Chapter 12
Silence.
Not the kind that follows death—but the kind that precedes creation.
Nyxen stood before the Heaven-Sealing Sword.
The void around him had folded into an ocean of colorless light, spiraling endlessly. No sky. No ground. Just infinity—boundless, breathless, and unbearably quiet.
The sword floated upright, its edge resting on nothing. It wasn't forged of metal or spirit. It was concept made form, a paradox that denied all systems of power.
Its blade was half-dark, half-pale, its core a thin golden vein that pulsed softly—like a heartbeat.
And yet… every pulse reshaped the world.
Each throb of light birthed galaxies and destroyed them within the same breath.
Nyxen's disguise flickered. His tall, feminine figure shimmered like smoke before collapsing entirely, leaving only his true self—silver cracks on pale skin, eyes the color of burning suns reflected in ink.
He no longer needed to hide. There was no one here but him—and the Sword.
He stepped closer. Every step shattered a thousand reflections of his soul that had lingered behind.
Each piece whispered a question.
> "Do you seek heaven… or to deny it?"
"Do you seal for peace, or out of hatred?"
"Do you wield power, or does power wield you?"
He didn't answer. The silence was his only truth.
When he reached the sword, it opened its eye.
A slit of golden light along the blade's center blinked, watching him like an ancient god awakening from a long dream.
"Who stands before the Sealed Heaven?"
The voice came not from the sword—but from the space around it, vibrating through existence itself.
Nyxen's throat felt dry. "One without origin. One who defied reflection."
The sword's glow dimmed, as though weighing his words. Then—
"To seal heaven is to become its mirror."
"To wield me is to accept that you are unworthy of everything you desire."
He smiled faintly. "Then we'll get along well."
He reached out.
The instant his fingers brushed the hilt, his body convulsed. Light and darkness exploded outward in a silent detonation that rippled through every realm. The mirrors he had destroyed reappeared, spinning around him. Within each reflection, his other selves screamed as they disintegrated, consumed by the sword's will.
A thousand memories crashed into him.
He saw every life, every death, every regret.
The graveyard of his first life. The trial of the void. The monk woman's tears. The laughter of gods who scorned him. His own voice whispering, "You will never belong."
And beneath it all, a hum—the sword's breath, steady and calm.
"You are not chosen," it whispered. "You are claimed."
Nyxen's eyes widened as veins of gold crawled across his skin, carving scripture into his flesh. His blood turned into molten light, dripping into the void and birthing tiny worlds that lived and died in seconds.
He tried to pull back, but the sword clung to him, a parasite of purpose.
"Damn…" He gritted his teeth, forcing his arm forward. "You think I can't control you?"
The black aura of the True Art of Mara surged from his body, burning like violet fire. The six phantom clones of Mara appeared behind him, each screaming in defiance. Their roars tore holes in the void, spilling demonic energy like rivers of shadow.
He seized the sword again.
"Then I'll claim you instead!"
The world turned white.
For a moment, there was no Nyxen, no sword, no sky—only light and soundless pressure that could erase gods.
The golden scripture covering his body expanded, forming circles of divine geometry that pulsed with runes from forgotten languages. Each rune represented a law—time, death, truth, illusion—and one by one, they began to crack under his aura.
The Heaven-Sealing Sword resisted.
Its voice grew louder, now distorted by fury.
"You cannot wield me! You are born from sin!"
Nyxen laughed through the pain, blood and light streaming from his mouth. "Then I'll be sin itself!"
He slammed the blade into his own chest.
The explosion was beyond light.
Reality folded inward, collapsing into a single breath. The ocean of infinity shattered into shards of golden glass. Every reflection of Nyxen's existence screamed and merged into him—pain, joy, sorrow, rage—all blending into a single consciousness.
The sword stopped struggling.
Its hum softened.
For the first time, it spoke not in command—but in acceptance.
"Then seal heaven with your own name."
The golden script on his body changed, the old divine runes twisting into symbols of his creation—letters that formed his name: NYXEN.
The Heaven-Sealing Sword melted into his hand, becoming part of him—its hilt vanishing, blade dissolving into his blood.
When the light faded, he stood alone once more.
The void was gone.
The ruins of the infinite palace reappeared, but everything else—the universe, the guardians, even time—had been erased. Only dust remained, floating like starlight.
Nyxen looked down at his palm. A faint mark shimmered there—a sword-shaped scar that pulsed faintly with divine rhythm.
He whispered, "Stage Three…"
The air trembled. His aura expanded violently, no longer bound by mortal qi or demonic power.
Every breath carried a fragment of creation. The cosmos seemed to bend slightly toward him, as though acknowledging a being outside their law.
The Heaven-Sealing Sword's spirit spoke once more—quietly now, within his soul.
"Power is not freedom. Every sealed heaven demands a price."
He exhaled. "I already paid."
A faint smile crossed his lips. "Now… let's see what I bought."
From the horizon of the ruined universe, a faint tremor echoed—like thunder rolling through the bones of reality.
The gods had felt the seal break. The world of heaven stirred.
Nyxen turned, cloak fluttering in the nothingness, his crimson-silver eyes burning like twin stars on the edge of extinction.
He took his first step forward as the wielder of the Heaven-Sealing Sword.
And with that single step, the void began to move again.