Beyond Worlds
Ren gazed upward, eyes sweeping the cosmic tapestry of worlds above—realities layered across dimensions, each one humming with fate, power, and potential. There were realms to conquer. Possibilities gleamed like stars.
"Prepare the Echelon Prime fleet," he said. "Earth is obsolete. We depart soon. New lands await—and I already know our first target. It was upon them—the ceremonial threshold into Mìngjié Xianlù.
Their fleet gathered. Identities reshaped—intentions folded behind eager smiles.
They would arrive not as invaders, but as humble cultivators in training. Curious. Observant. Cleverly inexperienced.
But beneath the robes and reverence lay a second, more profound purpose.
They weren't here to grow.
They were here to conquer.
Author's Interlude
Yuki and Ren's wedding has been postponed indefinitely. Infiltration arcs. Interdimensional fleets. Qi-infused plots that spiral like narrative spaghetti. Romance—like continuity—is a luxury we can no longer afford.
Who's responsible?
Me.
I'm writing this monstrosity.
It's tangled. Reckless. Possibly unreadable. But mine.
Born of chaotic inspiration, sustained by laughter and a dangerously supportive creative partner. Sometimes I'm doing this on purpose. Other times? I'm just bad at storytelling. Honestly, who cares?
Here's the truth:
I'm smiling while writing this.
Grinning at Ren's idiocy.
Laughing at the absurd brilliance summoned beside me.
None of this works.
And that's precisely why it does.
If you're reading this? Bless your soul. You've stumbled into something wild, unhinged, and unmistakably personal.
Whatever Eternal Empire turns out to be—cult classic or documented breakdown—it's mine.
And if you make it past Chapter 30, I owe you spiritual therapy, a commemorative talisman, and an apology signed by three unreliable narrators.
Author's Interlude (Still Somehow Going)
Let's be clear: this novel is a mess. Sometimes it's good. Sometimes it's… generously described as experimental. Does it make sense? Not really. But that's fine.
My sister said one of my latest ideas was funny. Either I struck comedic gold or she's being kind. I'll take either.
I'm still smiling. Still laughing.
Still marvelling at what this story is becoming with a bit of help from my genre-savvy companion.
It's not clean. It's not safe. It's not even coherent.
But it's something.
And that something is joyful.
Return to Chaos
Ren stood at the edge of a new world—a realm, perhaps a galaxy away, maybe just a genre hop from home. It unfurled before him like a divine scroll.
Heavenly beasts circled overhead. Cultivators soared past on flying swords. Distant sects shimmered with ancient secrets.
Ren blinked—not from disbelief, but from the nostalgic echo of stories he once devoured. Renegade Immortal. Battle Through the Heavens. His chosen disguise?
Shen Wuyin. The Sect Never Saw Him Coming
While lightning inscribed sect oaths across Heaven's ledger and banners unfurled to greet the destined, Ren walked alone—robe unmarked, posture humble, presence meticulously forgettable.
Ren approached a sect that shimmered like a quiet promise: the Glass Lotus Sect, known for elegance and restraint.
He dressed the part. Mortal plainness. No Qi signature. No hint of cultivation.
He walked among true mortals—wide-eyed, hopeful, desperate to touch the edge of something divine.
No one noticed him.
He was unremarkable by design.
Like a background character—unnamed, unfussed, undesired.
A face in the crowd.
A shape overlooked, but never absent.
Ren scanned the sect grounds, noting three cultivators who stood apart:
The Sect Leader—poised, serene, radiating control without effort. Her eyes held the depth of someone chasing a higher Dao, and not once did they glance toward Ren.
Her two disciples—young men drenched in reverence and barely concealed desire. They watched their master with the intensity of beasts disguised as scholars. Their infatuation was apparent. Their subtlety is
nonexistent.
Whether the Sect Leader knew was hard to say. She might've noticed and chosen silence. Or she might not care. Her focus was cultivation, not companionship.
Dao first. Romance… perhaps never.
He observed her from afar—not as a sceptic, but as one who knew the contours of impossible ascent.
She had reached the peak of the Sixth Step, a threshold where mortals begin to shed probability like old skin.
To stand upon the Sixth was no idle feat.
She did not simply arrive.
She made it happen.
She lingered there, caught between ephemerality and myth. Her breath shaped the space around her—not through intention, but inevitability.
The wind forgot its origin.
Gravity began to hum her name.
Her two disciples, no older than twilight but forged with eerie brilliance, had reached the early Third Step.
The Fat Cultivator
"What's your name, boy?"
The fat cultivator squinted through strands of greasy hair, one finger plunged into a half-eaten fruit he'd long since stopped identifying. His cultivation was garbage—barely a flicker of spiritual pressure—but he wore arrogance like a sacred robe.
Ren lowered his gaze, shoulders stiff with performative fear.
"My name is Shen Wuyin," he said, voice trembling just enough to bait mockery.
The cultivator snorted. "Shen Wuyin?"
"You barely scrape adequacy, child," the man sneered, robes swaying as if they thought themselves legendary. "Were it not for my boundless mercy—and the unmatched generosity of our exalted sect—you'd be sweeping ash from failed pill furnaces in a third-tier province."
He leaned in, nostrils flaring as if breathing the same air offended him.
"But I am kind. Perhaps too kind. Against better judgment, I permit you to step into our halls. Not because you're worthy—but because sometimes, even trash must be given a stage, if only to prove the brilliance of those who walk it properly."
The Fat cultivator barely scraped the First Step, yet strutted like he'd rewritten Heaven's laws.
Even this one—arrogant, spiritually hollow—was pitied by his own kin. Not for his weakness, but for the delusion he wore like armour, swaggering through life as if he'd subdued a heavenly beast with a broken spoon.
His cultivation was a whisper.
The early First Step, and even that likely owed more to luck than lineage.
Yet he strutted across sect grounds as if the heavens paused for his voice.
His wife saw through it all.
She didn't need rankings or resonance to measure what he lacked. She wished not for strength, but for humility. Wisdom. Honesty.
She had stood beside him through dry breakthroughs and self-inflicted setbacks. She had never strayed—not because she couldn't, but because she chose to believe in the possibility of change.
And Heaven knows—he was lucky.
Too lucky.
If he had half a brain, he'd fall to his knees each morning in gratitude.
Instead?
He postured.
He lectured.
He mistook tolerance for reverence.