The Domain of Death was a silence unlike any other—a void where even thought seemed to whisper. Wen stood barefoot on a bridge of bones, eyes hollow but defiant. Ten lives. Ten deaths. Ten chains broken, only to be shackled anew.
He did not scream. Screams were for those who believed someone might still listen.
And yet, someone did.
The air shifted. The black sky cracked like aged porcelain, and from its core descended the Necromancing Fortress—an impossible structure of obsidian and withered soulflame, floating on screams forgotten by time. The fortress gates groaned open, and Wen felt his feet move of their own accord.
Inside, upon a throne made from the withered thrones of once-great kings, sat the Sovereign of Death—his robes were stitched from void itself, and his eyes held no reflection.
"Wen," the Sovereign spoke, and the fortress trembled. "You return again. The tenth time. The tenth fall."
Wen bowed, but not in reverence—only weariness. "I will go again. I am not done."
The Sovereign studied him. "Most choose rest after three. You... you persist. Do you not fear suffering?"
"I do," Wen said. "But I fear forgetting more."
A silence stretched. Then, for the first time in 400,000 years, Death stirred with something unfamiliar—pity.
"Then hear me," the Sovereign said, voice quiet, final. "I have grown tired of this cycle. Immortals toying with fate, mortals twisted into blades and bodies broken for pride. I have seen enough. I, who am beyond grief... have felt it."
A pulse of light, as black as midnight blood, surged from his hand and entered Wen's soul.
"In your next life, you shall cultivate. I do not know which path you will walk, nor which dao you will inherit—but your body shall be awakened. More than that, you shall not die. Not until you choose to."
Wen's breath caught. For the first time in all his lives, he was given something not taken by force—hope.