On the night the heavens bled, all the worlds leaned toward him.
Qin Mo stood at the lip of the Overvoid, robes torn, hair unbound, a vertical scar on his chest where his Godheart had cracked in the war against the Abyss. Behind him lay a procession of quiet stars—each a world he'd saved, a law he'd soothed into balance. Before him, a sea of darkness molten with eyes.
He lifted his palm. Ten thousand motes of light rose—sword arcs, array glyphs, phoenix flames, the tides of time—and braided themselves into a simple, quiet wheel. The Myriad-Dao Wheel hummed like a lullaby. "One more thread," he murmured, "and the cosmos sleeps."
Soft footsteps sounded behind him. The scent of rain and sandalwood. Her scent.
"Qingyi," he said without turning. On his tongue, her name still tasted like spring on the mountain.
Luo Qingyi came to stand at his side, azure robes rippling as the Overvoid's wind played with the fringe. In her eyes, galaxies broke and healed. "You should rest," she whispered. "You have given too much."
He smiled. "The heavens ask. I answer." He finally looked at her and in his heart, a door opened, a home lit. "When this is done… will you walk the mortal rivers with me? Just once."
"Of course," she said. A tremble in the music of her voice. He caught it, he who heard the language of laws; he heard the small, sharp sound of a chain drawing taut.
A bell rang in the distance between stars. The Heavenly Net unfurled like a silver spiderweb. Celestial Registrars wore masks of compassion and eyes of calculation. Somewhere, a judge's brush paused and bled a dot of black into the scroll of fate.
Qin Mo felt the chain a breath too late.
Steel whispered. A blade kissed his spine and slid through, lodging in the crack in his chest. Cold spread, not of metal but of karma. The Karmic Severing Sword… in the hand he had held on winter nights.
He did not cry out. He turned. He cupped her cheek with blood-slick fingers. Her eyes were lakes in storm. Her arm shook as though it belonged to a stranger.
"I'm sorry," Luo Qingyi said, tears glittering as they fell and were devoured by the Overvoid. "They will unmake everything if I don't—if you don't—"
He tasted iron. "You could have asked me to die," he said. "I would have said yes."
Her shoulders collapsed. "Forgive me," she breathed, and pulled. The sword tore free with his light on its edge. The Heavenly Net dove, gossamer strands knitting around his fractured Godheart, tearing and suturing at once.
Qin Mo looked down at his palms. Ten thousand lights flickered, guttered. One thread remained between him and oblivion.
He wove it into a reed boat and let it drift down the river of reincarnation.
As the Net closed and the stars dimmed, Qin Mo made a last vow with the breath he had left. "If I return from dust, I will gather the ten thousand. I will see your chains. And I will cut them."
Darkness took him, not like death, but like a door closing softly.
Chapter 1: Ash and Ember
The boy in gray lay face-down in an herb field, tasting dirt and copper. A boot ground his cheek deeper into the soil. Laughter lifted around him, sharp as thorns.
"Outer disciple trash," someone drawled. "Picked the wrong plot."
Qin Mo opened his eyes. A beetle crawled across a cracked leaf before him. He watched it with the calm of a quiet ocean. Memory surged—the Overvoid, the blade, rain and sandalwood. The weight of ten thousand paths pressed upon him, and he tasted the bitter sweetness of returning.
He remembered being a god.
The boot left his face. "Hey. I'm talking to you." The speaker—a tall youth with gold-threaded robes—slapped Qin Mo's shoulder. "That field's mine. You want to eat this month, beg me."
Qin Mo rose. He looked thin, ordinary. He bowed. "Senior Brother," he said, voice even, "the assignment token says this plot is free."
"Your token is fake." The youth smiled with too many teeth. "Like your future."
The other boys smirked. The Azure Cloud Sect's outer grounds spread under a pale morning. Mist clung to the mountain terraces. Somewhere, a bell tolled first light—just like that night between stars.
Qin Mo lifted his hand. In his palm, the Myriad-Dao Wheel should gather and sing. Instead, only a tremor of warmth coiled there, as faint as newborn light.
He breathed once. Twice. He put the warmth away. He had to be patient; power without foundation was arrogance borrowed from a past life. He had all the time in the world.
"Apologies," Qin Mo said. He stepped aside.
The golden youth blinked. He had expected a fight. "Tch. Run along."
Qin Mo did not run. He crossed the terraces, the line of his back straight as a blade, the earth bending minutely under his feet as if greeting an old friend returned in rags. He found an unused plot near a crooked willow, knelt, and touched the soil.
He felt it gasp. He felt the thirst of roots, the whisper of worms, the slow music of stone. Ten thousand paths wound through the weed-choked dirt. He hummed back.
When he lifted his hand, a single herb sprout straightened and drank the sun.
At the edge of the plot, hidden by idle grass, something small and blue pulsed like a heartbeat. Qin Mo paused. The pulse was a law he knew: dragon.