Writing is what matters..Not the cheat itself which don't understand fully in the first place? But aight
Xianxia Encompassing the World! (Xianxia Rec Discussion and Idea thread)
- Thread starter Hangwind
- Start date
Writing is what matters..Not the cheat itself which don't understand fully in the first place? But aight
- Location
- Limbo
Yeah, writing matters for sure! But the more interesting the stuff you're working with is to the readers, the lower the minimum threshold for writing quality, skill, and effort to write an interesting story and keep the reader's interest. You don't choose which book you read from the quality of the writing twenty thousand words in, you choose based off of the appeal of the first impression, be it from the cover blurb, the story summary, or whatever. An interesting cheat is the easiest hook for an author to get and keep the reader's attention, and without it you have to work much harder for the same result.
Sirrocco
Pedantic
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Yes. It is. This is exactly the issue. Your story idea is structurally equivalent to "cultivation MC picks up the inheritance of Dao Venerable". That's it. That's really the only thing there. That's a generic story beat. It's not nearly enough to build a story around my itself, and the fact that you have it as the isekai power from a superhero universe means that it's a generic story beat with a bunch more required exposition tagged onto it. Extra required exposition isn't a good thing. It's a cost that you pay for other things.
It's consuming qi... to upgrade his body... until he is more than human. Meanwhile he'll also be cultivating, which is also a matter of consuming qi to upgrade his body until he is more than human. Functionally, if you pointed at his superpower and told the natives of this world that it was a unique form of cultivation that only he could use because of a unique constitution, they would look at it and agree that, yes, that's exactly what it was. As far as impact on the story as a whole, it is identical. Only the vague handwavey backstory explanation is different... and since all of that backstory is in another universe that cannot possibly have effects on this world, it doesn't matter.
Basically, let's break your idea down into parts.
A: You have a generic xianxia setting.
B: The protagonist is an isekai into that setting from a superhero world.
C: The protagonist is generally bad at cultivation, but has a cheat that allows him to consume qi to permanently improve himself in various ways. This stacks usefully with cultivation and he can also use it to improve his initially bad cultivation talent.
D: Later, he'll be able to expand the cheat to also count as an alternate form of equipment refinement and probably various other cool things that you can think of to make it do.
E: The cheat is a result of his past life history.
Of those parts, E means very little. It seems like it's the one that you personally are most excited about, but it really doesn't add much to the story itself other than a bunch of mandatory exposition, and mandatory exposition isn't actually a good thing. Given how excited you are about it, it might draw in some readers who are really into the idea of mixing superpowers and xianxia, but that's about it.
If we remove E, then all that B is doing for you is giving you a protagonist with a "superhero universe" background rather than whatever other kind of background, so that you can play with the cultural clash. This might or might not be something that you're excited by.
D is a semi-kludgy add-on of a variety that is really pretty common to xianxia. "Look! My OP starter cheat is OP for even more reasons than I'd thought!" It's honestly not that big a deal one way or the other. This kind of thing can add extra value to the story if you are thorough enough with your worldbuilding that the extra ways of applying the cheat are derived from something resembling base principles rather than being largely arbitrary according to the desires of the author... but it seems like most of the xianxia that does that sort of thing doesn't bother with that much detail and it wasn't looking like you were really going to either.
...and a story that's just A+C sounds like a really, really generic xianxia story, with a really generic cheat. That's not inherently bad. Generic xianxia can make for good stories. The problem is that you need something more than that. You need something to make your story interesting and different, and this cheat isn't going to do that, so you need something else. Make the setting interesting in some way, make the characters interesting in some way, make the available cultivation styles interesting in some way, make the initial situation interesting in some way... something.
Now, there are a few ways to fix that.
First, simplest, the "something interesting" could be B. If you really wanted to go into it, and have the superhero (or supervillain?) thing be a core driving aspect of the protagonist's personality that he took incredibly seriously, then you could make that the core of the story. You could lean into the fact that he was a low-tier super on his old world, and do some interesting deep-dive on the character to think about what that would really mean for him as a person and what sort of strategies and attitudes he would have picked up and make a significant part of the story be about who this guy is and what his history has made him and how that clashes with the world he's in now and how his approach is different than everyone else's approach. You would probably want to include the occasional flashback to his previous life, possibly drawing parallels between people he met back in that world and people he met in this world that would further inform his reactions. This one, at its best, gets very psychological. I wasn't under the impression that that's what you wanted, but it would totally be a way to work this, and could result in a good story, with the premised you've described (but different emphasis).
Second, you could change C. The superpower you described is really generic for xianxia, but there are a lot of superpowers that wouldn't be. Make him a superhero with some power that isn't itself a growth power, but that synergizes well with some existing-but-niche cultivation style, possibly lettign him better deal with one or more severe flaws/challenges of the art and thus advance a lot faster, and you have the start of an interesting protagonist story. Give that style quirks of its own that affect things like what the protagonist has to do to advance and what abilities he has and how he fights, and you can do some interesting stuff in those spaces.
Note that it's entirely possible to do both of those things, and it might well be worth considering, especially if you like the idea of running things a bit character-based but you don't want to take it in quite enough depth to have it carry the story by itself.
Third, you could do the thing I suggested earlier and swap out A for... anywhere that doesn't have a built-in path for everybody to consume resources and thereby become superhuman. Put him somewhere that this kind of self-upgrading thing really does make him unique in a meaningful way.
Look. You tossed a concept out there. The implication was that you wanted feedback on it. We're doing our best to give you that. It's not the feedback you wanted to hear, but it is honest, it's trying to be helpful, and it has involved meaningful effort on our part. Is it possible to take a bad concept and make a good story? Codex Alera says yes. Does it mean that it's magically a good concept just because a good story was made from it? No. No it does not.
You may have heard of a thing called constructive criticism, or concrit. It is a valuable thing, for those writers that can stomach it. Concrit is the thing that you are experiencing right now.
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- Location
- Washington
If writing is what matters than why are you presenting us with the cheat idea, that supposedly doesn't matter?
Virian
Sage of Reason and incomplete information
- Location
- Where logic has never been before
- Pronouns
- he/him
There's cultivators that are actively trying to advance to the higher realms, putting all stats into being a murder-blender and leaving everything else on the wayside. Then there's the people that gave up on advancing, that need something to do so they go into building stuff or they just really like doing X more than advancing. Not all cultivators go the murder blender route there are shown cultivators that go into professions such as blacksmiths and alchemists
As for the exact intermediary stuff after the 'living in a cave' realm? Here's a reasonable progession.
1. Get some mortals to build basic stuff,
2. get some disciples to help the mortals do stuff around the sect such as building and repairing things
3. some disciples show talent for it, some even like it
4. disciples with talent for it get better than mortals allowing for creations with esoteric effects to be made.
5.1. Eventually this practice crystalizes as a path available to the sect members creating a new Pavilion once a critical mass of disciples interested in it turn up.
////////////
5.2. or the practice dies out because people are just not interested in it and the occasional genius makes some interesting artifacts before dying or ascending and the sect is left with outer disciple and mortals to do x tasks.
- Location
- Canada
God I hate badly edited MTL disguising itself as human translated.
Started reading a story with a female MC, and in the opening summary the "translator" used the excuse that they were going to use the term "uncle master" for her because the original text doesn't distinguish gender, which sounded more like lazy translation, but okay. And initially as a scruffy kid some people thought the MC was actually a boy at first, which also led to muddled pronouns, so okay.
But then after a while when it became clear the MC was female, there was still usage of male pronouns. And even the narration would use "he" or call her a "boy" randomly. Very clearly just poorly edited MTL, which made the usage of "uncle master" clearly just them giving an excuse so they could be lazy and not edit as opposed to "staying true to the original language" or whatever such nonsense, like proper translation/localization shouldn't take into account such differences and make it more understandable to the reader.
Again, less angry when I read straight up MTL that doesn't pretend it's not MTL. At least then the brain damage from reading it is fully self inflicted and chosen.
Started reading a story with a female MC, and in the opening summary the "translator" used the excuse that they were going to use the term "uncle master" for her because the original text doesn't distinguish gender, which sounded more like lazy translation, but okay. And initially as a scruffy kid some people thought the MC was actually a boy at first, which also led to muddled pronouns, so okay.
But then after a while when it became clear the MC was female, there was still usage of male pronouns. And even the narration would use "he" or call her a "boy" randomly. Very clearly just poorly edited MTL, which made the usage of "uncle master" clearly just them giving an excuse so they could be lazy and not edit as opposed to "staying true to the original language" or whatever such nonsense, like proper translation/localization shouldn't take into account such differences and make it more understandable to the reader.
Again, less angry when I read straight up MTL that doesn't pretend it's not MTL. At least then the brain damage from reading it is fully self inflicted and chosen.
As a very lukewarm defense, E means you have an reason to have a culture clash between where the MC was coming from and where he is now. That can be interesting, though there's also a lot of stories that already do so. In fact, it feels like that's more common than not these days.
Anyway, there's no reason it needs to be connected to a power that just replicates what cultivation already does.
Though, that could be interesting in itself. If someone gave me this as a writing prompt, I'd lean into those two aspect. His special power is in fact almost indistinguishable from just another rare and special cultivation method. Arguably it's not in fact anything else, depending on how you define cultivation in the first place. In his original world, that made him special and awesome. Here, it's the standard power, as a whole they're way better at doing and dealing with it, and there's plenty of people of people who do what he does but just plain better. So he has to rely on his experiences in his past live for an advantage. Like, mental flexibility from being used to lots and lots of really weird powers (at least at the low levels, most xianxia powers aren't too different), the benefits of not being a raging asshole, some humility.
Don't think that would carry a full story, but it could be interesting for a shorter bit.
- Location
- Massachusetts
Between Beast and Buddha: A Drunken Monkey's Journey to Immortality.
Orange-crest is a monkey with simple desires. He likes warm summer days lazing about with his brothers and sisters, sampling the variety of fruit and grubs Mount Yuelu provides it's simian inhabitants. He does not like tigers, or that one green fruit that makes one's shits white and runny...
forums.spacebattles.com
Between Beast and Buddha is a story I'm eagerly reading every time it updates.
A Daoist blackballed by the majority of his sect decides to use one of his few irrevocable privileges to invite a personal disciple into the sect. He abuses this privilege, as a small matter of petty revenge, by naming a spiritual monkey with a taste for fermented fruit as his disciple. It goes surprisingly well for him and the monkey, and surprisingly poorly for everyone else.
Despite the innately ridiculous premise and the frequent laughs from the monkey's failure to understand humanity, this isn't played for cracky slapstick—it's a real, dark cultivation world surrounding the man and his beast. I love Beware of Chicken but by the fiftieth time someone says "What? A chicken?" The joke gets old, and Beast and Buddha is careful to avoid the humor overstaying its welcome.
Meanwhile the sect and cultivation is well developed, in a rather unique way—every single Daoist we see is fucked up, because cultivation is hard and pills and elixirs have side effects and leave spiritual scars. Ordinarly this type of grit puts me off stories, but in a genre and formulaic and well-trodden as Xianxia, seeing something different is a breath of fresh air.
Strong recommendation for fans looking for English-language Xianxia
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Firstly, I'm going to have to disagree. Extra exposition regarding the background and motivation of a character thrown into a new situation can make something out of nothing. People can shit on isekai all they want—validly so, in terms of form and function—but there's an objective reason so many get anime adaptations and why they're so common in the market today. People like isekai. Granting a character a background that fosters sympathy and excitement can draw readers into a story. Whether or not people are attracted by that particular exposition or background is a wholly different issue.
This is, again, where you're kinda just making assumptions. Not that I gave you much to go off of—so that's fair—but the power in question is linked to him being something of an outsider, which would be relevant to the plot. On another hand, there are several ways to leverage this, so it's not just: "Hey, now I have better talent and can beat up guy X who beat me up." Especially considering there are a variety of cultivation systems one can create. My initial idea was to have this ability be integral to the system itself in the Arch stage due to the fact he could upgrade his arcs. I have a self-created 8-realm system I was planning to build the bones of this one around.
A: Generic xianxia setting isn't really the case here. I'm an American writer—I'm not exactly going to make it Golden Core → Nascent Soul and have everyone and their mother be Chinese and slaughtering civilians en masse. I'm not the greatest world-builder, but I'm a tad bit inspired.
B: This is indeed the case.
C: This is also correct, but there are more caveats to it—but yes.
D: Yup.
E: Yup.
Yeah, see argument above. But aside from that, him being from another world entirely is obviously going to draw him into conflict with how things are run in a xianxia setting. And yes, while I don't plan for the setting to be generic, massively imbalanced power structures are a xianxia staple—and realistically so, given a reality with cultivation. D can easily be leveraged in a given system, or it can simply be used to build a force for minor kingdom-building elements in the story. It can be leveraged for quite a few situations. Hell, you can link it pretty easily to something like Intent, which is another common xianxia concept. Intent often means learning about a weapon and its intricacies enough to be able to summon it up on thought and affect the world with that understanding. By upgrading weapons with his innate power, he could facilitate that process and advance in an Intent more quickly—or something of that nature. It's not really all that difficult to draw plot-relevant connections here, even on a whim.
Yes, I'm aware I threw out a hook. I guess it was a bad one based on the feedback here, but there wasn't really any deeper consideration other than "X is bland," which isn't actually helpful or constructive in any way, shape, or form.
I mean—not to be obvious—but is this not a given? If the character in question comes from a specifically crafted differing background, then it would make sense for that to impact—or rather be—their character and drive them. I can't exactly give a deep dive into a character I created on the spot in a xianxia thread out of nowhere. Like I said, it's the writing that's relevant. While the cheat in question would be important to the plot—as everything needs a hook nowadays—the character building and how that cheat impacts and has impacted him are also relevant. He is a hero in a world of men and women who are more so neutral mass murderers. It's a strange situation for someone like that. I wouldn't write a story where the main character is simply a vehicle for their cheat running rampant in a xianxia world. Aside from basic survive-and-get-stronger goals, the whole past life thing is commonly used as a narrative tool for giving a character motivations, hobbies, and goals the author can later expand upon through flashbacks, given a position or situation that can fit—because the author can construct it as he wishes.
I don't disagree with this. But that's just a matter of opinion, really. I don't think your idea is uninteresting—I can definitely see doing something like linking a psychic power to soul cultivation, making the soul stronger in a system where souls get carried along by the main cultivation, and soul cultivation in particular is rare and dangerous. You could have that be the effective gimmick, and that'd make for a fine story. Because you can leverage it that way. I feel pretty confident that, with just a tad bit of creative thought, you could leverage the power I made that way too. I've read my fair share of xianxia as well—no reason for me to make a clone of a story I've read a dozen times before.
I feel like both of these things are a given here. One can use a cheat to facilitate growth in the plot and power side of things while using the past life as a narrative device to decide character interactions, goals, and the general direction of development. I don't really think that's too insane to balance in a story. Not much different from normal cultivation, at least at the start.
Like I said—I like this idea. I don't mind it. But a cultivation world is really no different. And the thing is—it can scale pretty effectively if I want him to have peers, rather than being an overpowering force in the setting. There are definitely ways to do this in maybe a sci-fi that may be better, but it can work in a xianxia narrative pretty well too.
I don't mind constructive criticism, and I'm well aware of its nature. "Bland cheat" and "this is like everything else" when I kind of went on to explain my plans specifically—that's not exactly constructive criticism. And I think I've been pretty respectful in all that occurred.
Sirrocco
Pedantic
- Pronouns
- He/Him
I have become convinced of your ability to respond with counterarguments to anything I might have to say on this topic... and, honestly, my personal resources are finite. You may feel free to believe what you will.
- Location
- Caracas
And Sold. Really enjoying this.
- Location
- Elsewhere
So I'm reading a lighthearted story with a recurring joke:
Sword Cultivators are poor.
The basis of this is that while an alchemist or artifact refiner can churn out products to sell, a sword cultivator has a lot more limited range of money-making possibilities.
Just body-guarding and hunting and similarly sporadic jobs which barely lets them buy the oil they use to maintain swords!
Sword Sects are slightly better off, essentially "selling" protection to surrounding communities.
Most stories I've read don't have this.
They just assume that all cultivators have the time and equipment to learn multiple fields, and can easily grab valuable things from the wilderness, and Sects are all running entire mines for money.
But it actually presents some useful ideas.
Why are Sword Cultivators so "Righteous" (i.e. they stick their noses in other people's business)?
Because fighting and looting Demonic Cultivators is profitable.
Why are those Sect members swaggering around like they rule the city?
They are actually a real peacekeeping force hired to enforce the laws. (Mileage may vary)
Instead of having a sect possess infinite wealth they hand out for doing random chores, it's worth considering what they actually do to earn money and how that changes their behavior.
They might want to rise above mortal concerns like wealth, but in the meantime someone has to keep an eye on the bottom line.
Sword Cultivators are poor.
The basis of this is that while an alchemist or artifact refiner can churn out products to sell, a sword cultivator has a lot more limited range of money-making possibilities.
Just body-guarding and hunting and similarly sporadic jobs which barely lets them buy the oil they use to maintain swords!
Sword Sects are slightly better off, essentially "selling" protection to surrounding communities.
Most stories I've read don't have this.
They just assume that all cultivators have the time and equipment to learn multiple fields, and can easily grab valuable things from the wilderness, and Sects are all running entire mines for money.
But it actually presents some useful ideas.
Why are Sword Cultivators so "Righteous" (i.e. they stick their noses in other people's business)?
Because fighting and looting Demonic Cultivators is profitable.
Why are those Sect members swaggering around like they rule the city?
They are actually a real peacekeeping force hired to enforce the laws. (Mileage may vary)
Instead of having a sect possess infinite wealth they hand out for doing random chores, it's worth considering what they actually do to earn money and how that changes their behavior.
They might want to rise above mortal concerns like wealth, but in the meantime someone has to keep an eye on the bottom line.
- Location
- Elsewhere
The story is:
She Dominates the Immortal Realm with Her HP Bar
At AkkNovel
It's only slightly about economic domination, I was going off on a tangent.
It's about a Turtle Demon Cultivator who's HP goes up by a factor of 10 every year she lives, starting at "nearly dead" then eventually becoming "basically invincible."
So it does a decent job with various ideas, but it's more of a power-romp than anything else.
She Dominates the Immortal Realm with Her HP Bar
At AkkNovel
It's only slightly about economic domination, I was going off on a tangent.
It's about a Turtle Demon Cultivator who's HP goes up by a factor of 10 every year she lives, starting at "nearly dead" then eventually becoming "basically invincible."
So it does a decent job with various ideas, but it's more of a power-romp than anything else.
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1. Accumulation Realm
2. Dao Carving Realm
3. Spirit Projection Realm
4. Great Well Realm
5. Overlay Realm (Connection Realm)
6. Anathema Realm
7. World Core Realm
8. Firmament Realm
9. Aeternal Realm
10. Realm-Birth Realm
11. Arch Realm
12. Origin Realm (Great Realm Lord)
- Purpose: The foundation of cultivation. Here, a cultivator begins gathering numen into their soul. Numen reinforces the body and weapons, but cannot be projected beyond the body.
- Mechanics:
- The soul is shackled by nine internal binds.
- By absorbing numen and guiding it into the soul through meditation, breath techniques, and rituals, the cultivator begins to pressure these shackles.
- Each shackle represents a limit of spiritual pressure tolerance and energy density.
- Breaking through each shackle results in improved numen retention, spiritual clarity, and enhanced bodily durability.
- Full breakthrough (all nine shackles) triggers the tribulation and opens the path to true Dao cultivation.
2. Dao Carving Realm
- Purpose: To engrave one's Dao onto their meridians, aligning their essence with the laws they intend to follow.
- Mechanics:
- Cultivators comprehend the 'Whispers of Creation'—subtle phenomena and truths in the world linked to their Dao.
- They must use a Sutra (cultivation method) to translate this understanding into carvings within their meridians.
- There are up to 81 meridians; talent is defined both by count and quality (World, Star, Sphere, Realm).
- Each carving anchors their Dao and makes their numen flow more potent and aligned. And allows them to project numen as well as use their unique Dao
- These carvings are 2D at first—flat, conceptual ideas.
- The ninth carving completes the realm, preparing them for transformation.
3. Spirit Projection Realm
- Purpose: External manifestation of the cultivator's Dao in the form of a projection.
- Mechanics:
- The transformation from 2D carvings to 3D structures causes their Dao carving to exist outside the body. This is done through tribulation
- Projections can take the form of creatures, weapons, storms, or celestial signs.
- Projection size increases with each shackle 20 feet over 9 shackles—up to 180 feet.
- Exceptional cultivators reach 180 feet on the 9th shackle, signaling near-perfect synchronization with their Dao. But one can break that limit.
- Projections amplify combat strength and can be controlled like avatars or autonomous weapons.
- Awakens flight
- Tribulation forces refinement of this projection; survivors internalize the projection and can draw upon it passively.
4. Great Well Realm
- Purpose: Establish a long-term power reserve by forming Dao wells linked to one's projection and thus their dao.
- Mechanics:
- Tempered projections are used to create spiritual wells within the soul.
- Each well acts as a deep conduit, drawing in numen not just from the cultivator but from the surrounding world.
- The quality of the well is determined by the height of the projection used to create it.
- Colors of wells (Red to Indigo) represent increasing grades of quality. Rare cultivators can forge Bronze, Silver, or Gold wells.
- A cultivator can form 1 to 9 wells. More wells = longer and more powerful Sinking States. The sinking state being a temporary form a cultivator can enter to enhance powers
- Awakens spiritual perception and sixth sense
- Wells also act as anchors for spiritual stability and serve as sources for law extraction in later realms.
5. Overlay Realm (Connection Realm)
- Purpose: Project one's inner cosmology into the world, establishing a metaphysical domain where one's Dao reigns supreme.
- Mechanics:
- Using the power of their wells to draw from their dao, cultivators form a spiritual Overlay.
- This domain overlays reality with the laws of their Dao.
- Within the Overlay, they can spawn multiple projections and amplify their abilities.
- At the end of each shackle, part of their soul is sent to a Dao Plane to form a connection: Thin (1.5x), Mid (3x), or Wide (6x) amplification.
- These connections bring authentic Dao Law into the overlay, making it more real and potent.
- High-tier cultivators can summon creatures from Dao Planes through these connections.
6. Anathema Realm
- Purpose: Balance the Dao with its opposing force by cultivating anathemic stars within the Overlay.
- Mechanics:
- Heaven tempers the Overlay with laws opposite to the cultivator's Dao.
- Each opposing law forms an anathemic star within the domain.
- Anathemic stars allow the cultivator to mirror their Dao Plane connections in reverse, enhancing comprehension and control.
- Dao Silence is born from the collision of opposing daos and acts as an absolute nullifier.
- Dao Silence becomes a weapon that suppresses lower cultivators or disrupts enemy domains.
- Dao silence takes time and effort to create and is not used casually
- Max of 9 anathemic stars.
7. World Core Realm
- Purpose: Solidify mastery over one's Dao by stealing a Core Law from the Dao Plane and fusing it into the Law Body.
- Mechanics:
- Only cultivators with mid to wide connections can attempt this.
- The soul enters the Dao Plane with the Law Body and battles for possession of a World Rune/Core Law.
- The rune is integrated into the Overlay, fully merging it with the Law Body.
- This step solidifies higher-dimensional presence and begins removing restrictions from standard space-time.
- The cultivator gains immense personal authority over their Dao.
8. Firmament Realm
- Purpose: Transform the Overlay into a true spatial structure capable of resisting reality.
- Mechanics:
- The cultivator begins to construct a spatial framework—drawing upon spatial laws and overlays from their personal domain.
- Each shackle increases the spatial layering and resistance of their domain.
- Lower-level cultivators appear as incomplete or fictional to them, and they can be affected like lesser entities in a flat projection.
- Domains begin ascending beyond projection—they gain weight, presence, and temporal stability is hinted at (but not yet established).
- This realm does not yet manipulate time directly; it focuses entirely on spatial sovereignty and the building of a true firmament.
- With each shackle, their domain becomes more 'real' and more sovereign.
9. Aeternal Realm
- Purpose: Transcend death and fate, becoming an immortal sovereign unbound by time and causality.
- Mechanics:
- The cultivator enters the Timestream and faces every alternate version of themselves.
- These selves include regrets, failures, evil versions, and untapped potentials.
- Each version is absorbed or defeated, culminating in one complete and singular identity.
- With this, the cultivator forges a soul beyond time, immune to past assassinations or karmic interference.
- They may now begin crafting their own personal timeline within their domain.
- This creates a proto universe
10. Realm-Birth Realm
- Purpose: Expand one's proto-universe into a true universe and evolve it into a Realm.
- Mechanics:
- A universe forged through the Overlay becomes a real, living cosmology via being baptized b the laws of heaven
- The cultivator nurtures this universe through nine evolutionary tribulations, taking it from Tier 1 to Tier 9.
- At Tier 9, it becomes infinite.
- To evolve this into a true Realm, the cultivator must undergo tribulation while Ginnugap entities and Heaven attempt to destroy them and their universe.
- If successful, the universe becomes a self-contained Realm with internal laws immune to standard narrative absorption.
11. Arch Realm
- Purpose: Construct and rule multiple realms, reaching multiversal scale.
- Mechanics:
- The cultivator begins crafting secondary, tertiary, and branching realms connected to their primary.
- These realms can be infinite in number, and all obey the cultivator's central Dao and narrative.
- Power is exercised across these structures, allowing high-dimensional warfare.
- To ascend, the cultivator must defeat another Arch cultivator while under simultaneous Heavenly and Ginnugap assault.
12. Origin Realm (Great Realm Lord)
- Purpose: Become a proto-heaven, surpassing Heaven's structure.
- Mechanics:
- The cultivator's realm reaches complexity beyond what Heaven can categorize.
- It integrates time, law, karma, paradox, and becomes a proto-narrative engine.
- Once a Great Realm is born, it begins to spawn laws that can overwrite the Dao Planes themselves.
- Heaven tries to absorb or erase them through subtle Fate Tribulation.
- If the cultivator surpasses fate, they become a Writer of the Great Beyond, expunged from Heaven's structure, and begin forming their own independent heaven.
1. Accumulation Realm
2. Dao Carving Realm
3. Spirit Projection Realm
4. Great Well Realm
5. Overlay Realm (Heavenly Mandate):
6. Anathema Realm
7. World Core Realm
8. Firmament Realm
9. Aeternal Realm
10. Realm-Birth Realm
11. Arch Realm
12. Origin Realm (Fate Tribulation / Destiny Trial):
- Tribulation (Heaven's Descent):
- The cultivator is subjected to immense gravitational and energetic pressure from the heavens. This force attempts to crush the body and soul into submission.
- Low-meridian cultivators feel this as overwhelming weight. High-meridian cultivators experience localized soul distortions, elemental fluctuations, and a psychological test of will.
- Effect: Completion crystallizes the cultivator's numen reserves, enhancing energy efficiency, body resilience, and spiritual clarity.
- Reward: Enhanced energy retention, stronger body, and a soul ready for Dao imprinting.
- Powers Gained: Reinforced numen body, higher energy storage, and basic spiritual durability.
2. Dao Carving Realm
- Tribulation (Chains of Heaven):
- Chains descend from the sky to challenge the purity and structure of the Dao carvings.
- They bind and attempt to erase or pull out these carvings. Higher talents face intelligent chains.
- Effect: Carvings evolve from conceptual 2D forms into spiritual blueprints with dimensional complexity.
- Reward: Dao-aligned meridians, enabling external projection of numen.
- Powers Gained: Elemental manifestation based on Dao, enhanced meridian flow, and external technique projection.
3. Spirit Projection Realm
- Tribulation (Refining Lightning):
- Lightning imbued with heavenly law strikes the projection and the cultivator simultaneously.
- Weak projections are shattered. Strong ones are tempered and descend into the soul.
- Effect: The projection becomes a persistent spiritual construct, usable for attacks and defenses.
- Reward: Refined projection, greater projection size, and spiritual purity.
- Powers Gained: Ability to fly, summon and fight with projections, wide-range attacks, enhanced destructive power.
4. Great Well Realm
- Tribulation (Inner World Illusion Trial):
- A mental trial traps the cultivator in illusionary realms filled with personal trauma or twisted truths.
- More talented cultivators may battle manifestations of themselves or their Dao. Or even powerful figures of the past.
- Effect: Clarifies the soul and sets the quality of the wells.
- Reward: Number and quality of wells finalized; the soul is purified.
- Powers Gained: Access to world numen, entry into the Sinking State (temporary power surge), and conceptual amplification.
5. Overlay Realm (Heavenly Mandate):
- The cultivator is assigned a real-world task by Heaven, transported into a different setting to complete it.
- Failure can cripple the overlay or cause regression. Success can reshape the Dao.
- Effect: Overlay is fortified and linked directly to Dao Planes.
- Reward: Stronger Overlay, planar connections (thin, mid, wide), enhanced Dao resonance.
- Powers Gained: Amplification within the Overlay (up to 6x), projection summoning, and spiritual creature channeling.
6. Anathema Realm
- Tribulation (Inversion of the Self):
- Heaven tests the cultivator with opposing forces that try to overwrite their Dao.
- The cultivator must survive or incorporate these inverse forces. The body is subsumed by anathemic law.
- Effect: Cultivator learns duality; forms anathemic stars and starts Dao Silence cultivation.
- Reward: Balance with opposite forces; anathemic stars stabilize Overlay. Creation of a law body—a body made from law itself, capable of shape-shifting, numen conduction, and conceptual regeneration.
- Powers Gained: Dao Silence (nullification), enhanced spiritual comprehension, projection of mirrored Dao powers.
7. World Core Realm
- Tribulation (Dimensional Collapse):
- The Law Body and Overlay are stretched through spatial and conceptual dimensions.
- Identity and Dao are tested across multiversal possibilities.
- Effect: Grants higher-dimensional interaction; soul, Overlay, and Law Body synchronize.
- Reward: Full integration of World Runes in a stable independent space; cultivator becomes a high-dimensional being.
- Powers Gained: Dimensional manipulation, fused Overlay and Law Body, deepened Dao authority.
8. Firmament Realm
- Tribulation (Timestream Conquest):
- The cultivator battles and absorbs every alternate self from infinite timelines.
- Emotional weight, regrets, and twisted versions must be confronted and merged.
- Effect: Soul becomes eternal, divorced from cause and effect. A self-contained timeline is created within their domain.
- Reward: Singular immortal identity, temporal sovereignty.
- Powers Gained: Immortality, temporal immunity, creation of a personal timeline within the domain.
9. Aeternal Realm
- Tribulation (Heavenfire Disasters):
- Three disasters descend:
- Fire of Origin burns away falsehoods.
- Wind of Endings erases lingering karma and illusions.
- Lightning of Sin judges internal flaws.
- These forces descend not just on the cultivator, but also on their proto-universe as it attempts to evolve into a true universe.
- Effect: Tests the spiritual, conceptual, and narrative integrity of the universe.
- Reward: Baptism of their proto-universe; becomes a true Tier 1 universe.
- Powers Gained: Authority over a nascent universe, advanced cosmological creation, and foundational realm sovereignty.
- Three disasters descend:
10. Realm-Birth Realm
- Tribulation (Tier Evolution + Ginnugap Siege):
- The universe is gradually evolved from Tier 1 to Tier 9 through mini tribulations, each raising its numen density and structural complexity.
- As it approaches Tier 9, Heaven and Ginnugap forces attempt to destroy it.
- Effect: Establishes the universe as a true Realm.
- Reward: Formation of a complete, infinite Realm.
- Powers Gained: Realm sovereignty, complex multiversal law manipulation, and true universe-scale creation. Rather than just destruction
11. Arch Realm
- Tribulation (Realm War Trial):
- Must engage another 11th-layer cultivator in a battle to the death.
- During the fight, both realms are assaulted by Heaven and Ginnugap, forcing rapid evolution, destruction, and defense.
- Effect: Survival enables absorption of the opponent's realm, catalyzing the creation of a Great Realm.
- Reward: Completion of internal multiversal layering.
- Powers Gained: Authority over layered realms, high-tier cosmological integration, and multiversal overlordship.
12. Origin Realm (Fate Tribulation / Destiny Trial):
- Heaven attempts to rewrite the cultivator's story through subtle calamities and converging misfortunes.
- This test never fully ends until one ascends or falls. If failed their dao will become part of heaven and strengthen it.
- Effect: Strips away external narrative control.
- Reward: Formation of a Great Realm that is rejected by Heaven and ascends into the Great Beyond.
- Powers Gained: Creation of proto-heaven, autonomous narrative law, access to being a Writer of the Great Beyond. Finally free.
This is pretty much what I had in mind for the story I'm making. I want the tribulations to feel like they have an actual effect on the powers in the story. I am struggling a bit with the concept of tiers of tribulation however. Like how talented does X have to be to get Y tier of tribulation.
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So I've had the idea for a Xianxia story in my head for a while now and I finally wrote the prologue for what that story might be. I doubt I will ever continue it but I wanted to at least get this out of my head.
It was a warm night for the midsummer festival, the sky was clear, the moon was full, and mortals and cultivators alike took to the streets to eat food, drink wine and enjoy life. Despite the crowds no-one noticed Shen Kuo as he slowly walked down the streets. With his cultivation he could have been at his destination in moments, but on an important night such as this it was better to take things slowly and remind himself of why he was about to take action.
It was quiet when Shen Zuo reached his destination, there were no crowds here as there was no reason for them to do so. The Imperial academy had closed for the night hours ago, and its high walls and potent formations rebuffed all who would intrude upon its grounds.
Such defenses were useless against Shen Zuo however, both because of his peak cultivation, but also, as he noted with dry amusement, because they had forgotten to remove his permissions to access the campus from when he worked there.
With a single step he bypassed the walls and stopped before the main doors of the building. With a flicker of intent the locks clicked open and allowed Shen Zuo access. As he walked down the old and majestic hallways of the academy, She Zuo briefly allowed himself to be swept up in a tide of nostalgia as he remembered the years he spent working here, the students he taught and the success they earned.
Such warm feelings didn't last long though, as sure enough other memories followed. Memories of how talented students were left to rot and fail because of their background. How they were forced to cultivate clearly unsuitable methods, or to swear themselves to a family or clan just to advance. Ultimately that was why She Zuo left, he could no longer tolerate the corruption and hypocrisy that would tear the wings from tigers to force them to grovel to pigs.
Now however, now things would change.
By the time his memories had finished, Shen Zuo found himself outside what was once his office and slowly pulled the door open. Someone else had obviously taken ownership of the room since his time, but with a drop of Qi the room rearranged itself until it was back in its correct configuration.
Taking a set behind the desk Shen Zuo reached into the bag by his waist and removed a simple book and an old writing brush. Though they appeared normal, a cultivator who had formed their core would be able to notice the heavy significance of the items and the potent power invested in them.
While preparing the ink for his brush, Shen Zuo flicked his way through the book, glancing over the pages filled with dense writing and symbols. Despite the small size of the book, he flicked through thousands, millions of pages before the writing stopped, Then he turned back to the front page of the book which had been left intentionally blank until now, and raised his brush.
As Shen Zuo raised his brush, the air around him stilled as the world took a breath, and the heavens turned their attention onto him. This was the defining moment of Shen Zuo's cultivation, the chance to prove his Dao, but not a line of stress marked his face and he began to write with the ease of one who was adding to their diary.
"To all the people of the world who read this message. I am Shen Zuo, 700 years ago I was born to the empire of Qin. Through the grace of the heavens I was born with both the talent for cultivation and the backing necessary to pursue it. I was not the greatest genius of my era, but I had enough success that I was guaranteed a long life. Out of gratitude to the empire that had taught me, I returned to the academy as a teacher, for I had discovered I had a talent for teaching and the scholarly arts.
It was here as I endeavoured to enrich the lives of my students that I saw the rot infesting the empire. For every blessing and opportunity I had received, ten thousand others had theirs snatched from them. For every student I was able to help to greatness, 10 more left with nothing. It wasn't pills or elixirs that these people needed, it was simply knowledge. Knowledge that would not decrease or be lessened from being shared, knowledge that was hoarded, kept secret and destroyed by those who could not bear to have their power challenged."
With every word he wrote the power surrounding Shen Zuo continued to build as heaven's gaze intensified. But he continued writing unabated.
"At that moment, I found my Dao and broke through the barrier that had been holding me back. From that moment forth, I was Shen Zuo, the teacher who shares knowledge to all. I left the academy and travelled the world gathering and recording everything I could find. Now I give it all to you. To everyone"
By this point a storm had kicked up around the academy and lightning crashed across the angry clouds overhead and every cultivator within a hundred miles realised that someone was challenging for immortality.
"This book I have written contains every document, scroll and manual I have ever read and it has room for countless more. Having been infused with my Dao for 500 years it will provide it's knowledge to any and all who ask for it. Let this be the end of the age of ignorance."
As he wrote the final word a bolt of lightning descended from above, shattering the ancient formations of the academy along with its structure. Like an arrow the bolt descended down on Shen Zuo, who simply sat there waiting for it. With a flash and a thunderous explosion, the bolt hit Shen Zuo and he vanished from the world.
His book however, remained behind, and with a soft sigh the cover closed and it dissolved into countless glowing particles that scattered on the wind to the far corners of the world multiplying as they did so. When one of these glowing particles touched a person it was absorbed into them, and a glowing blue page appeared before their eyes bearing the final words of Shen Zuo.
So the idea of this story, is that Shen Zuo, a cultivator scholar, gets really angry at how the world restricts and hides knowledge. So as he ascends to immortality he creates a library that will automatically record all the knowledge of the world and distribute it to people as they need it. The lirary will evolve over time, to better assist the people according to Shen Zuo's dream, eventually evolving into what we would recognise as a System from modern fiction.
The actual story would take place say 50 years after the prologue, when people have mostly adjusted to Shen Zuo changing the world, but there is still a huge amount of chaos as all the sects and families have to deal with the fact that their secret techniques just aren't secret any more. Along with a brewing revolution as now anyone regardless of lineage or backing can access the techniques required to be a legendary cultivator.
The Library of Shen
It was a warm night for the midsummer festival, the sky was clear, the moon was full, and mortals and cultivators alike took to the streets to eat food, drink wine and enjoy life. Despite the crowds no-one noticed Shen Kuo as he slowly walked down the streets. With his cultivation he could have been at his destination in moments, but on an important night such as this it was better to take things slowly and remind himself of why he was about to take action.
It was quiet when Shen Zuo reached his destination, there were no crowds here as there was no reason for them to do so. The Imperial academy had closed for the night hours ago, and its high walls and potent formations rebuffed all who would intrude upon its grounds.
Such defenses were useless against Shen Zuo however, both because of his peak cultivation, but also, as he noted with dry amusement, because they had forgotten to remove his permissions to access the campus from when he worked there.
With a single step he bypassed the walls and stopped before the main doors of the building. With a flicker of intent the locks clicked open and allowed Shen Zuo access. As he walked down the old and majestic hallways of the academy, She Zuo briefly allowed himself to be swept up in a tide of nostalgia as he remembered the years he spent working here, the students he taught and the success they earned.
Such warm feelings didn't last long though, as sure enough other memories followed. Memories of how talented students were left to rot and fail because of their background. How they were forced to cultivate clearly unsuitable methods, or to swear themselves to a family or clan just to advance. Ultimately that was why She Zuo left, he could no longer tolerate the corruption and hypocrisy that would tear the wings from tigers to force them to grovel to pigs.
Now however, now things would change.
By the time his memories had finished, Shen Zuo found himself outside what was once his office and slowly pulled the door open. Someone else had obviously taken ownership of the room since his time, but with a drop of Qi the room rearranged itself until it was back in its correct configuration.
Taking a set behind the desk Shen Zuo reached into the bag by his waist and removed a simple book and an old writing brush. Though they appeared normal, a cultivator who had formed their core would be able to notice the heavy significance of the items and the potent power invested in them.
While preparing the ink for his brush, Shen Zuo flicked his way through the book, glancing over the pages filled with dense writing and symbols. Despite the small size of the book, he flicked through thousands, millions of pages before the writing stopped, Then he turned back to the front page of the book which had been left intentionally blank until now, and raised his brush.
As Shen Zuo raised his brush, the air around him stilled as the world took a breath, and the heavens turned their attention onto him. This was the defining moment of Shen Zuo's cultivation, the chance to prove his Dao, but not a line of stress marked his face and he began to write with the ease of one who was adding to their diary.
"To all the people of the world who read this message. I am Shen Zuo, 700 years ago I was born to the empire of Qin. Through the grace of the heavens I was born with both the talent for cultivation and the backing necessary to pursue it. I was not the greatest genius of my era, but I had enough success that I was guaranteed a long life. Out of gratitude to the empire that had taught me, I returned to the academy as a teacher, for I had discovered I had a talent for teaching and the scholarly arts.
It was here as I endeavoured to enrich the lives of my students that I saw the rot infesting the empire. For every blessing and opportunity I had received, ten thousand others had theirs snatched from them. For every student I was able to help to greatness, 10 more left with nothing. It wasn't pills or elixirs that these people needed, it was simply knowledge. Knowledge that would not decrease or be lessened from being shared, knowledge that was hoarded, kept secret and destroyed by those who could not bear to have their power challenged."
With every word he wrote the power surrounding Shen Zuo continued to build as heaven's gaze intensified. But he continued writing unabated.
"At that moment, I found my Dao and broke through the barrier that had been holding me back. From that moment forth, I was Shen Zuo, the teacher who shares knowledge to all. I left the academy and travelled the world gathering and recording everything I could find. Now I give it all to you. To everyone"
By this point a storm had kicked up around the academy and lightning crashed across the angry clouds overhead and every cultivator within a hundred miles realised that someone was challenging for immortality.
"This book I have written contains every document, scroll and manual I have ever read and it has room for countless more. Having been infused with my Dao for 500 years it will provide it's knowledge to any and all who ask for it. Let this be the end of the age of ignorance."
As he wrote the final word a bolt of lightning descended from above, shattering the ancient formations of the academy along with its structure. Like an arrow the bolt descended down on Shen Zuo, who simply sat there waiting for it. With a flash and a thunderous explosion, the bolt hit Shen Zuo and he vanished from the world.
His book however, remained behind, and with a soft sigh the cover closed and it dissolved into countless glowing particles that scattered on the wind to the far corners of the world multiplying as they did so. When one of these glowing particles touched a person it was absorbed into them, and a glowing blue page appeared before their eyes bearing the final words of Shen Zuo.
So the idea of this story, is that Shen Zuo, a cultivator scholar, gets really angry at how the world restricts and hides knowledge. So as he ascends to immortality he creates a library that will automatically record all the knowledge of the world and distribute it to people as they need it. The lirary will evolve over time, to better assist the people according to Shen Zuo's dream, eventually evolving into what we would recognise as a System from modern fiction.
The actual story would take place say 50 years after the prologue, when people have mostly adjusted to Shen Zuo changing the world, but there is still a huge amount of chaos as all the sects and families have to deal with the fact that their secret techniques just aren't secret any more. Along with a brewing revolution as now anyone regardless of lineage or backing can access the techniques required to be a legendary cultivator.
Sirrocco
Pedantic
- Pronouns
- He/Him
This all looks pretty cool. It should totally include this prologue, though.
I also notice... this is apparently a Thing about ascension to immortalty. As part of the process of ascension, you work a major change in the world. So that means a few different things. Shen Zuo won't have been the first. This is going to be a world that has been marked repeatedly by various cultivators ascending and leaving some major change behind - or failing to ascend, and leaving a crippled legacy. People who find out about others ascending or about to ascend will expect it, and it's likely to have an impact on how people treat potential ascending immortals. You could easily have many of the random xianxia weirdnesses be the result of this or that immortal ascending. Some clan somewhere has a powerful bloodline? Well, maybe they're all descendants of a particularly family-oriented immortal. So on and so forth.
Yeah, if I was ever to make this a proper story this would be the actual prologue.
You got the immortality thing pretty much correct. What I was thinking was that rather than facing a tribulation that just requires you to be strong. In this world in order to become immortal you need to prove that your path is worthy of immortality. This varies from Cultivator to cultivator, a painter might paint a picture that contains an entirely new world. A blacksmith might create a weapon that cut cut the heavens themselves. An alchemist might create a pill that can make someone immortal (without actually getting the benefits of being Immortal). This does mean that you are correct in that there are number of false ascension treasures hidden around the world.
Shen Zuo was a bit of an overachiever, but not the largest one for sure.
on an unrelated note, one idea I had was for formations to be developed from major events etched into the heavens. So in order to make a new formation, you need to comprehend the event in question and figure out how to replicate it's power while linking it into other imprints so that you can control it.
So a formation master could potentially use Shen Zuo's ascension to create a new formation based on knowledge or records in some way.
Regarding the System, the idea I had was that it primarily exists to teach people things, because in this setting you need a new cultivation method for every major stage you travel through, and the new method has to be compatible with all of your previous methods. This is what let clans and sects maintain power. They had long detailed libraries containing hundreds or thousands of methods, complete with notes on what sort of person / body they are compatible with and how they interact with each other.
This meant that unless you were a true genius who could invent your own method for each stage, you either had to make do with a mediocre technique (thus limiting your potential) or join an organisation.
With the System though, this is no longer true. The system knows every technique and method and will analyse them to figure out which ones will work for you and how they will interact with the rest of your techniques. The system is also capable of analysing how good you are at specific techniques by comparing how you are doing with the records it has of other people using the technique. So when the system says that you are at 8/10 for the Roaring Tiger Fist, it's not saying that you are at 80% of the techniques maximum power, just that you are at 80% of the maximum the system has ever seen. So if you have a breakthrough you can absolutely take it to 11/10 which would then update it to being X/11 for everyone else.
Sirrocco
Pedantic
- Pronouns
- He/Him
The one thing I would say is... calling it a System feels like a mistake? Like, it's not one, really.
Systems grant power, and, in particular, rewards. They reward some particular behavior.
Now, if this thing was letting you get points for behaving in certain ways, and then you could spend those points to get access to various art, that would be a System, but at least as I'm understanding the premise, it's not doing anything like that.
Systems grant power, and, in particular, rewards. They reward some particular behavior.
Now, if this thing was letting you get points for behaving in certain ways, and then you could spend those points to get access to various art, that would be a System, but at least as I'm understanding the premise, it's not doing anything like that.
If you want to make it a system you can have it test cultivators for each stage they rank up. Since it's embedded into their consciousness maybe an illusory world type of thing where they are sent on a system designated mission and the quality of the next technique they get is based on that? Or you can make the scholar guy a villain or using mortals to achieve his goals in the immortal realm and giving them good techniques as a result. Or you could make something like a karma system. Like good or bad deeds get you different techniques for each level and the amount of karma you accrue can lead to higher or lower techniques. Or since your system presides over knowledge maybe it can give pointers through a breakthrough or lead to treasure proves left behind by failed immortals or high level cultivators?
I'm just spit balling rn. I like the concept though and I can understand if you don't want to make it a more conventional system story with missions and objectives and the like.
Side note anyone want to criticize this
I'm just spit balling rn. I like the concept though and I can understand if you don't want to make it a more conventional system story with missions and objectives and the like.
Side note anyone want to criticize this
Surya strode under the light of the Seven Suns. Each step was a silent hymn, her four-meter form cleaving the cloud-thickened heavens with torrid grace. Her silhouette cast no shadow—none strong enough to hold it. The skies parted before her gait, pressure waves rolling off her frame like ripples across an unbroken sea. She moved with the deliberate might of a titan who had long since ceased to question her right to dominate the sky.
Yet even the heavens protested her presence.
The Seven Suns beat above—massive burning bodies arranged in a holy geometry only the eldest gods could decipher. Their ancient radiance diffused into halos around her four silver wings, which unfurled like blades of burning dusk. Each feather shimmered with impossible luster, catching a different tone of starfire: platinum whites twisted into searing violet, roseate silver, and umbral blue—hues that made astronomers go blind trying to name them.
A myriad of colors spilled from her form like prismatic ink in a bowl of creation. The aurora that followed her wasn't merely light—it was sentiment, emotion, resistance, prayer. The very sky pleaded with her in color: please... stop what you are about to do.
But Surya did not.
Below her stretched the broad sea—vast beyond reason, black as glass and breathing like a thing alive. This was no ordinary ocean. It was a mythic deep, a place ancient enough to remember when stars wept and gods buried their children. This ocean had teeth. It had moods. It had memory.
And it teemed with life. Old life. Unknowable life.
Beneath her, creatures older than kingdoms stirred in the warm trenches of the world's bones. Colossal mosasaurs drifted lazily through tectonic columns of steam, their obsidian skin veined with magma-light. Eyes lined their necks in spirals—blinking in sequences, casting fractal visions of heat and time. Vents along their spines expelled volcanic fire in arcs that struck the surface like the ocean itself was cursing the sky.
Deeper still, dragonfly-like leviathans moved in synchronized whirls, their bodies a heresy of biology. Thick exoskeletons shimmered with metal luster, their crablike stalk-eyes rotating independently, watching for prey or god. Wings—half gossamer, half blade—beat through the water with the cadence of a heartbeat.
Serpents drifted through the dark. Not one. Not two. But thousands. Each a mother and a maze—biological labyrinths that had ceased being individuals long ago. Their bodies were city-states. Colonies. Some glowed with the shimmer of new life budding from their scales—larvae feeding from the matriarch's skin. These were beings that did not reproduce. They expanded. They multiplied within themselves.
Anemones large enough to swallow temples rooted into the seafloor like coralized traps of flesh and memory. Their tendrils twisted upward in mimicked fish forms—mimicry that bordered on artistry. One blinked. Its tendril-fish blinked back. When a school of glittering swimmers passed too close, the ocean filled with screaming.
Those swimmers shimmered like opals made of blood and breath. Some bore filamentous organs, drawing in currents to float effortlessly. Others wore stony shells—living rocks with hidden eyes and pulse-tubes that inhaled and expelled water in rhythmic jets. One climbed the side of an abyssal ridge. Another detonated in a burst of bioluminescent ink when a predator neared.
All of these creatures—the smallest among them over three hundred meters in length.
And still, to Surya, they were nothing but shadows.
Nothing but breath between her thoughts.
Her silver wings hummed softly, folding and unfurling in rhythm with the skies. She continued her stride. The winds howled and parted, the atmosphere thinning under the pressure of her existence, until finally—finally—she reached the edge of a continent.
Not a continent like those on simpler worlds. Not a mass to be measured in kilometers or miles. Here, continents were celestial in scale—landmasses so vast light would need years to cross them. A place where entire civilizations could rise, fall, and fade into myth without ever meeting the other side.
She hovered above its edge. Her breath slowed.
The silver lines beneath her lower lashes twitched. Then parted. Two more amethyst eyes opened—the second sight of her being, the ones not fooled by light or surface. They were not eyes for vision. They were eyes for truth.
And she saw it.
The rot.
Black, spined, cunning rot. Crawling through ley-lines. Infesting cities. Wearing masks of law and peace. The rot of broken kings and smiling gods. The rot that danced in gold robes and signed treaties with blood hidden behind wine.
But also...
She saw the beauty.
Sky trees rose like obsidian spires, spearing the upper atmosphere, their bark glistening with dew-like opals, some pulsing with inner light—soft beats like hearts inside wood. Their leaves shimmered with layered iridescence, filtering sunlight into rivers of color that painted the land below in mosaics of blues, pinks, and golds. Their roots were inverted mountains, tapping ley-lines that whispered the names of dead stars.
Above them soared filum birds, wings like silken tendrils trailing in arcs, weaving pheromonal color in the sky as both song and signal. Entire flocks moved as one, like thoughts made visible—turning, diving, expanding in perfect unison. Each bird a living tapestry of feathers and filaments, some with secondary wings, others with three eyes watching different spectrums: light, heat, soul.
Gaseous spirits drifted between trees, clinging to mountaintops or folding around stone bridges and hanging monoliths. Not ghosts as mortals knew them—but sentiments of cultivators who had left the body long ago. Born of sky and song, they took appearances based on the observer: a child might see a smiling uncle, a warrior a long-dead friend. They watched but never spoke—except when the wind turned black.
The songs of glowing insects rose in crescendo. Melodies layered across frequencies, vibrations not merely sound, but something ancient. Wings of crystal flapped against shimmering shells. Some had porcelain faces, others tooth-filled mouths and spiral antennae that coiled and uncoiled like thought made flesh. They clung to flowers blooming in real time, petals shifting color each second, fed by sun, blood, and memory.
And beyond them—the mountains.
Not simple peaks. Cathedral-fissures housing entire ecosystems within their wounds. Valleys carved by primordial beasts, cracked open like ribs around the world's heart. In their depths grew forests of hanging vines feeding off mineral wind. Cave-mammals hunted by echo, their skin patterned with sound-maps. Lakes fed only on moonlight. Cities of hexagonal bone housed subterranean people who never saw the sky but knew its name through dream-rituals passed down by worms that fed on truth.
Volcanoes bled.
Crimson and violet magma spilled in slow arcs, not violently—ritually. From these wounds crawled crystalline stalk-creatures, refracting lava light into unseen spectra. They sang as they emerged—clicking limbs, glass-hum thoraxes vibrating in harmony. Every motion ceremonial. The blood of the earth had called them, and they answered not as beasts, but devotees. They swam in molten rivers, fed from igneous vents, danced across caldera walls, leaving trails of memory-ash behind. It was not pain to them—it was vitality.
Yet even amidst such splendor, the land was wounded.
She could see it. Smell it. Feel it.
Her four amethyst eyes flared, glowing with the soft, ruinous intensity only those beyond mortality possessed.
There, at the center of the continent—like a thorn in the heart of a beautiful god—stood the spires.
Towering, lacquered with silver that never tarnished, dulled, or reflected the sky correctly. They hummed with cold doctrine. Spiraled pillars of civilization, braided with runes, flanked by celestial obelisks pointing not to stars, but to laws older than the planet. They stood like holy spears stabbed into the earth. And above them fluttered a banner—not cloth, but woven from light, oath, and consequence.
It bore the Fourth Seal—the Fourth Banner of Solomon.
It shimmered not with warmth, but with absolute clarity. The kind that breaks nations. That erases ambiguity. That transforms free will into duty. The sigil burned into the sky like a fallen star that refused to die.
Below that sigil, moving like thoughts inside a god's skull, were the Hetan.
Cultivators. Enlightened. Bearers of power so old and ritualized it felt like the land itself had learned to breathe through them.
They walked with energy behind every breath, numen coiling in their bones, their presence humming with ancestral resonance. Their silhouettes cut through the skyline, lithe yet weighted by invisible histories. The Hetan, like most enlightened races, bore the shape of man. But they were not man.
Their bodies held mouths—some hidden, others open, and some stitched shut with golden thread. They remained closed in peace, in prayer, in thought. But in combat… or in hunger… they opened.
And when they opened, things screamed.
Their sclera were pure black—voids without horizon. Not absence of color, but absence of limit. Their eyes did not merely look. They unveiled. They saw not the body, but the pattern. And beyond that pattern such was their innate gift.
Their capital pulsed with restrained life, spiraled around a core of sacred light, wrapped in seventeen interwoven ward formations—each crafted from a different cosmic school of defense. Sigils powered by solar resonance. Runes etched with bloodline tax. Gates sealed by familial curse. There was no single point of failure. These were not walls. These were rejections.
Barriers made to deny annihilation.
And yet…
Surya's gaze sharpened.
She always saw it.
There, in the veins of the land, like dark ink spilled in water. A presence. Faint. Coiled. Watching. Its name echoed in the deeper folds of thought like an infection caught too late.
Mkletherui.
That old being.
That sleepless rot.
He was here.
Not in flesh. That would be too honest. No, Mkletherui did not walk. He grew. He infected. He seeped.
Among the Hetan, his name was whispered in temples shaped like dying stars. His churches stood not in light, but in the folds—between cracks, behind pillars, beneath the mirrors where the reflection looked back too long. These were not places of praise. They were nests. Laboratories of the damned. Sermons spoken there had no words—only vibrations. Codes etched into marrow. Offers of freedom dressed in eternity.
Mkletherui, the Deathless One.
His corruption had spread.
Small corners of the continent—forgotten alleys, remote mountain chapels, driftwood islands—had begun to change. Numen flowed wrong there. Trees whispered in languages they were never taught. Children were born with too many eyes, too many dreams. And the dream that followed them was always him.
He offered something the Hetan, for all their glory, could not resist.
Another path.
Another way to climb.
A way to reach eternity without limit.
And some answered.
Even now, she could see them. Cultivators bearing Solomon's emblems, flying from tower to tower on soulstone artifacts and refined beast-bone. And among them—one or two whose eyes lingered too long on the shadows. Whose mouths twitched before they opened. Whose robes carried the scent of forgotten oaths. Most of them didn't even know.
She had warned the Hetan Empire.
More than once.
Her emissaries had crossed their borders beneath banners of silver and green, her sigils etched into the hulls of world-crossing ships, the scent of divine law trailing behind. She had not come with fire—not at first. Her messengers came with words. Edicts. Caution spoken in the dialect of peace and understanding.
As a race who bears Solomon's symbol, handle the corruption within your lands.
But the Hetan had not listened.
Or worse—they pretended to.
They offered platitudes. Masked concern. Polished lies. "We are watching the churches." "We have enacted internal purges." "We thank you for your vigilance."
Smiles wrapped around half-truths, spoken with the confidence of those who believe they cannot be touched.
But she could smell the rot.
She always could.
It crept like mist across the sea. Like mold blooming in the corners of old kingdoms. It wafted through ley-lines, drifted beneath trade routes, infected ports and sanctuaries. Even the sun bent wrong when the air carried his stench—Mkletherui's stench.
The Deathless. The Undrowning. The Voice That Bleeds Without a Mouth.
He must have known what happened.
Of course he had.
Her brother had slain one of Mkletherui's avatars within her empire—a being of mouth and shadow that had tried to infect the bones of her capital. He had torn it apart from the inside, dragging its essence into his inner realm where it burned for a simulated eternity, fueling his rise.
And still, the rot crawled back.
Slowly. Persistently. Lovingly.
It never truly ended with the old ones.
They were cancer. Sentient malignancy. Not merely destructive—but parasitic. They whispered to those who wanted more. They curled into dreams like knives hidden in silk. And Mkletherui was among the most insidious.
He did not scream. He did not devour.
He offered.
She was not omnipotent.
Her empire—vast and radiant as it was—could not be everywhere at once. Her four eyes, mighty as their perception might be, could not intercept every sermon carved in blood or every altar hidden beneath the tongue of a mountain. The rot had returned to the sea.
It was always the sea.
The sea cradled the ancient ones like a wound that refused to close.
And now, the Hetan were harboring it.
Again.
Perhaps not openly. Not in surrender. But they had failed to excise the corruption. They had let it bloom in secret places. Temples with new wings. Children born with twisted bones. Priests who wept in laughter. Cities that smelled of salt and undeath.
So she had only one choice.
Only one ever remained.
This would not kill Mkletherui. Not truly. Not yet. The old ones did not die as innate beings did. They were older than this world. Their fall would require more than force.
But this?
This would buy her time.
Time before the rot returned fiercer than before.
And there is no greater ally to a Tyrannius than time.
Time is growth. Time is adaptation. Time is domination in slow motion. Every second she carved into the future was another breath closer to becoming absolute.
And as she set her gaze upon their world...
They set their gaze upon her.
It was expected.
The Hetan were not weak. Their cultivators were old and terrifying. Their artifacts breathed, some whispered, others remembered wars before this universe was born. Their formations were not made to hold—but to unmake. They were a proud race. And pride was always followed by resistance.
But today?
Today would not be a negotiation.
Today would not be another exchange of pleasantries and veiled threats across marble halls.
No.
Today would be ash.
Today would be obliteration, clean and incandescent. Not as revenge. Not as punishment. But as rectification.
The Hetan had failed.
They had looked her in the eye and fed her lies, even as the Deathless One whispered in their bones.
And now she would unwrite them
_______
A Hetan man stood atop one of the silver towers, his robes flickering in the rising hum of unseen energies.
The sun—or what little of it filtered through the spiraling dome of wardlight above—reflected off his glossy black sclera. There was nothing in the sky. No stars. No clouds. No descending forms. Not a whisper of celestial disturbance.
And yet he trembled.
His knees buckled, almost imperceptibly. But to him, it was an earthquake. He felt it—not through his eyes, not through cultivation-sense, but through something older. More ancient than technique. More primal than thought.
A terror born into the marrow of all things.
Dread.
Not fear. Not panic. Dread—that incomparable, inexorable weight. The kind that didn't just make your heart race—it crushed it. It pressed on your lungs until you forgot how to breathe. It wasn't a blade at your throat. It was the realization that everything you were—your body, your soul, your lineage—meant nothing before what was coming.
A single moment passed.
He blinked.
And something stirred in the light behind him.
From his shadow, a ripple spread. Not like oil. Not like ink. It was worse—a darkness that did not obey light, did not follow contour or shape. It simply was. His shadow stretched without movement, spreading across the silver floor like a stain that remembered death.
And from it, something rose.
A single eye.
At first it seemed like illusion—a trick of panic made manifest. But it did not shimmer. It did not waver.
It blinked.
Slowly. With intention.
It was not set in flesh. Not made of meat or bone. It was formed of absence—a hollow gaze suspended in filaments of coiled entropy. It blinked again. This time, its vertical slit pupil glowed—not with light, but with history. A thousand worlds. Ten thousand deaths. All stacked like corpses in the abyss.
The Hetan man fell to his knees.
He did not bow.
He collapsed.
"I didn't think she'd do it."
The voice did not arrive as sound. It arrived as texture. As rot taking root in syllables. As necrosis etched into language. Its vibration crawled across stone, up his spine, into the roots of his thoughts.
The Hetan gasped. Tried to speak. But only broken whimpers escaped.
The eye did not blink again.
But it watched him with a gaze so total, it felt like dissection beneath moonlight.
It was connected to his shadow, yes—but it was more. It was flaw. The manifest crack in life. The death hidden in every cell. The hum in every heartbeat. The knife in every breath.
It was a fragment of Mkletherui.
The Deathless.
A being not god, not daemon, not devil.
But something more primal.
A stain that thrived.
A wound that sang lullabies to oblivion.
"I thought," the voice continued, unraveling across the rooftop like threads of disease, "she'd work around your people."
It almost sounded disappointed.
Almost.
"It would have given me time," the voice whispered, "to mount a proper offensive against these mortals who've been... moving too fast of late."
The wind died.
No movement in the clouds.
The insects in the high trees ceased their songs.
The cultivators' wards flickered—just for a blink. And the Hetan's breath caught.
"But in the end..." the voice coiled around his ribs like vines of decay, "it seems she is much more savage than estimated."
There was no question. No anger.
Just recognition.
Acceptance.
She was the unconquered empress.
The savagery was not contradiction. It was inevitability.
Her empire did not march on peace. It marched on force, inheritance, and growth.
She would burn what would not grow.
She would erase what festered in defiance.
The voice coiled again.
The Hetan screamed.
Not from pain.
But from that word: savage.
Because in the Deathless One's voice, savage meant something worse than monstrous.
It meant pure.
Unflinching.
Untouched by doubt or compromise.
His shadow rippled again.
A chuckle echoed.
But no mouth formed.
No body. No limb. Only the eye.
Still watching.
Still grinning.
"L-Lord... Mkletherui," the Hetan man gasped at last, his voice shaking, knees cracking against the silverstone.
But the eye gave no answer.
No acknowledgment.
Not even a blink.
And the Hetan realized something worse than being ignored.
He was irrelevant.
The eye had not come to speak to him.
It had come to witness.
"In my vision," the eye began, low and deliberate, "all life are stars."
The words didn't echo.
They settled.
Like lead into bone. Like gravity rewriting the rules of the air. The Hetan's ears rang. His skin tightened on his bones.
The voice didn't need volume. It wove through reality, staining every layer of sense.
"Burning in the void," it went on, "low and insignificant."
The Hetan's breath faltered. His lungs felt shallow. As if the atmosphere thinned at the statement.
The sky shimmered—not visibly, but emotionally. It felt smaller. Like a ceiling. Like the world was shrinking beneath that gaze.
"One day," the eye murmured, "destined to wink out... and fade into the cold endless night."
The air dimmed.
Not in light, but in warmth. The volcanoes quieted. The high spirits fell silent. Winds curled away.
"For all of you low ones," the voice coiled in on itself, "that is how it should be."
The Hetan trembled.
Not in fear.
In recognition.
This was not hatred.
This was natural truth.
This being did not despise them. He simply understood their extinction as inevitable.
"But despite not being near my level in my prime..."
The eye turned slightly in its socketless anchor.
"When that fragment was unsealed..."
A pause.
"Those two..." it said, as if tasting the words, "do not feel like that to me."
The stillness shifted.
Confusion. Morbid wonder.
"When I look at her," it murmured, slowly, reluctantly, "I see not a star."
The Hetan's heart skipped.
"I see... nothing at all."
His knees gave out. He slumped forward, breath shallow. Hand clutching cold silverstone.
The voice pressed harder.
"Such a lifeform..." the eye murmured, "wasn't supposed to exist in this story."
And for the first time—the eye twitched.
A ripple across its pupil.
A near laugh.
Even that, just that, shook the Hetan's bones. Memories unraveled. He bit down on his tongue to anchor himself.
Even as a whisper, he could not understand it.
To understand her was to be broken.
Shattered by implication.
"Are you saying..." the Hetan man rasped, "that we are... doomed?"
No hope in his voice. Just the hollow search for delay.
The eye did not answer at first.
Then:
"More than that."
The wind rose.
"Your fates are not uncertain."
Cracks spidered across the tower's foundation—not in stone, but in meaning. Glyphs fizzled. Wards recoiled.
"My fragment..." the voice slowed, thoughtful, like recounting rot etched in memory, "...the one that tussled with her brother..."
A pause.
"Did not return."
"Or rather..."
"...it simply ceased to exist."
The Hetan's breath hitched.
Fragments always returned.
Always.
But not this time.
"You are not merely doomed," the eye grew, or the world shrank around it.
"You are destined..."
A whisper. Cold. Detached.
"...for absolute annihilation."
The Hetan man wept, though he hadn't realized.
"Behold..." the Deathless whispered.
The clouds parted.
The heavens trembled.
Far above—so far most would never pierce the veil—she walked.
Silver wings trailing divine color. Four eyes reflecting nothingness. Feet heavy as judgment. Hair trailing stardust. Skin rippling with a soul that did not belong to this reality.
"Behold and mourn," the eye said, softer now, watching something sacred about to be defiled.
"For above you..."
The sky warped.
"...and before you..."
The wards cracked.
"...lies the precipice..."
The air howled.
"...of extinction."
And still, she strode.
__________
Surya floated above the continent—still, silent, sovereign.
She hovered not like a bird nor like a goddess in worship, but like judgment itself waiting to descend. The currents of the upper heavens bowed to her presence. The air thickened with premonition. Even the radiance of the Seven Suns dimmed slightly, as if their ancient light hesitated in reverence—or fear.
And then all four of her amethyst eyes opened.
Wider.
Their gaze widened not in a physical sense, but in reach. They did not look—they unveiled. Across every mountain, every root-deep jungle, every submerged metropolis buried under the crust of coral and time, her gaze was felt. Not known. Not seen. But felt.
Her pupils dilated, rings shifting and splitting within rings, eyes fractaling into forms far beyond the geometry of biology. Her amethyst sclera flushed with deep argent hues, radiant as the dying light of galaxies. What she saw was not what others could. Her fourfold gaze did not observe reality—it rendered it into consequence.
And her form began to change.
First, it was subtle.
The silver feathers nestled within the strands of her golden hair began to quiver. Then they lengthened—smooth, iridescent plumes growing like blades of wind-forged glass. They curved upward, forming a majestic crown of six plumes—three to each side—encircling her head with the slow reverence of an ancient rite. Each feather vibrated faintly, their edges humming with spectral resonance.
Then her four wings spread.
Wider.
Broader.
Until their span seemed to eclipse the clouds.
From tip to tip they arched in twin crescents of celestial might, each feather now layered in concentric rings of wards a sign of her self created body refining art. As they unfurled, gusts thundered through the sky, ripping through cloud masses and sending lightning crackling across the upper troposphere. Even the light of the suns filtered differently now—bent through the kaleidoscope of her unfolding form.
Her height grew.
Four meters.
Five.
Eight.
Ten.
Her body shifted with terrifying grace—slim yet powerful muscle braided over bone too great for flesh, her torso extending as her posture refined into one that no longer mimicked anything living. No bird. No woman. No beast. She was not a harpy, though harpy would be the word weak men would reach for, before their lungs filled with the gravity of her presence and collapsed.
This was no mere creature.
This was a lord of the sky.
The surface of her arms and legs began to change, the flesh replaced with overlapping podotheca—silver-grey plating like interwoven serpent-scale and glass-forged chitin. The same pattern wound down her legs, her arms, her collarbone, tracing across her sternum like armor born of stormlight and vow.
Her fingers sharpened.
Long, black talons unfurled like ink-spilled knives, each tip adorned with faint sigils that pulsed with microcosmic resonance. These were not mere weapons. They were conceptual tools, shaped by her power and her body refining art and of course they were simply part of her natural form as well.
And above her head?
The halo bloomed.
It had always been there. Just not in action.
Now it glowed.
A perfect golden disc of light and silence. Not radiant, but sovereign. Etched around its inner ring were the silent tongues of void and freedom and condensed logic and law, the language of realms rewritten of the high above. It turned slowly—clockwise—ticking to a rhythm that was hers alone.
Her Fear—that innate, devouring pressure carried in the blood of her race—expanded without ceremony. It roared in the bones of the world. Mountains trembled. The seas recoiled. No lifeform across the continent escaped it. Not the gaseous spirits within the high atmosphere. Not the great-crabs who slept within their mountain shells. Not the bioluminescent worms that lined the roots of dark-forests.
All felt her presence.
All would know her words when she spoke.
And with one motion—just a wave of her hand—the sky changed.
No energy rippled outward.
No sound accompanied it.
Only obedience.
Above her—covering more than the entire span of the Great Continent of Hetan—the heavens shifted.
The sky, which had remained as eternal as it was untouched by time, now cracked and folded like paper under flame. Light condensed, condensed, and then refracted—becoming a translucent dome. It was as if the firmament itself had become glass.
But not clean glass.
Simulated glass.
A layered distortion. A facsimile of sky. An infinite recursion of blue upon blue upon black, nested in countless veils, each one slightly off—as if staring through a dream remembering another dream.
It was not illusion.
It was simulation.
A sky that looked like a sky.
A dome that pretended to be heaven.
Layered upon itself into a chilling infinity—each sheet reflecting not the present, but the idealized memory of a sky. This was not a barrier of protection. It was a tool of precision. Of rewriting. Of mapping for destruction.
And on the first layer, the reflection began.
It started as a shimmer.
Then the borders took shape.
The outline of the Hetan continent—its great ridges, spiraled mountains, bone-sand coastlines, and wind-torn highlands—manifested.
Bit by bit, it pieced itself together.
Like a puzzle solving itself under the gaze of a being that remembered the world more clearly than it remembered itself.
One floating citadel after another appeared.
Then the canals of the sacred flame river, which carved paths across their war-clans' territories.
Then the cracked thrones of their ancient architects, still buried beneath crystal.
Then the sky palaces of their sages. The roots of their sacred trees.
Then the temples—the churches of Mkletherui.
As the image of the continent took shape in that mirrored sky, it did not shimmer.
It pulsed.
Once.
A single heartbeat.
The tempo of an impending end.
A continent remembered not in love, but in warning.
It pulsed. Once. A heartbeat of inevitability.
And then—she spoke.
"Behold—"
The word arrived not in voice, but as a slice. A syllable honed into silk and thunder.
"Warriors march in my wake."
Behind her, shadows formed. Silhouettes of soldiers—not conjured, but declared. As if her myth had echoed so loudly that it cast reflections into being.
They did not cheer. They did not chant. They simply marched.
"Stars wink as the world quakes."
Above them, three of the seven suns blinked.
Not dimmed. Not veiled. Blink.
And time stuttered.
Photon drift faltered. Gravity curled sideways. Causality flickered in brief seizures.
"My steps sunder the land; my gaze bends the sky."
The cloudscape spiraled inward. Above her, a singular storm-eye opened. A spiral of refracted entropy and ozone.
"My name rides the wind like a blade."
Her name—Surya—whispered across every current, threaded into breath and blood. Children cried. Saints wept. Great cultivators choked on their mantras.
The wind no longer carried oxygen. It carried her.
"And empires fold like fire before my will."
The simulation pulsed. The mirrored continent became more than a map. It became a prediction. A prophecy.
Buildings flickered—unsure which version was real. Reflections moved before their sources.
"My people find refuge behind me." "My enemies seek oblivion before me."
Below—chaos.
The Hetan fled. The bravest cultivated toward the dome—only to rebound, shatter, or combust.
"I do not promise mercy." "I do not offer salvation."
Each word fed the sky. Each phrase deepened the recursion. Each syllable rewrote the rules of consequence.
"I come bearing death to the deathless."
A ripple across the mirrored dome. A flare at its edges. Escape denied. Finality confirmed.
"I come with the promise of the end."
The topmost reflection twisted. Pulled inward. Folded.
The continent's simulation cascaded upward, reflections stacking—a tower of perfect death warrants aimed at heaven.
Surya's eyes blazed. Her wings flared. Her talons flexed.
And she spoke:
"My body—sovereign."
"My blood—Tyrant."
And the sky obeyed.
Colorless light fell in threads—needle-thin beams stitching earth to sky. They pierced towers, trees, temples, and souls.
Not to kill. To mark. To read. To extract.
And the sky began to fill even faster.
Not just with geography. But with meaning. With data. With truth.
The war had not begun with fire.
It had begun with understanding.
"My name is the center of absolution," she continued, voice growing more surreal—too clear to be natural, too beautiful to be safe.
"I am the eye of the storm."
Every wind system in the upper hemisphere began to rotate counter to its natural orbit.
"I am the gap in logic."
Reality stuttered.
Spoken words reversed themselves in throats.
"I am the truth that breaks face."
Masks across the continent cracked—literally and metaphysically.
"I am the breath that drowns gods of old…"
A ripple went through the mirrored sea.
"…and the one who breathes life into eras anew."
"All in heaven—bow in reverence."
The sky convulsed.
Wards crumbled. Celestial shields shattered like old glass. Silence fell like a guillotine.
"All without—shudder and praise."
The beings not of this world—gaseous spirits drifting across strata of thought, great winged titans woven of memory and fire, even those that fed on the breath between moments—all turned. Not just toward her, but around her, as if they could not help but orbit the axis of what she had become.
Their awe—unwilling, involuntary—suffused the very concept of sky she had formed.
"All beneath—weep and despair."
The world buckled.
The great forests of the Hetan continent rippled as one, their silver-veined trees bending not with the wind, but with recognition. Stone towers groaned. Volcanoes hiccupped and choked on their own fire. Rivers reversed flow for moments at a time, disturbed by the psychic pressure that poured downward from the heavens like an open floodgate of significance.
Across the cities of the Hetan Empire, all eyes turned upward.
Some resisted. They clawed at their own faces. Covered their ears. Screamed verses of the deathless one in resistance. But it did not matter.
They had seen her.
They had heard her.
And now they were part of it.
She hovered, talons flexed, wings vast and gleaming with silver fire. A corona of refracted light hovered behind her head. And from the mirror sky above, where the simulation of the continent floated like a spell preparing itself to drop, she reigned.
She was no longer an invader.
She was the sun.
"For I am the Empress!"
And with that final cry—everything changed.
The words struck with such force that the reflection in the sky rippled. Cultivators lost all sense of footing—not physically, but narratively. Their destiny lines—so carefully forged and nurtured through cultivation, through sacrifice—snapped.
She became the center of the story.
Not just their story.
The story.
The metaphysical gravity of her declaration pulled everything in this space toward her. Not just focus. Not just thought. But meaning. Like a black hole wrapped in gold silk, she devoured relevance, pulled importance inward. Her myth, in that moment, became absolute.
And the world complied. She forced it to.
Every pair of eyes that turned toward her fed it.
Every whisper, every scream, every tear-streaked gaze that could not look away—even in terror—strengthened her.
"Glory to me!"
Her arms flared open.
And they answered.
Across the multitudes, across the oceans and mountain ranges, from the corners of her empire where lesser beings watched in prayer, to the merchant kings and wandering sages who whispered her name in devotion—from the monsters and metaphysical architects to the shepherds with scratched coins tucked in their belts—they all thought of her.
And from that thought—power bloomed.
Not numen.
But something older. Rarer. Recognition.
The energy of acknowledgement.
Not passive observation. Not mere belief. But belief that bore weight. A story centered. A narrative made inevitable.
It surged through her. A current of pure narrative gravity. A pressure that ignores biology, that bypasses structure, that rips through cause and effect to grant power simply because all things agree you have it.
And only one being could wield it like that.
Her.
Not even her brother could do it so.
Her body swelled with it—reality adjusting to her, not the other way around. Her wings flared, leaving fractures in the sky where they moved. Her eyes burned like full moons soaked in sacred oil. She used it to truly entrap them. Using their acknowledgement to fuel her abilities beyond their typical limits.
Her voice was laughter now—rich and wicked and beautiful.
Her fangs gleamed like artifacts of old conquests.
"Now tell me—"
Her voice dipped into velvet. Her grin widened to split her face, not cruel but joyous—like a god amused with the weight of her own divinity.
"Have you ever heard…"
Her four amethyst eyes curled with pleasure, as if relishing the fear before the final blow.
"...of the Queen who lives in the sky?
__________
In this world—vast, spiraling, unbound by the limited senses of lesser beings—there is one truth that must be reckoned with.
To exist… is to understand.
And to understand is to interpret.
And what is interpretation, if not a brush painted in the medium of information?
This, too, is considered a facet of the Dao. One that is often overlooked in favor of flashier pursuits—flames that burn the sky, swords that cleave dimensions, or realms carved from the blood of celestial beasts. But beneath it all, beneath technique and manifestation, beneath force and will—there lies this quiet, patient truth:
Everything… is information.
The shape of mountains.
The arc of a falling leaf.
The heat of a dying star.
The way the sun falls on skin, and the way the skin remembers it.
The silence between breaths and the scream of a newborn soul.
All of it—every single thing—is simply data. Information etched into the fabric of what is.
Whether it is how we perceive the world, or how the world shapes itself around our perception, it is information acting upon the physical.
And that which acts… can be understood.
That which is understood… can be named.
That which is named… can be controlled.
The first sapient beings, those first with a true soul did not shape the world with tools—they shaped it with words. With names. With the desire to give boundary and shape to the unknowable. To grasp the void and call it "sky." To point at a blaze and call it "flame." To hear the crack of thunder and give it identity.
They were not just primitives grasping at language.
They were the first scholars.
The first cultivators.
The first to see the Dao in motion.
Names. Names were not arbitrary. They were not mere labels.
Names were the syntax of existence.
To name a thing is to collapse its infinite possibility into form. To draw its boundless waveform into a single reality. That is why curses are names. That is why blessings are names. That is why all things, when true and known, tremble under the weight of their own name. Well almost all things.
And this—this is why life is sacred.
Because it is life that gives names.
It is life that recognizes. Life that categorizes. Life that records.
And therefore—it is life that binds the Dao.
Even the Daos themselves—those vast, swirling, absolute principles of existence—are records. They are archives. They are the imprint of information carved into creation so deeply that nothing could erase them. For even erasure is simply a dao.
The Dao of Fire is not just fire. It is the accumulated understanding of what fire has been, what it is, and what it might yet become.
It is the name of every flame that ever burned.
And so—control of information…
Control of names…
Control of interpretation…
Is the highest possible form of cultivation. That was the conclusion she had come to.
And she—Surya. Empress of Acknowledgement—she had begun to take steps toward that pinnacle.
Her ability—Da'at—was not a mere technique. It was innate and fundamental to her.
And it was a theory of everything. That and her knowledge from her past set her on this path.
Through Da'at and her cultivation, she had begun to perceive the world not merely as it appeared—but as it truly was.
Through light—she read the passage of photons, the unfolding of causality. Every time a ray of light touched a surface, it carried with it a message. Information updated at the speed of reality itself. To perceive light was to perceive the moment the world had changed. To read the news of the universe, one particle at a time. Things echoed in science in a much simpler fashion back on earth.
Through sound—she unraveled pattern. The subtle architecture of vibration. The whisper of intention behind movement. A heartbeat, a gasp, a clash of steel—each one a code. A signal. A language of air and consequence. And from that language, she could infer more than location or intent.
She could hear fear.
She could hear memory.
She could hear the soul.
And through names—ah, names…
That was where the world became her canvas.
Names were more than sound.
They were contracts.
They were histories.
They were destinies encapsulated in phonemes.
She had not fully mastered the dao, which shaped the name of a being. It took much power and much preparation. But she could do it on minor levels. To affect the true state of information of a thing. To affect it's name, it's light and sound. How it interacted with the world and how the world interacted with it.
In her hands, a blade could become a boundary.
A mountain could become a lie.
A person could become ash—because she said they were. Of course, only if they were far weaker than herself.
Not with brute force.
But with language.
And that, in the end, is the secret of information.
It is not merely something we observe.
It is something we become.
It is something we create—and in doing so, we create the world.
A Dao is not some external law.
It is a collective hallucination, made real through name and repetition.
She had seen this.
She had accepted it.
And she had begun her path.
Was she omnipotent?
No.
But she had begun.
Because once you understand that all reality is simply information, that all information can be read, that all things can be named—then all things can be rewritten.
And from there?
Omnipotence is a matter of vocabulary.
Surya lifted her hand once more.
And the sky obeyed.
Above the continent, where once hovered a warped canopy of glasslike heavens—reflections layered one atop another like divine manuscripts—there now bloomed something far more terrible. Her face.
Not just once.
A multitude.
A legion of Surya's countenance, avian and divine, coalesced within those simulated layers of firmament. Each one distinct in shading, light, and detail—but all bore the same terrible symmetry: silver feathers woven into her golden hair like laurels forged by apocalypse, that radiant golden halo hovering like judgment made manifest, and most haunting of all—those four amethyst eyes, gleaming with infinite perception.
Each face floated titanic and terrible above the world, gazing down not upon it, but through it.
Every mountain. Every grain of sand. Every root and river and structure. Every creature—intelligent or otherwise—was reflected. Their forms etched into the mirror-sky with unfathomable precision. It was not mere duplication.
It was data, information.
Captured.
Filed.
Stored.
She had reflected not only the image of the world, but its light, its sound, its presence. Everything that could be perceived was transcribed into her self-made cosmos. A simulated dominion, carved not of earth or sky or flame—but of information.
Her own Heaven.
And now, with this Heaven—this archive—she would erase them.
Each of her terrible mirrored faces opened its mouth.
Massive, gaping, abyssal.
The shape of it seemed to devour the very air. The light surrounding those maws bent inward, as if reality itself feared being swallowed.
No sound emerged.
Not a whisper. Not a scream. Not a note.
Only silence—a silence so total it became a pressure, a weight that bore down on the world like the pause before the universe ends.
She was not here to roar.
She was here to take.
Surya would not simply destroy this continent.
She would steal its name.
She would unwrite it from the world.
And so she did.
The war had not begun with fire.
It had begun with understanding.
Now, it continued with extraction.
The beams of anti-light, those impossibly thin filaments of translucent judgment, anchored themselves deeper. Into ley-lines. Into root-cores. Into thought.
Every marked point—be it person, city, blade, or prayer—was siphoned.
Siphoned not in soul, but in structure.
Names began to unravel.
First, the names of stones. Then the names of trees. Then the names of beasts.
The rivers forgot how to be rivers. The mountains forgot their borders. The temples forgot what they worshipped.
And the people—
They began to forget themselves.
Not in mind. In identity.
Words crumbled in mouths. Cultivation techniques unraveled mid-breath. Lineage sigils shimmered, flickered, and then failed. Even the laws of physics bent slightly as the name of "gravity" tried to reconcile itself with her dominion.
The reflected sky absorbed it all. Not merely copying—but cataloguing. Sorting. Simulating.
She owned the information now.
And without their data, the Hetan had no footing.
Reflected beings flickered.
First their colors. Then their density. Then their logic.
Some reached for artifacts that no longer acknowledged their wielders. Some tried to flee—only to find that the sky's simulation moved faster than their future. Some wept—only to realize that grief, too, had been extracted.
The mirrored layers above grew denser. Their detail too fine, too recursive, too absolute. The simulation was no longer simulation.
It was overwrite.
It was archive as execution.
It pulsed again.
And beings began to unravel.
Not in blood. Not in flame.
In concept.
Flesh faded into static. Bones turned to patterns. Souls flickered into inert diagrams.
The world beneath Surya did not die.
It was revised.
It was erased from the medium of reality.
Reflections shattered one by one. Each collapse erased another region. Another bloodline. Another meaning.
Until finally—
There was silence.
Not absence of sound. Absence of definition.
No matter. No memory. No name.
Not a void.
Nothing.
Not even space remained.
Where once stood a civilization—wards, cultivators, towers, history, and sentient light—now there was a hole. A clean gap in the tapestry of the world. Not blank. Not silent. But absent.
A region where no information could exist.
No memory.
No sound.
No light.
No name.
Just a wound. A perfect, surgical hole in the continuity of the planet. Like a god had reached down and torn a page from the book of existence.
And as for the people?
They existed still.
But only in reflection.
Simulacra.
Impressions.
Digital ghosts filed away in Surya's bank of knowing. They had been converted into data. Into simulation. And what is a simulation if not the image of a thing, robbed of will and consequence?
It could be replayed.
It could be studied.
Or…
With a thought—
With the faintest tap of her talon upward—
It could be deleted.
One by one, the reflective layers shattered.
The image of the continent cracked like glass in a thunderstorm, folding inward as if caught in reverse entropy. Each being in that archive flickered once—like a dying star seen across eons—and was gone. Names untethered. Forms discarded. Meaningless.
The reflections went dark.
And all life that had once walked, built, prayed, laughed, sinned, and suffered on that continent—was gone.
Surya floated in stillness—above the scarred world, above the place where once stood empires, language, memory, and pride. Now, only a hole remained. Not a wound that bled, but one that forgot. A piece of reality scrubbed so clean even time couldn't mourn it.
And yet, she remained. Not triumphant. Not exalted.
Only still.
She had no choice.
She simply did what had to be done.
Her hands—clawed, scaled, and bruised from the force she had demanded of them—hung at her sides like anchors of judgment. Her wings, battered from strain, fluttered once, shedding silver dust into the empty winds. Her halo pulsed, faint now, but unwavering.
This was never glory.
This was never conquest.
This was duty.
A burden only a Tyrant could bear.
A weight only an empress should carry.
And so she carried it. War was not something with which she was unfamiliar.
Her breath was steady, but each exhale dragged through the ribs like a storm passing over cracked stone. Her four amethyst eyes dimmed slightly, exhaustion seeping from the corners of her vision like ink in water. The cracks in her flesh—her primal flesh—still shimmered faintly with residual power, glowing veins of burning violet crawling down her limbs like threads of divine pain. Even her body, designed for war and eternity, had strained to meet the moment.
But then…
Warmth.
It suffused her form—not gentle like sunlight, but like the internal heat of molten stone, a furnace fed not by kindling, but by the raw essence of all she had undone. The souls. The lives. The emotions and beliefs and data she had consumed… they were hers now.
Processed.
Repurposed.
Rewoven into her being.
And within her…
Ziz sang.
Not with melody, but with that deep, tremulous joy known only to apex beings when their instincts are sated. It was not a song of cruelty, nor of celebration—it was the song of completion. The predator's stillness after the final kill. The moment when hunger is gone and silence reigns.
Surya did not smile.
She did not move.
She only existed in that space—full of light and blood and absolute purpose.
Until finally, a whisper escaped her lips.
Her voice was like the crackle of burning silk.
"…How disgusting."
_______________
This one is actually just a scene I'm planning on writing in the future of my fic. But I feel as if this may be a tad too flowery and I might just need to wholly rewrite. Yes I also understand a lot of this is cultivation style mumbo jumbo sorry about that.
Yet even the heavens protested her presence.
The Seven Suns beat above—massive burning bodies arranged in a holy geometry only the eldest gods could decipher. Their ancient radiance diffused into halos around her four silver wings, which unfurled like blades of burning dusk. Each feather shimmered with impossible luster, catching a different tone of starfire: platinum whites twisted into searing violet, roseate silver, and umbral blue—hues that made astronomers go blind trying to name them.
A myriad of colors spilled from her form like prismatic ink in a bowl of creation. The aurora that followed her wasn't merely light—it was sentiment, emotion, resistance, prayer. The very sky pleaded with her in color: please... stop what you are about to do.
But Surya did not.
Below her stretched the broad sea—vast beyond reason, black as glass and breathing like a thing alive. This was no ordinary ocean. It was a mythic deep, a place ancient enough to remember when stars wept and gods buried their children. This ocean had teeth. It had moods. It had memory.
And it teemed with life. Old life. Unknowable life.
Beneath her, creatures older than kingdoms stirred in the warm trenches of the world's bones. Colossal mosasaurs drifted lazily through tectonic columns of steam, their obsidian skin veined with magma-light. Eyes lined their necks in spirals—blinking in sequences, casting fractal visions of heat and time. Vents along their spines expelled volcanic fire in arcs that struck the surface like the ocean itself was cursing the sky.
Deeper still, dragonfly-like leviathans moved in synchronized whirls, their bodies a heresy of biology. Thick exoskeletons shimmered with metal luster, their crablike stalk-eyes rotating independently, watching for prey or god. Wings—half gossamer, half blade—beat through the water with the cadence of a heartbeat.
Serpents drifted through the dark. Not one. Not two. But thousands. Each a mother and a maze—biological labyrinths that had ceased being individuals long ago. Their bodies were city-states. Colonies. Some glowed with the shimmer of new life budding from their scales—larvae feeding from the matriarch's skin. These were beings that did not reproduce. They expanded. They multiplied within themselves.
Anemones large enough to swallow temples rooted into the seafloor like coralized traps of flesh and memory. Their tendrils twisted upward in mimicked fish forms—mimicry that bordered on artistry. One blinked. Its tendril-fish blinked back. When a school of glittering swimmers passed too close, the ocean filled with screaming.
Those swimmers shimmered like opals made of blood and breath. Some bore filamentous organs, drawing in currents to float effortlessly. Others wore stony shells—living rocks with hidden eyes and pulse-tubes that inhaled and expelled water in rhythmic jets. One climbed the side of an abyssal ridge. Another detonated in a burst of bioluminescent ink when a predator neared.
All of these creatures—the smallest among them over three hundred meters in length.
And still, to Surya, they were nothing but shadows.
Nothing but breath between her thoughts.
Her silver wings hummed softly, folding and unfurling in rhythm with the skies. She continued her stride. The winds howled and parted, the atmosphere thinning under the pressure of her existence, until finally—finally—she reached the edge of a continent.
Not a continent like those on simpler worlds. Not a mass to be measured in kilometers or miles. Here, continents were celestial in scale—landmasses so vast light would need years to cross them. A place where entire civilizations could rise, fall, and fade into myth without ever meeting the other side.
She hovered above its edge. Her breath slowed.
The silver lines beneath her lower lashes twitched. Then parted. Two more amethyst eyes opened—the second sight of her being, the ones not fooled by light or surface. They were not eyes for vision. They were eyes for truth.
And she saw it.
The rot.
Black, spined, cunning rot. Crawling through ley-lines. Infesting cities. Wearing masks of law and peace. The rot of broken kings and smiling gods. The rot that danced in gold robes and signed treaties with blood hidden behind wine.
But also...
She saw the beauty.
Sky trees rose like obsidian spires, spearing the upper atmosphere, their bark glistening with dew-like opals, some pulsing with inner light—soft beats like hearts inside wood. Their leaves shimmered with layered iridescence, filtering sunlight into rivers of color that painted the land below in mosaics of blues, pinks, and golds. Their roots were inverted mountains, tapping ley-lines that whispered the names of dead stars.
Above them soared filum birds, wings like silken tendrils trailing in arcs, weaving pheromonal color in the sky as both song and signal. Entire flocks moved as one, like thoughts made visible—turning, diving, expanding in perfect unison. Each bird a living tapestry of feathers and filaments, some with secondary wings, others with three eyes watching different spectrums: light, heat, soul.
Gaseous spirits drifted between trees, clinging to mountaintops or folding around stone bridges and hanging monoliths. Not ghosts as mortals knew them—but sentiments of cultivators who had left the body long ago. Born of sky and song, they took appearances based on the observer: a child might see a smiling uncle, a warrior a long-dead friend. They watched but never spoke—except when the wind turned black.
The songs of glowing insects rose in crescendo. Melodies layered across frequencies, vibrations not merely sound, but something ancient. Wings of crystal flapped against shimmering shells. Some had porcelain faces, others tooth-filled mouths and spiral antennae that coiled and uncoiled like thought made flesh. They clung to flowers blooming in real time, petals shifting color each second, fed by sun, blood, and memory.
And beyond them—the mountains.
Not simple peaks. Cathedral-fissures housing entire ecosystems within their wounds. Valleys carved by primordial beasts, cracked open like ribs around the world's heart. In their depths grew forests of hanging vines feeding off mineral wind. Cave-mammals hunted by echo, their skin patterned with sound-maps. Lakes fed only on moonlight. Cities of hexagonal bone housed subterranean people who never saw the sky but knew its name through dream-rituals passed down by worms that fed on truth.
Volcanoes bled.
Crimson and violet magma spilled in slow arcs, not violently—ritually. From these wounds crawled crystalline stalk-creatures, refracting lava light into unseen spectra. They sang as they emerged—clicking limbs, glass-hum thoraxes vibrating in harmony. Every motion ceremonial. The blood of the earth had called them, and they answered not as beasts, but devotees. They swam in molten rivers, fed from igneous vents, danced across caldera walls, leaving trails of memory-ash behind. It was not pain to them—it was vitality.
Yet even amidst such splendor, the land was wounded.
She could see it. Smell it. Feel it.
Her four amethyst eyes flared, glowing with the soft, ruinous intensity only those beyond mortality possessed.
There, at the center of the continent—like a thorn in the heart of a beautiful god—stood the spires.
Towering, lacquered with silver that never tarnished, dulled, or reflected the sky correctly. They hummed with cold doctrine. Spiraled pillars of civilization, braided with runes, flanked by celestial obelisks pointing not to stars, but to laws older than the planet. They stood like holy spears stabbed into the earth. And above them fluttered a banner—not cloth, but woven from light, oath, and consequence.
It bore the Fourth Seal—the Fourth Banner of Solomon.
It shimmered not with warmth, but with absolute clarity. The kind that breaks nations. That erases ambiguity. That transforms free will into duty. The sigil burned into the sky like a fallen star that refused to die.
Below that sigil, moving like thoughts inside a god's skull, were the Hetan.
Cultivators. Enlightened. Bearers of power so old and ritualized it felt like the land itself had learned to breathe through them.
They walked with energy behind every breath, numen coiling in their bones, their presence humming with ancestral resonance. Their silhouettes cut through the skyline, lithe yet weighted by invisible histories. The Hetan, like most enlightened races, bore the shape of man. But they were not man.
Their bodies held mouths—some hidden, others open, and some stitched shut with golden thread. They remained closed in peace, in prayer, in thought. But in combat… or in hunger… they opened.
And when they opened, things screamed.
Their sclera were pure black—voids without horizon. Not absence of color, but absence of limit. Their eyes did not merely look. They unveiled. They saw not the body, but the pattern. And beyond that pattern such was their innate gift.
Their capital pulsed with restrained life, spiraled around a core of sacred light, wrapped in seventeen interwoven ward formations—each crafted from a different cosmic school of defense. Sigils powered by solar resonance. Runes etched with bloodline tax. Gates sealed by familial curse. There was no single point of failure. These were not walls. These were rejections.
Barriers made to deny annihilation.
And yet…
Surya's gaze sharpened.
She always saw it.
There, in the veins of the land, like dark ink spilled in water. A presence. Faint. Coiled. Watching. Its name echoed in the deeper folds of thought like an infection caught too late.
Mkletherui.
That old being.
That sleepless rot.
He was here.
Not in flesh. That would be too honest. No, Mkletherui did not walk. He grew. He infected. He seeped.
Among the Hetan, his name was whispered in temples shaped like dying stars. His churches stood not in light, but in the folds—between cracks, behind pillars, beneath the mirrors where the reflection looked back too long. These were not places of praise. They were nests. Laboratories of the damned. Sermons spoken there had no words—only vibrations. Codes etched into marrow. Offers of freedom dressed in eternity.
Mkletherui, the Deathless One.
His corruption had spread.
Small corners of the continent—forgotten alleys, remote mountain chapels, driftwood islands—had begun to change. Numen flowed wrong there. Trees whispered in languages they were never taught. Children were born with too many eyes, too many dreams. And the dream that followed them was always him.
He offered something the Hetan, for all their glory, could not resist.
Another path.
Another way to climb.
A way to reach eternity without limit.
And some answered.
Even now, she could see them. Cultivators bearing Solomon's emblems, flying from tower to tower on soulstone artifacts and refined beast-bone. And among them—one or two whose eyes lingered too long on the shadows. Whose mouths twitched before they opened. Whose robes carried the scent of forgotten oaths. Most of them didn't even know.
She had warned the Hetan Empire.
More than once.
Her emissaries had crossed their borders beneath banners of silver and green, her sigils etched into the hulls of world-crossing ships, the scent of divine law trailing behind. She had not come with fire—not at first. Her messengers came with words. Edicts. Caution spoken in the dialect of peace and understanding.
As a race who bears Solomon's symbol, handle the corruption within your lands.
But the Hetan had not listened.
Or worse—they pretended to.
They offered platitudes. Masked concern. Polished lies. "We are watching the churches." "We have enacted internal purges." "We thank you for your vigilance."
Smiles wrapped around half-truths, spoken with the confidence of those who believe they cannot be touched.
But she could smell the rot.
She always could.
It crept like mist across the sea. Like mold blooming in the corners of old kingdoms. It wafted through ley-lines, drifted beneath trade routes, infected ports and sanctuaries. Even the sun bent wrong when the air carried his stench—Mkletherui's stench.
The Deathless. The Undrowning. The Voice That Bleeds Without a Mouth.
He must have known what happened.
Of course he had.
Her brother had slain one of Mkletherui's avatars within her empire—a being of mouth and shadow that had tried to infect the bones of her capital. He had torn it apart from the inside, dragging its essence into his inner realm where it burned for a simulated eternity, fueling his rise.
And still, the rot crawled back.
Slowly. Persistently. Lovingly.
It never truly ended with the old ones.
They were cancer. Sentient malignancy. Not merely destructive—but parasitic. They whispered to those who wanted more. They curled into dreams like knives hidden in silk. And Mkletherui was among the most insidious.
He did not scream. He did not devour.
He offered.
She was not omnipotent.
Her empire—vast and radiant as it was—could not be everywhere at once. Her four eyes, mighty as their perception might be, could not intercept every sermon carved in blood or every altar hidden beneath the tongue of a mountain. The rot had returned to the sea.
It was always the sea.
The sea cradled the ancient ones like a wound that refused to close.
And now, the Hetan were harboring it.
Again.
Perhaps not openly. Not in surrender. But they had failed to excise the corruption. They had let it bloom in secret places. Temples with new wings. Children born with twisted bones. Priests who wept in laughter. Cities that smelled of salt and undeath.
So she had only one choice.
Only one ever remained.
This would not kill Mkletherui. Not truly. Not yet. The old ones did not die as innate beings did. They were older than this world. Their fall would require more than force.
But this?
This would buy her time.
Time before the rot returned fiercer than before.
And there is no greater ally to a Tyrannius than time.
Time is growth. Time is adaptation. Time is domination in slow motion. Every second she carved into the future was another breath closer to becoming absolute.
And as she set her gaze upon their world...
They set their gaze upon her.
It was expected.
The Hetan were not weak. Their cultivators were old and terrifying. Their artifacts breathed, some whispered, others remembered wars before this universe was born. Their formations were not made to hold—but to unmake. They were a proud race. And pride was always followed by resistance.
But today?
Today would not be a negotiation.
Today would not be another exchange of pleasantries and veiled threats across marble halls.
No.
Today would be ash.
Today would be obliteration, clean and incandescent. Not as revenge. Not as punishment. But as rectification.
The Hetan had failed.
They had looked her in the eye and fed her lies, even as the Deathless One whispered in their bones.
And now she would unwrite them
_______
A Hetan man stood atop one of the silver towers, his robes flickering in the rising hum of unseen energies.
The sun—or what little of it filtered through the spiraling dome of wardlight above—reflected off his glossy black sclera. There was nothing in the sky. No stars. No clouds. No descending forms. Not a whisper of celestial disturbance.
And yet he trembled.
His knees buckled, almost imperceptibly. But to him, it was an earthquake. He felt it—not through his eyes, not through cultivation-sense, but through something older. More ancient than technique. More primal than thought.
A terror born into the marrow of all things.
Dread.
Not fear. Not panic. Dread—that incomparable, inexorable weight. The kind that didn't just make your heart race—it crushed it. It pressed on your lungs until you forgot how to breathe. It wasn't a blade at your throat. It was the realization that everything you were—your body, your soul, your lineage—meant nothing before what was coming.
A single moment passed.
He blinked.
And something stirred in the light behind him.
From his shadow, a ripple spread. Not like oil. Not like ink. It was worse—a darkness that did not obey light, did not follow contour or shape. It simply was. His shadow stretched without movement, spreading across the silver floor like a stain that remembered death.
And from it, something rose.
A single eye.
At first it seemed like illusion—a trick of panic made manifest. But it did not shimmer. It did not waver.
It blinked.
Slowly. With intention.
It was not set in flesh. Not made of meat or bone. It was formed of absence—a hollow gaze suspended in filaments of coiled entropy. It blinked again. This time, its vertical slit pupil glowed—not with light, but with history. A thousand worlds. Ten thousand deaths. All stacked like corpses in the abyss.
The Hetan man fell to his knees.
He did not bow.
He collapsed.
"I didn't think she'd do it."
The voice did not arrive as sound. It arrived as texture. As rot taking root in syllables. As necrosis etched into language. Its vibration crawled across stone, up his spine, into the roots of his thoughts.
The Hetan gasped. Tried to speak. But only broken whimpers escaped.
The eye did not blink again.
But it watched him with a gaze so total, it felt like dissection beneath moonlight.
It was connected to his shadow, yes—but it was more. It was flaw. The manifest crack in life. The death hidden in every cell. The hum in every heartbeat. The knife in every breath.
It was a fragment of Mkletherui.
The Deathless.
A being not god, not daemon, not devil.
But something more primal.
A stain that thrived.
A wound that sang lullabies to oblivion.
"I thought," the voice continued, unraveling across the rooftop like threads of disease, "she'd work around your people."
It almost sounded disappointed.
Almost.
"It would have given me time," the voice whispered, "to mount a proper offensive against these mortals who've been... moving too fast of late."
The wind died.
No movement in the clouds.
The insects in the high trees ceased their songs.
The cultivators' wards flickered—just for a blink. And the Hetan's breath caught.
"But in the end..." the voice coiled around his ribs like vines of decay, "it seems she is much more savage than estimated."
There was no question. No anger.
Just recognition.
Acceptance.
She was the unconquered empress.
The savagery was not contradiction. It was inevitability.
Her empire did not march on peace. It marched on force, inheritance, and growth.
She would burn what would not grow.
She would erase what festered in defiance.
The voice coiled again.
The Hetan screamed.
Not from pain.
But from that word: savage.
Because in the Deathless One's voice, savage meant something worse than monstrous.
It meant pure.
Unflinching.
Untouched by doubt or compromise.
His shadow rippled again.
A chuckle echoed.
But no mouth formed.
No body. No limb. Only the eye.
Still watching.
Still grinning.
"L-Lord... Mkletherui," the Hetan man gasped at last, his voice shaking, knees cracking against the silverstone.
But the eye gave no answer.
No acknowledgment.
Not even a blink.
And the Hetan realized something worse than being ignored.
He was irrelevant.
The eye had not come to speak to him.
It had come to witness.
"In my vision," the eye began, low and deliberate, "all life are stars."
The words didn't echo.
They settled.
Like lead into bone. Like gravity rewriting the rules of the air. The Hetan's ears rang. His skin tightened on his bones.
The voice didn't need volume. It wove through reality, staining every layer of sense.
"Burning in the void," it went on, "low and insignificant."
The Hetan's breath faltered. His lungs felt shallow. As if the atmosphere thinned at the statement.
The sky shimmered—not visibly, but emotionally. It felt smaller. Like a ceiling. Like the world was shrinking beneath that gaze.
"One day," the eye murmured, "destined to wink out... and fade into the cold endless night."
The air dimmed.
Not in light, but in warmth. The volcanoes quieted. The high spirits fell silent. Winds curled away.
"For all of you low ones," the voice coiled in on itself, "that is how it should be."
The Hetan trembled.
Not in fear.
In recognition.
This was not hatred.
This was natural truth.
This being did not despise them. He simply understood their extinction as inevitable.
"But despite not being near my level in my prime..."
The eye turned slightly in its socketless anchor.
"When that fragment was unsealed..."
A pause.
"Those two..." it said, as if tasting the words, "do not feel like that to me."
The stillness shifted.
Confusion. Morbid wonder.
"When I look at her," it murmured, slowly, reluctantly, "I see not a star."
The Hetan's heart skipped.
"I see... nothing at all."
His knees gave out. He slumped forward, breath shallow. Hand clutching cold silverstone.
The voice pressed harder.
"Such a lifeform..." the eye murmured, "wasn't supposed to exist in this story."
And for the first time—the eye twitched.
A ripple across its pupil.
A near laugh.
Even that, just that, shook the Hetan's bones. Memories unraveled. He bit down on his tongue to anchor himself.
Even as a whisper, he could not understand it.
To understand her was to be broken.
Shattered by implication.
"Are you saying..." the Hetan man rasped, "that we are... doomed?"
No hope in his voice. Just the hollow search for delay.
The eye did not answer at first.
Then:
"More than that."
The wind rose.
"Your fates are not uncertain."
Cracks spidered across the tower's foundation—not in stone, but in meaning. Glyphs fizzled. Wards recoiled.
"My fragment..." the voice slowed, thoughtful, like recounting rot etched in memory, "...the one that tussled with her brother..."
A pause.
"Did not return."
"Or rather..."
"...it simply ceased to exist."
The Hetan's breath hitched.
Fragments always returned.
Always.
But not this time.
"You are not merely doomed," the eye grew, or the world shrank around it.
"You are destined..."
A whisper. Cold. Detached.
"...for absolute annihilation."
The Hetan man wept, though he hadn't realized.
"Behold..." the Deathless whispered.
The clouds parted.
The heavens trembled.
Far above—so far most would never pierce the veil—she walked.
Silver wings trailing divine color. Four eyes reflecting nothingness. Feet heavy as judgment. Hair trailing stardust. Skin rippling with a soul that did not belong to this reality.
"Behold and mourn," the eye said, softer now, watching something sacred about to be defiled.
"For above you..."
The sky warped.
"...and before you..."
The wards cracked.
"...lies the precipice..."
The air howled.
"...of extinction."
And still, she strode.
__________
Surya floated above the continent—still, silent, sovereign.
She hovered not like a bird nor like a goddess in worship, but like judgment itself waiting to descend. The currents of the upper heavens bowed to her presence. The air thickened with premonition. Even the radiance of the Seven Suns dimmed slightly, as if their ancient light hesitated in reverence—or fear.
And then all four of her amethyst eyes opened.
Wider.
Their gaze widened not in a physical sense, but in reach. They did not look—they unveiled. Across every mountain, every root-deep jungle, every submerged metropolis buried under the crust of coral and time, her gaze was felt. Not known. Not seen. But felt.
Her pupils dilated, rings shifting and splitting within rings, eyes fractaling into forms far beyond the geometry of biology. Her amethyst sclera flushed with deep argent hues, radiant as the dying light of galaxies. What she saw was not what others could. Her fourfold gaze did not observe reality—it rendered it into consequence.
And her form began to change.
First, it was subtle.
The silver feathers nestled within the strands of her golden hair began to quiver. Then they lengthened—smooth, iridescent plumes growing like blades of wind-forged glass. They curved upward, forming a majestic crown of six plumes—three to each side—encircling her head with the slow reverence of an ancient rite. Each feather vibrated faintly, their edges humming with spectral resonance.
Then her four wings spread.
Wider.
Broader.
Until their span seemed to eclipse the clouds.
From tip to tip they arched in twin crescents of celestial might, each feather now layered in concentric rings of wards a sign of her self created body refining art. As they unfurled, gusts thundered through the sky, ripping through cloud masses and sending lightning crackling across the upper troposphere. Even the light of the suns filtered differently now—bent through the kaleidoscope of her unfolding form.
Her height grew.
Four meters.
Five.
Eight.
Ten.
Her body shifted with terrifying grace—slim yet powerful muscle braided over bone too great for flesh, her torso extending as her posture refined into one that no longer mimicked anything living. No bird. No woman. No beast. She was not a harpy, though harpy would be the word weak men would reach for, before their lungs filled with the gravity of her presence and collapsed.
This was no mere creature.
This was a lord of the sky.
The surface of her arms and legs began to change, the flesh replaced with overlapping podotheca—silver-grey plating like interwoven serpent-scale and glass-forged chitin. The same pattern wound down her legs, her arms, her collarbone, tracing across her sternum like armor born of stormlight and vow.
Her fingers sharpened.
Long, black talons unfurled like ink-spilled knives, each tip adorned with faint sigils that pulsed with microcosmic resonance. These were not mere weapons. They were conceptual tools, shaped by her power and her body refining art and of course they were simply part of her natural form as well.
And above her head?
The halo bloomed.
It had always been there. Just not in action.
Now it glowed.
A perfect golden disc of light and silence. Not radiant, but sovereign. Etched around its inner ring were the silent tongues of void and freedom and condensed logic and law, the language of realms rewritten of the high above. It turned slowly—clockwise—ticking to a rhythm that was hers alone.
Her Fear—that innate, devouring pressure carried in the blood of her race—expanded without ceremony. It roared in the bones of the world. Mountains trembled. The seas recoiled. No lifeform across the continent escaped it. Not the gaseous spirits within the high atmosphere. Not the great-crabs who slept within their mountain shells. Not the bioluminescent worms that lined the roots of dark-forests.
All felt her presence.
All would know her words when she spoke.
And with one motion—just a wave of her hand—the sky changed.
No energy rippled outward.
No sound accompanied it.
Only obedience.
Above her—covering more than the entire span of the Great Continent of Hetan—the heavens shifted.
The sky, which had remained as eternal as it was untouched by time, now cracked and folded like paper under flame. Light condensed, condensed, and then refracted—becoming a translucent dome. It was as if the firmament itself had become glass.
But not clean glass.
Simulated glass.
A layered distortion. A facsimile of sky. An infinite recursion of blue upon blue upon black, nested in countless veils, each one slightly off—as if staring through a dream remembering another dream.
It was not illusion.
It was simulation.
A sky that looked like a sky.
A dome that pretended to be heaven.
Layered upon itself into a chilling infinity—each sheet reflecting not the present, but the idealized memory of a sky. This was not a barrier of protection. It was a tool of precision. Of rewriting. Of mapping for destruction.
And on the first layer, the reflection began.
It started as a shimmer.
Then the borders took shape.
The outline of the Hetan continent—its great ridges, spiraled mountains, bone-sand coastlines, and wind-torn highlands—manifested.
Bit by bit, it pieced itself together.
Like a puzzle solving itself under the gaze of a being that remembered the world more clearly than it remembered itself.
One floating citadel after another appeared.
Then the canals of the sacred flame river, which carved paths across their war-clans' territories.
Then the cracked thrones of their ancient architects, still buried beneath crystal.
Then the sky palaces of their sages. The roots of their sacred trees.
Then the temples—the churches of Mkletherui.
As the image of the continent took shape in that mirrored sky, it did not shimmer.
It pulsed.
Once.
A single heartbeat.
The tempo of an impending end.
A continent remembered not in love, but in warning.
It pulsed. Once. A heartbeat of inevitability.
And then—she spoke.
"Behold—"
The word arrived not in voice, but as a slice. A syllable honed into silk and thunder.
"Warriors march in my wake."
Behind her, shadows formed. Silhouettes of soldiers—not conjured, but declared. As if her myth had echoed so loudly that it cast reflections into being.
They did not cheer. They did not chant. They simply marched.
"Stars wink as the world quakes."
Above them, three of the seven suns blinked.
Not dimmed. Not veiled. Blink.
And time stuttered.
Photon drift faltered. Gravity curled sideways. Causality flickered in brief seizures.
"My steps sunder the land; my gaze bends the sky."
The cloudscape spiraled inward. Above her, a singular storm-eye opened. A spiral of refracted entropy and ozone.
"My name rides the wind like a blade."
Her name—Surya—whispered across every current, threaded into breath and blood. Children cried. Saints wept. Great cultivators choked on their mantras.
The wind no longer carried oxygen. It carried her.
"And empires fold like fire before my will."
The simulation pulsed. The mirrored continent became more than a map. It became a prediction. A prophecy.
Buildings flickered—unsure which version was real. Reflections moved before their sources.
"My people find refuge behind me." "My enemies seek oblivion before me."
Below—chaos.
The Hetan fled. The bravest cultivated toward the dome—only to rebound, shatter, or combust.
"I do not promise mercy." "I do not offer salvation."
Each word fed the sky. Each phrase deepened the recursion. Each syllable rewrote the rules of consequence.
"I come bearing death to the deathless."
A ripple across the mirrored dome. A flare at its edges. Escape denied. Finality confirmed.
"I come with the promise of the end."
The topmost reflection twisted. Pulled inward. Folded.
The continent's simulation cascaded upward, reflections stacking—a tower of perfect death warrants aimed at heaven.
Surya's eyes blazed. Her wings flared. Her talons flexed.
And she spoke:
"My body—sovereign."
"My blood—Tyrant."
And the sky obeyed.
Colorless light fell in threads—needle-thin beams stitching earth to sky. They pierced towers, trees, temples, and souls.
Not to kill. To mark. To read. To extract.
And the sky began to fill even faster.
Not just with geography. But with meaning. With data. With truth.
The war had not begun with fire.
It had begun with understanding.
"My name is the center of absolution," she continued, voice growing more surreal—too clear to be natural, too beautiful to be safe.
"I am the eye of the storm."
Every wind system in the upper hemisphere began to rotate counter to its natural orbit.
"I am the gap in logic."
Reality stuttered.
Spoken words reversed themselves in throats.
"I am the truth that breaks face."
Masks across the continent cracked—literally and metaphysically.
"I am the breath that drowns gods of old…"
A ripple went through the mirrored sea.
"…and the one who breathes life into eras anew."
"All in heaven—bow in reverence."
The sky convulsed.
Wards crumbled. Celestial shields shattered like old glass. Silence fell like a guillotine.
"All without—shudder and praise."
The beings not of this world—gaseous spirits drifting across strata of thought, great winged titans woven of memory and fire, even those that fed on the breath between moments—all turned. Not just toward her, but around her, as if they could not help but orbit the axis of what she had become.
Their awe—unwilling, involuntary—suffused the very concept of sky she had formed.
"All beneath—weep and despair."
The world buckled.
The great forests of the Hetan continent rippled as one, their silver-veined trees bending not with the wind, but with recognition. Stone towers groaned. Volcanoes hiccupped and choked on their own fire. Rivers reversed flow for moments at a time, disturbed by the psychic pressure that poured downward from the heavens like an open floodgate of significance.
Across the cities of the Hetan Empire, all eyes turned upward.
Some resisted. They clawed at their own faces. Covered their ears. Screamed verses of the deathless one in resistance. But it did not matter.
They had seen her.
They had heard her.
And now they were part of it.
She hovered, talons flexed, wings vast and gleaming with silver fire. A corona of refracted light hovered behind her head. And from the mirror sky above, where the simulation of the continent floated like a spell preparing itself to drop, she reigned.
She was no longer an invader.
She was the sun.
"For I am the Empress!"
And with that final cry—everything changed.
The words struck with such force that the reflection in the sky rippled. Cultivators lost all sense of footing—not physically, but narratively. Their destiny lines—so carefully forged and nurtured through cultivation, through sacrifice—snapped.
She became the center of the story.
Not just their story.
The story.
The metaphysical gravity of her declaration pulled everything in this space toward her. Not just focus. Not just thought. But meaning. Like a black hole wrapped in gold silk, she devoured relevance, pulled importance inward. Her myth, in that moment, became absolute.
And the world complied. She forced it to.
Every pair of eyes that turned toward her fed it.
Every whisper, every scream, every tear-streaked gaze that could not look away—even in terror—strengthened her.
"Glory to me!"
Her arms flared open.
And they answered.
Across the multitudes, across the oceans and mountain ranges, from the corners of her empire where lesser beings watched in prayer, to the merchant kings and wandering sages who whispered her name in devotion—from the monsters and metaphysical architects to the shepherds with scratched coins tucked in their belts—they all thought of her.
And from that thought—power bloomed.
Not numen.
But something older. Rarer. Recognition.
The energy of acknowledgement.
Not passive observation. Not mere belief. But belief that bore weight. A story centered. A narrative made inevitable.
It surged through her. A current of pure narrative gravity. A pressure that ignores biology, that bypasses structure, that rips through cause and effect to grant power simply because all things agree you have it.
And only one being could wield it like that.
Her.
Not even her brother could do it so.
Her body swelled with it—reality adjusting to her, not the other way around. Her wings flared, leaving fractures in the sky where they moved. Her eyes burned like full moons soaked in sacred oil. She used it to truly entrap them. Using their acknowledgement to fuel her abilities beyond their typical limits.
Her voice was laughter now—rich and wicked and beautiful.
Her fangs gleamed like artifacts of old conquests.
"Now tell me—"
Her voice dipped into velvet. Her grin widened to split her face, not cruel but joyous—like a god amused with the weight of her own divinity.
"Have you ever heard…"
Her four amethyst eyes curled with pleasure, as if relishing the fear before the final blow.
"...of the Queen who lives in the sky?
__________
In this world—vast, spiraling, unbound by the limited senses of lesser beings—there is one truth that must be reckoned with.
To exist… is to understand.
And to understand is to interpret.
And what is interpretation, if not a brush painted in the medium of information?
This, too, is considered a facet of the Dao. One that is often overlooked in favor of flashier pursuits—flames that burn the sky, swords that cleave dimensions, or realms carved from the blood of celestial beasts. But beneath it all, beneath technique and manifestation, beneath force and will—there lies this quiet, patient truth:
Everything… is information.
The shape of mountains.
The arc of a falling leaf.
The heat of a dying star.
The way the sun falls on skin, and the way the skin remembers it.
The silence between breaths and the scream of a newborn soul.
All of it—every single thing—is simply data. Information etched into the fabric of what is.
Whether it is how we perceive the world, or how the world shapes itself around our perception, it is information acting upon the physical.
And that which acts… can be understood.
That which is understood… can be named.
That which is named… can be controlled.
The first sapient beings, those first with a true soul did not shape the world with tools—they shaped it with words. With names. With the desire to give boundary and shape to the unknowable. To grasp the void and call it "sky." To point at a blaze and call it "flame." To hear the crack of thunder and give it identity.
They were not just primitives grasping at language.
They were the first scholars.
The first cultivators.
The first to see the Dao in motion.
Names. Names were not arbitrary. They were not mere labels.
Names were the syntax of existence.
To name a thing is to collapse its infinite possibility into form. To draw its boundless waveform into a single reality. That is why curses are names. That is why blessings are names. That is why all things, when true and known, tremble under the weight of their own name. Well almost all things.
And this—this is why life is sacred.
Because it is life that gives names.
It is life that recognizes. Life that categorizes. Life that records.
And therefore—it is life that binds the Dao.
Even the Daos themselves—those vast, swirling, absolute principles of existence—are records. They are archives. They are the imprint of information carved into creation so deeply that nothing could erase them. For even erasure is simply a dao.
The Dao of Fire is not just fire. It is the accumulated understanding of what fire has been, what it is, and what it might yet become.
It is the name of every flame that ever burned.
And so—control of information…
Control of names…
Control of interpretation…
Is the highest possible form of cultivation. That was the conclusion she had come to.
And she—Surya. Empress of Acknowledgement—she had begun to take steps toward that pinnacle.
Her ability—Da'at—was not a mere technique. It was innate and fundamental to her.
And it was a theory of everything. That and her knowledge from her past set her on this path.
Through Da'at and her cultivation, she had begun to perceive the world not merely as it appeared—but as it truly was.
Through light—she read the passage of photons, the unfolding of causality. Every time a ray of light touched a surface, it carried with it a message. Information updated at the speed of reality itself. To perceive light was to perceive the moment the world had changed. To read the news of the universe, one particle at a time. Things echoed in science in a much simpler fashion back on earth.
Through sound—she unraveled pattern. The subtle architecture of vibration. The whisper of intention behind movement. A heartbeat, a gasp, a clash of steel—each one a code. A signal. A language of air and consequence. And from that language, she could infer more than location or intent.
She could hear fear.
She could hear memory.
She could hear the soul.
And through names—ah, names…
That was where the world became her canvas.
Names were more than sound.
They were contracts.
They were histories.
They were destinies encapsulated in phonemes.
She had not fully mastered the dao, which shaped the name of a being. It took much power and much preparation. But she could do it on minor levels. To affect the true state of information of a thing. To affect it's name, it's light and sound. How it interacted with the world and how the world interacted with it.
In her hands, a blade could become a boundary.
A mountain could become a lie.
A person could become ash—because she said they were. Of course, only if they were far weaker than herself.
Not with brute force.
But with language.
And that, in the end, is the secret of information.
It is not merely something we observe.
It is something we become.
It is something we create—and in doing so, we create the world.
A Dao is not some external law.
It is a collective hallucination, made real through name and repetition.
She had seen this.
She had accepted it.
And she had begun her path.
Was she omnipotent?
No.
But she had begun.
Because once you understand that all reality is simply information, that all information can be read, that all things can be named—then all things can be rewritten.
And from there?
Omnipotence is a matter of vocabulary.
Surya lifted her hand once more.
And the sky obeyed.
Above the continent, where once hovered a warped canopy of glasslike heavens—reflections layered one atop another like divine manuscripts—there now bloomed something far more terrible. Her face.
Not just once.
A multitude.
A legion of Surya's countenance, avian and divine, coalesced within those simulated layers of firmament. Each one distinct in shading, light, and detail—but all bore the same terrible symmetry: silver feathers woven into her golden hair like laurels forged by apocalypse, that radiant golden halo hovering like judgment made manifest, and most haunting of all—those four amethyst eyes, gleaming with infinite perception.
Each face floated titanic and terrible above the world, gazing down not upon it, but through it.
Every mountain. Every grain of sand. Every root and river and structure. Every creature—intelligent or otherwise—was reflected. Their forms etched into the mirror-sky with unfathomable precision. It was not mere duplication.
It was data, information.
Captured.
Filed.
Stored.
She had reflected not only the image of the world, but its light, its sound, its presence. Everything that could be perceived was transcribed into her self-made cosmos. A simulated dominion, carved not of earth or sky or flame—but of information.
Her own Heaven.
And now, with this Heaven—this archive—she would erase them.
Each of her terrible mirrored faces opened its mouth.
Massive, gaping, abyssal.
The shape of it seemed to devour the very air. The light surrounding those maws bent inward, as if reality itself feared being swallowed.
No sound emerged.
Not a whisper. Not a scream. Not a note.
Only silence—a silence so total it became a pressure, a weight that bore down on the world like the pause before the universe ends.
She was not here to roar.
She was here to take.
Surya would not simply destroy this continent.
She would steal its name.
She would unwrite it from the world.
And so she did.
The war had not begun with fire.
It had begun with understanding.
Now, it continued with extraction.
The beams of anti-light, those impossibly thin filaments of translucent judgment, anchored themselves deeper. Into ley-lines. Into root-cores. Into thought.
Every marked point—be it person, city, blade, or prayer—was siphoned.
Siphoned not in soul, but in structure.
Names began to unravel.
First, the names of stones. Then the names of trees. Then the names of beasts.
The rivers forgot how to be rivers. The mountains forgot their borders. The temples forgot what they worshipped.
And the people—
They began to forget themselves.
Not in mind. In identity.
Words crumbled in mouths. Cultivation techniques unraveled mid-breath. Lineage sigils shimmered, flickered, and then failed. Even the laws of physics bent slightly as the name of "gravity" tried to reconcile itself with her dominion.
The reflected sky absorbed it all. Not merely copying—but cataloguing. Sorting. Simulating.
She owned the information now.
And without their data, the Hetan had no footing.
Reflected beings flickered.
First their colors. Then their density. Then their logic.
Some reached for artifacts that no longer acknowledged their wielders. Some tried to flee—only to find that the sky's simulation moved faster than their future. Some wept—only to realize that grief, too, had been extracted.
The mirrored layers above grew denser. Their detail too fine, too recursive, too absolute. The simulation was no longer simulation.
It was overwrite.
It was archive as execution.
It pulsed again.
And beings began to unravel.
Not in blood. Not in flame.
In concept.
Flesh faded into static. Bones turned to patterns. Souls flickered into inert diagrams.
The world beneath Surya did not die.
It was revised.
It was erased from the medium of reality.
Reflections shattered one by one. Each collapse erased another region. Another bloodline. Another meaning.
Until finally—
There was silence.
Not absence of sound. Absence of definition.
No matter. No memory. No name.
Not a void.
Nothing.
Not even space remained.
Where once stood a civilization—wards, cultivators, towers, history, and sentient light—now there was a hole. A clean gap in the tapestry of the world. Not blank. Not silent. But absent.
A region where no information could exist.
No memory.
No sound.
No light.
No name.
Just a wound. A perfect, surgical hole in the continuity of the planet. Like a god had reached down and torn a page from the book of existence.
And as for the people?
They existed still.
But only in reflection.
Simulacra.
Impressions.
Digital ghosts filed away in Surya's bank of knowing. They had been converted into data. Into simulation. And what is a simulation if not the image of a thing, robbed of will and consequence?
It could be replayed.
It could be studied.
Or…
With a thought—
With the faintest tap of her talon upward—
It could be deleted.
One by one, the reflective layers shattered.
The image of the continent cracked like glass in a thunderstorm, folding inward as if caught in reverse entropy. Each being in that archive flickered once—like a dying star seen across eons—and was gone. Names untethered. Forms discarded. Meaningless.
The reflections went dark.
And all life that had once walked, built, prayed, laughed, sinned, and suffered on that continent—was gone.
Surya floated in stillness—above the scarred world, above the place where once stood empires, language, memory, and pride. Now, only a hole remained. Not a wound that bled, but one that forgot. A piece of reality scrubbed so clean even time couldn't mourn it.
And yet, she remained. Not triumphant. Not exalted.
Only still.
She had no choice.
She simply did what had to be done.
Her hands—clawed, scaled, and bruised from the force she had demanded of them—hung at her sides like anchors of judgment. Her wings, battered from strain, fluttered once, shedding silver dust into the empty winds. Her halo pulsed, faint now, but unwavering.
This was never glory.
This was never conquest.
This was duty.
A burden only a Tyrant could bear.
A weight only an empress should carry.
And so she carried it. War was not something with which she was unfamiliar.
Her breath was steady, but each exhale dragged through the ribs like a storm passing over cracked stone. Her four amethyst eyes dimmed slightly, exhaustion seeping from the corners of her vision like ink in water. The cracks in her flesh—her primal flesh—still shimmered faintly with residual power, glowing veins of burning violet crawling down her limbs like threads of divine pain. Even her body, designed for war and eternity, had strained to meet the moment.
But then…
Warmth.
It suffused her form—not gentle like sunlight, but like the internal heat of molten stone, a furnace fed not by kindling, but by the raw essence of all she had undone. The souls. The lives. The emotions and beliefs and data she had consumed… they were hers now.
Processed.
Repurposed.
Rewoven into her being.
And within her…
Ziz sang.
Not with melody, but with that deep, tremulous joy known only to apex beings when their instincts are sated. It was not a song of cruelty, nor of celebration—it was the song of completion. The predator's stillness after the final kill. The moment when hunger is gone and silence reigns.
Surya did not smile.
She did not move.
She only existed in that space—full of light and blood and absolute purpose.
Until finally, a whisper escaped her lips.
Her voice was like the crackle of burning silk.
"…How disgusting."
_______________
This one is actually just a scene I'm planning on writing in the future of my fic. But I feel as if this may be a tad too flowery and I might just need to wholly rewrite. Yes I also understand a lot of this is cultivation style mumbo jumbo sorry about that.
- Location
- Philippines
Ngl, when I first read the narrative, my first thought was "someone decided to just make a cultivation Wikipedia?"
Or perhaps Akashic Records fit better in terms of mythic inspiration
Edit: Would be funny if the guy actually did ascend to the heavens and the heavens is currently looking at the effects of the experiment to see if it's righteous or not. But that leans more into the Good Place inspired shenanigans than anything.
Or perhaps Akashic Records fit better in terms of mythic inspiration
Edit: Would be funny if the guy actually did ascend to the heavens and the heavens is currently looking at the effects of the experiment to see if it's righteous or not. But that leans more into the Good Place inspired shenanigans than anything.
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kinglugia
Hora hora~
What was the largest one in your xianxia setting?
ZeroXSEED
Economic Authoritarian Muslim Leftist
- Location
- In the name of orange!
- Pronouns
- He
Bros, I need help with translating Daoist cultivation into a setting where the idea of true immortal ascension had faded into myth and everyone fought each other with the use of enormous machinery armor (giant robots). I recon I managed to at least done two but I struggled with one that most people are familiar with.
Translating body cultivation/vitality (Jing) is simple: the so-called cultivator has their body strengthened molecule by molecule so that they could operate powerful machinery without blacking out or worse, dead. The higher the person's body cultivation, the more powerful machinery they can use. Such a machine can dance with the grace of a white swan while accelerate like lightning.
Translating spiritual cultivation/consciousness (Shen) is also simple: the so-called has their mind expanded to be more aware of the cosmos and even interact with them. There are mortal terms used to explain this such as psionic and quantum brainwave. They can use their spirit cultivation to manipulate objects, or sometimes remotely operate machinery within certain rules or range (i.e. drone/funnels/bits). Their cultivation also needed to tame the living machinery and demon beasts that roam the seemingly-limitless mortal universe.
How the FUCK I translate Qi into this setting?
Translating body cultivation/vitality (Jing) is simple: the so-called cultivator has their body strengthened molecule by molecule so that they could operate powerful machinery without blacking out or worse, dead. The higher the person's body cultivation, the more powerful machinery they can use. Such a machine can dance with the grace of a white swan while accelerate like lightning.
Translating spiritual cultivation/consciousness (Shen) is also simple: the so-called has their mind expanded to be more aware of the cosmos and even interact with them. There are mortal terms used to explain this such as psionic and quantum brainwave. They can use their spirit cultivation to manipulate objects, or sometimes remotely operate machinery within certain rules or range (i.e. drone/funnels/bits). Their cultivation also needed to tame the living machinery and demon beasts that roam the seemingly-limitless mortal universe.
How the FUCK I translate Qi into this setting?
- Location
- Elsewhere
Rocket fuel?
Drawing some parallels, the immortal cultivator is kinda mocking themselves into a mech.
The cultivator has a powerful body, the mech is made of super materials.
The cultivator has super senses, the mech has a sensory suite.
The mech is powered by mech fuel, the cultivator is powered by qi.
Cultivator/pilot at the fueling station:
"One for you, one for me…"
Drawing some parallels, the immortal cultivator is kinda mocking themselves into a mech.
The cultivator has a powerful body, the mech is made of super materials.
The cultivator has super senses, the mech has a sensory suite.
The mech is powered by mech fuel, the cultivator is powered by qi.
Cultivator/pilot at the fueling station:
"One for you, one for me…"