The world believed cultivation ended at the Ninth Ascension.
When Luo Yan reached it, the heavens fell silent.
No thunder tribulation descended. No immortal gate opened. The stars did not bow, nor did fate respond. Luo Yan stood alone at the summit of all known paths, his white robes untouched by wind, his face eternally youthful—as if time itself had conceded defeat.
For three thousand years, he had cultivated. For three thousand years, he had buried friends, enemies, dynasties, and even eras beneath his footsteps.
Yet now, at the so‑called end… there was nothing.
"Is this all?" Luo Yan murmured.
The Dao gave no answer.
Instead, a crack appeared.
Not in the sky—
But in reality itself.