Beneath the eternal shadow of Mount Buzhou, Ziwei walked alone.
No banners trailed behind him. No celestial choir marked his descent. No divine beast roared to shake the heavens in his name.
And yet, the world knew.
With each silent step, the breath of creation stirred. Stars dimmed above his path, as if bowing in awe. The bones of the earth trembled, echoing an ancient recognition. Even the dust did not scatter—it rose, gently, reverently, as if seeking to touch him.
He offered no prayer. Shed no tears.
But the land remembered.
Ziwei, the child of sacrifice, son of the First Titan, had returned.
And the cosmos held its breath.
High above the firmament, on the unmoving peak of Mount Wuji, a man sat still—his form wrapped in robes of gray, eyes closed beneath the weight of law.
Hongjun.
When the Creation Butterfly brushed past his shoulder, he did not flinch. Its wings bore no sound, no color—only law, etched into the fabric of reality.
Its message was wordless. Yet in its passing, the truth was known.
Ziwei had descended. He now walked beneath the spine of his Father.
Hongjun opened his eyes.
No surprise flickered in them. Only calculation, quiet and cold.
His cultivation, granted by the Heavenly Dao, pulsed with borrowed radiance. But his heart was empty—a vessel shaped not by justice, but by control.
"So," he murmured, lips barely moving, "the son takes his first steps… and Heaven seeks to bind him."
He gave a single, joyless laugh.
"Let others raise swords. I will move the board."
And with a flick of his sleeve, another butterfly took shape—this one forged from silence and betrayal, darker than the void between stars.
He sent it west—not toward the light, but into the places where law had never ruled.
There, shadows would awaken.
There, the knives of fate would turn.
Not by his hand.
But by his design.
Across the heavens, no decree thundered. No divine edict shook the skies.
Yet the ancient ones stirred.
Not from command.
But from memory.
From the ache of something long buried.
From the marrow of fate itself.
And they began to descend.
From the Eastern Sea, where the first breath of the world had once kissed the water's edge, a golden shape rose from the deep.
Zulong.
The Dragon Ancestor.
Born of Pangu's divine blood, ruler of storms and sea.
He felt no call.
He heard no voice.
Yet his heart ached with a wound he had forgotten he bore.
A tremor that had not touched him since the First Era.
Then, without sound, a voice rose—not from the sky, but from the echo within his blood.
Your brother walks the land.
Zulong froze.
"…Brother?"
The word came out brittle, as if it had no place in his mouth.
But he felt it.
Not in his mind—but in his soul.
A warmth he had not known since Pangu cradled the newborn cosmos.
He turned without another thought.
And the skies cracked as he flew—faster than thunder, faster than karma.
Toward Mount Buzhou.
Toward the breath that bore their Father's scent.
Far to the south, within a nest of flames that had never gone out, a goddess stirred.
Yuan Feng.
She was not born of flesh, but of flame—the living breath of Pangu's spirit, given wings.
She had slept for ages, untouched by war or time.
But now… she woke.
"The world flinched," she whispered.
"A spark burns before its time."
She did not question it.
She rose—wings blazing, eyes like suns—and soared north.
Drawn by the pulse she could not name, but could never forget.
At the foot of the mountain, Lin Zu still knelt.
He had moved neither hand nor thought. His body had become prayer, unmoving. Days passed. Or perhaps only moments. Time had forgotten him.
He had bowed before the bones of God.
And he would remain there until the silence answered.
In a place without sky, without land, two lights turned in unison.
One cold as the last breath of night. The other warm as the first fire of dawn.
Yin and Yang.
Twin Primordials.
Born not of chaos, but from Pangu's final strike when he tore light from shadow.
They watched as the currents shifted.
"The flow bends," murmured Yin.
"Equilibrium shivers," whispered Yang.
And together, they descended.
But within them, something stirred.
Fragments of Chaos Demon Gods—long buried, long ignored—had taken root deep inside their hearts.
Unseen. Unspoken.
Now those seeds began to breathe.
And with them… doubt.
In the formless Rift beyond all maps, where even light dared not travel, a shadow opened its eyes.
Kongjian.
Lord of Space.
He who had been born in the stroke that split reality.
And now, even space itself trembled.
"The axis falters," he said.
He stepped through the gate that had no shape.
And the moment he entered the world, the stars looked away.
A flicker of Chaos danced beneath his skin—small, patient, dangerous.
Far above the highest sky, where the veil between heaven and earth had thinned to breath, a giant stirred.
Qiankun.
The fulcrum of balance.
The one who had steadied the three realms when Pangu fell.
He took a single step.
The world tilted.
"The center leans," he said.
And each step thereafter rang like the toll of a funeral bell.
Within him too, Chaos waited—not to strike, but to endure.
In a place colder than silence, where time forgot to move, a blade stood.
Luohu.
He was not born of Pangu.
He was not made by Chaos.
He was born of battle itself—a wound turned sentient, a slash given form.
He did not rise.
But his eyes opened.
"All descend," he said.
"But none ask why."
His voice was hoarse, cracked with old truth.
"Ziwei… if you are truly Pangu's son, then let me see the world you dream of. Not for Heaven. Not for fate. Not for prophecy. But for yourself."
And he vanished.
Like a blade returning to its sheath.
In the red lands of endless slaughter, beneath a blood-soaked moon, something terrible stirred.
Shou Zhu.
The unwanted one.
Not son, not seed—but rejection made flesh. Chaos given claws.
He tasted the wind.
And he knew.
"That scent…"
"That weight…"
"Pangu."
A low growl split the sky.
He ripped his claw through the skull of a lesser beast and turned to the beasts of ruin—the ancient terrors that ruled before law had a name.
"Gather," he said.
"We march."
And the heavens screamed.
Of all who moved, only one knew the full truth.
Hongjun.
He watched them descend. Felt their hearts quicken. Measured the tide before it broke.
Ziwei had returned.
And beneath Mount Buzhou, the son of Pangu stood alone.
Hongjun did not weep.
He smiled.
"Let them gather."
"Let them fight."
"Let them bleed."
"But let none see who opened the gate."
And below…
Ziwei placed his hand upon the earth.
He felt them—all of them. Ancient beings waking across the three realms. Forces stirring. Eyes turning.
But he did not flinch.
He did not turn back.
He whispered only one thing.
"Father."
"Watch me."