Death came quietly.
Not with screams or blood, but with a whisper — a soft unraveling of reality. One moment, he was standing atop the ruins of Earth's last bastion, watching the sky fracture under the weight of the Leviathan's descent. The next, he was falling through a tunnel of light, his body disintegrating into equations and memory.
He had died. That much was certain.
But this wasn't the afterlife.
It was something older. Stranger.
He awoke in a place that defied geometry — a void of shifting stars and impossible architecture. Floating monoliths pulsed with alien runes. Time bent around him like silk. And in the center of it all, a throne of obsidian hovered, empty.
"You are not Luo Feng," a voice said, ancient and amused.
He turned. A figure stood behind him — cloaked in starlight, eyes like collapsing galaxies.
"But you carry the echo."
The figure raised a hand. A sigil burned into the air — a fractal of paradoxes. It sank into his chest, and he screamed as reality rewrote itself.
He saw visions.
Luo Feng's rise. The Dojo of Limits. The Beast God inheritance. The Virtual Universe. The Sector Lords. Humanity's desperate climb through cosmic ranks.
But he was not Luo Feng.
He was something else.
The Void Engine had chosen him — a relic older than the Swallowed Star itself. It had given him a power that defied cultivation, defied logic.
He could bend causality. Rewrite probability. He was a Paradox Wielder.
And the universe would not forgive him.
The figure vanished. The throne cracked. And he fell again — this time into a world he knew too well.
Earth.
But not the Earth he died on.
This was before the apocalypse. Before the monsters. Before Luo Feng awakened.
He stood in Jiang-nan city, rain falling softly, watching a boy train in the distance.
Luo Feng.
And he knew: the story was beginning again.
But this time, he was inside it.