The golden spires of the Sacred Empire trembled as nine overwhelming auras descended from the heavens. The sky, once a brilliant azure, was now a fractured mosaic of gold, crimson, and void-black.
Standing atop the Star-Gazing Terrace, Song Jun watched the fabric of reality fray. He adjusted his silk robes, his expression unreadable despite the cataclysm unfolding above.
"The Sacred Realm has been contaminated by the other nine Sovereigns," Song Jun said, his voice carrying the weight of a dying star. "Their thirst for power is no longer an excuse. It is a cancer."
"Master Jun...!"
A young maid stumbled onto the terrace, her face pale. She fell to her knees, trembling under the sheer pressure of the approaching gods. "The Sovereigns... they have gathered at the Great Gate. They wish to speak to you," she said, her voice brittle with terror.
Song Jun didn't turn. "They didn't come to speak, child. They came to harvest."
With a single step, Song Jun vanished.
He reappeared in the center of the firmament, surrounded by nine figures. The air screamed as their combined killing intent locked onto him.
"Song Jun," the Sovereign of Desolation hissed, his voice echoing like grinding stones. "You have held the seat of the Love Sovereign for too long. Your 'Path of Heart' is a stagnation in the pursuit of the Eternal Dao. Give us your Divinity, and we may let your soul enter the cycle of reincarnation."
"You speak of heart as a weakness," Song Jun replied, his eyes glowing with a soft, dangerous light. "Yet it is the only thing that kept me from erasing you all centuries ago."
The battle erupted.
It wasn't a brawl; it was a collision of laws. Song Jun moved like a blur of white light, his every movement dictated by the True Dao. With a flick of his wrist, he redirected a beam of pure Annihilation. He fought with a grace that mocked their brute force, but even a Sovereign has limits.
Nine against one.
Blood—gold and glowing—splattered against the clouds. Song Jun's chest was pierced by a spear of lightning, and his left arm withered under a curse of time. He laughed, a cold, jagged sound, as he felt his soul beginning to fracture.
'So this is it,' he thought, his vision blurring. 'Betrayed by those I shared wine with. If this is the end of my first life, let it be a lesson for the next.'
He didn't plead. With his final breath, he ignited his heart's core, a blinding supernova that forced the nine Sovereigns back, scarring the very heavens.
Everything was cold. Then, everything hurt.
Song Jun's eyes snapped open. The first thing he smelled was damp earth and blood. The second thing he felt was a stabbing, rhythmic throb in his chest—a writhing sensation inside his very heart.
'What is this?' he thought, attempting to circulate his Qi. He found nothing but narrow, clogged meridians and a pathetic pool of energy.
"Song Hui! Move, you useless brat! Get the carriage to the clearing!"
The shout forced a flood of foreign memories into his mind. Images of a life spent scrubbing floors, enduring kicks from guards, and a pathetic, unrequited pining for a woman he was forbidden to look at.
He looked down at his hands. Calloused, thin, and trembling. He was no longer a Sovereign. He was Song Hui, a lowly servant of the Han Clan.
A sharp pang in his chest made him gasp. The Heart Parasite. It was a cruel, parasitic bond; if the Young Lady of the clan died, the worm would liquefy his heart instantly.
"Bandits! Protect the Young Lady!" a guard screamed.
The chaos of the raid erupted. To the other servants, it was a death sentence. To Song Jun, it was an annoyance. He slowly stood up, the dual memories of a god and a slave clashing in his skull.
'The previous owner of this body died of fright,' Song Jun realized, a cold smile touching his lips. 'How pathetic. But his fear served a purpose—it left a vacancy for a Sovereign.'
A bandit lunged at the carriage, aiming for the girl inside. Song Hui didn't use a weapon. He stepped into the man's reach, his fingers forming a delicate sign. He struck the bandit's throat—not with strength, but with a precise vibration of Qi that shattered the man's windpipe.
As the bandit collapsed, Song Hui picked up the fallen blade. The weight was unbalanced and the steel was poor, but the soul behind it was still that of an Emperor.
"To think," he muttered, parrying the next strike with effortless disdain, "that I would have to soil my hands with such trash so soon."
He didn't move like a servant. He moved like a ghost, the sword in his hand becoming an extension of his will. He didn't roar or show rage. He moved with a clinical, terrifying efficiency. One strike, one life. No wasted movement.
In the wreckage of the convoy, the Young Lady peered through the carriage curtain, her eyes wide with shock. The servant she had known as a coward was standing amidst a pile of corpses, his gaze fixed on the horizon as if he were looking through the very sky itself.
'The True Dao is long,' Song Hui thought, wiping a spray of blood from his cheek. 'I suppose I'll start here.'