The world had no kings.
No emperors.
No sects that stood above others.
The hierarchies that had ruled for millennia—obliterated in an instant.
Not by war.
Not by rebellion.
But by Shree Yan's will.
And yet, even in absolute subjugation, fear and hatred still burned in the hearts of those who had once ruled.
The Last Gathering
In the ruins of a once-grand palace, amidst shattered thrones and broken statues, the remnants of the world's former rulers gathered in secret.
King Surya Rai—his face gaunt, his eyes hollow.
Grandmaster Aryaman—his cultivation severed, his mind barely holding together.
The surviving heads of the fallen sects, the scattered warlords of the broken kingdoms.
They knelt not in reverence, but in desperation.
"He is not a god," Aryaman whispered. "He is still flesh. He still breathes. He still bleeds."
A flicker of hope—the idea that Shree Yan could be killed.
That thought alone was enough to make men who had lost everything rise again.
But hope was a fragile thing.
And it would be the first thing to die.
The Arrival of the Immortal King
The torches flickered. The wind stilled.
And then—he was there.
Shree Yan did not enter. He did not announce his arrival.
He simply appeared.
His presence was not one of a conqueror. Not one of an emperor.
It was beyond titles, beyond human comprehension.
The fallen rulers, once bound by desperation, felt it in their bones—the unmistakable truth that this was not a being they could defeat.
Shree Yan did not speak immediately.
Instead, he looked at them.
And that gaze alone made time itself feel like it was stretching into eternity.
Then, finally, he spoke.
"You wished to challenge me."
It was not a question. It was a statement.
And it was met with silence.
Surya Rai clenched his fists. "You claim dominion over the world, yet you have no kingdom. No throne. No dynasty to call your own." His voice shook, but he forced himself to continue. "You are nothing more than a tyrant in the shadows."
For a moment, there was stillness.
Then—Shree Yan smiled.
A smile that held no warmth, no malice—just inevitability.
And with a single motion, he extended his hand.
The earth trembled. The heavens wept.
And in the heart of the shattered world, something began to rise.
The Throne of Eternity
A city unlike anything the world had ever seen began to form from the void itself.
Mountains bent to its will. Rivers carved themselves to serve its design. The very essence of the heavens was drawn into its foundation.
A palace of obsidian and gold, vast beyond measure. Towers that stretched into infinity. A throne that stood at the center—unchallenged, unmoved, undeniable.
The gathered rulers watched in horror.
For they realized too late—Shree Yan was never a conqueror.
He was a creator.
And his kingdom was not built through war, but through the sheer force of existence itself.
"This," Shree Yan whispered, "is the first and last throne this world will ever know."
His crimson eyes burned like stars as he turned back to them.
"Kneel."
One by one, they fell.
Not by force. Not by fear.
But because the world itself had already accepted him.
And thus, the Era of the Immortal King began.
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