The mourning and weeping echoed like shattered bells, each note piercing the marrow, each lament carried into the void. Beneath the heavens, the Agarwood Abyss roared—a pit said to be older than mountains, older than time itself. The air was choked with the scent of burning spirit herbs, of ash, and of blood.
Down below, swords clashed with deafening fury, their metallic wails mingling with the shrieks of cultivators meeting their end. Countless voices rose and fell like a storm-tossed tide—anguished, desperate, unyielding. But no cry lasted long; each was cut short by the final strike of a blade.
They came like hollow puppets—human mannequins carved from flesh and resentment—staggering forward with uncanny precision, their lifeless eyes glowing with the threads of some unseen master. Their advance was relentless. Their numbers endless.
The ground itself seemed to bleed. Mountains cracked. Rivers turned to mist. The screams were so loud they clawed at the heavens, and yet the Agarwood Abyss devoured them whole, swallowing life and sound as if the world itself was sinking into its maw.
Thousands of prominent cultivators had already fallen into the Farther Dooms, their names extinguished like candles snuffed by the night.
And high above it all, at the very edge of the abyss where reality and oblivion met, stood a young man.
His robes were torn, his breath ragged. His hands trembled as they clutched the Zixan Blade, a weapon blazing with frost and flame, two opposing powers fused into a single impossible edge. The blade pulsed like a heartbeat, feeding on his despair.
He looked down upon the chaos, and his mind unraveled.
This… this was not what he had intended.
He had not sought slaughter.
He had not wished for ruin.
And yet the heavens had answered with cruelty.
The Heaven's Tribulation—that uncanny, unfathomable storm of divine will—had descended, not as a trial, but as a judgment. He had watched helplessly as friends, family, allies, and those dearest to his heart were devoured by its merciless decree. Each familiar face perished beneath the swarming blades, each bond severed in blood.
He could have run.
He could have thrown himself into the battle to save them.
But his body was shattered, spirit veins torn, his cultivation crippled. His legs buckled beneath him, and each step was a prayer not to collapse. He could barely breathe, let alone save another.
Too many things had gone wrong.
Too much had been lost.
Now, there was only one path left: the descent into mortality, the slow crawl toward despair's end. He lifted the Zixan Blade, angled it toward his throat, and closed his eyes.
Perhaps if he ended it here, all would be quiet. Perhaps the heavens, in their cold laughter, would grant him at least silence.
But before steel could kiss his skin, another blade pressed against his neck.
His eyes flew open.
There she stood.
A woman in crimson robes, her beauty as sharp as her sword. Her face was veiled in thick, alluring makeup, lips painted the color of fresh blood, eyes rimmed with kohl that only emphasized their glassy sheen. In the battlefield's chaos, she was an unbroken figure—resolute, unyielding, merciless.
And yet… her hands trembled.
For a single, endless moment, the battlefield seemed to fall silent. The clash of steel, the thunder of tribulation, even the weeping of the dying—all faded, leaving only the two of them. Their gazes locked, and the abyss itself seemed to hold its breath.
His voice cracked when it left his throat.
"Why?"
Her eyes, wet with unshed tears, never left his. She did not speak. The silence stretched, heavy as mountains. Only when her lashes fluttered, and a single tear slid down her painted cheek, did her lips finally part.
"I'm sorry."
Her whisper was softer than the wind. But her blade was not.
With a swift plunge, the crimson-stained sword drove into his chest. Pain blossomed, hot and cold all at once, his breath stolen as his knees gave way. Tears blurred his vision—not of weakness, but of disbelief, of the shattering of trust so deeply carved it could never mend.
She, too, wept. She tried to hold them back, to remain the executioner, not the woman who once laughed at his side. But the tears fell anyway, streaming like rivers as her shoulders shook.
And then, with trembling strength, she shoved him.
The world tilted. His body toppled backward, falling into the gaping Agarwood Abyss—that bottomless chasm whispered of in ancient scriptures. It was said to be the scar left behind when the heavens themselves split. Some claimed it was the mouth of an eternal beast, forever hungry. Others swore it was the grave of gods, a pit that consumed not only flesh but destiny itself.
As he fell, the abyss opened wider, its darkness surging up to swallow him whole. Winds tore at his body, his tears scattering into droplets of light before vanishing into the void. Spiritual energy warped around him, shredding at his skin, pulling at his soul.
The cries of the battlefield faded into silence.
The warmth of the woman's touch was gone.
Only the abyss remained.
And in that eternal descent, his last thought was not of hatred… but of sorrow.
___
The heavens themselves seemed to tremble with jubilation.
Praises rang out across the scorched plains, thunderous applause rising from the throats of cultivators who had survived the slaughter. Palms clapped against palms, voices joined in chorus, their songs of triumph spiraling upward like smoke into the night sky.
The fugitive had fallen.
The threadless one had been cast into the Agarwood Abyss.
The cries of mourning that had once filled the battlefield were now replaced with chants of victory. Banners of sects fluttered proudly, soaked in blood yet waving defiantly. Flutes and war drums echoed across the realm, singing not of the dead but of conquest.
Yet amidst the uproar, amidst the songs sung of fate and destiny restored, none were lifted for the crimson-robed woman.
Not for Temptress Pei—the war goddess draped in scarlet flame, whose name alone once silenced armies. She, who had carved mountains in half with her blade, who had stood above all as the sharpest spear of destiny itself—yet in this victory, no hymn carried her name.
Her hands still trembled faintly. The last warmth of Li Shen's blood clung to the steel sheathed at her hip, staining her aura as though the heavens themselves refused to let her forget.
But she did not remain among the revelers. She turned her back to the celebration, her footsteps cold and resolute as she descended into the corridors of the imperial palace.
Her destination: the Palace of Darkened Tides, where the sovereign who ruled the endless oceans awaited.
Within the grand black hall, the air reeked of salt and shadow. The floor was carved from obsidian, polished so smooth it seemed like a reflection of the abyssal seas themselves. Across the endless chamber, seated upon a throne carved from the bones of leviathans, was a man whose very presence twisted the currents of qi.
They called him the Emperor of the Darkened Sea, but his true name was feared in whispered breaths—Meng Yuhai, the Abyssal Sovereign.
Eyes like bottomless whirlpools peered down at her, his aura alone heavy enough to make seas churn and mountains bow.
Temptress Pei entered without waiting for the ceremonial doors to creak open. The guards did not dare halt her; crimson flame trailed behind her steps, and the aura of a war goddess parted their formation like reeds in the wind.
She strode to the center of the hall, then fell to one knee, her head bowed low. Her crimson robes pooled across the black marble floor like blood spilled upon water.
"Emperor Meng," her voice was calm, though her knuckles whitened where they pressed against her knee, "you would not have forgotten the favor I asked of you, would you?"
Her eyes remained lowered, refusing to meet the whirlpool gaze that sought to drown her.
The Abyssal Sovereign lifted one hand, a gesture as effortless as a ripple on the tide. His voice resonated like thunder beneath an endless sea.
"Why would I?"
A single wave of his sleeve, and an item shimmered into being.
The Sea Brush.
No longer than a mortal's palm, its body was carved from the spine of a sea serpent, its bristles spun from threads of purest gold qi. Yet despite its tiny form, the artifact pulsed with a divine glow that threatened to unravel the very Dao around it.
With this brush, even threads severed by death could be redrawn, fates rewritten, destinies defied.
Pei raised her head. Her eyes—sharp, unyielding—met his at last. She reached out, grasping the brush with a steady hand. Its golden light spilled across her face, illuminating the tear stains she had hidden beneath paint and powder.
"Thank you," she said softly, though the fire in her gaze was unbroken. "But I will say this, Emperor Meng—do not make the mistake of underestimating me again. For next time, I will not be lenient."
Her words were blades sheathed in silk, and without waiting for a reply, she turned on her heel, her robes flaring like crimson stormclouds. The great doors of the palace slammed shut behind her, though she had never touched them.
The path back to the Abyss was long, but her steps did not falter. The cries of victory had faded behind her, drowned by the relentless pull of her heart.
And when she reached once more the edge of the Agarwood Abyss, she stood gazing into its endless maw. The chasm was darker than night, its depths said to strip away even the souls of gods. Lightning slithered within, storms of spiritual energy churning restlessly, as if the Abyss itself remembered the man it had devoured.
Her chest tightened. Her hand closed around the glowing Sea Brush.
Without a second thought, without even a backward glance, she whispered into the void:
"Li Shen… wait for me."
Her guard, Wen Long, startled at her words, rushed to halt her descent. "My lady! You cannot—"
But it was too late.
With a single step forward, she let herself fall. Wen Long's hand caught her sleeve at the last moment, and though he fought to resist the pull, the Abyss claimed him as well. Together, they plummeted into that endless dark.
One was already lost within its depths, his fate uncertain.
Now two more followed, seeking him.
Three lives, three destinies, all swallowed into the Agarwood Abyss—a place where the threads of fate were said to unravel, and where even immortals became no more than clueless mortals wandering in forgotten worlds.
And thus began a descent that would shake the balance of heaven and earth.