In a sky where clouds painted ephemeral strokes against an eternal canvas, the sun and the moon moved in an eerie tandem.
The paradox of warm sunshine and cold moonlight bathed the earth simultaneously, creating a surreal, almost unsettling atmosphere.
Li Heiyan stood on the ancient mountaintop sitting on his blood filled empire, the whispers of forgotten ancestors echoing in his ears.
He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, feeling the weight of countless generations in his chest. His hands rose slowly, fingers splayed towards the heavens, as if reaching for the very essence of the cosmos.
"You devil, hand over your life and let this world be free from the weight of your sins!
Give up, Li Heiyan. You are no longer the one who instilled fear; you have lost.
You're a heretic! I still remember how you killed everyone in my family for your selfish needs. Today, I will take your life!"
As if ordained by fate, Li Heiyan's once divine white robe had withered and darkened, a spectral hymn to death itself. Blood boiled within his veins, threatening to shatter them, yet he stood unmoving until the break of dawn.
He was deemed the greatest mistake of the Dao, an embodiment of immoral evil, an icon of the devil.
For 1000years, he had existed not as a living being but as a symbol of terror in the Celestial Realm of Zhuan.
---
Half a day had passed since his decisive move, yet the chilling gaze of Li Heiyan instilled fear deep into the hearts of all who faced him.
Surrounded by the heavy cloak of justice, a coalition of elders and promising heroes formed an unyielding circle around Li Heiyan. Amidst their encircling presence, voices clashed in a tumultuous chorus of defiance and contempt.
Eyes burned with unwavering determination; some glinted with fleeting hope, while others bore scars of past battles, their hatred and fear intertwined as they fixed their gaze upon Heiyan.
Emerging from his throne, Li Heiyan raised his blood-drenched sword high, its blade carving a crimson arc through the eerie silence that enveloped the pool of fresh blood beneath him.
In that singular moment, a profound silence descended, casting a pall over the grim scene.
With each deliberate step, Heiyan's movements sent tremors through the ground, each footfall amplifying the tension as bystanders instinctively withdrew, their apprehension thick in the air.
Against the crimson sky, thunder roared, his robe fluttering, hair flowing with sorrow and disdain. Each step, a ripple, each ripple, a wave, heralding untold power.
Warriors stood ready, knowing the price. Some whispered final farewells, others painted their own elegies, embracing early death with a grim smile. The scene, a tragic yet profound play
But on the other hand before his adversaries, Li Heiyan stood unwavering,
His spirit as unyielding as the mountains themselves.
"Regret," he mused aloud, his voice carrying the weight of centuries, "befalls those who dare not pursue their dreams. To fail through any means suggests one has never truly grasped the depths of ambition."
Born into this world a mere mortal, he never knew the touch of his parents, nurtured instead within the isolated confines of a humble cave by nature's indifferent hand.
Through countless trials and tribulations with sects and masters, he ascended the perilous path to immortality.
Yet amid his achievements, what propelled him forward? For six hundred years, his singular pursuit burned with unwavering intensity: to rise as the ultimate sovereign.
Not content merely to reach the zenith of power, but to seize its very essence—to dominate all and reshape the very fabric of existence itself.
As Li Heiyan swung his sword aloft, a wicked grin twisted his lips for the final time.
"Even the demons mock," he hissed, his voice a venomous whisper. "Prepare yourselves."
In their futile attempt to unleash the art of sealing, to thwart his dark legacy, every hand clutched runes and talismans, poised not to banish evil but to ensnare it further.
Yet, in a single breath, the young man's blade faltered as if time itself reveled in his demise. His ultimate pursuit, the mastery of the forbidden Dao arts—the sinister control of time's flow, whispered only among the Twelve Sovereigns.
"The Mastery of Time," he sneered.
Legend spoke of reversing time, a cost paid with countless souls and a lifetime's toll, an ambition never realized.
But Li Heiyan, under his false name, knew his end was near. He embraced the gamble to reshape everything—a gamble to either conquer all or perish in the abyss.
It was a reckoning, shrouded in darkness.
In his final moments, Li Heiyan gazed at the sky, not for peace in the afterlife, but for eternal defiance. If reborn, he would reign once more as the heretic demon, forever craving chaos and destruction.
Cracks like dragon's claws raked the celestial dome,
Thunder's roar, heaven's wrath made known.
Li Heiyan's form began to fray,
Into a void where darkness held sway.
In that abyss, even he knew not the path,
Swallowed by the cosmos' silent wrath.
---
Seven hundred and five years distant...
In the Empire of the Sun, there stood a flourishing village teeming with life, where beasts and men alike roamed carefree within its bounds.
Within a particular building, young disciples gathered, their swords in rhythmic motion, honing their skills under strict yet nurturing supervision. A select few received personal tutelage from esteemed elders.
"The candidates this year show great promise," remarked the Sect Master, his gaze settling upon Su Yang and Lan Mei. "They have already achieved rank two in Spirit Condensation and many other's have already attained third stage of Body Tempering"
Hearing this the old man chuckled softly, his hand stroking his white beard as he observed the budding talents before him with hope.
"Perhaps this time, one among them will ascend to the Immortal Palace," he mused aloud. "It is tragic that despite mortal cultivation, even those born into the highest echelons, direct descendants of the Immortal Sovereign—the ultimate stage of cultivation—none have ever attained true immortality."
West wind whispers change; the old man murmured, sense the approach of significant transitions or the end of an era.
sniffing the air as if sensing his time was near.
"The heavy silence, bathed in the setting sun's glow, shattered as a young man with a pale, emotionless face, clad in tattered black robes and bearing a fragile frame, his hands as pale as a lone snow leopard yet as sharp as a snake, stood at the sect's doorstep."
"Soaring Phoenix Sect," he whispered, his gaze meeting the old man's. Moments later, the youth collapsed. Instead of casting him out, the sect members gathered, taking him in with unexpected compassion