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Time trudged onwards, slow and patient. Millennia flickered past, then millions of years, their passage marked only by shifting threads in the fabric of the boundless Cosmos. Where once chaos whirled and matter raged, there was now order—an uneasy balance, like a silent pact signed between stars and void.
Within this vastness, many universes took shape—each a jewel cradled by law, each filled with coiling galaxies. Galaxies spun, birthing rivers of starlight. From the spiral arms, star systems gathered; around each sun, countless planets took their places, drifting through their lonely orbits as the ages rolled by.
Upon these forming worlds, life stirred—faint at first, then bold, myriad forms dancing like motes of dust in a golden beam. At the heart of it all, the ten children of Yuan Zu awoke one by one. Guided by the origin—they stepped into creation and began to shape, to build, to thrive.
It was a silent age, and for long years, peace held sway. Yet somewhere in the deep churn of eons, a transformation began. From the ceaseless workings of the Laws, something new and strange emerged. Fragments of principle—bits of Law twisted and solidified in the cold dark—condensed into things not quite alive, not quite dead. They drifted between worlds, taking the shape of peculiar spirits : the Gu.
Gu had no thoughts of their own, no dreams. They moved by the whisper of Law, a silent current flowing between order and existence. In their silence, they became a bridge—neither living nor soulless—a link between the realm of principles and the living hearts built upon them.
Intelligent beings—children and creations of Yuan Zu, along with uncounted others—began to find these Gu, to shape them, to wield their power. With Gu in their grasp, conscious life learned to grasp at Laws themselves, borrowing nature's hidden threads to sustain and shape their brief existences.
...
Still, at the heart of creation—the place where Yuan Zu first merged 'Creation' and 'Existence'—a core remained, veiled deeper than any star's heart. There, the Laws of Infinite Mass and Infinite Energy roared soundlessly, eternal and unflagging.
From this core, torrents of energy and waves of new matter spilled ceaselessly into the Cosmos, impossible to measure or contain. The universe expanded—restless, boundless—new worlds blazing into existence at every edge.
Yet not all was as before.
The Law of Final Death, cold and inexorable, severed the ancient Six Paths of reincarnation. Where once souls might have circled through cycles of life, death, and rebirth, now every ending was final. When a living being perished, it vanished utterly—no echo, no memory, no return.
Life grew precious, desperate; loss became a cry that traveled deeper than the void, for there would be no second chance, no wheel to turn again. The Cosmos pushed outward, wild and endless—fuelled by energy without limit, shaped by matter drawn from the first spark, but shadowed always by the hush that follows the fall of every life.
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The hall burned with the silent tension of effort and exhaustion.
Furnaces flared, their bronze shells breathing pale light that danced along the walls like living flame. The scent of soul fire and half‑cooked herbs thickened the air until it seemed tangible, vibrating faintly against the skin.
Hours passed. Han Chen sat cross‑legged, eyes shut, the faint ripple of killing intent hidden beneath the calm rhythm of his soul.
Eleven hours later, the stillness shattered.
By now, nearly all of the fifty cultivators were locked in the final, most dangerous phase of refinement. Their spirits burned at their limits, soul power pushed beyond safety as flickers of faint pale flame circled above every furnace.
This was the critical stage—one wrong breath, one slip of focus, and all they'd built would implode into ruin. Some had already fallen. Eight furnaces were shattered across the floor, broken open by violent backlash. Those cultivators lay motionless, their bodies twisted in odd angles, souls likely destroyed by their own refinement. A few survivors had already started their second attempt, trembling from exhaustion and fear.
None had yet reached the third attempt.
Han Chen's eyes opened slowly.
He glanced around.
There were twenty‑four people still holding onto the final stage of success—the most vulnerable moment, when their entire concentration was bound to the flame, unable to move, unable to defend.
A cold smirk curved across his lips. He rose quietly, straightened his back, and pulled the dagger from his spatial ring. The blade gleamed dully in the faint light.
No one noticed him move. He walked through the haze of heat and soul pressure, his footsteps nearly soundless. Before him sat an old man, his hands trembling above the furnace, face pale yet focused. The man's entire body radiated waves of energy as he neared completion—a cultivator trapped in fragile stillness, one thread away from success.
Han Chen stopped behind him. He could almost hear the old man's heart beating alongside the rhythm of his own. For a moment, his expression wavered—then turned back to ice. In a swift motion, he covered the old man's mouth with one hand and thrust the dagger directly into his chest.
Pchhk—The blade buried deep between the ribs. The old man convulsed, eyes flying open as blood spilled from his lips. The fragile tether he held over the furnace snapped instantly. Boom—The cauldron erupted, flame spilling out as the alchemical reaction collapsed. The old man's half‑formed pill exploded into sparks that scattered in the air.
The violent backlash struck him full force. His body jerked, blood flooding from his mouth, while his last burst of soul power surged uncontrolled.
The fingers of Han Chen's hand tightened against the old man's lips, silencing him completely. Warm blood seeped through Han Chen's fingers, trailing down his wrist.
The pain of backlash twisted through the old man's eyes—rage, disbelief, despair—and in his final breath, something within him shattered. A faint hum echoed through the air.
And then Han Chen's chest froze. A thread of violent energy burst out from the old man's body, traced through the dagger in reverse, and rushed into Han Chen's heart.
His pupils contracted in shock."What—?"
The energy burned like boiling oil moving through his veins, spreading through his meridians with vicious force. He felt something alive crawling inside him—small, sharp, digging upward, following his lifeline toward the skull.
A single thought struck him. "Gu!" His body convulsed. A hot wave of nausea struck as he staggered back. The old man's eyes, still half‑open, glimmered with faint malice even in death.
The Heart Demon Gu...
Han Chen coughed violently, blood spilling from his mouth. It wasn't mortal poison—this attack targeted his soul.
Inside his head, pain erupted like thunder. His vision turned white as agony tore through his being. He could feel the insect‑like essence writhing, crawling along his spiritual channels toward his upper dantian.
Then his soul bead cracked. Crack. The sharp sound echoed through his consciousness.
The crisp, luminous bead that had been newly forged into strength now splintered. Its emerald‑black light flickered weakly. Energy bled out like leaking life.
His breath hitched. "Damn... you old bastard!" The Heart Demon Gu reached his soul bead and gnawed at it—sinking invisible fangs into the very fabric of his inner consciousness. The pain was indescribable.
But then something stirred. Deep inside, the Heavenly Eye pulsed faintly—a slow, steady beat of violet light within his sea of consciousness. The Gu froze, as if trapped mid‑bite.
Its hum turned to a shriek that only Han Chen could hear. Then it fell silent. The Heavenly Eye's aura dimmed again, sinking back into stillness.
Han Chen fell to one knee, clutching his chest, gasping for breath.
His soul trembled. With every beat of his heart, the powerful foundation he'd built began to steady—though the cracks in his soul bead remained, faint but visible.
He could feel it weaken, the strength he'd earned receding. From ten times the soul strength of a normal cultivator at same realm, his power dropped—nine... eight... and then stopped.
The Heart Demon Gu evaporated. Its lifeforce was gone—spent completely. Han Chen spat out two mouthfuls of blood, his breathing ragged. The corpse beside him turned cold, eyes lifeless but twisted into a faint smile.
Sweat soaked Han Chen's back. His heartbeat slowed. The silence around him returned—no one had noticed in the noise of clashing flames and explosions of failed furnaces.
He steadied himself, mind racing."I was too reckless," he thought grimly. "I didn't expect that old fossil to carry a Rank 3 Gu."
Rank 3 Gu—a Gu worm only those at Nascent Soul level or higher could control.
But this man… he had been a Core Formation cultivator at best, judging by his aura. How could he have subdued something of that rank?
Han Chen grit his teeth, eyes narrowing. "He must have a powerful background." He glanced down at the dagger, still slick with blood, then at the fallen old man.
And though his soul still ached and his breathing was heavy, his eyes hardened once again.
...
Han Chen steadied his breath, forcing his trembling body back under control. The ache in his chest still burned, but his mind cut through the haze with cold precision.
He didn't have time to bleed. Every heartbeat in this hall mattered. The trial's voice had made it clear: only five would survive. If others completed their refinements before him, they would endure—and he would die. There was no mercy in this test, only the law of superior survival.
He exhaled slowly, feeling the sting of blood on his lips. "No time to rest."The corpse beside him lay cooling, its last traces of life dispersing into the stagnant air. Han Chen shut his eyes briefly and sank inward—into his sea of consciousness.
The vast inner space shimmered before him like an endless ocean of dim light. High above that darkness, suspended within the starless void, the Heavenly Eye opened. Pitch black, its violet pupil swirled lazily, alive with a faint pulse that resonated through his soul.
He directed a single thought toward it."Show me."
A cold, metallic whisper rolled through his consciousness. Thin trails of violet energy expanded from the pupil and formed an arc in front of him—counting, measuring, precisely recording.
A fraction of a bar appeared, glowing with faint luminescence.
Death Qi: 0.003261% out of 100%
As Han Chen remembered, before killing the old man it was only 0.000118%
Even though the number seemed tiny, Han Chen's eyes lit faintly. He could feel the difference. A small ember of unfamiliar vitality hummed deep in his consciousness—the death qi collected by the Heavenly Eye, faint yet potent, an essence that both devoured and nurtured.
"It consumed..." Han Chen thought, pulse steady. "And that old man was pretty strong—as expected of a Core Formation cultivator."
He raised a hand and pressed his chest lightly, where the faint scar of the backlash still lingered.
"If killing a single cultivator at that level yields this much… then killing a higher‑realm one…"His eyes narrowed, calculating."The stronger they are, the purer their death qi must be. The Heavenly Eye doesn't distinguish power—it devours essence."
A faint, dark satisfaction washed over him. He could feel the trace of his earlier weakness fading beneath renewed intent. He glanced around the hall.
The survivors still strained over their work. Sweat dripped down foreheads. Flames trembled unnaturally with strained soul power. Some shook from exhaustion, their eyelids twitching as they clung to consciousness. The scent of burning herbs thickened as the critical hour neared its climax.
Han Chen's gaze swept the crowd like a blade. Twenty‑three left. All at their limits. He turned the dagger in his grip once, the blood still damp along its edge. He exhaled, the fatigue gone, replaced by cold focus.
He now knew the mathematics of survival—how much death qi he needed to feed the Eye, how much time he still had before the trial's end.
He could not afford hesitation. If even five succeeded before he finished, the trial would reject him.
If he gambled and waited too long, they'd finish refining before his blade ever fell. He gritted his teeth briefly, blood still at the corner of his mouth. His gaze flicked back to the furnace fires. Their souls burned.
And so would theirs. The violet pupil deep within his consciousness pulsed once, faintly approving. Han Chen's finger brushed the hilt of the dagger again as his eyes turned colder, sharper. "Killing High‑realm cultivators," he whispered to himself. "is the way to go."
He shifted his weight slightly, ready to strike again. And with that thought, the hall—busy with desperate refiners—became, once more, the quiet hunting ground of a single man.
-----TO BE CONTINUED-----