Thunder split the sky open.
The last thing Lin Feng remembered was the smell of smoke. The museum was burning—the exhibition hall collapsing as he tried to save the ancient scroll. Then the lightning struck.
When he opened his eyes again, the world was no longer made of glass and steel.
He was kneeling in a field of ash. Mountains rose like dragon spines around him, their peaks crowned with fire. The air shimmered with energy—thick, alive, dangerous. And in his hands lay a charred fragment of parchment, still glowing faintly gold.
The Heavenly Record, whispered a voice inside his mind. The decree that shapes the fate of gods and men.
Lin Feng stared blankly. "...What?"
The scroll pulsed once, and visions tore through his head: wars of light and flame, divine palaces collapsing, names being carved into a list that stretched across the heavens. He saw mortals kneeling before immortal generals, and a thousand souls crying as their names burned away.
Then, silence.
When he looked up again, a figure was standing before him.
A young woman in white robes, her hair tied with a strip of jade cloth. Her face was pale but calm, eyes clear as moonlight. She held a staff carved with runes that glowed softly against the storm-dark sky.
"You're not supposed to be here," she said quietly. "This land is sealed for the Investiture War."
Lin Feng blinked. His mind scrambled for meaning. "Investiture… of the Gods?"
She frowned slightly. "You know of it?"
He almost laughed. "Know of it? I used to teach it."
The woman's brows knit in confusion, but she stepped closer, her presence soothing—like the scent of rain before a storm. When she noticed the fragment in his hand, her calm shattered.
"That scroll—where did you get it?"
"It—" Lin Feng looked down. The golden light was fading. His reflection trembled across the parchment's surface; for an instant, he saw his own name glowing faintly among countless others… then vanish.
"I don't know," he said softly. "It… found me."
The woman hesitated, then reached for his arm. "Come with me. If Heaven senses you holding that relic, you won't survive the night."
Her touch was warm. Real.
For a brief second, the smoke and glass ceilings of his old world flashed before his eyes—then vanished into the storm.
As she guided him across the dark valley, Lin Feng glanced up at the torn sky. Threads of light stretched from horizon to horizon, forming runes that shifted and moved like living beings. In each flash of lightning, he saw cities hanging in the clouds, armies marching upon bridges of starlight, and shadows of gods watching the earth below.
"This… is real," he whispered.
The woman's voice was quiet but steady. "You stand in the age before Heaven's order. When the Investiture begins, mortals and immortals alike will fight to be named among the divine."
She stopped, turning to face him. Her eyes held something he couldn't read—fear, wonder, and a strange, fragile kindness.
"My name is Yun Ruo," she said. "Healer of the White Lotus Sect. And you… stranger… may have just been chosen by Heaven itself."
Lin Feng looked down at the faintly glowing parchment in his hand. The torn edge fluttered as if breathing.
Chosen by Heaven?
No. He'd seen the visions—how Heaven devoured names and burned souls to keep its order intact.
His fingers tightened around the scroll.
If this was the Heaven of the myths, then perhaps the stories had it wrong. Perhaps the gods didn't earn their thrones—they stole them.
And if fate truly was written on a scroll… then maybe, just maybe, it could be rewritten.
Lightning flared again, and the fragment in his hand pulsed in answer—like a heartbeat echoing the storm.