Endless darkness stretched across the abyss between two realms, a vast expanse of nothingness where neither time nor life should have existed. Yet within this unimaginable void, the most savage of wars raged.

The battlefield spanned light-years, an ever-expanding sea of devastation where two mighty forces clashed. This was no ordinary conflict—it was a war for survival itself, a desperate struggle between the remnants of the human race and the monstrous beings known as the Death Creators.

The heavens trembled under the weight of destruction.

The roars of beasts and battle cries of humans merged into a deafening storm. With every passing moment, the voices of the human cultivators now grew weak and distant, like the dying echoes of a forgotten era. The roars of the Death Creators, in contrast, carried an ominous certainty. With every passing moment, their voices grew louder, more dominant, drowning out all resistance.

Energy surged with every strike, shockwaves tearing across space, igniting the void like dying stars. The heavens trembled under the might of both sides, and the foundation of the universe groaned under the weight of destruction.

Deep in the battlefield, where starlight faded, a lone monk stood against the tide. His robes, once pristine, were now tattered and drenched in blood—his own and that of countless foes.

Surrounding him were three Giant Death Creators, each exuding an aura so vile it could corrode existence itself. Their presence distorted the space around, the Laws of death spreading away at everything in their path.

"Your resistance is futile," one of them intoned, its voice a cold whisper that carried the weight of countless deaths. "Submit, or perish."

The monk wiped the blood from his lips and sneered. "Less talk. More fight."

With a single step, he blurred into motion, his palm igniting with golden flames. A deafening explosion followed as his strike connected, shattering one of the creatures into blood mist. .

but the others two struck him back, tearing him apart. Both regenerated, their killing intent undiminished.

Boom!

Their clash tore through time and space, sending ripples across the void, shaking galaxies.

This scene repeating itself across the void, endless battlefield, humans and Death Creators continued their slaughter....

A hundred years passed.

The stars dimmed, their light consumed by the spreading tide of death.

One by one, the human race's top powerhouses fell. Giants of cultivation, emperors of galaxies, and saints of ancient eras—none were spared. The Death Creators pressed forward relentlessly, their advance unstoppable.

Despair echoed through the universe.

"Slaughter them all!"

"Erase them from existence!"

"Crush those Ants"

Laughter, madness, and the scent of blood filled the battlefield. The heavens wept, yet no salvation came.

Above the battlefield, four supreme Death Creators floated like deities of annihilation, their cold eyes watching the slaughter unfold. They had not moved—there was no need.

"It seems humanity will vanish today," one of them laughed, its voice filled with amusement.

Another scoffed. "Too slow. Let me end this myself."

In an instant, the man rose. His movement was slow, almost indifferent, the act of standing sent tremors rippling through the space. One moment, he was grounded, a silhouette in the endless void; the next, he stood above the cosmos itself. No transition. No process. He simply was.

Then, he lifted his hand.

With a voice like the tolling of a death knell, he uttered Coldly:

"Divine Art—Sky-Blocking Palm."

The universe trembled.

A colossal hand, darker than the abyss, materialized above the endless void. It was not merely large—it was boundless, an embodiment of death itself. Each crevice of its palm was etched with the Laws of Death, twisting like chains of fate, sealing all hope within their grasp. The space around it decayed and collapse.

His palm alone spanned countless star systems, and his outstretched fingers ran through the heavens like celestial pillars.

As it stretched across the heavens, its sheer size eclipsed entire worlds. The human realm, once bathed in the light of countless stars, was now swallowed by an all-consuming shadow. Cities fell silent. Mortals and immortals alike gazed up, their souls drowning in despair.

Trillions of life forms looked up in horror, their faces frozen in terror as an endless shadow consumed the heavens.

"Is this the end?"

"Emperor… where are you?!"

"Goddess, save us!"

The black hand descended.

It did not rush. It did not need to. Its mere presence warped the sky, gravity bending toward its unfathomable pull. Galaxies in the distance flickered, their light stolen away as the palm inched closer.

Cries of fear filled the cosmos as countless beings collapsed, their hope crushed beneath the suffocating darkness.

At that moment, countless beings across the universe sighed in sorrow, watching the final moments of the human race..

But then—

Boom!

A deafening roar shattered the darkness.

Across mountains and seas, where ruins lay still and silent, a figure emerged.

Dressed as a scholar, yet carrying the weight of mountains and Seas on his back.

With each step, the stars trembled. With each breath, the Universe stirred.

He was the Human Emperor—the last pillar of humanity, the strongest cultivator of his race, and the final ancestor of mankind.

A terrifying aura erupted from his body, sweeping across countless worlds.

The four supreme Death Creators hovering above the battlefield faltered for the first time. Their gazes sharpened.

"This human…"

"He is on our level."

Across the ruined domains, the last survivors of humanity looked up, their eyes widening with a mix of hope and sorrow.

Hope—because they knew who had arrived.

Sorrow—because even he could not stand alone against such an overwhelming force.

And yet, he came.

The Human Emperor had arrived.

But what could he do alone?