her expression was unreadable: wistful, perhaps, and marked with the faint sadness of someone who had done the right thing, and yet paid the price.

“Grandma,” a soft voice called behind her, “can we visit the Empire?”

It was Tian Mei, her granddaughter, barely a decade old and already enamored with adventure. Or perhaps it wasn’t adventure. Perhaps it was the strange grandson of the Emperor, the one the servants gossiped about… Da Wei’s rumored lovechild... or so how the story developed. And here she thought it had been Nongmin’s child, but that wasn’t the case. To complicate matters, Tian Mei’s young fiancé Shu Dai was echoing the same request of late, his eyes too sharp and too knowing for someone his age.

Tian En turned from the railing and smiled. “I’m sorry, little Mei, but we can’t. Grandma’s too busy.”

Shu Dai, standing just behind Tian Mei, narrowed his eyes. He was polite enough not to speak, but the suspicion was evident.

Tian Mei tilted her head, fingers twirling her hair. “But I heard the servants say the Heavenly Temple had… ex-exi… what was the word?”

“Exiled,” Tian En offered gently, stroking her granddaughter’s hair. “And no, I didn’t do anything wrong. We’re here because this is a vacation. Grandma’s just in seclusion, that’s all.”

That was a lie.

The truth? She had been exiled and cast out by the Heavenly Temple for speaking against the Cleanse. She had raised her voice at them and stood her ground when it counted, and they punished her for it. Now she lingered in the farthest corner of the world, a no-woman’s land between the Union and the Martial Alliance, forgotten by the Temple, and disregarded by most. And yet... she endured.

Tian En turned to Shu Dai as she continued to brush her granddaughter’s hair. “Young master Shu Dai, thank you for accompanying my granddaughter. But it seems... I have a visitor. Would you two mind?”

The children exchanged a glance and nodded obediently, bowing out with the innocent grace that only youth could carry. Once the door closed, Tian En moved to the center of the room, fan in hand.

She had felt the presence before the wind shifted, before the rustle of robes against the window frame. No assassin would dare try her life… not here. She covered her lips with her fan and laughed softly.

“Now, now,” she said demurely, “is this really becoming of you, Alliance Master? Entering through the window like some rogue?”

A red-haired man with a solid frame climbed in with all the grace of someone who didn’t need to use doors. Yi Qiu, the Master of the Martial Alliance, brushed the dust off his cloak and grinned.

“I was yet to thank you for saving my hide,” he said. “A visit is not much, compared to what I owe you.”

“Then consider your debt repaid,” Tian En said, taking her seat and crossing her legs. “Now speak plainly. What’s your real reason for coming?”

Yi Qiu smirked. “Must there be a reason for a friend to visit a friend?”

“Well said,” she replied, nodding slightly. “Still… what news drags someone of your personage from his bastion?”

Yi Qiu sobered. “I managed to bring Shan Dian’s corpse to the Union. They are giving her a burial, like you requested. They’re preparing for war. Planning to use her death to stake a claim on the Empire. My spies say the Empire’s weakening fast. Civil war isn’t just a rumor anymore… it’s a whisper that’s becoming a scream.”

Tian En scoffed. “The Union? Always hungry for conquest. Of course they’d want the first bite. But that only happens if the Temple and the Martial Alliance allow it.”

“I plan to stay neutral,” Yi Qiu said, folding his arms. “But if the Temple pushes forward, I’ll be compelled to provide a token force. I’m not keen on it, not with how strange things turned out at the Summit. There’s too much I don’t understand. Too much power that Da Wei man wielded.”

Tian En’s gaze narrowed. “Is that all?”

“There’s more,” Yi Qiu admitted.

She raised an eyebrow. “Don’t keep me in suspense.”

He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “The Cleanse... it’s not what we were told. There’s more. Layers of secrets. The Heavenly Temple is hiding something, something deliberate. I don’t know if you still care, but I intend to find out.”

Tian En stilled. Her fan fluttered once before closing with a soft snap. “And you need something from me, don’t you?”

Yi Qiu offered a sheepish smile. “Information. I need to find someone. An old man. Shouquan.”

Tian En looked out the window at the horizon, lips pursed in thought. “You really intend to dig that deep?”

“I have to,” Yi Qiu said. “If there’s something darker behind the Cleanse, then none of us can afford to remain ignorant.”

There was silence for a moment, only the wind and the distant sound of rebuilding.

Finally, Tian En spoke. “I might know where he is. But if I tell you... you’ll owe me another debt.”

Yi Qiu laughed. “Then I suppose I’ll be making a habit of repaying you, Tian En.”

She returned his smile faintly. “Be sure you survive long enough to do so, Yi Qiu.”

…

..

.

[Supreme Leader of Ward, Shouquan]

Shouquan couldn’t believe his eyes.

”You... You’re alive!” he gasped, his voice torn between awe and horror, raw with disbelief.

The figure before him stood unmoved, draped in the shroud of shadow and memory. He didn’t speak, didn’t even glance back… just turned slightly, as if the voice had been nothing but wind. As if Shouquan were nothing but wind.

And in that moment, Shouquan’s knees buckled.

His mouth filled with metallic warmth, and a second later, he was coughing blood violently. Crimson streaked down his chin as something thick and wet slapped against the ground: a piece of liver. His body convulsed, wracked by internal violence.

His cultivation stirred desperately to patch the damage, but it was for naught. The barbed chains that held him in place… cold, coiling things woven from divine will and condemned souls… dug deeper into his skin, slicing through spiritual meridians and mortal sinew alike. His limbs jerked as worms writhed beneath his flesh, ancient parasites that devoured quintessence and sanity alike.

His skin, exposed in patches where his robes had long since been torn away, blistered and blackened from the miasma that poisoned the air. This wasn’t mere toxic fog; it was the dying breath of cursed realms, condensed into gas. Every inhalation corroded his lungs, every exhale felt like a plea to the Reaper.

The chains slithered with a will of their own, tightening, squeezing, and singing with unnatural hunger.

It was painfully ironic.

He was trapped in the very prison he had built, designed to hold the worst of Outsiders, forged with the agony of millions, the cage that generated quintessence with every breath of torment. This place had been his masterpiece, his final ward against the madness beyond the stars.

He never imagined he would one day be its prisoner.

He never imagined the prison would survive that ‘Existence’. But it had. Somehow, after that world-shaking war, after the apocalypse of timelines and the unraveling of gods, this damned pit had remained.

And he… his friend… had returned.

“No…” Shouquan choked. His voice was hoarse and fragile. “No!”

His tears turned crimson as blood streamed from his eyes. His body sagged against the chains, and yet his soul flared, hot with anguish.

“You traitor!” he screamed. “You sold your soul to the enemy! I mourned you… I wept for you! I searched for your name when the world had forgotten it!”

The shadows didn’t flinch. The figure remained silent.

“I loved you like a brother!” Shouquan wailed. “Yuan Shen! How dare you!?”

The sound echoed against the vast abyssal walls of the prison. There was neither ceiling nor ground, only endless chains and a choking sky of rotting stars. Shouquan’s cry resounded like the toll of a funeral bell that had long been silent.

He thrashed… an old man, a broken immortal, and a betrayed friend. Blood gushed from the wounds reopened by grief. The worms inside him responded to his distress, gnawing with more fury, writhing against bone.

He remembered everything now.

Once, long ago, at the dawn of the Heavenly Temple, he had not stood alone. There had been another… Yuan Shen, his sworn brother, his idolized senior, a man who had stood with him when the Hollowed World first stared into the void and refused to blink. Together, they had vowed to fight the heavens, to resist the Outsiders, to protect all that was mortal and divine.

And Yuan Shen had been erased. Not just killed, but erased! like a word never written, a name never spoken. The world had forgotten him, and Shouquan, left to remember nothing, had wept without knowing why.

Until now.

Until that figure walked before him, alive, breathing, and whole!

And tainted…

Changed!

“You… how could you side with them?” Shouquan whispered. “How many did we bury? How many dreams did we kill just to hold the line?”

The silence that followed was deeper than death. The figure gave him no answer, only drifted further into the fog of the cage.

Shouquan’s body collapsed fully, hanging limp by the chains, breath shallow, skin rotting, and mind fracturing.

In his final lucidity, he thought not of rage, but of loss.

“I would have died for you,” he whispered, voice fading. “But you... you killed me first.”

And the cage, alive and feeding, devoured the rest.

…

..

.

[Guardian of Arch Gate, Tao Long]

Tao Long opened his eyes, bloodied, winded, and still alive.

His hands clenched the shaft of Drakon-Mar, the spear still humming with residual energy. The battlefield had gone silent, the kind of silence only death could grant. Around him, broken bodies lay where they fell, robes torn and faces twisted in the shock of their final moments. The agents of the Heavenly Temple had been many. But not enough.

The mountain that once bore the Arch Gate had cracked and rumbled, its protective buildings shattered into jagged ruin. Debris still tumbled down distant slopes like an afterthought of battle. Tao Long stood at its center as the unofficial, but undisputed, new Guardian of the Arch Gate.

A dying shimmer faded in front of him. The clone of Shenyuan, merely a facsimile of the long-dead monster, had delivered its final words before dispersing into gray smoke.

“We’ll be back.”

Tao Long spat blood onto the ruined stones, his expression dark. “Cowards.”

He knew they would return. That clone was merely the opening gambit. What disturbed him was the timing. The Heavenly Temple had never shown interest in the Arch Gate before. Why now?

He clenched his jaw, annoyed at the steep cost of his victory. Lifespans… centuries, perhaps millennia… burned away in a single hour, offered up as fuel to his arts. Thankfully, his cultivation had stabilized. No deviation. No spiritual fracture. Still, if he didn’t reach the Tenth Realm soon, the next assault might finish what the first one began.

He pressed a hand to his chest as a fresh wave of nausea overtook him. Blood spilled from his lips again. His vision swam, and for a moment, he faltered, only to catch himself by driving Drakon-Mar into the soil.

The spear pulsed like a heartbeat.

Tao Long closed his eyes briefly and reached with his mind, activating the mountain’s dormant formations, concealing what little remained. The Arch Gate shimmered, vanishing behind layers of spatial fog. Temporary, but it would buy him time. Barely.

He thought of Ward. Of Shouquan. Of the others in the organization. They should have been here. “Damn it,” he thought bitterly. “We were never meant to fight alone in this kind of situation.”

Only Shouquan had the means to contact them all. Tao Long’s hand tightened around the spear. Da Wei said something went wrong. But what?

He had left the letters Da Wei entrusted him with, as promised. But the second the task was done, he had rushed back here, drawn by instinct and duty.

And now he stood alone.

There was movement.

A silhouette approached from the horizon, swift and sure. Tao Long narrowed his eyes, raising his qi warily. Was it another agent of the Heavenly Temple? Another monster wearing a human face?

No.

As the figure slowed and stepped into the light, recognition hit him.

“…Mao Xian?” Tao Long blinked. The same young man Da Wei had once possessed, the one everyone thought a background character, a footnote.

But something was off.

Tao Long’s senses sharpened. The boy’s cultivation was gone, shattered beyond repair. Yet there was a weight to him, something ancient and coiled like a dragon under a human skin.

Tao Long pointed his spear forward, voice steady. “If you wish to pass, you’ll have to go through me.”

“I don’t intend to fight,” the figure said simply.

“Then what is it you want, Mao Xian the Adventurer, disciple of Zai Ai of the Ten Thousand Tools?”

The young man’s expression flickered, and then he bowed slightly, not out of submission, but courtesy.

“You may call me Dai Fu,” he said. “I shattered Mao Xian’s cultivation so I could take over this body.”

Tao Long’s eyes hardened. “Possession?” His spear struck like lightning.

But Dai Fu dodged it with a flicker, vanishing and reappearing three paces away.

“I’m not what you think,” Dai Fu said, calm and cold. “I have little time and less strength. Let’s not waste either.”

“You expect me to believe you’re not a demonic cultivator?”

“No,” Dai Fu said. “I expect you to believe this… I am the Holy Spirit of the Existence called Da Wei.”

The words struck like thunder.

Tao Long staggered back a step.

“What…?”

That at least explained the possession technique.

Dai Fu’s eyes gleamed. “I was born of him. Formed during his ascension, fragmented during his sacrifice. I do not claim to be him. But I carry his will. And I want revenge.”

Tao Long said nothing, stunned.

Dai Fu’s tone sharpened. “I do not ask for your trust. Use me. Discard me. Kill me when you’re done… I don’t care. But know this: I seek justice.”

“…Justice for what?”

“For what they did to him. For what they did to us.”

Tao Long looked at the boy… no, the thing wearing Mao Xian’s face… and saw it. Saw the grief. The fury. The echo of a soul too immense for one body.

Tao Long lowered his spear, just slightly.

“Fine,” he said. “Prove yourself. If you’re truly Da Wei’s spirit… then stand beside me. Help me protect the Arch Gate.”

Dai Fu smiled, faint and fierce.

“I intend to do more than that.”

…

..

.

[The Unlucky Bandit, Gu Jie]

After a long period of sleep, she had finally awakened.

The chamber was hidden, deep within a fold of spatial wards and silence formations, buried where no mortal eye could pierce. A simple place, warm and softly lit, yet it was here that sorrow settled thickest.

Gu Jie sat still, legs crossed atop the woven mat, her breath slow and measured.

Her dark hair draped around her like a velvet curtain, and the ornate, comfortable robes she wore shifted faintly with each movement. Her eyes were closed, but they fluttered open with a shimmer of unnatural gold. The swirling gold dissolved into crimson, and then finally into darkness.

There was no ceremony to the transformation. It was simply her truth.

She was Gu Jie—first disciple, loyal follower… daughter of Da Wei.

Not by blood, no. But what did that matter? He had made them family, not with lineage but with kindness, teaching, strength, and sacrifice. She would have called him father even if the heavens denied it.

A sudden thud broke her thoughts.

“Big sis!” a small, trembling voice cried as golden locks burst into her vision. Ren Jingyi threw herself at Gu Jie’s chest, hugging her tightly, tears hot against her neck.

“Big sis… why does it always happen to us?” the little girl sobbed. “It’s not fair… Heaven hates us. The world hates us. Even… even Master hates us—”

“That’s not true!” a voice snapped from the doorway.

Lu Gao stood there, his clenched fists trembling by his side. “Master will return. Just wait for him. I’m sure he’s fine!”

Ren Jingyi turned to him, eyes red, her small body shaking with fury. “Liar! Big bro Lu Gao is a liar! The others… the others said Master is dead! They said he killed people… killed lots of people!”

Lu Gao stepped forward, his expression torn between fear and anger. “Where did you hear that?” he asked sharply. “You should know better than to believe rumors. Master… Master will be back!”

“I’m not little!” Ren Jingyi screamed, voice about to crack into another sob, only to be interrupted by Gu Jie’s arms wrapping tightly around her.

The silence was sudden and full of meaning.

Ren Jingyi looked up, eyes wide with fear. “Big sis?”

Gu Jie didn’t answer immediately. Her gaze lifted to Lu Gao, and he froze. Her eyes were glistening. Not with gold. Not with power. Just with tears.

“Master is dead,” she said.

The words fell like leaden stones.

Ren Jingyi trembled violently in her embrace.

Lu Gao’s breath caught in his throat. His fists loosened. “This isn’t funny,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “Gu Jie, this isn’t…”

“It’s true,” she interrupted, firmer now, though her throat ached to speak. “I saw it through the Heavenly Eye. The one bestowed by the Emperor. I saw him fall. I saw… his death.”

Lu Gao looked like someone had stolen the ground from under his feet.

“Then the Emperor lied,” he said at last, voice hollow.

Gu Jie shook her head.

The chamber fell quiet.

Lu Gao sat down, heavily, near the window. The golden sunlight outside painted him in warmth he could not feel. His eyes stared into nothing.

Ren Jingyi clutched Gu Jie’s robes. “What are we going to do now…?” she asked, small and soft. “Do you… Do you know how to pray?”

Gu Jie nodded gently. “He taught us. Remember?”

“Yeah…” Jingyi whispered. “Master said… If we’re scared, we can pray. That faith will carry us, even when strength fails.”

Lu Gao let out a bitter laugh, almost a sob. “That’s it?” he muttered. “That’s all we have left? We pray?”

Gu Jie offered a pained smile. “It’s all we can do now. We trust the process. And hope for the result.”

Lu Gao stood again. Walked over. Sat on the bed beside them. Slowly, he reached out, taking Ren Jingyi’s hand in one, Gu Jie’s in the other.

They sat in a circle. The three of them. Alone. Broken. And yet… together.

“Then we pray,” he said.

Gu Jie nodded, voice almost a whisper.

“Yes… we pray.”

Because in a world ruled by chaos, tyranny, and betrayal… faith was the only thing that could not be taken from them. And sometimes, in the darkest hour, it was all that remained.

…

..

.

[Perverted Skull, Jue Bu]

“MOTHERFUCKER, YOU AREN’T TAKING ME DOWN WITH YOU!”

Jue Bu’s shriek echoed through the abyss, a maddened, metallic wail from a skull that floated in space not known to gods or mortals. His voice carried with it pure desperation, not for honor, or heroism, or sacrifice, but pure self-preservation.

Below him… around him… and just about everywhere, the thing inside Da Wei had opened its true maw. Eldritch, endless, and incomprehensible. Teeth were not teeth. Darkness was not darkness. This was not death.

This was erasure.

And Jue Bu wanted no part of it.

“DAMN YOU, DA WEI!” he howled, flailing… well, if a floating demonic skull could flail… his spiritual remnants trying to slip through the cracks of annihilation. “I KNEW you were cracked in the head, but this?! Noble self-sacrifice? You fool! You stubborn, wonderful, suicidal, magnificent idiot!”

He felt himself pulled.

Not by the beast.

But by fate.

The next thing he knew… There was nothing. He had fallen into the void.

Not the kind of void that screamed and writhed. No. This one was silent, ancient, eternal...

And it was bored.

…

Time had no meaning here. Jue Bu had no body to feel it. He didn’t even have his beloved perverted spectral tongue anymore he secretly would wave around when no one was looking.

He thought he was going mad.

Then he saw them.

Three motes of light. They were tiny, like butterflies. They were gentle and brilliant.

They flitted before him in the nothingness.

“The hell is this? More ghosts? Cute. Go away,” Jue Bu muttered.

But they didn’t go. They circled him.

He reached out with what little essence he still had.

“Quintessence.” No. Something more. “Hope. Prayer.”

They weren’t just random energies. They were prayers from those who still remembered Da Wei. Those who still hoped for him. Loved him. Cried for him. The prayers were so sincere it held strongly even in the void.

He laughed, mad and manic. “Of course! Of course! You dumb cultivators never knew what prayers really meant, did you? Just floating incense and fancy mantras. But this… this is the miracle I’ve been waiting for!”

And so, Jue Bu gathered the motes. He weaved them. He channeled his forbidden technique, the Reincarnation Scroll of Blasphemous Continuance. It was his pride and joy, crafted over millennia of evasion and perversion and unspeakable deals with the Nether.

He would live again.

But where?

…

The Hollowed World was vast.

Not simply because it grew with every new realm that fell into it each century.

No, it was vast because it enclosed a deeper and smaller world. A core.

A world surrounded by two celestial titans, often mistaken for the sun and the moon. A secret within the secret. The prison within the cage.

And in that hidden world… sat a hut.

A humble thing.

Within, chaos unfolded. Not cosmic chaos. Not demonic war. No, this was the far more terrifying kind:

A birth.

“Push! Push! Gods above, why is there so much blood?!” the father screamed, frantically pacing, fanning the air with a scroll of How to Be a Dad (4th Edition, Unlicensed Copy). ”The baby... Please...”

“Shut up and give me your arm to bite!” the mother shrieked, sweat pouring down her face, her hands crushing his with more force than most cultivators could muster in a palm strike.

“If you don’t stop yapping,” muttered the midwife, “I will bury this axe in your damn skull—”

A cry broke the madness. It was clear, loud, and unmistakably alive.

They froze.

Then it came again.

“WAAAAAAAAH!”

A miracle.

The mother gasped. The father’s jaw dropped. The midwife, despite her threats, smiled.

A wrinkled, red-faced baby blinked up at them with teary eyes and clenched fists.

“A boy,” the father whispered.

The mother, cradling the child now, let tears flow freely.

“What shall be the boy’s name?” the midwife asked softly.

The father looked at his wife. She nodded.

Their voices spoke in unison.

“Da Wei.”

…

Elsewhere in the void, a faint, lingering echo of a skull laughed triumphantly.

“Hah! You see that, Da Wei? I told you. You can’t keep a good skull down.”

Whether it was fate, a miracle, or madness, one thing was certain.

Da Wei was alive.

And so had Jue Bu, whether anyone liked it or not.