Chapter 1
The sky of the universe had never turned red again like it did on the evening when Harmony collapsed.
Now the sky was pale gray, like ash that failed to rise, hanging wearily above the expanse of abandoned temple ruins.
Ling Xu stood at the edge of the highest cliff, his white hair streaked with veins of color—ocean blue, twilight gold, blood red—moving gently in the rancid wind.
Below him, the valley that was once sacred now only left behind rows of stakes with remnants of horrific rituals; he could see his mother's shadow in every scratch upon the stone.
"They call themselves the Second Divinity," he whispered, his voice as thin as shattered glass, "yet they are nothing more than apes who learned to wield swords."
Ling Xu clenched his fists, his nails nearly piercing his palms, and in his dim eyes, hatred was no longer fire—it was a cold that would never die.
In a dilapidated hut that once served as a divine stable, he slept, lying upon moss and the same recurring nightmares.
The laughter of cultivators, his mother's broken voice, and then a silence more terrifying than screams.
Sometimes he woke in the middle of the night and found that he had unconsciously carved names into the stone walls—the names of fallen gods, one by one, like epitaph poetry.
"Father said, 'Do not hate, for hatred is a shackle,'" Ling Xu spoke to the wind, "but Father no longer has a head to say it."
He smiled bitterly, then wrapped his still-bleeding wrist—an old wound that refused to heal, because he deliberately scratched it open every time the memory of his mother being "violated by a crowd" surfaced.
Outside, the distant roars of interdimensional beasts echoed faintly, like laments too afraid to come closer.
One evening, as thin mist crept among the ruined pillars, Ling Xu found what remained of his father's altar—only a stone disk with dried blood grooves turned black.
He knelt, brushing its surface with the tips of his fingers.
Inside his mind, he assembled a ritual alone.
A prayer no longer heard by anyone, an oath written with salty tears.
"If one day I gain power," he said softly, his voice trembling yet firm, "I will return to their universe. I will show humanity what it means to be violated and butchered."
He then stabbed a wooden dagger into the altar's crack—a sign that he was not only grieving, but also preparing.
And from afar, beneath a sky utterly devoid of sympathy, a massive carrion bird passed overhead, as if signaling that this world had indeed been designed for predators, not for the wounded.
"Ling Xu," the wind called.
But he did not answer.
In the silence after his oath, Ling Xu realized one thing.
He was alone, hated by those who killed his family, and forgotten by the surviving gods—because they were too busy hiding in other universes.
No one would come to save him.
No one would avenge him but himself.
So he stood, brushing his white, streaked hair back, and for the first time in three years, he looked into the mirror of water and did not see a victim—but a future executioner learning patience.
"Very well," he whispered, barely audible, "then let me be the one to begin this story. And one day, let the universe tremble as it reads it."
For more than three years, Ling Xu became an unsuspected shadow.
A wandering healer with white hair hidden beneath a worn hood, nimble fingers mixing herbs, and a leather pouch filled with hundreds of remedies—from antidotes to flesh-binding salves.
He moved from one divine village to another, collecting copper points one by one, just enough to buy rare roots and a piece of stale bread at night.
"With these hands, I heal," he once whispered while grinding agarwood leaves in a stone mortar, "yet my heart longs to poison them all."
Still, he continued tending to the wounds of divine soldiers who stood as the foremost shield—because rumors said humanity would soon launch a full-scale assault, though for some unknown reason, the plan was suddenly halted by an unforeseen event no one understood.
Ling Xu did not care.
To him, every soldier saved was one more blade he could one day turn toward his enemies' throats.
Unfortunately, fate had other plans.
In the midst of treating a dying soldier—his knees shattered, his chest pierced—there came the sound of footsteps not belonging to this universe.
Individuals from humanity stormed in like a flood, with blazing blue swords and eyes devoid of mercy.
"Capture that healer!" someone shouted.
"She's a goddess! Look at the hair!"
Ling Xu instinctively tore off the bandages from his hands, blood splattering everywhere, and ran—not out of courage, but out of fear that froze his reason.
He leaped through a window, tore his robe on a barbed fence, and kept running until his legs felt like twin pillars of fire.
"Don't follow me!" he cried without looking back, his voice hoarse.
Yet spirit arrows continued to shoot forth, striking both his elbows and ankles.
Blood soaked the ground, but strangely, he still managed to crawl—into the mouth of a dark, damp cave, like the womb of the earth unwilling to birth him again.
Inside the cave, among drops of limestone water falling like the cave's own tears, Ling Xu slumped against a cold wall, his breath ragged, his wounds throbbing with each weakening heartbeat.
He was about to close his eyes when a shadow appeared before him.
An old man with tattered robes, a long white beard reaching his stomach, and eyes that—strangely—held no hostility.
"You are badly wounded, young one," the man said, his voice like gravel scraping together.
Ling Xu frowned and hissed, "Do not call me young one, human. My mother was violated and butchered by humans like you. My father was beheaded. Do not pretend to care."
The old man smiled faintly, unoffended.
"I know. I know everything that happened during the Conflict of Harmony. But I am not the kind of human you hate—I was cast away long ago."
Ling Xu's eyes widened, but his hatred did not subside.
"Then what do you want? To finish me off?"
The old man shook his head and extended his palm.
There, glowing faintly, floated a small star-shaped stone—the Star of Humanity.
"Take this," said the old man, his body beginning to turn translucent, his fingertips dissolving into particles of light.
"With the Star of Humanity, you can become a cultivator. You can access divine realms that have long been closed. You can become stronger than just a wandering healer who mixes herbs."
Ling Xu fell silent.
Inside his chest, two voices clashed.
One urged him to spit in the man's face, the other whispered that this was the only path toward vengeance.
"What must I pay?" he finally asked, his voice hoarse.
The old man smiled, and before vanishing completely—becoming dust swept away by the cave's wind—he whispered,
"Nothing. I only wish for someone to remember that humanity is not always depraved. But... whether you believe it or not is up to you."
Then he was gone.
Only the Star of Humanity remained, floating in the air, pulsing gently like a small heart waiting to be taken.
To be continued…