Within the immortal aperture, the cracks in the sky no longer echoed. They inhaled.
Fang Yuan stood beneath the firmament of his own making, watching it draw in myth, breath, possibility.
He did not stop it.
One of his clones had taken a name. Another had walked the Threadless Path in dream. The changes were no longer ripples. They were patterns.
"Even without Heaven's Will," he murmured, "the world still resists."
The sky blinked again—slower now, but deeper.
It no longer rejected the myth.
It was adapting.