He who play with the devil's fiddle will soon play his tune .Cang Chanda being a devil from the primordial times had his soul drawn to a mere boy or is it right to call him mere ,the river of time shall reveal .Cang Chanda code named Devil of Thousand sins before besieged and torn apart by Heavens Order.For eons his soul drifted between realms which wasn't because of his cultivation level or power but because fate itself finds it shackles wavering around relentless energy and absolute at that .It had been four million years as Cang Chanda soul drifted across worlds and landed at Dang Hun world. CYRIL IMMORTALIS such a commmanding name Aenigma Cyril a bastard bestowed upon himself.He was 15 and a trial disciple at Great love sect .As the name great love goes it's exactly contrast to its methods.Here students were supposed to have broken through from tempered stage level 9 by the age of 14 before they are allowed to enter the main sect .Cyril had been one such genius started cultivating at 13 yrs and took less than five months to break through to the Qi Condensation realm.Even progidies took 8 month's signifying he was a monster.He was currently sweeping the halls of Great Love sect to earn himself a survival not a living .After breaking through to Qi Condensation 2nd level his progress slowed.He couldn't ascertain what caused it .The progidy couldn't advance with the rest as they had all achieved 5th level Qi condensation stage .He had been demoted from a regular disciple to a trial disciple and had to cater for his own needs.Turns out in one if his strolls through the town he stumbled upon a black egg and unfortunately stepped on it yet no liquid flowed out it turned anhydrous and lingered around him for a while. . Turns out that was the weakened soul of Cang Chanda .His soul was drawn to Cyril because he had comparable talent and relent to Cang Chanda in his early days …
Sweeping.
That's what his life had become. Not cultivating. Not breaking through. Not hearing the whispers of "prodigy" anymore.
Just sweeping.
Cyril Immortalis—what a stupid name. He'd given it to himself when he was twelve and thought he'd be a legend by fifteen. Now, at fifteen, he was a trial disciple with chapped hands and a broom that felt heavier each day.
The Great Love Sect. The name was poison wrapped in silk. There was no love here. Only hunger. A hunger for strength that ate the weak alive.
Two years ago, they'd looked at him with fire in their eyes. Monster, they whispered. Started cultivating at thirteen, broke through the entire Tempered Stage in five months. Even the so-called prodigies needed eight. Cyril didn't just climb—he flew.
Then… he stopped.
Qi Condensation, Second Level. That's where his sky ended. No reason. No warning. His Qi, once a roaring river, now trickled like a dying stream. The others—the ones he'd left in the dust—caught up. Then passed him. Fifth Level. Sixth. He was demoted. Forgotten.
Now he swept the Jade Reflection Hall to earn his keep. His palms were rough. His pride was rougher.
Why? The question was a rat gnawing inside his skull. What went wrong?
2 years ago , trying to escape the stifling air of the sect, he'd wandered into Azure Hill town. Lost in his dark thoughts, he'd stepped on something in the mud. A black, egg-shaped stone. It didn't crack. It just… vanished into smoke under his boot. A coldness clung to him the rest of the day, a chill no sunlight touched.
He'd shrugged it off. Just his luck.
He didn't know he'd just kicked the only companion he'd ever have.
---
Four million years.
That's how long the Devil of a Thousand Sins had been dead.
Cang Chanda. A name that once made stars tremble. A Primordial Devil torn apart by the Heavenly Order not because he was weak, but because he was too much. Too relentless. Too absolute.
They shattered his soul, scattered it across the endless dark between worlds. For eons, the pieces drifted. Not by power, but by fate. And fate has a funny way of bending toward stubborn things. Toward relentless energy. Toward wills that refuse to end.
One shard, weak as a sigh, finally fell into the Dang Hun World. It slept in the mud of a backwater town for a century.
Until a boy with fire in his past and ice in his present stepped on it.
The shard didn't wake in rage. It observed. It felt the boy's frustration. His fury. His stubborn, screaming will that refused to accept his fate, even as he swept floors.
Ah.
Familiar.
The shard clung. Not to the boy's body, but to the shadow of his soul.
---
Cyril swept the last corner of the hall. The sun was bleeding out behind the mountains, painting the white jade walls in shameful red. His back ached. His dantian felt like a block of ice.
This is it, he thought, a hollow feeling in his chest. This is where the monster ends. On his knees, with a broom.
He leaned the broom against a pillar, the sound too loud in the empty hall. Silence pressed in. The kind of silence that feels like time is stagnant