The declaration came not as thunder—but as scripture.
Across the skies of the cultivation world, Heaven's Edicts descended like falling stars, embedding themselves into sect mountains, imperial capitals, neutral academies, and forgotten ruins alike.
Golden characters burned into the firmament:
Righteous Campaign Proclamation
By mandate of Heaven, the Anomalous Third Prince of the Eternal Nocturne Empire is declared a Destabilizing Variable.
All righteous forces are authorized to suppress, isolate, or eliminate said variable and its affiliates.
There was no mention of guilt.
No accusation of crime.
Only existence.
Azrael read the edict from his balcony, wind violently lashing at his dark robes, his expression not merely bored—but contemptuous.
"So they've chosen war language," he mused, lips curling into a dangerous smile. "That betrays their fear more than any trembling hand could."
Behind him, the empire convulsed.
Sects slammed their gates shut—or pledged fealty with desperate haste.
Merchants scrambled to reroute trade lines, abandoning fortunes.
Assassination attempts multiplied and failed spectacularly.
The world didn't merely tilt.
It fractured.
Far beyond imperial borders, the awakened hybrid woman carved her path to civilization.
She didn't simply hide her aura.
She weaponized it—forcing the world to bow before her presence without comprehending why.
Half-dragon dominance.
Half-demonic savagery.
Neither Heaven-sanctioned nor abyss-born.
People collapsed to their knees, weeping without understanding.
When she reached the outskirts of the Eternal Nocturne Empire, imperial sentries dropped their weapons—not from fear, but primal submission.
She raised a single, clawed hand.
"I'm not here to conquer," she said, voice like velvet over steel. "I'm here to meet someone."
Her silver-black eyes pierced toward the capital.
"The one Heaven itself trembles to face."
At the same time, Heaven committed its second fatal mistake.
They didn't merely discard Jin Yao.
They shattered him.
The Holy Convocation reconvened—not to crown him, but to humiliate him before all.
A new "Chosen Candidate" was paraded forth, blinding with stolen destiny.
Jin Yao was dragged away like refuse.
No light followed him.
No whispers of fate cushioned his fall.
Only the sound of doors slamming against his dignity.
As he stumbled down the marble steps, a single thought consumed him:
If Heaven abandoned me so cruelly... why does his gaze still burn upon my skin?
Far away, Azrael watched intently.
And smiled with predatory satisfaction.
The empire's war council erupted that night.
Maps blazed with frantic symbols.
Enemy formations.
Righteous sect mobilizations.
Heaven-backed mercenary legions converging.
Ashara slammed her fist down. "They're not just seeking legitimacy—they're orchestrating a slaughter using others as pawns."
Virexia's eyes flashed dangerously. "They want our blood without staining their precious hands."
Seraphina locked eyes with Azrael. "Then we strike first and make them regret ever challenging you."
Azrael didn't merely nod.
"No," he said, voice soft yet cutting. "We don't just make examples."
He struck the map.
Three locations erupted in flame.
A righteous sect infamous for butchering bloodlines.
A Heaven-certified auction house trafficking in fate-bound children.
And a neutral academy preparing to crown Heaven's puppet.
"We strike there," Azrael commanded, his lazy tone belied by merciless eyes. "Not just precisely. Not just efficiently."
His gaze burned.
"We strike at their very foundations."
When the hybrid woman finally confronted him, it wasn't in some ornate throne room.
It was in the dragon crypts beneath the palace—where ancient bones whispered secrets and imperial blood remembered its savage origins.
She didn't merely kneel.
She surrendered to instinct, body recognizing power beyond comprehension.
"You never called me," she challenged, defiance warring with reverence. "Yet you bent reality enough that my chains shattered like glass."
Azrael studied her, power rippling beneath his calm exterior.
"Chains break when they dare restrain what was never meant to be bound," he replied.
Her lips curved into a feral smile. "Heaven erased my existence. Dragons rejected my blood. Demons cowered before my rage."
She lifted her gaze, challenging him.
"What use have you for something even the gods feared to keep?"
Azrael stepped closer, his presence crushing—not to dominate, but to claim what was rightfully his.
"I don't repair broken things," he said, voice dangerously gentle.
"I forge them into weapons that make even Heaven regret its arrogance."
Something primal within her recognized its master.
For the first time since her violent birth, her chaotic power aligned with purpose.
"Then I pledge myself to you," she declared. "Not as servant, but as weapon."
Azrael's smile promised vengeance.
"Perfect," he replied. "You'll be Heaven's nightmare made flesh."
Above the world, Heaven shuddered.
Another variable locked against them.
Another fate wrenched from their control.
The campaign hadn't just begun.
It had escalated beyond their calculations.
For the first time in eons—
Heaven scrambled to react.
And Azrael?
He finally unleashed what he had always been.
The righteous sect marked as the first sacrifice was ancient, revered, and untouchable—at least in its own delusions.
Clear Sky Sanctum.
A mountain monastery wrapped in prayer arrays and Heaven-certified wards. Its elders specialized in "purifying aberrant bloodlines"—a euphemism for sanctified slaughter.
At dawn, the bells rang their last.
At noon, the mountain fell deathly silent.
No alarms dared sound.
No explosions marred the sky.
Just a sudden, crushing presence—like a primordial dragon's foot upon an insect's spine.
Azrael arrived alone.
He didn't waste power shattering gates.
He walked through them as if they were mere illusions.
The wards didn't just peel away—they recoiled in terror, layer by layer, recognizing something beyond their design.
An elder stumbled forward, hands trembling. "Third Prince, Heaven itself has condemned you—"
Azrael merely looked at him.
The words died in his throat.
Not stolen.
Extinguished by truth.
"Your sect hunts innocent bloodlines," Azrael stated, voice deceptively mild. "You catalog destinies like trophies. You sacrifice children to Heaven for scraps of favor."
He gestured almost lazily.
"Today, Heaven's protection expires."
The mountain didn't just bow.
It surrendered.
Stone screamed. Altars exploded. Prayer arrays inverted violently, channeling power into Azrael instead of Heaven.
The elders clawed desperately to escape.
Fate abandoned them to justice.
By sunset, Clear Sky Sanctum stood as a hollow shell—eerily intact yet utterly empty.
No bodies remained as evidence.
No screams echoed as warning.
Only records—meticulously rewritten, reassigned, redistributed across the world.
Heaven lost a stronghold without gaining a single martyr for their cause.
It was beyond defeat—it was humiliation.
The shockwave devastated Heaven's allies.
Righteous sects frantically halted mobilization.
Neutral academies indefinitely postponed ceremonies.
Merchants burned Heaven-certified contracts in public squares.
Terror spread—not of Azrael's power, but of his calculated mercy.
"He didn't just wage war," Ashara whispered, scanning reports with widening eyes. "He rewrote reality itself."
Virexia's smile turned predatory. "That's not just worse—it's revolutionary."
Seraphina watched Azrael from across the chamber, her loyalty deepening. "You didn't even break a sweat."
Azrael shrugged dismissively. "They were never worthy opponents."
Far away, Jin Yao felt the impact like a physical blow.
The erasure of Clear Sky Sanctum tore something fundamental loose within him.
He collapsed in a nameless alley, blood trickling from his eyes, heart racing with revelation.
He did this, Jin Yao thought feverishly.
Without Heaven's blessing.
Without anyone's permission.
A laugh erupted from his throat—half madness, half worship.
"So that's the true difference," he gasped. "You don't ask for power—you embody it."
His obsession crystallized into devotion.
If Heaven had discarded him so callously...
Then he would offer himself to Azrael instead.
Even if it meant betraying everything.
Even if it meant crawling on his knees.
In the dragon crypts, the hybrid woman observed the empire's transformation.
Her name was Nyxara—once erased from history, now burning itself back into existence.
She stood at Azrael's side, power coiling around her like living shadow, eyes gleaming with deadly purpose.
"Heaven will retaliate with everything they have," she warned.
"They always do," Azrael replied, unconcerned. "And always fail."
Nyxara studied him intently. "You're not merely unworried—you're anticipating it."
"I'm counting on their desperation."
She measured him, then bowed her head—not in submission, but in deadly alliance.
"My power answers to you alone," she declared. "Not as servant to master. As blade to wielder."
Azrael captured her gaze. "Then understand this fundamental truth."
He moved closer, voice dropping to a lethal whisper.
"If Heaven dares touch what belongs to me... I don't simply respond."
Nyxara's smile revealed inhuman teeth. "You eradicate."
"Without hesitation or mercy."
Above the world, Heaven convened in unprecedented panic.
Clear Sky Sanctum wasn't just gone.
It was excised from reality itself.
Another desperate conclusion entered their records:
Direct confrontation guarantees catastrophic failure.
Indirect pressure proves ineffective.
Recommend immediate sacrificial escalation.
The word sacrifice pulsed ominously.
Heaven was now willing to burn its most precious assets.
Azrael sensed their desperation and finally laughed.
"They've abandoned strategy for panic."
Seraphina stepped to his side, her loyalty absolute. "What shall we destroy next?"
Azrael's merciless gaze turned toward the map—toward the neutral academy preparing to crown Heaven's puppet.
"We attend their ceremony," he said, voice like silk over steel.
"And ensure the world witnesses exactly who controls fate now."