Chapter 13
The world was quiet—too quiet.
Where the infinite palace once stood, a single figure hovered amid dust and fading echoes of creation. Nyxen, now bearing the mark of the Heaven-Sealing Sword, stared at the empty void before him. He could no longer hear the hum of energy, no pulse of existence. Everything had been consumed—reduced to memory.
And yet, that memory was alive within him.
Every destroyed reflection, every realm, every fragment of the infinite space—the entire dimension—was now compressed into the scar on his palm. He didn't just destroy the place.
He became it.
"Everything feels… different."
His voice drifted through silence, absorbed by the gray nothingness around him. He raised his hand, staring at the faint golden lines running beneath his skin. When he flexed his fingers, the air rippled—and universes bloomed from his movement.
A thousand miniature galaxies spiraled into being around him. Stars ignited. Planets formed and died in the span of a heartbeat. But they were hollow—empty of soul, mere fragments of creation without will.
He watched them fade, expression unreadable.
"Power without purpose is just noise," he muttered. "But maybe noise is enough."
He closed his eyes.
For the first time, he felt the world inside him. The sealed heavens were no longer unreachable—they belonged to him, each layer of existence folded beneath his soul. He could feel the flow of divinity, the breath of stars, the decay of forgotten time.
Every rule—the rise and fall of reality—obeyed him now.
And yet… there was something else.
A presence deep within the sword mark—ancient, patient, waiting.
When he focused, a golden ripple surged from his hand, forming a reflection before him. It wasn't a mirror—more like a living screen made of light and memory. Within it, a familiar figure appeared: the old version of Nyxen, cloaked in silver and shadows, the man who had walked through countless mirrors, the man who had failed to escape them.
"Still here?" Nyxen asked softly.
The reflection smiled bitterly. "You destroyed the cage, but the prisoner remains."
"That's not true." Nyxen frowned. "I've gone beyond reflection."
The image shook its head. "No, you've simply become the mirror itself."
He didn't reply. The truth in those words gnawed at him.
Every movement, every breath, distorted the void. It wasn't him within the world anymore—the world was within him.
A paradox.
He could create endlessly, but not exist outside what he made.
The reflection stepped closer, reaching through the light. "You sealed heaven, but what about yourself? Where do you go now that there's nowhere left to ascend?"
Nyxen's expression hardened. "Forward. Always forward."
He lifted his hand again, summoning the Sword's mark. The light from it deepened, stretching outward until it touched the edge of infinity. The void trembled.
"If I can't climb higher," he whispered, "then I'll build a new heaven."
He slammed his palm down.
Light erupted—so intense it tore the gray expanse apart.
Waves of golden fire spread in every direction, rewriting reality as they passed. Shattered stars reformed, burning brighter. The ruins of the old universe folded back into existence, stronger, stranger, and more alive than before.
But this wasn't the same infinite palace.
This new creation was fluid—constantly shifting, breathing, aware. It pulsed with the same rhythm as his heart.
He had forged a living cosmos.
Every breath it took echoed through his veins. Every tremor of energy was his heartbeat, every flicker of starlight his thought.
Then came the voice.
"You would recreate infinity?"
It wasn't the Sword this time. It came from beyond—a tone woven from countless voices, both divine and demonic. It shook the newly born stars, rippling through Nyxen's consciousness.
He froze.
The space above him opened like a wound in the sky, revealing a golden eye—massive and timeless, gazing down with judgment older than existence itself.
He knew that gaze.
"The Celestial Authority…" he breathed. "The remnants of the old gods."
The eye blinked once, and its light fell upon him.
"You carry what we buried. You wield what was never meant to be touched."
"Then maybe you shouldn't have left it lying around," Nyxen said coldly. "You had your heaven. I'm making mine."
The golden light intensified, forming countless silhouettes—humanoid figures of pure radiance, descending like burning rain. They were the guardians of the original seal—the beings who once maintained balance between worlds. Now, they came as executioners.
Each carried a weapon shaped from the essence of the first creation—swords, staves, spears—all forged from the same divine spark as the Heaven-Sealing Sword itself.
"You're late," Nyxen muttered. "I was starting to get bored."
He raised his hand again. The mark blazed to life, and behind him, an ocean of shadows unfolded. His aura split the heavens—half black, half gold. The air sang with power so dense it bent time itself.
The guardians lunged.
The first wave descended—blinding, beautiful, deadly. Nyxen moved through them like smoke. Every swing of his hand split reality, cutting through bodies of light that screamed soundlessly as they burst into fragments of stardust.
One guardian reached him—a woman made of flame and glass—and drove her spear forward. It pierced his shoulder, but instead of blood, light poured out. He grinned through the pain.
"You think this body still matters?"
He seized the spear and twisted.
The guardian shattered, her fragments absorbed by his aura. The power surged through him, and the new heaven trembled.
He looked up again. The eye still watched.
"Come down," Nyxen called, his voice echoing across infinity. "If you want to end me—don't send your servants. Come yourself."
The golden eye narrowed.
For a moment, there was silence.
Then, from within its gaze, something began to descend—a shadow made of pure radiance, humanoid but incomprehensible. Its wings stretched across galaxies, its face a shifting blur of eternity.
Nyxen's expression sharpened.
The Celestial Authority had answered his challenge.
He could feel the power radiating from it—a presence that could erase everything he had built.
But behind his fear, there was something else.
Excitement.
He tightened his fist. The Heaven-Sealing mark glowed brighter, burning through his arm.
His aura ignited once again, spreading like wildfire through the new heavens.
"Then come," he whispered. "Let's see whose heaven survives."
As the being of light descended, the reborn infinity trembled, preparing for a war that would decide not just who ruled creation—but what kind of world would exist afterward.
Nyxen smiled through the gathering storm.
He was no longer the one seeking the sword.
He was now the one the sword itself had chosen to change the cosmos forever.