I was born in the forgotten province of Lingwu, a land so insignificant that even the wind seemed reluctant to travel there. Mortals call it desolate. I call it a laboratory. Every thread of fate, every whisper of celestial law, I observed it, dissected it, and cataloged it in the quiet of my mind.
They say Heaven favors the strong. I say Heaven favors the ignorant. Strength is merely the clamor of those too stupid to notice the rules beneath the rules. I learned early: if you wish to conquer gods, you do not lift swords. You lift minds. And minds are pliable, infinitely pliable, if you know how to speak the language of reality itself.
On the day I discovered the Scripture of the False Heaven, I understood one truth clearly: divinity is nothing but the most persuasive illusion. Its laws are not written in stone or fire—they are written in fear, in obedience, in the ignorance of those who worship. And ignorance, as I have learned, is the sharpest blade.
I approached the scroll as a servant would approach a master, but with the heart of a conspirator. Its words were strange, twisting, laughing in the dark corners of my mind. Each sentence was a key, each symbol a lever. By the time dawn crawled across Lingwu's mountains, I had already rewritten the rules of my destiny in secret.
The villagers—simple, weak, and complacent—watched me with suspicion. They could not see what I saw: threads of causality bending at my will, the first dominoes of a pattern that would, eventually, topple empires. And yet, they had their faith, their prayers, their gods. All useless. They would pray to the heavens while I rearranged the constellations.
I spoke then, to no one, yet to the universe itself:
"If Heaven is perfect, it should have predicted me. Since it did not, it is flawed. If gods exist, they are my servants, whether they know it or not."
Even the birds paused. Even the wind held its breath. I smiled. The first step was always the simplest: recognize the lie, then live inside it, bending it to your will.
From that day forward, I was no longer Xuán Luo, the frail scholar of Lingwu. I was Xuán Luo, the observer of truths, the architect of unseen chaos, the scholar who would make Heaven itself kneel. And in my mind, I drafted the first lines of a philosophy that would outlast mortal flesh, outwit divine order, and bend reality to the cunning of a single, unapologetic mind.
I walked the streets, unnoticed, yet every glance, every whisper, was a thread I could tug. There is a divine lesson in invisibility: the world fears what it cannot grasp. And I intend to make the world fear me—not by power, not by violence, but by the certainty of intellect.
For the first time, I tasted the intoxicating sweetness of inevitability.
The path ahead would be dark, littered with enemies, gods, and fools alike—but I have one rule:
"Every obstacle is a chess piece, and every chess piece bows before the mind that sees three moves ahead."
I am not afraid of Heaven. I am not afraid of fate. I am afraid only of wasting time, for time is the one truth even gods cannot escape—and I intend to master it before they even notice my existence.
And so it begins.