In the sacred shadow of Mount Buzhou, the Supreme Star walked alone.
He bore no banner. No trumpet declared his arrival. No divine beast howled to herald his name.
And yet, the world shivered.
With each step he took, the breath of creation stirred. Stars dimmed above him. The bones of the world hummed beneath his feet. Dust swirled, not in wind—but in reverence.
He did not bow. He did not weep. But the earth remembered.
Ziwei, son of Pangu, had returned.
And the cosmos held its breath.
Far above the sky, upon the quiet peak of Mount Wuji, Hongjun opened his eyes.
The Creation Butterfly had come and gone—woven from the laws of Heaven, its wings etched with truth. It spoke no words, yet the message was absolute.
Ziwei had descended. He walked beneath Mount Buzhou.
Hongjun was not surprised. He was never surprised.
His cultivation, gifted by the Heavenly Dao, pulsed with borrowed might. But his heart was cold, older than any oath, shaped not by truth—but by control.
"So," he whispered, "the son walks the land… and Heaven wishes him undone?"
He laughed once—soft and empty.
"Let others draw their blades. I will move the board."
He conjured another butterfly, darker than night, woven from silent betrayal.
And he sent it west—not toward the light, but into the shadow of chaos.
There, knives would rise. And blood would fall.
Not by his hand.
But by his design.
Across the heavens, no command was given. No divine edict roared across the sky.
Yet the ancient ones stirred.
They did not know why. They did not know who.
But they all felt it.
A fracture in the stillness. A pull in the marrow of fate.
And so they descended.
From the Eastern Sea, where the first winds kissed the water, the golden shadow of Zulong lifted from the depths. Born of Pangu's divine blood, the Dragon Ancestor did not know who called him.
But his heart ached.
A tremor he had not known since the First Era.
Then a voice rose—not from the sky, but from the breath of his soul.
Your brother walks the land.
Zulong froze.
" Brother ?" he whispered.
But that was impossible. The child dwelled in the Purple Star. Sealed. Dreaming.
Yet he felt it. A presence at Mount Buzhou. A warmth that echoed the Father's love.
Even in slumber, Pangu protected his children.
This, too, was love.
Zulong, his divine body vast beyond measure, turned west.
He did not hesitate. Nor did he speak.
He simply flew—faster than light, faster than will.
Toward the mountain that bore their Father's spine.
In the Southern Sky, within a nest of unending flame, Yuan Feng opened her eyes.
She was flame incarnate—born from Pangu's inner breath, wrapped in the fire of life.
And she felt it, too.
The world pulsed. The rhythm of existence skipped a beat.
"A spark flares before its time," she whispered.
But she understood.
She rose—wings ablaze, feathers radiant like suns—and flew north.
Toward the storm that had not yet begun.
At the foot of the mountain, Lin Zu already knelt.
He had said no words. He made no claim.
Days before the world stirred, he had bowed beneath the bones of God.
And he remained there still, silent, unmoving, like a prayer etched into stone.
In the void between forces, two lights flickered—one of cold stillness, the other of vibrant heat.
Yin and Yang, the twin Primordials, born when Pangu cleaved shadow from light, turned their gaze.
"The flow bends," whispered one.
"Equilibrium shivers," whispered the other.
And they descended.
Yet something in them had shifted.
Long ago, when the Demon Gods of Chaos were shattered in war, fragments survived. And they had crept quietly into the cores of Yin and Yang.
Unseen. Unspoken.
Now they moved—not in defense, but in doubt.
Beyond space, in the Rift without borders, a presence stirred.
Kongjian opened his eyes.
Born from the axe-stroke that split dimensions, he was the lord of space itself.
And now, space wavered.
The axis trembled.
"The foundation realigns," he said.
He passed through the formless gate and stepped silently into the Primordial Land.
No one saw. No one felt.
But a whisper of Chaos flickered just beneath his skin.
Far above, where Heaven touched Earth, the one called Qiankun began to descend.
He who held the fulcrum of balance when Pangu fell.
But now, balance tilted.
"The center leans," he murmured.
Each step he took rang like a bell of ending.
Within him, seeds of Chaos slumbered—hidden, patient.
Not to conquer. But to wait.
And in the place where silence is deeper than void, a blade stood upright.
Luohu.
The one born of conflict. Unshaped by Pangu. Untouched by Chaos.
Alone.
At first, he did not move.
But then, his eyes opened.
"All descend," he said.
"But none ask why."
His voice was dry. Wounded. Honest.
"Ziwei. If you are Pangu's son, then let me see the world you dream of. Not for Heaven. Not for fate. But for yourself."
And he vanished.
Like a blade returning to its sheath.
In the crimson lands of endless war, beneath a moon stained in blood, a beast stirred.
Shou Zhu.
Not child of Pangu. But the remnant—the rejection. The chaos left behind.
He tasted the air.
And he knew.
"That scent… That weight…"
"Pangu."
His claws tore through the skull of a lesser beast.
He turned to the lords of ruin, ancient beasts that ruled before law was born.
"Gather."
"We march."
And the sky screamed.
Of all those who descended, only Hongjun knew the truth.
Ziwei had returned.
Pangu's son now walked beneath the pillar of the world.
And in the shadows, Hongjun smiled.
"Let them gather."
"Let them fight."
"Let them bleed."
"But let none know who opened the gate."
And beneath Mount Buzhou, Ziwei walked.
He felt their eyes. He felt their power press against the sky.
But he did not look back.
He placed his hand upon the earth.
And whispered—
"Father."
"Watch me."
Want the next chapter? Add to Library and stay tuned for the storm that follows Ziwei's silent vow…