CHAPTER SIX
Scene Two: The First Apocalypse
The sky did not brighten this time.
It darkened.
Not with clouds.
Not with storm.
But with memory.
Shangdi's raised hand became the axis of reality itself, and the screen above Earth trembled—
as if the universe hesitated to remember.
Then—
the second scene began.
THE WORLD BEFORE HISTORY
Humanity expected ancient cities.
Primitive tribes.
The beginning of civilization.
Instead…
they saw something impossible.
Earth.
But not this Earth.
The continents were the same—
yet wrong.
The oceans glowed faintly.
The atmosphere shimmered with threads of energy.
And above the cities…
floated towers of light.
Not technology.
Not magic.
Something beyond both.
In Beijing, scientists screamed at their monitors.
"That… that energy density…"
"It's not possible!"
In Rome, priests fell silent.
In Tokyo, a child whispered:
"Was Earth… always like this?"
Shangdi's voice answered, calm as eternity.
"This was the First Cycle."
"The first Earth."
"The first chance."
THE AGE OF CULTIVATION
The scene shifted.
Humans moved across mountains like gods.
They split seas with gestures.
They carried suns inside their cores.
Immortal cultivation—
real.
Not legend.
Not fiction.
It was history.
Across the world, billions stared as ancient humans fought not with guns…
but with laws of existence.
A man stood atop a peak, eyes glowing violet.
He spoke one word—
and an army vanished into dust.
In Mumbai, someone sobbed:
"We could have been that…"
"We were that."
Shangdi continued.
"I gave you power."
"I gave you the heavens."
"And still…"
The tone sharpened slightly.
"…you chose war."
THE FIRST PROPHET
The scene changed again.
A single figure appeared.
Not glowing.
Not mighty.
Not immortal.
Just a man.
Barefoot.
Wearing plain cloth.
Standing before kings who floated above thrones.
His voice was gentle.
"Stop."
"You are devouring one another."
"There is only one Heaven."
"One Creator."
One God.
The kings laughed.
A woman ruler sneered.
"A beggar preaching unity?"
Another spat:
"If Shangdi exists…"
"Why does he not kneel before us?"
The prophet's eyes were sad.
"He does not kneel."
"He weeps."
Across Earth, modern viewers trembled.
Because they recognized it.
Not the setting.
The pattern.
Power mocking humility.
Humanity repeating itself.
THE PROPHET'S DEATH
The scene became unbearable.
The prophet was dragged through a city of gold.
People threw stones.
Not because he was evil—
but because he was inconvenient.
Because unity threatens empires.
Because truth insults pride.
They chained him beneath a monument.
A judge declared:
"This man divides the world!"
The prophet whispered:
"No…"
"You divided yourselves long before I arrived."
Then—
they burned him alive.
Not with hatred.
With indifference.
With law.
With applause.
In the present, Earth broke.
People screamed.
A woman in Brazil collapsed, sobbing:
"We did it again…"
A soldier in Russia whispered:
"We always do."
Zheng Wen Te's nails dug into his palms.
His voice cracked.
"…That was your prophet?"
Shangdi replied:
"My first."
THE PROTECTOR IS BORN
The scene did not stop.
It descended deeper.
Past the prophet's ashes.
Past the ruined city.
Into the heavens above that ancient Earth.
And there—
they saw them.
The Giants.
But not descending.
Not conquering.
Standing in ranks of worship.
Their heads bowed.
Their bodies vast as galaxies.
The greatest among them stepped forward.
His eyes were like collapsed stars.
He knelt.
"My Creator."
"Give the command."
Shangdi's voice was softer then.
"They will destroy themselves."
"They always do."
The giant's fists trembled.
"Then let us protect them."
"Seal them."
Guide them.
Save them.
Shangdi was silent.
Then:
"You love them too much."
The giant raised his head.
"I pity them."
Shangdi answered:
"That is love."
And in that moment—
Earth understood.
The Protector was not rebellion.
The Protector was compassion.
A servant who could not bear the endless cycle.