Before he was a warden, before he was a relic bound to steel, before eternity hollowed his name—
Lu Hao was human.
The memory began with laughter.
It echoed beneath vermilion banners, carried by warm wind and the scent of blooming spirit-flowers. The Heavenfall Empire was young then, its foundations still untested, its ambitions still pure enough to be called hope.
Lu Hao stood atop the palace balcony, armor absent, dressed instead in simple crimson robes. Below him, the capital breathed—markets alive with chatter, children chasing each other through stone streets, cultivators and mortals walking side by side without fear.
At his side stood his companions.
Generals, scholars, cultivators—men and women who had bled beside him, argued with him, challenged him. Not subordinates.
Family.
"You hesitate again," laughed General Shen, clapping Lu Hao on the shoulder. "The western territories will not submit with kind words alone."
"They will," Lu Hao replied calmly. "Because we will give them something worth submitting to."
His wife stood behind him, arms gently wrapped around his waist. Her hair was dark, her eyes warm, her presence grounding.
"Power is a tool," she said softly. "But promises are what people follow."
Lu Hao smiled then.
He believed that.
And when the empire first discovered The Conquest, it seemed like heaven itself agreed.
The sword did not appear as a curse.
It appeared as salvation.
At first, it demanded nothing.
It rested quietly within the imperial vault, its aura calm, almost benevolent. When Lu Hao grasped it for the first time, it did not burn his hands nor whisper madness into his mind.
Instead, it answered him.
His cultivation surged. His clarity sharpened. His enemies faltered before him as if fate itself bent at his steps.
With The Conquest, Heavenfall expanded—not through slaughter, but inevitability.
Bandits laid down arms. Rival sects pledged allegiance. Warring clans unified under one banner.
Strife ended.
Or so they believed.
Then the sword began to ask.
Not with words.
With hunger.
A border conflict erupted—minor, insignificant. Lu Hao drew The Conquest to end it swiftly.
The blade drank deeply that day.
And afterward, it glowed.
Victory came easier. Too easy.
Each battle sharpened the empire's edge—and dulled its conscience.
Advisors began recommending war instead of negotiation.
Generals stopped questioning orders.
Cultivators trained not for balance, but for slaughter.
The sword no longer answered only Lu Hao.
It whispered to everyone.
Expand.
Crush.
Take.
Lu Hao noticed the change too late.
The empire conquered the Ascendant Grounds in less than a decade.
What had once been impossible fell effortlessly beneath Heavenfall's crimson banners. Sect after sect collapsed, not due to lack of strength—but lack of unity.
Because The Conquest thrived on division.
The more blood it drank, the more it demanded.
Cultivators grew erratic. Generals became paranoid. Scholars justified atrocities as necessity.
Lu Hao's companions died one by one.
Some on the battlefield.
Some by assassination.
Some by madness.
His wife was the last.
She stood before him in the throne room, eyes hollow, hands trembling.
"This isn't peace," she whispered. "This is decay."
Lu Hao tried to argue.
Tried to deny it.
But when The Conquest pulsed at his side—warm, eager—he could not ignore the truth any longer.
By the time he cast the sword aside, the empire was already collapsing.
Rebellions ignited everywhere. The cultivators, driven mad by the blade's influence, turned on each other.
Lu Hao returned to the battlefield one final time.
Not as a conqueror.
But as an executioner.
He cut down his own generals.
His own disciples.
His own people.
Because no one else could stop them.
When the war ended, Heavenfall was silent.
No banners.
No cities.
Only ruins.
And Lu Hao stood alone, The Conquest clenched in his blood-soaked hands.
He knelt amidst corpses that would never rot.
"I failed," he whispered.
The sword did not respond.
For the first time, it was silent.
Then—
She appeared.
No wind announced her. No aura crushed the land.
She simply was.
Her hair was white as ash. Her dress flowed like mist. Her skin held no warmth, no chill.
Only her eyes—
Red.
The same red as The Conquest.
She regarded Lu Hao with mild curiosity, as one might observe a candle that had burned itself to nothing.
"You are the last," she said.
Her voice was soft, yet it carried authority deeper than heaven.
Lu Hao did not raise his head.
"I do not seek forgiveness," he said. "Only an end."
She smiled faintly.
"There is no end," she replied. "Only purpose misplaced."
She gestured to the sword.
"That blade is not meant for peace," she said. "It is a catalyst. A herald of Strife."
Lu Hao's grip tightened.
"Then destroy it."
She shook her head.
"No. It has a role yet to play."
She stepped closer.
"I am known as The Lady from The Tree," she said. "And I offer you eternity."
Lu Hao finally looked up.
"Eternity?" he echoed bitterly. "As punishment?"
"As atonement," she corrected. "You will guard the sword. Test those who seek it. Ensure it does not fall into hands that would derail the Seed of Destruction."
Lu Hao frowned.
"The Seed… of Destruction?"
She did not answer.
Only extended her hand.
"Accept," she said. "And your failure will gain meaning."
Silence stretched.
Lu Hao looked at the blade.
At the blood.
At the empire that no longer existed.
He nodded.
The binding ritual was agony.
His body perished.
His soul was anchored.
Time lost meaning.
One challenger after another descended into the canyon.
Kings.
Prodigies.
Madmen.
All fell.
Some broke beneath his pressure.
Some reached the blade—only to be consumed by it.
Century by century, Lu Hao remained.
Unchanging.
Waiting.
And now—
After a thousand years—
He stood once more before a challenger who did not reek of ambition.
One who did not crave dominion.
One who sought power not to rule—but to endure.
The memory faded.
Lu Hao opened his eyes.
Across from him stood Chen Yuan.
And for the first time in eternity—
Lu Hao wondered if this trial might finally end.