In a distant era, fierce battles raged across the lands. There was no safety in numbers, nor refuge even under the protection of a supreme expert. This age came to be known as the Primordial Era, the first chapter recorded in the annals of history.
Among the countless experts who lived and died in that time, many fought for glory, fame, and supremacy. Familial bonds were luxuries few cultivators could afford. Sects, clans, and factions were their only anchors—sanctuaries to survive, to grow stronger, and to climb the ruthless path of cultivation.
When cultivators fought for supremacy, mortals paid the price. The victors would uproot all traces of their enemies, ensuring no chance of resurgence. In this world, one either adapted to the chaos—or vanished into oblivion, buried and forgotten in history's dust.
The Primordial Era spanned millennia of blood and brilliance. Records speak of great powers that have endured even to this day: the Starry Fragmentary Palace, the Sect of Three Heavens, and the Way of Nine Powers.
Among the many who sought transcendence, one cultivator stood above them all—or so it seemed. This being claimed to have reached the fabled Realm of the Maker, a height beyond mortal comprehension. His power was said to rival the heavens themselves, yet he knew no benevolence. In the Primordial Era, benevolence simply meant obeying those stronger than you—perhaps living a little longer under their shadow.
But at the very end of that era, within the Palace of the Maker, an event unfolded that would alter the fate of the Three Thousand Worlds forever.
-
The Palace of the Maker
Inside the Palace, a man—if one could still call him that—sat upon a vast throne. He was clad in white, trimmed with rusty gold lace. His eyes shone like the midday sun, and his skin gleamed like burnished bronze. Towering at eight feet and weighing nearly six hundred pounds, he bore no trace of fat—only the sculpted form of power incarnate.
The grand hall around him was simple yet divine. Pillars of gold, black, white, and crimson stood arranged in a pattern resembling a formation array. Ancient symbols pulsed faintly upon the throne beneath him.
A slow clap echoed through the hall.
From the shadows, a small child approached, cloaked in a dark lavender robe. A mischievous smile played at the corner of his lips.
"What do you want with me at this time, Fate?"
The child chuckled softly.
"Ah, you recognize me. Should I call you the Maker, or by your true name—Little Nine? I think Little Six would be quite interested in what you've done."
A cold, murderous intent flashed in the Maker's golden eyes.
"Fate, don't presume your strength makes you untouchable. Just because you've merged with one of the Principles of the Universe does not mean you are unrivaled."
"Relax," Fate replied, waving a small hand. "I didn't come to fight or seek favors. I came to warn you. Betrayal is coming… and with it, the rise of the Fallen Ones."
He turned with a thin, chilling smile—colder than the void itself.
"That is all."
-
In a realm never revealed to mortal eyes, a child in an azure robe walked through a void of endless darkness. Tiny footprints marked his path toward a colossal tree that swayed in an unseen wind.
Beneath it stood a man garbed in black. His eyes were abyssal pits ringed in crimson; his hair flowed wildly like an untamed beast. The aura around him was death incarnate.
Elsewhere—perhaps simultaneously, perhaps not—the same child in azure walked through a blinding white expanse. Behind him trailed faint footprints, leading toward another tree. This one was black, yet under it sat a woman robed entirely in white. Her hair was immaculate, her eyes pure as snow, her presence cold and distant.
The child smiled faintly.
"It seems you are well."
The man in black answered with a voice that could still the stars.
"What tricks do you bring today, Destiny?"
"Nox, cold as ever," Destiny teased. "At least Sol is—"
"Silence." Nox's killing intent flared. "Don't speak of what you don't understand. Freedom doesn't mean I can't destroy your essence."
Destiny's grin widened.
"Sol, the time is now. Let the play begin."
He rubbed his small hands together gleefully.
"Nox," Destiny whispered, "when the betrayers rise and the fallen descend, life itself will restart. Chaos will reign across the Three Thousand Worlds. Perhaps then, you—or Sol—will stand where we stand."
A heavy breath escaped Nox's lips. His crimson-ringed eyes narrowed as figures began to emerge from the shadows.
Though it seemed their encounters occurred separately—Fate and the Maker, Nox and Destiny, Sol and Destiny—all of it, in truth, happened within a single instant.
-
BOOOOOOOOM!
A thunderous roar shook the heavens.
Fate turned his head, sensing the ripple of power.
"Ah. So Destiny has delivered the other messages."
"What have you done, Fate?!" the Maker's voice thundered. His senses expanded outward—only to feel them: several foreign presences in places they should never have been.
"Impossible… How did they find it?"
An overwhelming killing intent swept through the palace.
Fate sighed softly.
"It's too late, Maker. Or should I say—Little Nine. They've already escaped, descending toward the Lower Realms. Perhaps it's best you act now… before chasing ghosts."
He smirked, a cruel glint in his eyes.
"I wonder how Little Six would feel if he saw this."
A cold, mocking laugh filled the hall as Fate and Destiny vanished into the void.
From that day onward, the Three Great Realms—Heaven, Human, and Abyss—descended into a war that would engulf the Three Thousand Worlds.
High above, beyond mortal perception, colossal ethereal figures watched in silence.
"Heaven should be pleased," one murmured, a sly smile forming on its face.
Slowly, the figures faded into the unseen. Only one lingered—just for a moment—before vanishing as well.