In the Heart of the Temporal Storm
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Time resembled a giant serpent devouring its own tail. The forest that had witnessed the Lang Xian family massacre was now the stage for the Eternal Power Game. The scorched trees scattered golden ash into the air, the scent of burned flesh mixing with the musky aroma seeping from the wounds of time. Lang Xian stood at the eye of the storm, his ashen eyes glowing with a cold metallic light—like gateways to a world where weakness had no place.
The child "Lian"—a past version of himself—was hiding beneath a wooden crate, wide-eyed as he watched the massacre. But this time, he wasn't alone… Present-day Lang Xian was watching too, standing behind a wall of temporal mist, smiling like a demon who'd found a delightful game.
Lang Xian (present): (in a voice like the rustle of frost wings)
"Hello, little wolf… Do you know why I came?"
The child didn't answer, but Lang Xian already knew. He hadn't come to save him… but to steal his chance.
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The New Rules of the Game
With a touch of his finger, time froze. The golden butterflies falling from the sky halted mid-air, and the mother's scream crystallized like a glass statue. Lang Xian strolled through the scene like a theater master, examining every detail with the coldness of a butcher selecting a carcass.
The commander's masked sword was a masterpiece of meteoric steel, its blade engraved with the secret symbols of the "Shinlu" tribe.
The mother's blood, pooling on the ground, formed a miniature gate.
The crushed infant beneath the iron boot hid a black ring — the key to the goddess Helyaion's prison.
Lang Xian picked up the ring without hesitation, locking eyes with the hidden child.
"Weakness is a choice… and choices have a price."
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The Wolf Who Dances on the Corpses of Loved Ones
When time resumed, he didn't intervene. He watched coldly as the sword pierced the father's heart, as the mother was slaughtered, as the baby was crushed. Child "Lian" crawled out from his hiding place, but this time… Present Lang Xian was waiting for him.
Lang Xian (present): (grabbing the child's arm with bone-crushing strength)
"The only tear worth crying… is for lost power."
The child screamed, but his voice was swallowed by Lang Xian's laughter. With a cold hand, he tore the golden sigil from the child's forehead—it gleamed the same color as the black ring.
The golden sigil wasn't just a mark… It was a seed of power that would transform him into a god.
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The Feast That Never Satisfies
In a hidden cave beyond time, where the souls of the slaughtered were stored as fuel for the cosmos, Lang Xian began his ritual:
1. The black ring was placed inside a circle drawn from child Lian's blood.
2. The golden sigil was melted into a goblet made of small god skulls.
3. The masked commander's sword was dipped into the golden liquid, releasing a scream like temporal ripples.
As he drank the goblet, Helyaion's voice echoed through the cave:
"At last… the perfect servant."
But Lang Xian laughed, shattering the goblet on the ground.
"Servitude… is a myth created by the weak."
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The Greatest Hunt
Days later, he returned to the new Liangzhou village, where "Jiu" had built his ideal world. But the village was now ruins:
The children who once played were turned into golden salt statues.
The River of Hope had dried, revealing a bed filled with bones of mythical creatures.
The Tree of Hope bore black fruits bleeding golden poison.
Lang Xian walked through the wreckage, every step leaving a trail of black ash. In the center of the village, he found the last Jiu — a younger version of him, lost in time.
Lang Xian: (lighting a cigarette made of dried time leaves)
"Dreams are beautiful… but the price is steep."
Before he could finish, the meteoric sword struck—
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The Harvest That Never Ends
The golden blood of the final Jiu flowed like rivers nourishing a barren land. Lang Xian collected it in a glass vial crafted from the tears of the goddess Helyaion. Each drop held a miniature universe, each universe a version of "Jiu" trying to rebuild hope.
Lang Xian: (gazing into the vial with insatiable eyes)
"Weakness is a disease… and this is the cure."
He drank it all in one gulp, his veins swelling with golden light that devoured the dark.
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The Wolf Who Built His Tomb with His Own Hands
Atop a tower made of the skulls of dead universes, Lang Xian sat on a throne of unanswered questions. The black ring shimmered on his finger, the golden sigil on his forehead glowing like a black sun.
From beyond time, he heard Helyaion's laughter:
"You are like me… you will never be satisfied."
But he did not reply. His eyes were fixed on the horizon, where a new universe began… full of wolves awaiting their turn.
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And in the depths of the void, where universes are hidden like chess pieces, a child was born—with gray eyes and a heart of ice. On his forehead, a small tattoo of a laughing wolf… the beginning of the cruelest cycle.