"He who plays with the devil's fiddle will soon play his tune."
Four million years.
That was how long Cang Chanda had drifted between worlds.
Once, his name had shaken the foundations of existence. The Devil of a Thousand Sins, a primordial being whose very presence defied the natural order, had been besieged and torn apart by Heaven's Order.
Not defeated in the ordinary sense.
Erased.
His body had perished, his cultivation shattered, and his soul scattered across the endless river of time. Yet something had survived within those fragments—a will that refused to acknowledge the meaning of an ending.
For four million years, his soul drifted.
Not because he lacked power. Not because his enemies had failed to destroy him completely.
But because fate itself seemed reluctant to release him.
Somewhere in the endless expanse between realms, a fragment of his consciousness stirred.
It sensed something.
A faint presence, insignificant by every conventional measure, yet carrying a peculiar resonance that had not been encountered since the primordial era.
Relentless energy.
Absolute potential.
The fragment followed that elusive sensation until it descended into the Dang Hun World, settling within the mud of an insignificant town.
There, it waited.
Until a boy stepped upon it.
And the devil found his next vessel.
Or perhaps, the boy had found his devil.
Sweeping.
That was what Cyril Aenigma's life had become.
Not cultivating. Not breaking through. Not hearing others whisper the word prodigy whenever he passed.
Just sweeping.
The broom scraped against the stone floor of the Jade Reflection Hall, raising a thin cloud of dust that floated through the afternoon light.
Cyril continued working, his expression indifferent.
At fifteen, he was a trial disciple of the Great Love Sect.
What an amusing name.
Great Love.
There was precious little love within these walls. The strong received resources, respect, and opportunities. The weak received chores, contempt, and the occasional reminder that their existence was an inconvenience.
The sect did not care whether its disciples suffered.
It cared whether they became useful.
Two years ago, Cyril had been one of its brightest prospects.
He had begun cultivating at thirteen. Within five months, he had broken through the ninth level of the Tempered Stage and entered Qi Condensation.
Five months.
Even the prodigies usually required eight.
His progress had been so astonishing that some elders had privately wondered whether he might become one of the sect's most exceptional talents.
Cyril himself had been less modest.
He had even bestowed upon himself the grandiose name Cyril Immortalis.
A name befitting someone destined to stand above the heavens.
Now, whenever he remembered it, he felt an urge to bury his younger self.
Immortalis?
He could barely cultivate.
His progress had stopped at the second level of Qi Condensation. No matter how diligently he meditated, refined spiritual energy, or attempted to circulate qi through his meridians, his cultivation refused to advance.
At first, he had assumed it was a temporary bottleneck.
Then months passed.
Then a year.
The disciples he had once surpassed caught up with him. They advanced to the fifth level, then beyond, while he remained trapped in the same place.
Eventually, the sect demoted him from an ordinary disciple to a trial disciple.
His privileges vanished.
So did the respect.
Now, he swept halls to earn enough to survive.
Cyril paused and examined his roughened hands.
What went wrong?
He had asked himself that question countless times.
His talent had not disappeared overnight. His understanding of cultivation had not suddenly deteriorated. He could still sense spiritual energy, and his meridians showed no obvious signs of damage.
Yet whenever he attempted to make a breakthrough, something seemed to consume the energy he painstakingly accumulated.
It was as though he were filling a bottomless vessel.
Or feeding something that refused to reveal itself.
He tightened his grip on the broom.
"Whatever you are," he muttered beneath his breath, "you had better have a good reason."
The empty hall offered no reply.
Naturally.
Even his misfortune had apparently decided to ignore him.
Two years earlier, Cyril had wandered through Azure Hill Town in an attempt to escape the suffocating atmosphere of the sect.
During that stroll, he had found something strange in the mud.
A black, egg-shaped object.
Curiosity had compelled him to examine it, but before he could decide what it was, his foot came down upon it.
The object did not crack.
It simply collapsed into a strange, dry haze and disappeared.
No liquid spilled out. No fragments remained.
Only a peculiar chill lingered around him.
Cyril had dismissed the incident as another insignificant oddity in a world filled with them.
He had been wrong.
The object had been a fragment of Cang Chanda's weakened soul.
Drawn to the boy's extraordinary potential and the stubbornness buried beneath his youthful arrogance, the fragment had attached itself to him.
It did not possess enough strength to seize control of Cyril's body. It could barely preserve its own consciousness.
So it did the only thing available to it.
It fed.
Whenever Cyril gathered qi, the fragment absorbed a portion of it, slowly replenishing its shattered soul.
Cyril cultivated.
Cang Chanda recovered.
And the boy's promising future quietly withered.
Neither understood the full significance of their connection.
One believed himself cursed by an inexplicable cultivation defect.
The other had found a source of nourishment and remained too weak to comprehend the extraordinary nature of his host.
For two years, their fates had intertwined in silence.
Until that evening.
The final corner of the Jade Reflection Hall was spotless.
Cyril leaned the broom against a pillar and stretched his aching shoulders. Beyond the sect's walls, the setting sun painted the mountains crimson.
He was tired.
Not merely physically exhausted, but weary of the endless cycle of effort and disappointment.
He had once dreamed of immortality.
Now, he wondered whether he would ever reach the next level of Qi Condensation.
His gaze drifted toward the small room assigned to him on the outskirts of the disciples' quarters.
Inside stood a narrow wooden bed, a battered table, and a stone pillow he had kept since childhood.
The pillow was an ugly thing, dark grey with faint, irregular markings across its surface. It was hardly comfortable, but it had accompanied him for as long as he could remember.
Tonight, he wanted nothing more than to sleep.
Perhaps tomorrow, he would try cultivating again.
Perhaps tomorrow, the heavens would finally take pity on him.
Cyril almost laughed at the thought.
He entered his room, closed the door, and sat upon the bed.
For a moment, he studied the stone pillow.
Something about its surface seemed different.
A faint shimmer passed across one of its markings.
He blinked.
The shimmer vanished.
"I'm imagining things," he murmured.
He lay down and rested his head upon it.
The world stopped.
Not gradually.
Not like sleep creeping over an exhausted mind.
One instant, Cyril could hear the distant voices of other disciples. The next, every sound disappeared.
A strange pressure descended upon his consciousness.
His eyes flew open.
The room was gone.
He found himself suspended in an endless darkness, beneath a sky without stars. Before him hovered a dim, fragmented silhouette, its edges flickering as though reality itself struggled to contain it.
Cyril attempted to move.
He couldn't.
Then a voice entered his mind.
"Young mortal…"
The words were quiet, yet they carried an immeasurable weight.
"Do you know what has been feeding upon your qi for the past two years?"
Cyril's heart lurched.
The voice continued.
"Do you know why your cultivation has stagnated? Why your potential has been imprisoned while lesser talents surpass you?"
The fragmented silhouette shifted.
For an instant, Cyril glimpsed something beyond it—an immense shadow stretching across a sky filled with shattered stars.
"This old devil has borrowed enough of your strength."
The darkness trembled.
"Now, let us see what you truly are."
Suddenly, the stone beneath Cyril's head grew unbearably cold.
His dantian convulsed. The spiritual energy he had accumulated over two years surged through his meridians, no longer flowing into the mysterious presence that had consumed it. Instead, it erupted throughout his body like a river breaking through a dam.
Cyril gasped.
The pain was immense, but beneath it lay something he had not felt in years.
Power.
His meridians vibrated. His stagnant cultivation stirred. The barrier that had imprisoned him began to fracture.
Yet the breakthrough was only the beginning.
Within the darkness, the ancient silhouette recoiled.
For the first time in four million years, Cang Chanda felt something he could not immediately comprehend.
Not fear.
Recognition.
A recognition so profound that even his fragmented consciousness fell silent.
The boy's soul was not ordinary.
Something lay hidden within it—something that made the primordial devil's ancient instincts tremble.
Cang Chanda had survived the wrath of Heaven's Order. He had wandered between worlds and endured the passage of ages.
But he had never encountered this.
A faint, terrible smile appeared upon his fragmented face.
"So," he whispered, "the river of time has finally brought me here."
Cyril's consciousness began to fracture beneath the surging power.
He heard one final sentence before the darkness swallowed him.
"Tell me, boy…"
The voice was no longer amused.
It was wary.
"Who—or what—are you?"
And somewhere beyond the boundaries of the Dang Hun World, something ancient stirred in response.
The heavens had noticed.
And they were looking directly at Cyril Aenigma. .