He died of old age and sickness.
Not by blade.
Not by poison.
Not by betrayal.
No—the great Wei Shiyan had been undone by something far crueller, something that mocked every struggle, every triumph, every scar earned through fire and steel: time itself.
The last breath he drew in his former life was weak, shallow, and pitiful. No battlefield glory, no thunderous heaven's judgment—only the slow, crawling decay of flesh. That end haunted him more than a thousand battles could.
And yet…
Here he was again. Alive. Breathing. Burning.
But what stirred within him now was not resignation. Not the weary surrender of a man who had once lived too long.
It was possibility.
---
The scroll before him should not exist.
Wei Shiyan's gaze drilled into the parchment as though it could bleed secrets. The technique inscribed upon it was not merely forbidden—it was an abyss into which even the maddest of cultivators refused to glance.
Its success rate? Less than one in a hundred. Not one in ten. Not one in fifty. Less than one percent—a gamble so absurd it made death by heavenly tribulation seem merciful.
And yet… his soul pulsed with maddening certainty.
It could be done.
---
This was no ordinary technique. No, this was cruelty distilled into cultivation.
The method demanded that a cultivator seize their very soul—grip it as one would a blade—and then, mercilessly, cut through it.
To divide it.
To sever existence itself.
The parchment gave no detailed pathway, no safe precautions, no guiding markers. Just vague, sharp-edged fragments of method—as though whoever penned it had been both genius and lunatic.
At the very end, almost mocking, a sly scrawl had been added:
"…perhaps, just perhaps, one could cut it up to the third soul."
---
Wei Shiyan nearly spat blood. His chest rose and fell with fury.
"Damnable bastard! What lunatic dares write such filth?"
Even in the most ancient of epochs, such a thing had been beyond madness.
> > << The Ancient Rule
In forgotten eras where immortal monarchs reigned, Heaven itself had etched an iron law:
A soul could be divided once. Only once.
One soul. One division. Never more.
And only under the protection of unparalleled spiritual treasures that could shield against annihilation. Even then, it was a trial reserved for heaven's rarest geniuses—those one in a billion anomalies who could wrestle with eternity and win.
The odds were brutal. The survival rate? Less than 0.001%.
But for those few who succeeded… ah, the reward.
To divide one's soul into two was to gain another self, another reservoir of power. With it, a cultivator could leap realms, defy enemies untouchable to peers, stand proud against the storms of heaven and earth.
Two souls. Two strengths. Two paths merged into one destiny.
That was the limit. That was the law.
But this parchment—this blasphemous technique whispered of something impossible.
Three.
---
Wei Shiyan's heart did not falter.
It burned.
His very soul throbbed with hunger, a craving that refused silence.
Defiance welled within him, thick as blood in his veins.
At last, his fists clenched, eyes igniting.
"I want it." His voice was low, trembling with dangerous conviction. "Let every heavenly rule shatter before me."
"Why should I not? If my soul itself craves it—if my very being yearns for this strength—then why should I bow before destiny? Better to gamble everything than allow yesterday's humiliation to return."
He lifted his gaze to the moonlit heavens.
"I want power. Power to dictate my steps. I will not bow to fate, nor faith, nor so-called heavenly law. If the heavens say no—" His voice cut through the silence, sharp as a blade.
"—then I will break them."
---
The desire in his eyes was so intense that he failed to notice what stirred within him.
His soul—awakened fully.
If immortal emperors or celestial sovereigns had witnessed that instant, even their ancient hearts would have quaked. For what shimmered in Wei Shiyan was not mere will—it was the faint flicker of a supreme universal law, still embryonic, like the first spark of a coming inferno.
A flame that could one day consume creation itself.
That night etched itself into his bones.
A night that stripped away illusion, whispering an eternal truth:
Cultivation was merciless.
And he would be crueller still.
---
> > << The Moonlit Omen
The forbidden hall was silent, forgotten. It should have been impossible that such a scroll remained unguarded. Yet Wei Shiyan had walked out with it as if Heaven itself willed him to succeed.
In his quarters, beneath the glow of moonlight spilling like silver robes across the room, he unfurled the scroll once more.
His spirit was unshaken. His resolve unbending.
And then—
RUMMMMBLE!!!
A colossal tremor shattered the silence.
The entire sect groaned, walls trembling, pillars cracking as if the heavens had clenched a fist around the mountain itself.
Wei Shiyan shot to his feet, storming outside.
And what he saw… stilled his breath.
The land beyond the sect convulsed.
Mountains crumbled like sandcastles. Rivers boiled and surged skyward. Forests ripped from their roots, hurled like twigs into the night.
The heavens roared.
BOOM!
BOOM!!
BOOM!!!
Thunder split the sky. The world itself trembled with each blast, as though Doomsday had arrived.
---
The sect's hall master appeared, face pale, body trembling despite his cultivation. To see such a figure, revered and mighty, reduced to fragility—it made Wei Shiyan's blood run cold.
Then he followed the hall master's gaze.
And his world shifted.
---
Two figures faced each other in the heavens.
On one side, a cultivator clad in black and crimson robes. His aura reeked of the demonic path, an endless abyss that devoured light. Above him loomed a blood moon, pulsing like a monstrous heart. From it dripped tendrils of living blood, serpentine and writhing, feeding into his flesh with every thunderous pulse.
Opposite him floated a lone woman.
She wore white.
Her face was flawless jade, cold and unyielding, eyes steady as if even if the world crumbled, she would never bow.
She was beauty incarnate—kingdom-toppling, heaven-shaking. For a smile, empires would burn. For her presence, immortals themselves would kneel.
And in her hand, she held a crystal sword.
Pure. Divine. Perfect. A blade that seemed forged from the moonlight itself.
Even from Wei Shiyan's weak cultivation, he could not see her clearly. But her silhouette alone made his heart pound.
---
Then—
The sky split.
The sword shone.
The blood moon pulsed.
The clash was about to fall.
Wei Shiyan's soul trembled—not with fear, but with instinct.
The technique in his hand…
The craving in his soul…
The battle in the skies…
It was all connected.
And as the heavens prepared to split apart—
Wei Shiyan realized, with bone-chilling certainty—
---
The cliff was yawning open, waiting to devour him.