The chamber lay beneath the Hollowed Sky Vault, buried deep within the ruins of pre-divine Heaven—older than the gods, older even than the birth of stars. It was said that this place had once been a forge for the first concepts of soul and fate, carved into the spine of the cosmos by the Primordial Architects. Now, it was only a hushed cavern of forgotten law and silent rebellion.
No natural light reached here. Instead, a pale shimmer radiated from floating glyphs etched into the obsidian walls, forming an endless web of runes that pulsed faintly like the heartbeat of a sleeping titan. The ground was glasslike, reflecting the ceiling as if sky and earth had been folded into one. With every step, a soundless ripple shimmered outward, distorting reality itself.
In the center stood a ritual dais—an altar of fractured celestial bone and meteorite dust fused into a seamless slab. Its surface was covered in ancient, shifting diagrams: spells written in the language of void, equations of soul-fracture, geometric laws that bound time to identity. Hovering above the altar was the Lament Core, a translucent orb made from the tears of weeping gods, swirling with sorrowful echoes.
Xian Ren stood at its edge, silent.
His robes, once white as starlight, were tattered and soaked in silver-black blood—his own divine essence slowly breaking down under the effect of Tian Xu's final curse. The Divine Mana Poison writhed inside his soul like a serpent, eating away at the integrity of his being, yet he stood tall. His golden irises had dulled slightly, shadowed by fatigue and burden, but their intensity had only sharpened.
His gaze was steady, fixed on the orb, and for a long moment, there was no movement. Only stillness… and resolve.
He raised his right palm. A ring of soul fire ignited around the altar, violet in hue, humming softly in the air like the lullaby of extinction. It was not ordinary flame—it was Wraithfire, the byproduct of collapsed destinies, conjured only through a ritual known to less than three beings in all creation. Its warmth was not of heat, but of remembrance. The fire burned memories instead of flesh.
Xian Ren placed three soul sigils into the flame, each glowing with a distinct color: red for cultivation, white for love, and silver for logic. They did not burn—they hovered, spinning slowly in the void. Above them, the Lament Core pulsed faster.
Then, without hesitation, he pressed his hand against his own chest.
His fingers sunk into his body—not physically, but through the veil of his soul. He gritted his teeth as ethereal pain surged through him. Not sharp, but deep—like a melody of agony that thrummed through the very bones of his existence.
Light spilled from his chest as he pulled the first fragment.
Fragment One: Cultivation Memory
What he drew forth was no simple memory. It was a woven construct—the very path of cultivation he had carved from the marrow of stars and the bones of fallen gods. It contained every insight, every heavenly scripture he had mastered, every failure and rebirth, every battle that had left his bones shattered and mind sharpened. His understanding of soul tempering, of void resonance, of body-as-weapon—all encapsulated in a glowing orb, the size of a seed.
The moment he removed it, he staggered.
His body trembled, sweat pouring down his brow. The light dimmed in his aura, and the air grew cold.
For the first time in eons, Xian Ren felt… mortal.
But he clenched his fist around the fragment and whispered, "Let the next self not crawl blind through eternity."
He cast the cultivation memory into the red sigil, and the fire roared with new intensity, illuminating the chamber in flashes of battle, visions of lightning storms atop divine mountains, and oceans split by the swing of a blade.
Fragment Two: Emotional Resonance with Yue Ling'er
Xian Ren reached in again. This time, the pain was sharper.
Love… it was never meant to be torn away willingly.
He felt his chest crack open from within, as if a divine wind had ripped apart his innermost sanctum. Flashes erupted behind his closed eyes: Yue Ling'er's smile, the curve of her fingers as she painted divine runes, the way she slept curled beside him in the crystal lotus bed.
Her voice echoed—soft and melodic:
"You always act so serious, but your heart is gentler than starlight."
Tears streamed from his eyes.
He gasped as the resonance came loose, trembling violently in his palm. This orb was different. It pulsed slowly, rhythmically, like a heartbeat—warm and radiant.
He kissed it lightly before placing it into the white sigil. The flame flickered… and turned pink for just a moment.
A divine phenomenon: even the fire of soul-warping memory recognized her.
Fragment Three: Strategic Mind
The final extraction was the most dangerous.
This was not just knowledge—it was instinct, reflex, foresight, and manipulation; the ability to foresee an enemy's thoughts five steps ahead, to weigh sacrifice and consequence without hesitation. This was the mind of a god who had shattered dynasties not only through power, but through understanding.
He exhaled deeply and chanted, "Mind over fate, logic over fire, ego into ghost—sever."
The pain was cold this time. A numbing, creeping frost overtook his skull. He fell to his knees as the fragment was torn free. He could feel the clarity of his thoughts fade—strategies unwinding, calculations erasing themselves. The God of Thought became merely a man once more.
The fragment, silver and sharp-edged like a blade, was dropped into the final sigil.
The fire hissed, spitting sparks that turned into war banners, battlefield silhouettes, and bloodless victories.
Xian Ren stood now as a shell of himself hollow and diminished but not broken.
The three sigils spun above the altar, slowly converging. Together they formed a triangle, and in its heart floated the embryo of a soul fragment—new, incomplete, but potent.
Yet something remained the Divine Name. To enter another realm, a soul must be nameless, unmarked by its origin. His divine name—Xian Ren—was a beacon, a tether to his universe. Without removing it, his soul would be repelled by the natural laws of foreign mana.
He looked down at his hands, once powerful enough to split mountains with a flick. Now, they trembled.
"I carved my name into the stars," he whispered bitterly. "Now I must erase it."
He reached to his throat, where the Sigil of True Name shimmered faintly—a tattoo of starlight branded across his collarbone.
With a final breath, he recited the incantation:
"Let the stars forget me. Let the laws erase me. Let the heavens no longer recognize my voice."
The sigil flared—and burned.
His eyes rolled back as his identity unraveled. The memory of being Xian Ren—the fame, the victories, the fear he instilled—vanished into smoke. Not from his mind, but from reality itself. The multiverse no longer knew him. The ritual completed.
The soul fragment hovered above the altar, swirling with the three fragments. It no longer resembled Xian Ren, nor did it resemble anyone at all. It was a possibility—a vessel.
He stared at it for a long while. His lips curved in the faintest smile. There was no triumph here only purpose.
A single tear rolled down his cheek.
"Go," he said softly. "Find her… where I can no longer tread."
The soul seed pulsed… then vanished into a stream of light, piercing the boundary of Heaven itself, traveling toward the unknown world of Veylanth.
And in the shattered silence of that ancient vault, Xian Ren collapsed to his knees… nameless, empty, waiting for the final sacrifice.
To be continued…