Immortal Paladin

Yuan Shun released me abruptly and darted past, her footsteps light as she crossed the stone corridor. She glanced over her shoulder, eyes bright, and waved me along.

“Come on,” she said cheerfully. “We should hurry up and destroy this world already.”

I stopped short. “Why would you want to do that?”

She slowed, turning fully toward me. “Because this world isn’t real,” she replied, as if stating the most obvious fact. “And neither am I.”

She wasn’t being dramatic. I could hear it in her tone. She wasn’t talking about personality or identity. She meant ontology. Existence. It surprised me how she was aware this was a record of a hostory, though.

“I know,” I said carefully. “But we can’t.”

She tilted her head. “Why not?”

“I still want to see more of it,” I answered. “Even if it’s just a record.”

“Okay.”

And with that, she turned and ran off again.

I followed her through the winding paths of the Temple until we emerged into the courtyard. Yuan Shun stopped near the edge, hands clasped behind her back, watching with quiet interest as Quan Shou and Yuan Shen were being thoroughly beaten by Ezekiel with a broomstick.

“Discipline builds character,” Ezekiel intoned as he swept Quan Shou’s legs out from under him and smacked Yuan Shen across the shoulder. Neither of them dared complain.

Yuan Shun giggled. I rubbed my temple.

From that day on, I kept a closer watch on her.

She never brought up destroying the world again. When I asked what she understood about this place, she only smiled cryptically, as if the answer amused her too much to share. Quan Shou and Yuan Shen continued to seek me out for guidance, earnest and stubborn in equal measure, while Yuan Shun cultivated alone, her progress steady and unsettlingly natural.

Ru Qiu came and went as he pleased. When I asked what he was doing beyond the Temple, he replied simply, “Research.”

“Research on what?” I pressed.

“The consequences,” he said. “Of breaking the barrier between past and future.”

Decades passed like drifting clouds.

I broke through the Sun Phase at last, completing the World Path, and turned my focus toward the Tenth Realm, the Endless Path. It was said to be the culmination of all prior cultivation, the point where one infused their Dao into their inner world and transformed it into a true Dao World, an existence that reflected the self without distortion.

When my True Self had reached this stage in pursuit of the Six Paths, his Dao World had fractured into six continents, each representing a Path, revolving endlessly in a vast inner cosmos. At the time, I had thought it magnificent.

Now, sitting alone atop the mountain peak, eyes closed, I finally understood how wrong I had been.

My attempt to reach the Endless Path stalled before it even began. No resistance. No backlash. Just… emptiness. As if the road itself refused to acknowledge me.

Slowly, painfully, the realization settled in.

My path had been flawed from the very beginning.

Those six continents weren’t a sign of genius. They were an abomination, an artifact of impatience. Back in Meng Po’s world, I had been desperate, convinced that as long as I raised my realm fast enough, everything else would fall into place. I had chased numbers, power, breakthroughs, telling myself I could fix the details later.

But the truth was simpler and far uglier.

I was a terrible cultivator.

I had lucked my way through the Four Great Attributes. I had brute-forced the Three Cosmic Elements without truly understanding them. I couldn’t even explain the shape of my own soul. I had just gathered essence recklessly and forced a breakthrough. I refined my bloodline by abusing stats and healing spells instead of comprehension. I rushed through the Trinity Celestial Paths like a thief looting a burning house.

I cheated the Heart Path by leaning on Divine Possession, barely paying attention to the Four Chambers. And when I reached the World Path, I let my greed run free, creating six worlds, six Paths, no unification, no harmony, just accumulation stacked on top of accumulation.

I opened my eyes and laughed bitterly.

“What an arrogant idiot,” I muttered to myself.

You’d think that in a place where time was effectively infinite, impatience wouldn’t exist. I learned the hard way that it wasn’t true. Time didn’t cure greed, and it certainly didn’t fix flawed thinking.

I couldn’t blame Hei Mao, Ox-Head, or Horse-Face for how things turned out back then. They had been nothing but supportive, absolute champions who never once doubted me. If anything, the outcome was inevitable. Pursuing the Six Paths simultaneously had always been unheard of, bordering on madness. The fault lay squarely with me.

I had been greedy for power.

I remembered cultivating for hundreds of thousands of years like a lunatic, terrified that I would never get another chance like that again. I had pushed forward without restraint, telling myself that speed mattered more than foundation, that insight would come later. It was a lie I repeated often enough that I began to believe it.

When I opened my eyes, the Endless Path finally lay before me.

I exhaled slowly and muttered, “The main body’s going to have to shatter his cultivation and start over.”

The thought didn’t even scare me anymore. If anything, it felt inevitable. At least he would have it easier than I did. He would inherit the insights his clones paid for with failure and humiliation.

I shook my head and chuckled dryly. “Me and my disciples really have a talent for crippling ourselves and restarting from scratch.”

Yuen Fu had practically inherited that habit wholesale.

The Endless Path was strange. Unlike most realms, it didn’t divide itself into neat tiers or stages. Much like the Heart Path, it was singular and absolute. The Four Chambers of the Heart Path had never truly been minor realms anyway. Instead, they were steps in a single process. The Endless Path was similar, except its scope dwarfed everything that came before it.

It was the culmination.

I turned my attention inward, peering into my Dantian.

Though it was only a copy of the main body’s, it had evolved differently. My inner world was more coherent, its structure less chaotic. Sparks of soul-light drifted through it like slow-moving stars, more defined than I remembered. On the snowy continent that represented the Ghost Path, pale, ghost-like figures wandered aimlessly across the ice.

They weren’t truly alive.

They reacted to qi, moved with instinctive patterns, and responded to disturbances, but they possessed no souls of their own. Echoes, imitations, closer to animated concepts than beings. It was unsettling to watch, but also fascinating.

Despite all that, my Dao World didn’t grant any obvious advantage over a standard Inner World. If anything, it felt… restrained.

“I guess I’ve been spoiled,” I murmured.

I rose to my feet and drew deeper from my Dao World. The response was immediate. World Force flowed more freely now, smoother, heavier, obeying my intent with far less resistance. My control over qi and mana sharpened, the transitions between them nearly seamless.

I lifted my hand and called down judgment.

“Heavenly Punishment.”

The sky tore open.

A colossal golden sword descended from above, wreathed in divine radiance, and struck the distant mountain with apocalyptic force. Stone split. The peak collapsed inward, cleaved cleanly in two as shockwaves rippled across the land.

Before I could admire the result, a familiar presence flared behind me.

“Are you trying to announce your existence to every faction in a thousand li?”

I turned to see Ru Qiu standing a short distance away, arms crossed, his expression a mix of irritation and disbelief.

I rubbed the back of my neck. “I might’ve overdone it.”

He snorted. “You think?”

“What do you want? More sparring, hopefully?”

“I want you to come with me,” he said.

I raised an eyebrow. “Where?”

“There’s a place I want to show you.”

That was all the explanation I got. Typical.

Before leaving, I informed Quan Shou, Yuan Shen, and Yuan Shun that I would be gone for a while. None of them panicked. Quan Shou simply nodded, Yuan Shen looked mildly annoyed that I was leaving without testing him again, and Yuan Shun only smiled in that unreadable way of hers. I summoned additional Ezekiels to reinforce the Temple’s defenses and made sure the formations were stable.

Then I left with Ru Qiu.

The journey itself was uneventful in the grand sense. We sparred along the way, occasionally stopping atop mountains or empty plains. He corrected my posture here, scoffed at my overreliance on instinct there, and otherwise let me cultivate in relative silence. It wasn’t formal instruction, but it wasn’t nothing either.

During the journey, I learned something important.

The Ghost Path continent I accessed wasn’t a standalone construct. It was merely one of six inner worlds belonging to the main body’s Dao World. Once I realized that, contacting the other Six Path avatars became trivial, even while trapped in this recorded world.

They were… doing well.

Hell Soul, Human Soul, Heaven Soul, and Alice were holding the line against the Heavenly Temple’s armies recently sent on the Holy Ascension Empire. The Asura Soul, alongside the Guardians, had been invited by the Union’s scholar-warrior to help plan a decisive strike against the Heavenly Temple’s core. The Union’s Seven Warlords, Shouquan, Tao Long, Dave, Joan, and the Asura Soul were already executing a high-risk operation.

Joan’s involvement wasn’t coincidental. Word had spread that the Heavenly Temple had uncovered a secure method of ascension for the Hollowed World.

Animal Soul had taken over support and logistics, claiming New Willow as his base. Under his management, the city itself flew between the Empire, the Martial Alliance, and the Great Desert, delivering reinforcements, supplies, and evacuation routes wherever they were needed.

Five out of six parts of me were doing everything they could to hold the world together.

It still bothered me that the main body was missing.

Eventually, Ru Qiu brought me to our destination.

We stood before a massive stone archway, ancient and weather-worn. Carved deep into the stone were four characters that radiated a faint, oppressive intent.

天界魔教

Heavenly Demonic Cult.

I stared at it for a long moment.

“So this is how it ended up,” I said quietly.

Ru Qiu nodded. “At some point, my Divine Cult became this.”

He walked forward, stopping beneath the arch. “The people around me changed one day. Or maybe they didn’t. Maybe I was the one who changed first, and they only followed.”

I frowned. “How does a teaching about helping the weak turn into strength-above-all nonsense?”

Ru Qiu’s expression twisted. He swiped his hand through the air.

The stone trembled. The carved words cracked, flaked, and crumbled away. In their place, new characters formed, radiant and solemn.

Heavenly Divine Cult.

“That’s what it was supposed to be,” he said bitterly. “I didn’t realize it back then, but the corruption started with me. I grew distant. I grew tired. I stopped explaining myself. People filled in the gaps.”

He turned to look at me. “Tell me, Da Wei. If you lived for an eternity… would you really stay the same?”

I didn’t answer.

The question wasn’t rhetorical. It was an accusation wrapped in fear.

After a long silence, I finally spoke. “Was this really necessary?”

Ru Qiu looked at me, surprised.

“I’ve already lived your life,” I continued. “I’ve seen everything there is to see. If you brought me here to change my mind about your revenge, then you’re wasting your time.”

I met his gaze steadily. “You should just give up on that.”

Ru Qiu clicked his tongue, clearly disappointed.

“I didn’t bring you here to change your mind,” he said. “I brought you here to enlighten you.”

I didn’t argue. We continued walking deeper into the ruins that had once been the Heavenly Divine Cult. The place was vast, its layout grand even in decay. Statues lined the paths of heroes, saints, martyrs, and figures frozen in moments of triumph. Most of them were damaged, but not randomly. Their bodies remained mostly intact, while their faces had been deliberately destroyed, chiseled away with unmistakable intent.

It left a sour taste in my mouth.

“Don’t you find it strange,” Ru Qiu said suddenly, “that among all the memories you relived within me, there was never a clear reason for why I truly fell into the demonic path?”

I glanced at him. “Isn’t it obvious? Depression. Isolation. Loss. The usual cocktail.”

He stopped walking and looked at me sharply. “Do you really believe that?”

I hesitated.

Ru Qiu turned back toward the ruins. “That life was my second life. I didn’t know about the wish. I didn’t know about the promise waiting for me at the end. I was thrown into a destiny I didn’t even know existed, and forced to walk it blind.”

He exhaled slowly. “If you were in my position, what would you have done? Would you have fallen into demonic cultivation? Lost yourself? Let despair rot you from the inside?”

I answered without thinking. “No. I’d mind my own business. Make a life out of whatever hand I was dealt. Do things my way.”

Ru Qiu laughed softly. “Exactly.”

He gestured around us. “That’s what this was. The Divine Cult was my way of living. My second life.”

We stopped before a statue standing slightly apart from the others.

It was of a woman.

The craftsmanship was exquisite, untouched by the vandalism that marred the others. Her face remained intact, gentle and serene, as if whoever destroyed the rest of this place couldn’t bring themselves to harm her likeness.

I didn’t need to ask.

At the back of my mind, I prayed this wasn’t another case of missing memories. I was honestly getting tired of that particular flavor of bullshit. But recalling the Divine Possession I’d undergone with Ru Qiu, I doubted this was something conveniently forgotten.

“I gave her everything,” Ru Qiu said quietly. “I thought she was Kim Seo-yeon reincarnated.”

My brow furrowed. “I’ve been there. I get that part. But you said you were played. What do you mean?”

He turned to me, his expression darkening. “The Six Supremes were working together.”

That made me stop cold. “How do you know that?”

Ru Qiu didn’t answer. He simply motioned for me to follow.

We descended into a hidden passage that led beneath the ruins, eventually arriving at a cavern carved deep into the earth. At its center sat an enormous box, easily several meters tall, constructed of some unknown metal. Runes, seals, and intricate decorations covered every inch of its surface.

“A prison,” Ru Qiu said. “Made for me.”

He snapped his fingers.

The box began to unfold, panels separating and peeling away like petals of a mechanical flower. Piece by piece, its contents were revealed.

Inside stood a man.

He was handsome, wearing flowing golden robes that radiated authority. Dark, fiery chains wrapped tightly around his body, suppressing him. His presence was unmistakable.

He looked like the Enlightened Scholar I remembered.

Except he was far more than that.

I stared, disbelief flooding my chest.

“What the fuck,” I muttered. “What the fuck is the Yellow Emperor doing here?”

Ru Qiu crossed his arms and spoke as if the answer were obvious. “Of course I took him from the False Earth.”

I stared at him for a long moment before rubbing my face. I had almost forgotten that Ru Qiu was a Supreme Being. Or at least something close enough that common sense had long since filed a restraining order against him.

“How,” I asked slowly, “did you get past the star formations in outer space, survive the Sun and Moon watching over the False Earth, locate the Yellow Emperor in a world capped at the Fourth Realm, and then drag him back here into the Hollowed World without the Sun, Moon, or stars interfering?”

Ru Qiu tilted his head, genuinely thinking about it. He rubbed his chin.

“I just flew past the stars, the sun, and the moon,” he said. “Then I used the remnants he left on my head to track him.”

My eye twitched.

“And the Ascension Games?” I pressed.

“Oh. That part was easy.” He waved a hand. “I beat the Ascension Games by defeating my past self. Then I pretended to be him.”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“…You’re insane.”

He shrugged. “It was only a recorded memory.”

I exhaled sharply. The longest I hadn’t seen his face was maybe three to five years. That meant he had done all of this alone, casually, like someone stepping out to buy groceries.

“And the Supreme Void?” I asked.

Ru Qiu shrugged again. “Didn’t see him.”

Before I could respond, the Yellow Emperor suddenly spoke.

“Kill me,” he said hoarsely.

Eyes opened across his golden robes, blinking in erratic patterns.

I deadpanned, “Oh. So you were here all along.”

The Yellow Emperor shuddered violently, his voice rising into a scream that rattled the cavern.

“You don’t understand what you’re doing! The Supreme Void is not an existence you should toy with!”

He looked nothing like the dignified figure I remembered. He looked afraid and suffering.

Ru Qiu lifted a hand. Dark flames surged forward, engulfing the Yellow Emperor. The eyes vanished one by one, burning away like dying embers.

The Yellow Emperor gasped, drawing in a deep breath, visibly forcing himself to calm down.

“Please,” he said, voice trembling. “Either kill me… or send me back.”

I frowned. “You know this is a recorded history, don’t you?”

He nodded. “I do. But the Supreme Void is an existence that transcends such distinctions. Even a record can be exploited.”

I turned sharply to Ru Qiu. “Are you out of your mind? Do you have any idea how reckless this is?”

Ru Qiu scoffed. “And you’re not curious? Not even a little?”

I didn’t answer immediately.

He stepped closer, his gaze sharp. “You know why I brought you here. I’ve interrogated him myself. His will is iron. I couldn’t break it.”

My stomach sank. “You want me to use Divine Possession.”

Ru Qiu smiled thinly. “I want answers. About why we were brought here. About transmigration. About everything.”

The Yellow Emperor shook his head violently. “You wouldn’t understand. You’re not ready. Not yet.”

I laughed softly, humorless. “As far as I’m concerned, Ru Qiu and I were designed as weapons. Tools meant to strike the Six Supremes. That’s the gist of it, isn’t it?”

The Yellow Emperor looked away, his expression twisted with something like regret. “That,” he said quietly, “was only the beginning.”

Silence stretched between us.

Then Ru Qiu turned to me and asked, almost gently, “You’re really telling me you’re not curious about any of it?”