The heavens do not take insult lightly.
But on this day, they erred.
And the echo of that error would ripple across the cosmos.
When Ziwei declared the truth of his divine birth, the stars did not merely hear—they shuddered. Throughout the firmament, ancient constellations trembled, and time itself faltered for a breath. Far beyond the sky, past veils of reason and law, the Eye of the Heavenly Dao opened.
It was not a creature. Not a deity with pride or wrath. It was Law incarnate—boundless, faceless, eternal. But today, even the Law burned with fury.
For countless kalpas, the Heavenly Dao had assumed the Chaos Demon Emperor remained hidden within Ziwei's soul, bound yet dangerous. But now, with Ziwei's emergence complete and a glimmer of true Creation Merit radiating from his being, the illusion shattered.
And the Heavenly Dao saw its error.
That was intolerable.
For if the Law could be mistaken… then what was sacred?
A wrath was born—not noisy nor violent, but cold and absolute.
Yet even in its fury, the Dao could not act without cause.
Ziwei had broken no rule. He had not stolen, slain, or deceived. He had taken no throne, claimed no dominion. He had simply spoken—his voice proud, his words true.
But the Law demanded answer. Even truth must kneel.
And so it summoned a single bolt of Destruction Thunder. Not to kill—but to humble.
A warning.
A rattle of chains before the lash.
The bolt fell, roaring from the heavens, wrapped in divine flame.
Ziwei did not flinch.
He did not raise a hand to shield himself.
He only looked up.
Not with rebellion. Not with fear.
But with judgment.
As though the newborn god weighed Heaven itself and found it wanting.
And in that gaze… something snapped.
The Heavenly Dao knew: this child would never bow. Never yield. Never fit the mold.
Then better he be erased.
The Eighth Era's protection meant nothing now.
The cycle of Honghuang was over.
And so, the Dao reached again—not to warn, but to destroy. To burn his soul from the fabric of fate.
But before the second strike could fall—
The sky cracked.
From beyond heaven, beyond law, beyond even destiny—
a second thunderbolt descended.
Vaster.
Older.
It did not strike Ziwei.
It struck the Eye itself.
The Law recoiled.
This was no mere judgment.
The Great Dao had intervened.
The authority that birthed the Dao itself had spoken.
Ziwei could not be erased.
Not yet.
The current cosmic cycle was still maturing. To destroy a being marked by active merit—still tethered to destiny—was a violation of balance.
And Ziwei bore more than fate.
He bore the brand of Creation.
A chosen soul.
A child of destiny.
The Heavenly Dao, stripped of justification, stood still—wounded, silenced.
It could only watch.
Ziwei remained beneath the storm.
Unscorched.
Unshaken.
"You did not seek justice," he thought. "You sought my end."
"And I… will not forget."
The moment passed, but the heavens had been changed forever.
In a place beyond light, where forgotten truths slumbered beneath layers of silence, a laugh stirred.
Low.
Lazy.
Mocking.
"Heh… Cousin, your son is just as arrogant as you were."
The voice belonged to a being wreathed in mist, with eyes like dying stars, dim with time, bright with spite.
Another voice answered—dry, jagged, like jade broken beneath the boot of fate.
"That bloodline… Grandfather, Father, Son. None of them ever learned to kneel."
"One defied the Heavenly Dao. One defied Samsara. And now this one…"
"He dares defy all of Creation."
"How long, I wonder… until Heaven stops watching and starts ending?"
No reply came.
Only silence.
Then a final chuckle—half prophecy, half curse.
Far away, atop Mount Wuji, beneath a sky that bowed to no god, Hongjun sat still.
His breath was even.
His soul vast.
Before him floated an ancient fragment—a single shimmering wing, like a shard of the morning sun.
The Wing of the Creation Butterfly.
Once part of a supreme Chaos treasure. Once belonging to Pangu.
Now, it throbbed with resentment. Not for Pangu, nor the past.
But for Ziwei.
A voice, thin as smoke and cruel as fate, whispered from within the wing into Hongjun's thoughts.
"Slay the boy."
"Unleash the beasts."
"Let his destiny die before it walks."
"Do this, and I shall name you Heavenly Dao Saint. Perhaps… even Dao Ancestor."
Hongjun did not move.
But somewhere within him, a blade stirred.
In the north, beyond the edges of reality, in the shattered realm called Beyond the Horizon—
Shou Zhu, the Ferocious Emperor, gathered his war court.
Around him stood four primeval beasts:
Qiongqi, the Deceiver.
Hundun, the Chaos Core.
Taowu, the Rebel Mind.
Taotie, the Devourer of Heaven.
Each one ancient.
Each one cursed.
They stood beneath the God-Killing Banner, a relic that defied karma itself, feared by Saints and Fiends alike.
There were no speeches.
Only a vow, as old as hatred:
"Ziwei must die."
And through all of this—
Ziwei knew nothing.
He stood alone beneath the quiet stars, their ancient light trembling with awe.
And from beyond the void, a gift descended.
One percent.
A single shard of the total Creation Merit he once held.
It poured into him like golden flame, washing over every corner of his soul.
But as it entered, a memory returned—
Once, I held more.
Two-tenths.
And it was torn from me—not by treachery, but by fate.
He remembered it now:
In that moment of descent, as his soul merged into form, the Chaos Demon God Emperor had attacked.
Tried to take his vessel.
To become him.
And to stop it, the Great Dao had acted—tearing away a piece of Ziwei's own merit to seal the invader and cauterize the wound.
That merit still existed.
But it no longer belonged to him.
Now, he held only a fragment.
Glorious. Radiant. But incomplete.
His fingers curled into fists.
The Heavenly Dao had tried to erase him before his first breath.
Had the Great Dao not intervened, there would be no name, no story, no future.
But he lived.
And he understood now—
This would not be the last attempt.
The Dao would wait.
Adapt.
Find another way.
Through judgment. Through loophole. Through sacrifice.
Then only two paths remained.
One: To ascend beyond all limit. To become the equal of the Heavenly Dao. But that path passed through the Twelve Calamities, through trials so vast that even gods feared to walk them.
Or—
To earn overwhelming Great Dao Merit.
So much that the cosmos itself would be forced to acknowledge him.
So much that even the heavens could not erase his name.
Not through favor.
But through contribution.
To create something eternal.
Not a throne, but a gift.
A system.
A blessing for all beings.
He closed his eyes.
Exhaled.
The stars dimmed.
"This is no longer about survival," he whispered.
"This… is about legacy."
And so, with only a fraction of his true power—
And the weight of all of existence pressing down upon him—
Ziwei took his first step.
Not toward power.
But toward eternity.