The multiverse of branching timelines obeyed three fundamental laws:
First Law: The total quantity of universal origin across all timelines remains constant.
Second Law: Universal origin always flows from higher timelines to lower ones. The process is irreversible.
Third Law: The lifespan of any given world is determined by the amount of universal origin it possesses.
Every time Wu Bai died, a new timeline would be born. But that new branch would siphon off origin energy from the existing multiverse. To protect their own survival, powerful timelines would regularly "clean up" newly formed branches.
It must be noted: every death of Wu Bai caused a split. Sometimes, these deaths could chain together.
For example, imagine Wu Bai trapped in a burning building. In one line, he might choke to death on smoke. After the split, maybe he survives that moment, but later suffocates or burns anyway.
The chain continues—until at last, in one branch, he survives: perhaps rescued, perhaps enduring until the fire ends, or perhaps leaping into another time point altogether.
From a higher-dimensional perspective, a straight line explodes into clusters of branches—a massive fracturing of timelines.
In Wu Bai's memory, there were 123 recorded death-events—or more accurately, 123 explosive timeline-cluster events. Deaths that took only one or two retries weren't even worth remembering.
These clustered fractures were one of the greatest forces shaping today's multiverse. Each time Wu Bai perished en masse, no one could predict how many timelines might bloom:
A thousand? Ten thousand? A million? A hundred million?
For survival's sake, external cleanups were essential.
Timelines without Immortal Artifacts were the first targets to be purged.
Newly born timelines that had just produced Immortal Artifacts also needed swift erasure, their treasures seized.
Only those timelines brimming with countless Immortal Artifacts might be treated as friends or allies.
"This will be your room from now on. Sit down."
The Skeleton (白骨) led Wu Bai into their headquarters, then vanished, leaving Pai Pai to escort him to what was, in truth, his prison cell.
Wu Bai studied the place, then smirked.
"So you plan to work me slowly? Won't others notice too soon? Why not just bury me in cement—force tens of millions of splits at once, haul in a big catch, then retrieve me later when things cool down? That'd be far more efficient."
He was even kind enough to offer advice.
One death at a time was unsustainable. Every major timeline possessed technology to observe timeline splits. Bit by bit, they'd be noticed. But one catastrophic explosion—triggering an immense spacetime disturbance—would ripple through the entire multiverse, scrambling all timelines and obscuring his trail. Then no one would know where he'd gone.
Of course—except here, in the 99th Timeline, which had already developed tracking technology.
"You don't seem to care much," Pai Pai remarked, sipping from a teacup.
Though called a "cell," it was in fact a grand villa. In this hyper-advanced age, building a house was as easy as saving a game file.
One simply applied for pocket-dimension property rights at the housing bureau, logged into the Infinite Net, and, under basic citizen rights, clicked "home construction." An AI would then reconstruct your ideal home based on your innermost thoughts.
Even Wu Bai's prison was configured this way. Productivity was so high that there was no need to design torturous dungeons.
Pai Pai recalled a joke from his original world: in the future, aliens would invade Earth and enslave all humans. Their method? Requiring humans to work twelve hours per week, while providing healthy food, housing, and entertainment.
Absurd as it sounded, it reflected how different levels of productivity shaped civilization. The Skeleton's timeline—the 99th Timeline—was in exactly such a state.
"I guess I'm used to it," Wu Bai replied flatly. He truly was. As an Immortal, he'd died in countless ways—buried alive included.
Just as he was about to continue, the scene around him shifted.
The elegant villa vanished. In its place: a bare concrete rooftop, littered with junk. Plain. Crude.
Wu Bai: "..."
"You said you wanted to try the experience," Pai Pai answered without a blush, then smoothly changed the subject. "You don't need to be so eager to die. Since we brought you here, it means you have another purpose."
"Oh? That's news to me. First time I've heard I'm good for anything other than dying." Wu Bai lowered his head against the railing, lonely and bitter.
Had he never thought of cooperating? Of negotiating peace? Of course, he had.
It simply never worked.
"There is a use. Adjust for now. I'll come by tomorrow. See you."
With a chuckle, Pai Pai slipped away.
Wu Bai shook his head, lay down on the concrete.
"What use could I possibly have?"
He closed his eyes, drifting into sleep.
"How's the situation?"
The moment Pai Pai left, the Skeleton intercepted him.
"His mood is bleak. Looks like he's given up. But if it's just about getting him to cooperate with some experiments, I think he'll go along."
"That's enough. Next… It's time to initiate the Immortal Completion Plan (永生者补完计划)."
The Skeleton said no more, and Pai Pai didn't ask.
Meanwhile—
Beyond the ruins of another collapsed world, a hidden battleship reported:
"General, the destruction yielded a total harvest of 1.238 billion Immortal Artifacts."
A generous haul indeed.
Wu Bai had truly been in that world. The apocalypse forced him through 1.238 billion deaths, each birthing a new artifact. Most importantly, the cleanup had been executed flawlessly.
Timeline explosions on that scale were catastrophic. When they reached the billions, no one could predict what might emerge. Some anomaly might arise, seize hundreds of thousands of artifacts, and then strike back at those who had caused the collapse.
This time, however, the operation had been swift and cleaner—erasing every branch the moment they stirred. Such efficiency was rare.
"Not twenty billion," the General muttered, clearly dissatisfied.
The officer blinked. "Sir, the tally is exact—1.238 billion." He hadn't expected such high expectations, and felt his stomach sink.
Thankfully, the General did not press further.
"I know. Go compile their abilities. Anything involving fate, space-time, or causality—sort those separately."
Alone again, the General paced back and forth, troubled.
"Fewer and fewer… it seems the Immortal's branching is nearing its limit."
According to records across multiple civilizations, under apocalyptic conditions, an Immortal Beast should split at least 20 billion times.
Yet in recent years, the number had fallen. Normally around 1.5 billion. This time—barely 1.238. The first time it had dipped below.
Instinct told the General this was no simple decline.
The world was on the verge of change.