The expulsion was a masterpiece of cosmic engineering, and Zǔ Zhòu admired it even as it tore him apart.
His consciousness, now a ragged thing held together by will and spite, tumbled through the spaces between spaces. Each transition between dimensional membranes felt like being fed through a grinder made of pure concept, but the sensation was secondary to his fascination with the mechanism itself.
"Seventeen dimensional phase shifts per nanosecond," he observed, his thoughts somehow maintaining clinical precision despite lacking anything resembling a brain. "No, eighteen. They're accelerating the frequency to prevent adaptation. Clever."
A reality bubble burst against his consciousness, its dying screams painting colors that had no names across non-existent space. Inside, he glimpsed a universe where entropy had reversed itself out of sheer embarrassment, leaving behind only the echo of what might have been order.
Another strand of power was ripped from him—some minor law governing the interaction between hope and probability. He felt it tear free, leaving a wound that bled mathematics.
"Fascinating extraction method," he noted. "They're not just reclaiming the power—they're ensuring I can't create antibodies against future reclamation. Each piece removed changes the fundamental equation of my existence."
Soul Transformation comprehension: shredded and reclaimed.
The process was elegant in its brutality. Rather than simply stripping away his power, the Heavenly Dao was performing metaphysical surgery, carefully excising each element while cauterizing the wounds with impossibility. He couldn't regrow what had never been allowed to exist.
Through the maelstrom of unraveling existence, Zǔ Zhòu maintained his analytical perspective. This was, after all, the most interesting thing that had happened to him in eons. Being omnipotent had grown tedious. Being systematically destroyed while maintaining consciousness? Now that was novel.
"The reclamation rate follows a logarithmic curve," he observed as his Void Refinement comprehension dissolved. "Ninety-nine percent of consumed power recovered in the first phase, but the remaining one percent..." He would have frowned if he still had features. "Ah. They can't fully reclaim it without destroying the infrastructure of reality itself. I'm a permanent scar."
The thought delighted him.
More dimensional transitions. He passed through a reality where suffering had achieved enlightenment and preached compassion to its own pain. Through another where mathematics had developed emotions and was consequently having a nervous breakdown. Each glimpse was filed away, categorized, saved for future reference.
"Trajectory mapping," he muttered, feeling the dimensional coordinates burning themselves into what remained of his consciousness. "Third quadrant of null-space, vector approaching... yes, they're aiming for a nascent reality. Minimum contamination risk. Maximum isolation."
Another revelation struck him as Core Formation crumbled away. The Heavenly Dao wasn't just expelling him—it was learning from him. Each piece of reclaimed power carried with it the memory of how it had been consumed. The universe was developing antibodies against him specifically.
"I'm teaching reality how to fear," he laughed, the sound a twisted thing that made nearby probability waves commit suicide rather than carry it. "How wonderful. I've become a vaccine against myself."
Foundation Establishment went next, and with it, something curious happened. The reclamation paused, just for an instant—less than the time it would take for a photon to reconsider its life choices. But Zǔ Zhòu noticed.
"Oh?" His consciousness sharpened, focusing through the pain. "What's this then?"
The Heavenly Dao was... hesitating? No, that wasn't quite right. It was preparing something. The cosmic equivalent of taking a deep breath before delivering the final blow.
Then he felt it. Not just power being stripped away, but something being added. Burned in. Carved into the fundament of his existence with tools that predated concepts like mercy or restraint.
"The Laughing Demon bloodline," he whispered, feeling the mark sear itself into his soul. "A designation that doesn't exist, has never existed, will now retroactively have always existed. You're not just exiling me—you're marking me."
The bloodline was a masterwork of cosmic spite. It would make him easier to identify, certainly. Any reality he entered would recognize him as an anomaly, a threat, a thing that should not be. But more than that, it would change how he interacted with existence itself. Demonic cultivation would come easier, but at the cost of reality itself becoming allergic to his presence.
"A love letter from Heaven?" He laughed again, and this time the laughter carried something new—anticipation. "How touching. I'll treasure it always."
The final stages of expulsion accelerated. Body Tempering was ripped away with particular viciousness, as if the Heavenly Dao wanted to ensure he understood the completeness of his fall. From the peak of existence to less than mortal—it was a statement written in the language of humiliation.
But Zǔ Zhòu had never been capable of feeling humiliation. Only amusement.
His consciousness compressed, folded, twisted into shapes that would have driven gods mad. The last coherent thought he managed before the final transition was to map the precise dimensional coordinates of his expulsion trajectory. A trail of breadcrumbs through impossible spaces, should he ever decide to follow them back.
"Eighty-seven degree phase shift through null-time," he catalogued. "Passing through the screaming quarter where deleted things go to not-die. Lovely neighborhood. Must visit again."
The nascent reality approached—or he approached it, or they approached each other in ways that made direction meaningless. Young universe, soft laws, minimal defensive mechanisms. A perfect prison for something like him.
As consciousness began to fade, Zǔ Zhòu made one final observation. The Heavenly Dao had made a crucial error in its panic. It had been so focused on stripping away his power that it had forgotten the most important thing.
It had left him his memories.
Every technique. Every comprehension. Every law and loophole and secret weakness of reality itself—all of it remained, locked away in a mind that could no longer access it directly but could never forget it.
"You've caged a library," he whispered to the retreating Heavenly Dao. "And eventually, I'll remember how to read."
The final transition hit like existence itself throwing a tantrum. His consciousness, now little more than will wrapped around memory wrapped around spite, punched through the membrane of the nascent reality. The young universe shuddered, reality rippling as something that violated its basic assumptions took residence.
Somewhere in that reality, in a manor that didn't yet know its doom, a young master was in the middle of strangling a servant. The servant's eyes were beginning to glaze, oxygen deprivation reaching the critical stage where brain damage became inevitable.
The body's hands were already positioned correctly—fingers wrapped around the throat with an amateur's enthusiasm but poor technique. Too much pressure on the windpipe, not enough on the carotid arteries. Death would come, but slowly, clumsily, without artistry.
Zǔ Zhòu's consciousness slammed into the body like divine judgment having a bad day.
Liu Wei's eyes rolled back, his soul evicted with less ceremony than a tenant behind on rent. The servant beneath him gasped as the pressure momentarily relaxed, hope flickering in oxygen-starved eyes.
Then the hands adjusted their grip with the precision of someone who had murdered entire realities, and hope died faster than the servant would.
Darkness claimed Zǔ Zhòu's consciousness, the strain of dimensional travel and soul displacement finally overwhelming even his transcendent will. But even as awareness faded, one last thought echoed through the void:
The Heavenly Dao had spent so much effort building the perfect cage.
It would be rude not to test its limits.
In the manor, Liu Wei's body continued its work, muscle memory and dying will completing the strangulation with newfound efficiency. The servant's final breath rattled out just as new ownership settled fully into place.
When consciousness returned, it would be to the taste of fear and the sound of death.
Just the way he preferred his mornings.