The sky was breaking.
Not metaphorically—literally.
Crimson lightning tore through the heavens, ripping apart clouds like fragile cloth as the laws of the world screamed under unbearable pressure. Mountains in the distance collapsed into dust, unable to withstand the divine aura flooding the battlefield.
At the center of the destruction stood an old man.
His body was ruined.
Blood soaked his robes, bones were visibly cracked beneath torn flesh, and his breathing came slow and shallow. Yet despite all of that, his posture remained straight—unyielding.
His eyes were calm.
Too calm.
This was not the gaze of a man facing death.
This was the gaze of someone who had already accepted it.
"So…" he murmured softly, divine aura flickering faintly around him, "…this is the moment."
Around him lay the corpses of legends.
Dragons with shattered skulls lay motionless, their massive bodies reduced to lifeless husks. Elite Martial Masters—once feared across continents—were nothing more than broken corpses scattered across the ruined battlefield.
This place would be remembered as a forbidden land.
A graveyard for gods.
He had reached the absolute peak.
Tier 11 — Divine Martial Master.
The final realm.
And yet, he knew the truth.
This life ends here.
In front of him stood a woman dressed in spotless white robes.
Her presence alone stabilized the collapsing space around her, divine laws bending instinctively to her will. Her long black hair flowed gently in the violent storm, untouched by chaos.
She looked at him with eyes filled with complicated emotion.
Regret.
Resolve.
And something darker.
"You shouldn't have come," she said quietly.
The old man smiled.
"I knew you'd be here."
Her brows furrowed.
"…You knew?"
"Yes."
He straightened slightly, ignoring the blade-shaped hole burned through his abdomen.
"I knew you would betray me. I knew you would side with the heavens. I knew you would kill me."
Her pupils shrank.
"That's impossible."
He chuckled.
"You've always underestimated me."
She raised her hand, divine light condensing into a radiant blade formed from pure law. The pressure alone caused the ground beneath her feet to crack.
"You were too dangerous," she said coldly. "You created a martial art that defies fate itself. The God Divine Arts should not exist."
"Oh, but it does."
His right arm ignited.
Golden runes—ancient and terrifying—crawled across his skin, each one radiating power that made even the heavens recoil.
First Style of the God Divine Arts.
Dragon Killer Punch.
The air screamed.
Even without being released, nearby dragon corpses disintegrated into ash.
Fear finally appeared on her face.
"You wouldn't—!"
"I won't," he interrupted calmly.
She froze.
"…What?"
He lowered his fist.
"You see," he said softly, eyes sharp as blades, "this battle was never about winning."
Her heart skipped.
"What do you mean?"
He looked at her—not with hatred, not with rage—
But with certainty.
"The God Divine Arts has twelve styles."
Her expression darkened.
"I know."
"No," he corrected. "You know eleven."
Her eyes widened.
Impossible.
"There is a twelfth style," he continued. "One I never taught. One I never revealed."
The divine blade in her hand trembled.
"What does it do?"
He smiled.
A knowing smile.
"It activates automatically upon my death."
The world fell silent.
Her face drained of color.
"What… are you saying?"
He stepped forward, blood dripping from his lips.
"Twelfth Style: Divine Reversal."
Her breath hitched.
"This style ignores time, fate, and causality. When my heart stops… my soul is sent back to a fixed point in the past."
"No…" she whispered. "That's—"
"Impossible?" he finished. "So you said."
Her divine blade pierced his chest.
Straight through his heart.
Pain exploded through his body—but he did not scream.
Instead…
He laughed.
Softly.
"Thank you," he whispered.
Blood spilled from his mouth as his body collapsed backward.
Her hands trembled.
"What… have I done…?"
His consciousness faded—but there was no panic.
No fear.
Only calm.
Activation complete.
Darkness swallowed him.
Then—
Movement.
Not forward.
Backward.
His soul was torn from the present, dragged violently through time itself. Laws shattered around him as memories replayed in reverse.
Battles undone.
Cultivation stripped away.
Years erased.
Then—
Light.
He gasped.
His eyes snapped open as air rushed into his lungs.
He sat up violently, heart pounding.
"…Hah…"
Young hands.
Smooth skin.
No scars.
He laughed quietly.
"It worked."
He rose and walked to the bronze mirror.
A twenty-one-year-old man stared back at him.
His former self.
Tier 1 — Novice.
Weak.
Pathetic.
Perfect.
"She doesn't know," he murmured. "She never knew."
He clenched his fist.
"This time, I won't hesitate."
Outside the window, dragons roared in distant skies.
Elven forests shimmered with ancient magic.
The world moved forward—unaware that its greatest threat had returned.
"I'll reach Tier 11 again," he said calmly.
"But this time…"
His eyes turned cold.
"…I'll kill you before you kill me."
Far above, the heavens trembled.
The Dragon Slayer had been reborn—by his own design.