Darkness swallowed them whole.
Liang Yezhao and Xue Wuyao descended slowly, the crumbling ledge giving way to an unnatural void beneath. The world above dimmed into memory, muffled as though sealed behind thick glass. The rift's interior was not like any cave or chasm they had entered before—it was a negative space, a realm where matter twisted and sound bent sideways. Neither sky nor ground defined its boundaries. Instead, streams of silvery-black mist floated freely, tangled with glowing fragments of script that blinked like forgotten thoughts.
Yezhao pressed forward, his glaive raised and glowing with celestial light. "The walls aren't real. This isn't a place. It's… a pocket between realities."
Wuyao stepped beside him, holding a flame between his fingers, though even his infernal magic sputtered in the void's pressure. "You mean a demi-plane. An unstable one. One that shouldn't be accessible anymore."
He reached out and brushed one of the floating glyphs. It disintegrated at his touch, releasing a shriek that only Yezhao could hear.
The celestial warrior winced, gripping his head. "That was Celestine script. Old God tongue. You just erased a name."
Wuyao's expression twisted. "So? The void is always hungry."
As they moved deeper, the rift narrowed into what looked like a hallway made of black glass. Under their feet, reflections swam—distorted images of battles, ancient rituals, moments neither of them had lived. One moment, Yezhao saw his father—the Divine Emperor—standing atop the spires of Yujian, light streaming from his eyes. The next, Wuyao saw his mother screaming in chains, her throat raw from defying the Demon Crown.
The hallway reacted to memory.
"Do you feel it?" Wuyao asked softly. "It wants us to remember. It feeds on it."
"Yes," Yezhao said tightly. "And it learns."
—
They stepped into a massive chamber.
It was dome-shaped, formed not by architecture but pure will. Suspended in the air were three floating obelisks of obsidian, etched with runes that crawled in and out of existence. At the center was a pedestal, upon which lay a twisted, root-like object—glowing faintly with blue and red pulses. It pulsed in rhythm with their heartbeats.
"A Seed of Void," Wuyao whispered. "It's awake."
Yezhao stepped closer, then froze. "It's not just awake. It's linked to us."
Before either could speak further, the room trembled. Shadows peeled from the walls and coalesced into figures—half-formed, bone-thin creatures with multiple jaws and no eyes. Their movements were staccato, erratic, as if time around them skipped and rewound.
"Void-spawn," Yezhao hissed.
There were seven of them. One for each of the Seven Fallen Gods.
Wuyao stepped in front of the pedestal, Red Fang unfurling in an infernal hiss. "Then let's see how these shadows fare against fire."
The battle was instantaneous. Yezhao leapt into the air, Moonpiercer whirling in radiant arcs that cut through one spawn after another, burning their incorporeal bodies into ash. But for every creature he felled, two more took its place. Wuyao weaved through them with cruel elegance, his whip singing, slicing through distorted flesh, igniting trails of fire across the black floor.
One spawn reached Yezhao and clawed at his chest, ripping his armor and exposing the seal etched into his skin—the cursed sigil of the Pact of Celestials.
Wuyao saw it.
He hesitated. Just a moment. But the expression that flickered across his face—shock, recognition—was enough for the void to strike.
A shriek split the air, and one of the obelisks cracked, sending a wave of corruptive force that flung both men to opposite ends of the chamber.
Yezhao hit the far wall and crumpled, his chest heaving. Wuyao's back slammed into a pillar of glass and shattered it, embedding slivers in his arm. Blood stained the floor.
The shadows receded, shrinking into themselves. The chamber stabilized—but the damage was done.
Wuyao staggered to his feet, clutching his bleeding arm. He looked at Yezhao with a new expression—one that no longer held mockery, but confusion… and dread.
"That mark…" he said slowly. "That's not just a celestial oath."
Yezhao didn't respond. He sat up and wiped blood from his lip, staring into the darkness.
Wuyao pressed forward. "It's void-linked, isn't it? You're not just cursed. You're bound."
Silence.
Wuyao stepped closer. "Answer me."
Yezhao turned to him, voice low. "It's a fail-safe. If I ever stray from the Celestial Path, the seal consumes me. It was placed there by my father, under the Pact of the High Lords."
"And the void?" Wuyao pressed.
Yezhao stood. "The seal… responds to void energy. Which means this place is killing me slowly. Or trying to."
Wuyao swore under his breath, turning away. He paced the shattered ground, boots crunching over broken glyphs.
"You should have told me," he said at last.
Yezhao's voice was sharp. "You would've mocked it. Or worse, used it."
"Maybe once," Wuyao said, spinning to face him. "But now?" He pointed to the Seed of Void. "That thing is alive. It knows our names. It's been waiting for someone like you to come back."
Yezhao stiffened. "What do you mean 'come back'?"
Wuyao opened his mouth—then stopped. His eyes narrowed, staring past Yezhao.
The Seed was blooming.
Petals of nothingness unfurled. Not black, but the absence of color. As they opened, a sound like a heartbeat echoed through the chamber—once, twice, and then a third time.
Then a voice spoke.
"Two halves of the broken line. Return what was taken. Complete the oath."
Both men froze.
Wuyao turned pale. "That voice—"
"Wasn't mortal," Yezhao said tightly. "Or divine."
The chamber around them began to collapse. Walls folded inward, the air compressed, and space began to twist. They had seconds.
Without hesitation, Yezhao grabbed the Seed.
"No!" Wuyao shouted.
Light erupted. The force threw them both into the swirling void—out of the demi-plane, through the rift, into the cold, dark air of the real world.
They landed hard among stunned soldiers, divine and demonic alike. The rift behind them closed with a whisper.
Yezhao lay unconscious, the Seed still clutched in one hand.
Wuyao rose unsteadily, blood on his lips.
And for the first time in centuries, the skies above Lanqiao turned black at midday.