The sky bled crimson that night.
Ash fell from the heavens like snow, smothering the cries of the dying world below. Mountains cracked, rivers boiled, and stars flickered as though afraid to witness the slaughter beneath their gaze.
At the center of it all stood a lone figure—his robes torn, his hands soaked in blood that was not his own. His eyes, once bright, were hollow now… consumed by despair. Behind him lay corpses of comrades, friends, and even strangers who had placed their faith in him.
The world called it Heaven's Judgment.
He called it betrayal.
"Cultivation… fate… destiny," he whispered, his voice breaking against the roaring storm. "All lies. Nothing but shackles forged to keep us kneeling."
Above the collapsing sky, a golden throne emerged, and from it radiated a divine presence that crushed the earth flat. Countless cultivators prostrated, chanting like blind slaves, but he did not kneel. He lifted his blade, even as it cracked under the weight of the heavens.
That day, one man defied the divine order.
That day, he vowed:
If heaven cannot be questioned, he would tear heaven apart.
If destiny could not be broken, he would become the hand that breaks it.
The world may forget his name.
But the path he carved—drenched in sin, sorrow, and slaughter—would be remembered as the day when silence fell upon the stars.