The void opened without sound.
There was no light, no thunder, no omen that mortals could perceive. A thin as a blade's edge—appeared in the endless darkness between dimensions, and from it fell a single figure.
Blood scattered silently through the void.
The man's robes were ancient, torn beyond recognition, their divine patterns extinguished. His aura was so weak it could barely sustain his form, yet the space around him twisted instinctively, as if terrified of what he once was.
Behind him, the dimensional rift shuddered.
A pagoda followed.
It was vast—far larger than any mountain—yet fractured. Entire sections were missing. Its surface was carved with Dao inscriptions so profound that even broken, they bent reality. Cracks ran through its body, leaking faint, dying light.
The pagoda struck the edge of a nameless world.
No explosion followed.
Instead, the world itself groaned.
This was a Small Dimension—barren, weak, and incomplete. Its laws were fragile. Its spiritual energy thin. It was a place no true cultivator would ever notice… unless they were deliberately hiding.
The man fell from the sky like a corpse and crashed into a desolate land of stone and dust.
For a long time, he did not move.
His breath was shallow. His cultivation—once unfathomable—had collapsed beyond measure. Even a mortal beast could have killed him now.
Slowly, his eyes opened.
They were ancient.
He looked at the sky of the Small World, felt the feeble Dao laws brushing against his shattered soul, and laughed—softly, hoarsely.
"A place like this…""…will not attract their gaze."
He raised a trembling hand.
The broken pagoda responded.
Though damaged, though incomplete, it still recognized its master.
The man began to calculate.
This world was weak—but alive. Its cycle of birth and death remained intact. Its living beings possessed blood, souls, and fate. Crude… yet usable.
Recovery here would take time.
A long time.
So he did what only a true monster of cultivation would consider.
He sealed the world.
Invisible formations unfolded, one layer after another, wrapping around the entire dimension like a cage made of law itself. The pagoda trembled as its remaining authority fused with the formation, rewriting the rules of heaven.
The sky darkened.
The Dao changed.
A False Heavenly Will was born.
From that moment on:
Breakthroughs would require permissionLifespans would have limitsTribulations would descend not to test… but to harvest
The world would cultivate.
And when it ripened—
It would be reaped.
The man closed his eyes and merged his consciousness into the formation.
Every ten thousand years, he would cleanse the field.Every era, life would bloom again.Heroes would rise.Civilizations would fall.
And none would ever know why.
As the formation stabilized, the pagoda dimmed, its light retreating deep into the world, silent… waiting.
Far above, the heavens of the Small World churned for the first time.
This was not destiny.
This was design.
And somewhere in the distant future—
A flaw would be born.