(Warning: might be too much if you're a novice; recommended to be read after few starting chapter to know the origin of our man, who is basically kind of butchered it so i recommend reading other chapter so that u wont go away. Story: good writing bad not grammar but real bad, just don't.)
Era of Grand Emergence
War for Rebirth
Someone's voice was heard that felt oddly familiar to him.
I was naive when entering this world, a world of cruel wonders, but I had confidence to shake the world due to my identity as otherworldly person. That arrogance led me to making manny worst decisions that fills my heart with regrets, regrets of choosing to ascend as a mixed-path immortal without knowing the world to be freed of shackles but I never realised that all i chased in life was freedom. I grew stronger to gain freedom form operations to be able to do what I wanted, yet it never came. I was given the taste of freedom only for it to be stolen again and again for 100 years of suffering under some kind of operation. Shackles. I finally became an immortal. Later I realized I wanted the taste of absolute freedom and for it to last forever but it was too late; I was bond by new shackles after ascending and breaking through. Now as a mixed-path immortal with a burdensome fame and choices filled with regret, I live under shackles of clan as a mare information collector, an assassin, of course. Weak fear me, idolize me but that's it
The sky above the fractured world was a patchwork of rifts and flickering remnants of reality. Worlds collided like broken mirror shards. Titan-shifters merged with kaiju, forming an indestructible abomination.
Massive beings bled corrupted essence into the scarred plains.
Screams—divine and mortal—rang out as grand artifacts clashed in the ruined battlefield, flattening mountains and making deep trenches.
In this chaos, where gods and celestial court members watched with indifference or dread, a lone figure passed through the chaos—a shadow among storms—cloaked not in power, but in absence.
As he witnessed this grand fight against fate and impending doom, where righteous path fools fought not knowing the war, calling people like him traitors, he didn't care what they called him because it wouldn't affect him or people like him because, to him, they were ants, but those that ruled over them were the problem.
In all this chaos, there was something that stood out: a distant island covered in shields and a mystical river of time floating just above it, surrounded by sea and sky above it in utter chaos far more potent than he had ever witnessed. A person known as Giant Sun Peak of the cultivation world barely ran away, tail tucked in, from becoming fuel for something that lay inside, like countless others.
Everyone knew about the trap, but how long can such an arrangement last when faced with millions? What if it's weakened? What if I could sneak in? He was like countless others, filled with regret and the promise of hope. Of course, were they all idiots? No, because the alternative was inevitable, not so distant.
Draped in a white robe trimmed with shifting golden runes, he drifted through the carnage. Runes of black and gold writhed across his skin like living scars. He didn't stride among giants; he slipped through their shadows, unseen.
"Dragon among dragons… mountain above mountains… monster among monsters…"
He whispered that litany as he passed through combatants and bloody massacres, his eyes focused on distant islands as each of the low-lives shouted slogans, fighting a war blind to the whole truth.
"Did you see that?" It's that damned lich! He's turning our comrades into enemies and reviving fallen allies into new abominations."
"Nen users? Mana cultivators? They use different powers. We can't win here; our powers are suppressed here. They're surrounding us—fall back!"
Their screams became the fabric of his cloak. Each panic-stricken shout wove him deeper into the fray.
On the far shore, on an island protected by invisible broken shields and many broken arrangements, hovered the ark, a complex pagoda/temple, a vessel of impossible design, stitched from Gu Houses and immortal relics.
Its motifs—golden dragons, burning lotuses, and bleeding suns—pulled on every generation's ambitions. Below, the River of Time, a mystical presence that is both physical and metaphysical at the same time, one that could be felt but not seen by the weak, raged like a storm-tossed sea: torrents of memory and intent, ready to devour any weak, unworthy wills and strengthen its position in the artifact.
The first wave of challengers—exceptions among the exceptions to be anchors—had already been dragged under. Their wills shattered, they lay broken, used as fuel, feeding the ark's hungry wards.
Our figure watched them fall, a fading echo of the proud Mixed Path Immortal he once was.
"They believe rank or influence is enough to bend the world," he murmured. "I thought so too, haha. It is true, but only when there isn't utter chaos like this, where everything is a gamble."
He recalled his own arrogance—how he thought to use every path into a grand scheme. Wisdom, assassination, and artifacts born of his earthly knowledge… all to stand out from the rest like stars. At the summit, he'd found millions of others—each a bright flicker in the void.
"But without sacrifice," he said, "even the brightest star is lost among millions."
Cloaked in Chaos
Around the ark, cultivators fought with will, intent, and memory. Their silent clashes sent ripples through the battlefield—every thought a blade, every regret a shield.
He slipped through those ripples, using his assassination and wisdom methods to hush his presence. Not even gods could sniff him out—until the final breach, where the river's roar threatened to drown him.
A blade—no, a lance of resolve—struck deep in his side. Pain flared, hot and real. He coughed, blood blossoming on his lip. His robes tore, runes splintering.
"Fate's currents cut deeper than steel," he thought, tasting copper.
The Confrontation
As he neared the ark's entrance, a voice cut through the storm:
"Mixed-Path BRAT!
He looked up. Radiant eyes bored into him—eyes he knew too well.
"Gěng Yúhuī," the cultivator said, his voice calm as a still pool. I've heard rumors of you. Tell me, what will your patchwork path do against time's tidal waves? You're not worthy of being fuel, let alone a chance to be reborn.
Ah, shit, here we go again… He swore an oath, saying that it seemed to flash to him a memory that was hundreds of years old.
"I…" he rasped, each word a shard of effort. "I'm here… to gamble, to change my fate."
You dare to continue pouring out your memories, haha. Fine, you are worthy of being used as a meat shield for my rebirth. Go on, pour as much as you can.
A hush fell over the arena. As Gěng Yúhuī poured all of his past memories, thoughts, and will, the wisdom expert was surprised with the sheer amount of will he had, thinking, "Oh, his attainment in the wisdom path is quite impressive. Are all these his own memories, or did he steal them?"
It was the start of the Battle of Silent Wills.
The wisdom path smiled, laughing. "Brat, enough. Thanks for the armor." As he said that, he started to take over all of Gěng's wills in the arc, making it his own. Panic shone in Gěng's eyes as he started to attack the wisdom path expert with all sorts of attacks. It just slowed the takeover. He was going to lose everything. His memories would serve as a shield against the torrent waves in the river, while his soul would act as fuel, just as countless experts who were far superior in rank and strength had been used before.
Gěng's will struck like a collapsing, clear, unyielding star. Memories twisted; identity frayed. The Mixed-Path fighter nearly fell but gritted his teeth and smiled, making the enemy shudder in fear, yet he didn't yield. Then he unleashed his true final gambit, one that will cost his life:
Origin-Source Replacement Method.
Reality convulsed with the attack. Instead of consuming him, it immediately stopped as Gěng frowned, his insides started to bulge, and he started coughing blood violently as his enemy was laughing hysterically. "Hoho, did your attack fail to think you would attempt to activate..."
Gěng Yúhuī could hear anything with a crooked smile; he was facing a backlash due to the newly created attack. Not only that, but the previous one too.
Why was he smiling? There was a saying to confuse your enemy: "One must confuse oneself with the whole world because an attack had worked. Did it cause him to face this kind of blacklash? If it weren't for that, he wouldn't be still alive."
Gěng's attack inverted his own will and turned back upon him, but so did the wisdom experts' will that was replacing him in the artifact and spreading all-rounders.
He had turned the scale of winning with one move. Gěng Yúhuī achieved the status of a wisdom expert; if the world knew his fame would reach a different height, so would his move; he had essentially flipped the script in all the entirety of that world. The veteran staggered, eyes widening in shock.
As all this defense was crippled, his brain stopped working, unable to do anything, not even think, because all of his thoughts were taken over; all he could feel was fear, confusion, shock, and respect.
As his head was severed, he was baited by a simple old strategy: letting the enemy win first only to take it all at the last moment. He let his guard down.
But no, it wasn't that; it was just unfair luck. He couldn't think; he was focused on many things. How could he protect himself and the enemy's battle form from watchful eyes and fight while trying to evade physical and mental attacks and try to take over the enemy's will? It'll? It was unfair but calculated.
Gěng's defense and methods of concealment weren't completely broken when he broke, but Gěng Yúhuī made it seem like it was a desperate battle of deception against a wisdom expert, something no sane person would dare to attempt.
A battle of wits against an expert who was soaked, delved in it for centuries, and lived off it wasn't something any normal immortal would dare to do, but Gěng Yúhuī wasn't normal in any sense of the word either.
He may be one among the countless stars, but he was undoubtedly a special star when looked at closely enough, one that was going to devour every other star.
Around them, lesser anchors of will flickered and died, their connections collapsing one by one as the mini artifact that emerged from Gěng Yúhuī's chest started devouring his whole body and attached itself to the arc, attempting to hijack the entire ship.
"Heh," the Gěng Yúhuī whispered, his voice hard as flint.
"If old stars must fall, let me fall backward into a better dawn and become a black hole that devours the entirety of the sky itself, haha."
Aftermath & Vanishing
His artifact spire, woven of gold, red, and black, fused into the ark's hull. Protective wards bloomed around him like a cocoon. He tasted victory and death both—his wound gaping and his lifeblood spent.
The River of Time surged, its stormy waves chanting:
"Anchors break… anchors burn… the current claimed all the outer shell."
He smiled, despite the pain.
"If I die, so be it. But if I succeed… I'll carry their hopes—and mine—into a new beginning."
And then, as the currents swallowed him, he vanished—unseen, unknown, unnoticed—an ember of rebellion riding against the flow of fate, time, and the world itself.
The whole world shook as the ark moved in the river of time that was vaster than countless seas.
He drifted there, unseen—a void amid the storm.
---
He had soared among stars… only to learn that even a star can become trapped and used like a slave.
Ruby beams burst from the artifact's center, casting the room in lattice works of raw, writhing will. My limbs locked. I convulsed.
A whisper from deep inside:
"Choose: seal these memories... or let them all enter."
But the present Gěng Yúhuī didn't want to vanish. He clenched his teeth. I didn't want to be someone else.
"I won't change that quickly," he thought. "I don't want to disappear again."
That moment of defiance changed everything.
The artifact slowed. It rose higher, spinning gently now. Its glow softened to blue, red, green, and a sickly purple. Light faded.
Time held its breath.
Then the artifact dissolved into me, fading into flickering embers beneath the skin.
---
A priest entered.
He dropped to one knee beside the dais, pale and shaking.
"He… he's awake," he whispered.
The boy—once mocked as the flower-vase-taker—took a steady breath. His eyes shimmered, clear and sharp. Blood surged with unfamiliar power and resolve.
He rose from the bier—no longer asleep and no longer lost.