The Primordial World was already complete.
Heaven and Earth stood firm, Yin and Yang were balanced, and the Great Dao flowed like an endless river beneath all things. The age of chaos had long ended. Pangu was a legend carved into the laws themselves. Saints ruled from above, while countless beings cultivated beneath their shadows.
Fate had been written.
At least—that was what Heaven believed.
In the eastern edge of the Primordial World, far from the main continent where sects flourished and Saints established their orthodoxy, there existed a desolate region ignored by almost all beings. Spiritual qi here was thin, turbulent, and unstable. Even Immortals rarely passed through.
At the center of this wasteland, beneath layers of broken space and distorted Dao fluctuations, a small mountain cracked open without warning.
No heavenly phenomenon appeared.
No auspicious clouds gathered.
No karmic bells rang.
That alone was abnormal.
Inside the mountain, a pair of eyes opened.
They were calm. Too calm.
The owner of those eyes lay within a shallow stone chamber, his body that of a young man—no more than sixteen by mortal standards. Black hair spilled loosely behind him, his frame lean but perfectly proportioned, as if shaped by the Dao itself.
He did not gasp for breath.
He did not cry out in confusion.
Instead, he closed his eyes again.
And thought.
"So… it really exists."
Memories surged—not chaotically, but with terrifying clarity.
A previous life. A modern world. Endless novels, myths, and discussions about cultivation. And among them, one setting he had obsessed over more than any other.
Honghuang.
The Primordial World.
A world where Saints decided life and death with a thought.
A world where fate was enforced by Heaven's Will.
A world where even geniuses became pawns.
He slowly clenched his fingers.
"I reincarnated… after its establishment."
That was both good news and a death sentence.
Good, because the foundations of the world were complete. The Dao was stable. Cultivation paths were clear.
A death sentence, because the era of wild opportunities was over.
The Saints already existed.
Hong Jun had already merged with the Dao.
Heaven's Mandate had already been set.
This was the worst possible time for someone who knew the future.
Unless—
Unless you were outside it.
A faint smile appeared on his lips.
This body was not ordinary.
The moment he awakened, he had sensed it clearly—there was something wrong with his existence. His soul did not resonate with Heaven's Will. When he breathed, the surrounding Dao did not acknowledge him.
It was as if…
He did not belong.
"In my past life," he muttered softly, "this would be called a bug."
He sat up slowly, crossing his legs.
No system appeared.
No mechanical voice spoke.
No golden panel descended.
And he felt relieved.
Systems were convenient—but they were also shackles.
Here, in Honghuang, anything that interacted too directly with the Dao risked being noticed.
And being noticed was death.
He closed his eyes and began to cultivate—not following any technique, but simply listening.
Listening to the flow of spiritual qi.
Listening to the rhythm of Heaven and Earth.
Listening to what was not said.
Minutes passed.
Then hours.
Slowly, the chaotic spiritual qi of the wasteland began to shift—not gathering toward him, but avoiding him. Flowing around his body like water around a stone.
His brow furrowed.
"This confirms it…"
He was excluded.
In Honghuang, all beings cultivated by aligning themselves with Heaven, Earth, or the Great Dao. Even demonic cultivators were still acknowledged as existences within the system.
But he was not.
He was an anomaly.
A blind spot.
And blind spots were dangerous—but also powerful.
"If Heaven cannot calculate me," he whispered, "then Saints can't either."
At that moment—
Boom.
A pressure descended from the sky.
Not lightning.
Not thunder.
But intent.
The mountain trembled violently. Space itself seemed to compress, as if an invisible gaze had brushed past the region.
His pupils shrank.
"A Saint?"
No—stronger.
Colder.
More distant.
Heaven's Will.
He immediately suppressed all thoughts, all fluctuations, forcing his mind into absolute stillness. His presence faded—not hidden, but ignored, like a missing line in a book.
The pressure lingered for a breath.
Then passed on.
Silence returned.
Only then did he exhale.
"So fast…" he murmured. "It's already scanning anomalies."
He stood up, expression turning serious.
This confirmed one thing: his existence was unstable. The longer he remained weak, the higher the chance of being erased—not by a Saint, but by Heaven itself.
He needed strength.
But not visible strength.
He needed a path that did not rely on Heaven's approval.
His gaze drifted toward the depths of the wasteland, where distorted space overlapped endlessly. According to his memories, this region would, in a few thousand years, be known by another name.
The Fallen Boundary.
A place where a fragment of pre-Dao chaos was buried.
Most cultivators who entered would die.
Saints ignored it.
Heaven sealed it loosely.
Because it was "harmless."
A slow smile formed.
"Harmless… only if you belong to the system."
He took his first step out of the mountain.
The moment his foot touched the ground, the earth did not respond.
No karmic ripple.
No Dao feedback.
Nothing.
Behind him, far above the heavens, unseen and unfelt, the River of Fate continued to flow—unchanged.
For now.
But somewhere within that endless current, a single thread had already slipped loose.
And Heaven had not noticed.
Yet.