The black sword howled against the heavenly chains, sparks of shattered law tearing across the battlefield. Yet for every chain he broke, two more coiled tighter. His wounds bled without end, his aura flickering like a dying sun.
The patriarch's hand pressed down again. "You cannot win, my son. Even you must bow before heaven."
The Godslayer spat blood, but his eyes gleamed with cold defiance. He glanced at the infant in his arm, still crying, still alive. His wife's blood stained his cloak.
A decision seared through him.
If he fell here, his lineage would end. The heavens would erase his son, just as they erased her. That could not be.
He drove the black sword into the ground, freeing his hands. Then he bit his tongue, spitting blood onto his palm, and began tracing sigils in the air. Each stroke burned with crimson flame, weaving a circle of impossible power.
The enemies froze. Recognition widened their eyes.
"No… not that ritual…"
The patriarch's face darkened. "The Gate of Samsara… he dares summon it!"
The sigils bled into the sky, forming a vast gate of lightless gold. From its center swirled the pull of reincarnation itself—the path between worlds. The Godslayer pressed the infant close, his blood dripping into the boy's skin, fusing his essence into the spell.
"My son," his voice shook, yet thundered across the battlefield, "I cannot walk this path with you. But you will live. You will endure. And one day—you will return to shatter the chains they worship."
The gate pulsed. The child began to glow faintly, pulled toward the Mortal World below.
But the eight would not allow it.
"Stop him!" the golden-eyed brother howled, his remaining hand thrusting his spear forward. Sound waves shrieked, flames raged, void spikes pierced the air—all crashing toward the fragile gate.
The Godslayer roared, raising his hands. Chains bound his limbs, blood poured from his mouth, but still he defied them. He held the gate steady with sheer will.
Yet one attack broke through—
A spear of golden law stabbed into the circle just as the child vanished into the vortex.
The spell cracked.
The Godslayer's eyes widened as he felt it—the child's meridians twisting, sealing under the backlash. His son would live, but crippled, unable to cultivate.
"No…!" His roar tore the heavens. "You damn him even in innocence?!"
The patriarch's voice was cold as stone.
"So long as your lineage exists, it is a threat to heaven. Better he live crippled than rise as another you."
The gate collapsed. The child was gone, cast into the Mortal Continent.
The Godslayer sank to one knee, his blood splattering across the broken ground. His wife was dead, his son lost to the lower realms, his enemies closing in. And still… his sword hummed at his side, thirsting for blood.