The golden gaze withdrew from the rift, and silence returned to the peak of Kailas.
But on the other side, silence did not exist.
The Throne of Tianxu
A vast hall stretched like a cathedral carved into the fabric of space itself. Its walls were not stone, but flowing obsidian veined with rivers of crystalline light. The floor was polished to mirror-like blackness, reflecting not only the figures within but the stars themselves drifting beyond the hall's open arches. Every breath carried the taste of ancient qi, heavy and intoxicating.
At its heart stood a throne forged from living starlight. Upon it sat a man whose very presence bent the rhythm of the hall. His hair was white as frost, falling like silk upon shoulders broad as mountains. His face was sharp as a blade, youthful and ageless all at once, honed by centuries beyond mortal reckoning. His eyes—the same molten gold that had peered through the Kailas rift—still flickered faintly, echoing the power he had unleashed only moments before.
This was Dao Lord Tianxu, apex of the human race in the Dao Realm. Protector, tyrant, saint, and executioner—depending on who whispered his name. To some, he was the shield against extinction. To others, the storm that ground weaker clans to ash. But none denied this truth: Tianxu was strength incarnate.
He rose from his throne. The motion was small, but the chamber shook as if gravity itself bowed. Attendants kneeling along the hall pressed their foreheads to the floor, their bodies quivering under the residual weight of his Dao.
"They felt me," Tianxu said, his voice soft, yet resonant enough to ripple across the stars. "Even through an unstable gate, they felt the will of a Dao Lord."
Arrival of the Council
The constellations outside warped as new presences approached. One by one, they stepped into the hall, each radiating an aura vast enough to crush mountains. Their shadows dragged across the obsidian floor like eclipses.
First came a horned warlord, his body armored in crimson scales that shimmered like molten iron. Each step cracked the crystal tiles beneath him. His horns twisted upward like spears, and his smile gleamed with jagged teeth. This was Veythar of the Crimson Abyss, a beast-blooded general whose ancestors once swallowed suns.
Next descended a woman of the Winged Tribe, her feathers snowy white edged with faint golden light. She carried herself with the regal grace of a hawk circling prey. Her name was Seraphine Aeyra, whose tribe commanded the skies of the Dao Realm's western dominions.
From the shadows padded a beastkin elder, broad shouldered, half-wolf and half-man. His fur shimmered silver, his eyes burned amber, and each growl that escaped his throat made the hall vibrate. This was Varok, the Moon-Howler, first elder of the Wolfkin Clans.
Last entered a veiled woman, her form slim but shrouded in mist. No eyes could pierce her veil, yet her silence bent the very air as if it bowed to her. She was called Mistress Nyora, matriarch of the Veiled Court, a race as secretive as they were feared.
The four lords stopped before Tianxu. Here stood beings who, in their world, would be kings beyond question. Yet before Tianxu's throne, they were wary, cautious—even deferential.
"It has begun," Veythar rumbled, his voice like grinding stone. "The rift no longer hides. Your gaze tore through their mortal veil. Now they know."
Seraphine's wings shifted with a faint rustle. Her golden eyes narrowed. "Do they? Mortals panic, yes. Their militaries flailed like children. But cultivators walk among them. Strong enough to blunt your pressure. Did you not feel it, Tianxu?"
"I did," Tianxu said simply. "An elder, tethered to a Pavilion beyond their world. Their roots are real. That Earth is no longer a shell."
Varok's growl shook dust from the rafters. "Then we strike now. Their mortals are ants. Their cultivators, still not strong enough to deal with us. One blow, and the rift is ours."
Seraphine's feathers shimmered sharply. "And what happens when your brute force cracks the rift itself? Or shall we all burn because the Wolfkin cannot think beyond fangs and claws?"
Varok snarled, his fur bristling. "Careful, bird. Feathers burn quickly."
"And horns shatter when brittle," Seraphine shot back, her voice like a cutting wind.
Mistress Nyora's whisper slid into the tension like cold mist. "Enough. Ants bite hardest when cornered. Their fear is not surrender—it is desperation. Strike too soon, and they will burn themselves—and us—with it."
Veythar's jagged grin widened. "Wait too long, and the prey becomes rival. I would rather choke on ashes than see ants climb thrones."
"Perhaps that is what Tianxu desires," Seraphine murmured, tilting her head, her tone edged with challenge. "He did not strike with his full will. He merely looked. He let them see."
Tianxu's gaze, golden and cold, silenced them all.
The Prisoners
Chains clattered at the far end of the hall. Two figures knelt in glowing bonds that shimmered with suppression arrays: Su Hanming and Su Yaoqin, their robes torn, their qi bound.
Even broken, their spines remained straight, their eyes unyielding.
Seraphine gestured toward them. "Proof enough. These two came nocking our door. Their world was never sealed as tightly as we thought. If more follow, the rift will stabilize further."
Varok's teeth gleamed. "Good. Let them come. Each envoy captured is another pawn. Soon, we will hold enough of their kind to shatter their clans from within."
Su Rong spat blood onto the floor, his voice hoarse but proud. "You will choke on your arrogance. The Astral Vein does not bow to scavengers."
Veythar's laughter boomed, shaking the hall. "Scavengers? When your world is in chains, remember who fastened them."
Veythar's laughter boomed, shaking the hall. "Scavengers? When your world is in chains, remember who fastened them!"
The Su elders exchanged a glance. They said nothing more, but their silence carried a truth of its own: they were stalling, gambling everything on their kin reaching them before their spirit broke.
Tianxu raised a single hand. The laughter stopped. Even the glowing chains dimmed.
"Do not waste words with prisoners," he said. His gaze lingered on Su Rong and Su Wen. "They endure now. But all chains break eventually. When they do, they will tell us what we need to know."
The Heir
Tianxu turned back to the council, his eyes burning with molten certainty.
"Patience," he said. "The rift is not yet ours to command. But it will be. When it fully opens, when the worlds overlap, we will strike—not as scattered races clawing for scraps, but as one storm that devours all."
He stepped down from his throne, each step ringing like a divine bell.
"Until then, we watch. We measure. We prepare."
The great lords bowed faintly, though their rivalries simmered beneath the surface. Unity existed—but only under Tianxu's iron weight.
The prisoners lowered their heads, their silence burning like defiance.
And then—the doors at the far end of the chamber groaned open.
The sound of measured footsteps echoed, accompanied by a young aura—sharper, bolder, untempered by centuries of restraint. The council stirred, muttering, as a figure entered with fearless poise.
Tall, proud, looks no older than twenty. His eyes glinted with molten gold, echoing Tianxu's own. His bow was shallow, his smile faint but fearless.
Dao Lord Tianxu's gaze softened—not as a lord, but as a grandfather.
"So you have come, Renji."
Murmurs rippled across the chamber. This was Tianxu's great-grandson, the prodigy whispered of across the Dao Realm—the leader of the younger generation.
Renji's words rang clear, arrogant, yet steady:
"Why waste our elders' hands on ants? Open the way, Grandfather. Let us, the young, make this rift our training ground."
His declaration hung in the hall like a blade above all present.
And for the first time, Tianxu smiled.
Not as protector. Not as tyrant. But as a lord preparing the slaughter.