Chapter 11
The silence after destruction was heavier than thunder.
Ashes hung in the air like frozen constellations, and the ruins of the palace—once said to hold the will of gods—floated in a sea of void light. The City of Darkness no longer resembled a city. It was a graveyard of worlds.
Nyxen walked through the emptiness, the echo of his footsteps swallowed by the infinite expanse. His disguise still shimmered faintly—a tall woman cloaked in tattered black robes, pale skin untouched by the blood and debris, eyes deep as twin suns consumed by eclipse.
He had destroyed everything.
Not out of rage, but necessity.
The Heaven-Sealing Sword slept somewhere beyond the broken stars, and the city itself had been a mere illusion guarding it—a prison built by gods to keep mortals from touching divinity. The instant his blade pierced the final guardian, reality fractured, revealing the infinite domain beneath.
Now, he stood before the Gate of Origin.
It wasn't made of matter or spirit.
It was an idea—visible only to those who stood between existence and nothing. Two massive doors floated within the void, made of translucent light and shadow entwined, as if creation itself hesitated to choose form. Upon it were carved countless names—each one of a cultivator who had reached for godhood and vanished.
Nyxen's gaze lingered. Some of the names pulsed faintly with lingering echoes. Others were already fading, erased by time. When he looked closer, he saw his own name—half-written, as if reality had begun to predict his doom.
He smiled faintly.
"So, even fate expects me to die here."
He stepped forward, hand raised.
The air bent. The black aura beneath his skin stirred, threads of divine and demonic energy clashing. His disguise flickered for a breath—the womanly form melting away, revealing the silver cracks of his true self. Then, he forced it back. The illusion held.
"Open," he said softly.
The Gate did not move.
Instead, the void spoke in a thousand voices. Some wept. Some laughed. Some begged.
Each one was him. Past selves, fragments from the reflections he'd slain, the echoes of every soul he had devoured. They spoke together, forming one whisper that crawled beneath his skin.
"You have no origin."
The words struck harder than any blade. His heart trembled; his mind shook.
He saw flashes—the grave of his first life, the reflection in Arc One's void, the sorrow in Lianhua's eyes when he faked his death. Everything he had become was born from rejection, defiance, and pain. He had cut ties with gods and heaven, burned his karma, severed his identity.
"I have no origin…" he repeated, voice low. "Then I will create one."
His aura burst outward.
Black and white qi surged from his hands, colliding until sparks of golden scripture symbols formed around him—the Golden Scripture of the Unorthodox Path, pulsing with light drawn from sin and sorrow alike. He slashed the air.
The Gate trembled.
Then, the void shifted into memory.
He was standing in a field of endless lotus flowers—silver, glowing faintly in the dark. The smell of incense and blood hung together, familiar and foreign. He turned and saw her—Lianhua, dressed in pure white, smiling faintly at him.
"Nyxen," she whispered. "Why did you leave me?"
He froze. His chest ached, but his instinct screamed illusion.
He closed his eyes. "You're not real."
Her smile didn't fade. "Then why does your heart tremble?"
He couldn't answer. The petals began to fall, each one turning red. She walked closer, and with every step, her form decayed—skin fading, bones cracking, voice turning into the wail of the countless dead he had slain.
"Return to origin," the voice demanded. "Abandon the lie you call will."
Nyxen's grip tightened on his sword. His crimson and silver eyes burned.
"I have no origin," he said again, "but I have a purpose."
He swung the blade.
The illusion shattered, light exploding outward. The lotus field dissolved into dust, revealing the Gate again—now cracked open, bleeding streams of golden fire.
Inside the gap, something breathed. Ancient. Cold. Watching.
He stepped through.
Instantly, his senses scattered. There was no ground, no sky—only an infinite ocean of mirrors floating through eternity. Each one reflected a different Nyxen—some human, some monstrous, some divine. In one, he saw himself kneeling before the Heaven-Sealing Sword. In another, he was a corpse. In another still, he was a god.
The reflections began to move on their own. They stepped out from the mirrors, surrounding him in silence.
"So this is the test," he murmured.
The first reflection—dressed in pure white—spoke. "You seek the Heaven-Sealing Sword. But what will you seal? Heaven? Or yourself?"
The second reflection—cloaked in shadow—laughed. "You have worn too many faces. Male. Female. Demon. Saint. Do you even remember what you are?"
The third—half of each—smiled cruelly. "Perhaps you were never meant to exist at all."
The reflections lunged.
Nyxen's sword moved faster than thought. His body blurred into streaks of light and dark, cutting through the illusions. Each strike dissolved a copy, but from their remains, new ones were born. Every drop of his blood birthed another reflection. Every thought became a weapon turned against him.
His mind began to blur.
He remembered the taste of wine, the cold touch of snow, the warmth of her smile. All of them blended into noise. He could feel the void tugging at him, whispering promises.
"If you destroy all reflections," the void murmured, "you will become nothing."
He laughed weakly. "Then so be it."
The Golden Scripture ignited around him, the words glowing like molten suns.
He raised his hand and unleashed the Finger of Flowery Swords. Each strike birthed endless phantom petals, cutting through the mirrors in every direction. The void screamed. Light bent inward, collapsing.
And when silence returned, there was only one reflection left—himself, unmasked, eyes calm and clear.
The reflection smiled.
"So this is your answer?"
Nyxen nodded slowly. "There is no origin. Only choice."
The reflection nodded once, then stepped forward—merging into his chest. For a brief moment, his body became light, his aura burning through disguise and form alike. The woman's figure melted away, revealing his true self—crimson eyes, silver veins, soul flickering like dying stars.
The Gate of Origin dissolved behind him.
He had passed.
Far ahead, suspended in an ocean of collapsing light, he saw it—the Heaven-Sealing Sword.
It wasn't grand. It wasn't radiant. It was a simple blade, black and white, humming quietly as though it contained the pulse of all creation.
Nyxen exhaled.
At last, the treasure that devoured gods awaited.
He took a step toward it—and the universe shifted again.