In a lifeless, desolate region where the sun never fully rises, a solitary figure tends a humble farm. To the world, he is a simple man clad in black cloth, a farmer whose presence is imperceptible, whose aura cannot be sensed, and whose power remains unknowable. Yet legends whisper of crops that exist only in myth, capable of granting unimaginable cultivation potential, yet unreachable by mortal hands.

He is Khaldrin, the Lord of the Evening, an entity whose spirit, soul, and body are perfectly synchronized, immune to all laws, gods, and mortals alike. His scythe wields reality itself, his black flames burn sin eternally, and his very existence bends life, death, and time to his will. No mastery, no law, no force can challenge him.

For millions of years, he has lived in solitude, unnoticed by the world. But when a lost Sword Saint wanders into this cursed land, curiosity draws him to the farmer. He offers homage, food, and wine, yet all his senses fail to comprehend the man before him. The crops, the silence, the eternal black flames, and the aura of absolute authority remain a mystery.

In a world where chaos, law, and cultivation define power, Khaldrin is beyond all understanding—a being who walks unnoticed, yet holds dominion over existence itself. The legend of the Lord of the Evening is whispered, feared, and revered…even as he quietly tills the soil, unseen, unstoppable, eternal.


---

If you want, I can also write a shorter, punchy version for Webnovel or novel listing, to attract readers instantly. Do you want me to do that?

The walls were scarred. The wood smelled of ash and age.


A candle burned. Unending. Its flame…alive, patient.


He sat. Small. Black cloth. Fragile. Human. 164 cm.


I, ancient, apex…eyes that had pierced law, time, chaos.


I, who had walked millennia…felt hesitation.


Only soil, seedling, hand. Simple. Humble. Fragile.


Liquor. Bread. Respect. Silence answered.


"Yes. I dwell. Time flows…around me. I do not move. I do not bend. All else drifts."


His hand moved. Seedling tilted. Clay soil shifted.


"Even in emptiness…life may speak. Truth blooms…where lies rot. I claim nothing. I hold nothing. I dwell. Humility measures eternity."


Yet small human…commanded infinity with nothing.


"Fragile flesh…" I said. "Yet…power?"


Rivers. Mountains. Cities that never were.


Lives, joys, sorrows…compressed. Pure. Perfect. Unclaimed.


Time folded. I…felt thousands of years, not passing—but dwelling.


"Yes. Small. Fragile. Claim nothing. Yet eternity bends."


The world…resisted. Candle flickered unnaturally. Shadows stretched toward him.


Scythe at side. Ordinary. But…not. Subtle. Waiting.


"Watch. Learn nothing. Speak less. Leave only question. Humility…weight of all things. Silence…eternity's gift."


I felt…life itself reflected in his eyes.


The beauty of fleeting joy. Pain purified. Sorrow distilled. Millennia of humanity…in a glance.


Even apex…even me…could not bear it fully.


He returned to soil. Small hands. Fragile frame.


I…watched. Could do nothing. Could say nothing.


Even centuries…even mastery…were nothing here.


Chapter 2 - Chapter 2: The Apex Visitor