Chapter 6
The void breathed.
At first, it was silent — only the whisper of nothingness, the faint hum of the Heaven-Sealing Sword, and Nyxen's steady footsteps across what felt like the skin of the universe.
But then, the sky began to move.
Black clouds rippled from horizon to horizon, folding over themselves like living things. Lightning stitched the heavens apart, each strike revealing fragments of another world hidden beneath.
He looked upward, and saw cities hanging upside down — broken temples, glass rivers, frozen stars. Each fragment shimmered for a heartbeat, then dissolved into dust.
This was not the mortal realm, nor the divine one.
It was the After-Sky — the place between existence and memory.
The sword pulsed faintly on his back, its voice soft and cold:
—You've entered the Sleepless Sky.
The realm of unended dreams.
"Dreams?" Nyxen murmured, glancing at the endless expanse. "Or regrets?"
—Both. This is where sealed gods slumber. Every thought they refused to forget becomes a storm here.
He gazed into the distance — at the rippling darkness where shapes moved. Vast, indistinct, human-like, yet too large to comprehend.
They weren't alive, but they weren't dead either. Their voices were the thunder, their breath the wind.
Each one whispered fragments of prayers.
> "Forgive me…"
"Why was I denied ascension?"
"My kingdom still burns…"
Nyxen closed his eyes briefly, feeling their agony wash through him like the tide of broken souls he'd carried since Arc 1.
Every world he destroyed echoed here.
Every name he forgot whispered through this storm.
He pressed forward, following the faint pull of the sword. The air thickened with drifting petals of golden ash — remnants of divine power turned into dust. When they touched his skin, they sang — faint notes of forgotten hymns.
Each step felt heavier. Gravity bent in strange directions. Sometimes the sky became the floor, and the ground became a reflection of his thoughts.
Once, he thought of the monk woman — Lianhua — and for a moment, her silhouette appeared in the fog ahead, kneeling in prayer.
When he reached out to her, she dissolved into light.
The sword whispered:
—Regret weaves illusion. The purer the heart, the heavier the dream.
He chuckled softly. "Then I must be drowning."
After an eternity that could've been minutes or centuries, he reached the heart of the Sleepless Sky:
A city suspended upon nothing, shaped like a lotus turned upside down. Its petals were made of obsidian, its rivers of mercury, its towers piercing through the reflection of stars. The whole city hummed — alive, aware, breathing.
At its center stood a figure — or what appeared to be one.
A tall man with skin of liquid silver, eyes filled with constellations, and behind him, nine broken halos flickered like shattered mirrors.
The air around him was wrong — too still, too heavy.
The sword on Nyxen's back trembled slightly.
—That is the Sleepless Lord. Once, he was the first to challenge heaven's silence. When he failed, his consciousness fractured into this realm.
Nyxen approached slowly.
"Does he still live?"
—He dreams. And in that dream, he still believes he can win.
The Sleepless Lord turned. His gaze met Nyxen's, and for the first time since entering the void, Nyxen felt… seen.
"Another reflection," the silver being said. His voice was thunder in slow motion. "You carry a sealed sun upon your back. Tell me, child — are you heaven's heir, or its undoing?"
Nyxen's crimson eyes flared faintly. "Neither. I'm just passing through."
The Lord smiled. "All who say that end up staying."
The ground broke apart.
The sky folded inward, and suddenly, a ring of floating mirrors encircled Nyxen.
Each reflected a different version of him — some divine, some monstrous, some barely human.
The Lord raised a hand, and from the mirrors, weapons of light emerged — spears, blades, chains — each striking toward him in perfect harmony.
Nyxen's expression didn't change.
He drew the Heaven-Sealing Sword.
The first swing didn't make a sound. It erased it.
The mirror nearest him cracked — its reflection dissolved into motes of gold. Every swing he made didn't cut matter; it cut the concept of existence itself.
But with every strike, more mirrors appeared, each holding a different emotion — wrath, despair, longing, sorrow — all the things he'd buried.
The Lord's laughter echoed.
"You think you can seal what you are?"
Nyxen's sword arm trembled. His reflection screamed back at him, mocking him in perfect synchronization.
He closed his eyes — and the Art of Mora ignited.
Black fire surged across his skin, veins glowing violet, the illusion of six demonic halos manifesting behind his back. His voice deepened, filled with both sorrow and defiance.
"I don't seal myself," he said, "I accept myself."
He swung the sword again — and this time, the reflection didn't resist. It shattered cleanly, releasing a scream that sounded like relief.
The city trembled. The Lord of the Sleepless Sky staggered back, his form flickering.
"You… you severed the dream?"
"No," Nyxen said softly. "I made it real."
He stepped forward, blade gleaming with starlit blood, and struck.
The explosion was silent.
The Lord's silver body disintegrated, scattering into streams of glowing dust that rained upon the city. The mirrors dissolved, and the sky turned from black to faint gray, as if the realm itself exhaled for the first time in ages.
Where the Lord had stood, a fragment of crystal remained — faintly pulsing.
The sword whispered:
—A shard of the Sealed Heaven Core. Take it.
He reached out. The moment his hand touched it, visions flooded his mind — endless heavens, countless sealed realms, and a whisper older than existence itself.
> "To reach the next stage, walk beyond silence.
To find truth, become the storm that heaven fears."
Nyxen's body trembled. The fragment sank into his chest, fusing with the seal mark of the Golden Scripture. The fusion of divine and demonic energy twisted his aura into something new — not black, not gold, but silver-gray, as if twilight itself had found form.
His strength surged. The sword pulsed in agreement. His Dao deepened — not in power, but in meaning.
He looked at his hands. They glowed faintly, threads of light weaving across his veins. His thoughts were clear, silent. For the first time, he felt balance — a stillness that wasn't emptiness.
He sheathed the sword, gazing at the now-quiet city.
Thousands of silver petals drifted upward, forming faint constellations across the void. The Sleepless Sky was ending — folding in upon itself, ready to sleep once more.
The sword spoke one last time that night:
—You have taken your first step toward the Heaven's Core. But silence breeds attention. They will come for you.
Nyxen tilted his head. "Who?"
—The ones heaven left behind. The False Saints.
He smiled faintly, eyes glowing under the pale light.
"Then let them. I've already sealed my heaven — now let's see who tries to unseal it."
He turned away from the collapsing city and began walking again — through the falling ash and fading light — toward the next horizon where dreams and reality blurred into one.
Behind him, the last echo of the Sleepless Sky whispered his name like a prayer.
> "Nyxen… the Blind Wanderer."
And the world fell silent again.