Founder of the Ten Thousand Realms
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Chapter 1: The Lonely Summit
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He had forgotten his own name.
Not because his memory was failing—his memory was perfect, every moment of every day for the past several million years preserved crystal clear in his mind. He could recall the exact expression on the face of the Immortal Emperor who had knelt before him 847,362 years ago, begging for mercy. He could remember the precise taste of the tea he had drunk 2.3 million years before that, on a mountain that no longer existed in a universe that had long since collapsed and been reborn.
No, his memory was flawless.
He had simply been alone for so long that names had lost their meaning.
What was a name, after all? A label. A distinction. Something to separate one person from another. But when there was no one else—no one who could stand beside him, no one who could look him in the eye, no one who could even comprehend the vastness of his existence—what need did he have for a name?
They called him many things.
The Immortal Emperors, when they dared to speak of him at all, called him "Ancestor." The True Immortals whispered of "The One Above." The countless beings across countless realms had their own titles: The Silent Watcher, The End of All Paths, The Green Robed One, The Lonely God.
He didn't mind any of them. He didn't mind much of anything anymore.
He sat on the highest peak in existence—a mountain that existed not in any realm or universe, but in the spaces between them. Below him, galaxies swirled like snowflakes in a winter wind. Beyond them, the great worlds spun: the martial continent where billions trained from birth to seek immortality; the Hongmeng void where ancient beings meditated for eons; the Sword Devouring Realm where blades were born and died in an endless cycle; the Nine Nethers Abyss where demons refined souls and cursed the light; the Immortal Slaying Realm where battle never ceased and madness was the only wisdom.
And beyond even those, the mortal worlds. Tiny. Fragile. Full of creatures who lived and died in the blink of an eye, never knowing that something far greater watched them from above.
He watched them all.
For millions of years, he had watched.
And he was so terribly, unbearably lonely.
---
"I wonder," he murmured to himself, "if this is what the Dao feels like."
The Dao had no feelings, of course. The Dao simply was. It didn't watch. It didn't care. It didn't sit on a mountain and wonder if there was anyone else out there who could understand.
He laughed softly at his own foolishness.
Then a voice spoke in his mind.
[Ding! Detected that the host has reached the pinnacle of this universe. Activating the "Ten Thousand Realms Mentor System."]
He blinked.
It had been a long time since anything had surprised him. A very long time. He had thought himself incapable of surprise anymore.
Yet here was a voice in his head—a voice that was not his own, that carried no spiritual pressure, that somehow existed without setting off any of his countless wards and alarms.
"Interesting," he said.
[System initializing...]
[Detected host status: Unquantifiable.]
[Detected host cultivation: Beyond all known realm classifications.]
[Detected host emotional state: Severe loneliness (99.7%), mild boredom (98.2%), curiosity (increasing).]
His eyebrow rose slightly. "You can read my emotions?"
[System functions include basic emotional detection. Host's emotions are... unusually intense. Recommend social interaction.]
He laughed—a genuine laugh, the first in perhaps a hundred thousand years.
"Social interaction? You want me, the being who can destroy Immortal Emperors with a glance, to engage in social interaction?"
[Recommendation stands.]
"And if I refuse?"
[System will self-destruct. Host will remain alone for eternity. Probability of finding companionship without system assistance: 0.0000000000001%.]
He was silent for a long moment.
The system was right. He had searched. For millions of years, he had scoured the corners of existence, looking for anyone who could match him, anyone who could stand beside him, anyone who could simply talk to him without trembling in fear.
He had found no one.
The Immortal Emperors, the strongest beings in all the realms, looked at him and saw a god. They knelt. They worshipped. They begged for guidance or mercy or simply to be allowed to leave his presence alive.
None of them ever asked his name.
None of them ever offered theirs.
"What do you want from me?" he asked finally.
[System mission: Recruit and cultivate disciples.]
[Disciples increase their realms → Host receives cultivation feedback.]
[Disciples complete trials → Host receives Dao comprehension rewards.]
[Disciples achieve transcendence → Host breaks through barriers.]
[Current host realm: ??? (Unable to detect)]
[Next realm: Beyond the Dao (requires gathering ten thousand great Dao fruits to open the barrier)]
"Beyond the Dao," he repeated. "I've been stuck at this barrier for eight hundred thousand years. You're telling me you can help me break through?"
[System authority: Yes. But host must complete the main mission—recruit ten core disciples and guide them to become Immortal Emperors.]
"Ten Immortal Emperors." He considered this. "I've created over a hundred Immortal Emperors with my own hands. That's not difficult."
[Correction: Host must recruit disciples from multiple realms, including low-level planes. Disciples cultivated from scratch offer highest compatibility and greatest feedback rewards.]
"Low-level planes?" He thought of the mortal worlds below, with their brief lives and tiny ambitions. "You want me to take mortals as disciples?"
[System recommendation: Mortals with potential. Especially those deemed "trash" by their own worlds. Broken spiritual roots, crippled cultivation, no talent, no hope.]
[System assessment: These individuals have the strongest motivation. They will work hardest. They will be most loyal. They will go furthest.]
He was silent, considering.
Then he smiled—a small smile, but genuine.
"Fine. Show me where to start."
[Searching...]
[Target found.]
[Coordinates transmitted.]
He rose from his seat for the first time in three thousand years.
The mountain trembled.
Below, countless beings across countless realms felt a shift in the fabric of existence, as if something ancient and terrible had awakened. Immortal Emperors clutched their thrones. True Immortals looked to the sky with fear in their eyes. Demons hid in the deepest pits of the Nine Nethers.
He ignored them all.
With a single step, he left the mountain and descended toward the mortal world.
---
Tianling Continent. Spirit Sword Sect. Mountain Gate.
It was raining.
Not a gentle rain, but a punishing downpour that turned the road to mud and soaked through even the thickest robes. Thunder rolled across the sky, and lightning illuminated the massive bluestone archway that marked the entrance to the Spirit Sword Sect—one of the most prestigious cultivation sects on the continent.
Before that archway, a boy knelt in the mud.
He was young—perhaps sixteen—with a thin frame and clothes that had been patched so many times they were more patch than original garment. In his arms, clutched protectively against the rain, he held an iron sword wrapped in faded cloth.
The sword was rusted. The wrapping was frayed. It looked like something found in a garbage heap.
The boy's name was Shen Yi.
He had been kneeling here for three hours.
Before him, on a wooden table just inside the archway, sat a deacon disciple of the Spirit Sword Sect. The disciple was young, perhaps twenty, with the smug expression of someone who had passed the sect's entrance exam and never let anyone forget it. He was dry under the archway's shelter, occasionally sipping tea while glancing at the kneeling boy with obvious contempt.
"Why are you still here?" the deacon called out, not bothering to hide his irritation. "I told you already—you're not qualified."
Shen Yi didn't move. "I came to seek apprenticeship."
"I know why you came. Everyone comes here to seek apprenticeship." The deacon gestured vaguely at the long line of young men and women waiting behind Shen Yi, all of them huddled under whatever shelter they could find. "But most of them have at least some talent. You? Qi Condensation, third level. At your age, that's not just bad—it's pathetic."
Shen Yi's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
The deacon picked up a wooden token from the table—a name token, the kind given to accepted disciples. He held it up so Shen Yi could see.
On it was written: Outer Sect Disciple, Shen Yi.
"See this?" the deacon said. "This is your token. I had it prepared, just in case. But then I tested your cultivation, and..." He laughed, then tossed the token into the mud before Shen Yi's knees. "Trash like you doesn't deserve to step foot in the Spirit Sword Sect."
The token landed face-down in the mud.
Shen Yi stared at it.
"I said get lost!" The deacon stood, walked forward, and kicked—not hard enough to seriously injure, but hard enough to send a spray of mud across Shen Yi's face and clothes. "Do you know how many people are waiting behind you? Your father was a useless outer sect disciple his whole life, and now you're following in his footsteps? The Spirit Sword Sect doesn't need more failures!"
Mud dripped from Shen Yi's face.
He didn't wipe it off.
Slowly, he raised his head and looked at the deacon.
His eyes were calm. Not angry, not despairing, not pleading. Just... calm. The calm of someone who had learned long ago that anger changed nothing, that despair was a luxury, that the only thing he could control was his own response.
The deacon faltered for just a moment—there was something unsettling about those eyes—then recovered his sneer. "What? You want to fight me? Go ahead. I'm at Qi Condensation, eighth level. I could destroy you with one finger."
Shen Yi said nothing.
He simply looked at the deacon for a long moment, then slowly, deliberately, reached out and picked up the mud-covered token from the ground.
He wiped it clean on his already-soaked sleeve.
Then he stood, turned, and walked away without a word.
Behind him, laughter erupted from the line of waiting applicants. The deacon said something mocking, but Shen Yi didn't hear it. He heard only the rain and his own footsteps in the mud.
He walked for a long time.
Past the mountain gate, down the winding path, through the small town at the mountain's base, and beyond—into the wilderness. He didn't know where he was going. He didn't care. He just walked, the rain soaking him to the bone, the iron sword heavy in his arms.
Eventually, he found himself at a riverbank.
The locals called this place Sunken Boat Ferry. Legend said that an immortal had once crossed the river here, and his boat had sunk in these waters, but no one had ever seen any immortal. The river was wide and turbulent, and along its banks lay the rotting remains of countless boats—fishing vessels, ferries, even a few small trading ships—all abandoned to decay.
Shen Yi sat down on a moss-covered rock, ignoring the wet seeping through his clothes.
He unwrapped the iron sword and looked at it.
Rust. Pitting. A blade so dull it couldn't cut paper, let alone flesh.
His father had given him this sword. His father, who had spent forty years as an outer sect disciple of the Spirit Sword Sect, never advancing beyond Qi Condensation, never achieving anything, never even earning the right to call himself a true cultivator. His father, who had died five years ago, leaving his only son nothing but a rusty sword and a dream that would never come true.
"The third level of Qi Condensation," Shen Yi murmured to himself. "Even Body Tempering requires spiritual roots. If my spiritual roots are broken, what's the use of all my hard work?"
The river roared, drowning out his words.
He sat there for hours, watching the rain fall into the water, watching the rotting boats shift with the current, watching the sky darken as evening approached.
He thought about giving up.
He thought about throwing the sword into the river and walking away, finding some ordinary life, forgetting about cultivation and immortality and all the dreams his father had passed down to him.
But he didn't move.
He just sat there, clutching the sword, letting the rain wash over him.
Then, as dusk began to fall, something changed.
A boat appeared on the river.
It came from upstream, drifting slowly with the current—a small, weathered vessel so covered in mud and moss that it looked more like a floating corpse than a boat. But in the center of that boat sat an old man, fishing.
The old man's fishing rod was bent almost double, as if he had hooked something enormous. But the river water was clear—Shen Yi could see straight to the bottom—and there were no fish. No fish at all.
Shen Yi blinked, wondering if the rain was playing tricks on his eyes.
"Young man."
The voice came from the boat. The old man had turned to look at him, and despite the distance and the rain, Shen Yi could see his face clearly: weathered by countless years, with eyes so deep they seemed to hold entire universes within them.
"Do you want to cultivate?" the old man asked.
His voice was raspy, like rusted iron scraping against stone. But it carried clearly across the water, cutting through the sound of rain and river alike.
Shen Yi was stunned for a moment. "My spiritual roots are broken."
"I know." The old man didn't turn away. "If they weren't broken, why would I be looking for you?"
Shen Yi frowned. "You can mend spiritual roots?"
"I can't." The old man finally set down his fishing rod and turned to face Shen Yi fully. "But you don't need spiritual roots to cultivate. Do you believe that?"
Shen Yi was silent for a long moment.
He thought about everything he had been told his entire life: that spiritual roots were essential, that without them cultivation was impossible, that he was and always would be trash.
He thought about his father, who had believed those words so completely that he never even tried to find another way.
He thought about the deacon's sneer, the token in the mud, the laughter of the crowd.
"No," he said finally. "I don't believe that."
The old man smiled.
It was a small smile, but it transformed his face. For just a moment, the weariness fell away, and Shen Yi caught a glimpse of something immense and ancient behind those deep-set eyes.
Then the old man raised his hand and pointed at the distant mountain where the Spirit Sword Sect stood.
The mountain gate shattered.
Not slowly, not gradually—in an instant. The massive bluestone archway, carved with the sword techniques of ancestral masters and standing for over ten thousand years, simply exploded into dust. The sound reached them a moment later: a thunderous crash that echoed across the valley, followed by distant screams and chaos.
Shen Yi's eyes went wide.
"A single strike shattering the mountain gate," he breathed. "That's... that's at least a Saint, right?"
"A Saint?" The old man laughed—a genuine laugh, warm and slightly sad. "Young man, your world is too small."
He stood up.
The rotting boat beneath him suddenly burst into brilliant golden light. The river itself seemed to recoil, water rolling back from the boat as if afraid to touch it. Above them, the rain stopped instantly, clouds parting to reveal a sky filled with churning colors that had no names. Thunder rolled, but it was not the thunder of storms—it was the sound of reality itself groaning under the weight of the old man's presence.
"Seventeen thousand years ago," the old man said, his voice carrying now with the weight of ages, "someone called me the Ancient Venerable. Twelve thousand years ago, someone called me Supreme. Eight thousand years ago, I was crowned Great Emperor."
He looked at Shen Yi, and his gaze was like staring into the sun—overwhelming, terrifying, yet impossible to look away from.
"Now, I've forgotten my own name. I only remember that I'm waiting for someone. Waiting for a person with broken spiritual roots. Waiting for a person abandoned by the world."
Shen Yi felt his soul tremble. Just the old man's gaze made him feel like an ant facing a god—no, less than an ant. Like a single grain of sand facing an infinite desert.
He should have been terrified. He should have knelt, or fled, or simply passed out from the pressure.
Instead, he clenched his jaw, tightened his grip on the rusty sword, and asked:
"What... what are you?"
The old man looked at him for a long moment. Then the smile returned—gentler this time, almost fond.
"Me?" He spread his hands, and the golden light dimmed slightly. The sky began to return to normal. The river calmed. The distant mountain gate, Shen Yi noticed with astonishment, was intact again, as if it had never shattered at all.
"Now," the old man said, "I am just a boatman. Waiting for a passenger."
He sat back down in his rotting boat, picked up his fishing rod, and cast his line into the water.
The vision faded.
One moment, Shen Yi was standing on the riverbank, staring at a glowing old man who could shatter mountain gates with a gesture. The next, he was sitting on his moss-covered rock, rain falling around him, the river flowing normally, and the boat—if there had ever been a boat—nowhere to be seen.
Only one thing remained.
On his lap, resting atop the rusty iron sword, was a tattered ancient book.
The cover bore two characters, so faded they were almost illegible:
萬古
Wàn Gǔ
Ten Thousand Ages
Shen Yi stared at the book, his mind reeling.
Then the old man's voice drifted across the water one last time, ethereal and indistinct:
"The road ahead is very long. From Qi Condensation, Body Tempering, Soul Condensation... all the way to Saint, Great Saint—that's only the starting point."
"Above that, there are Quasi-Emperors, Supremes, Great Emperors, True Immortals, Immortal Kings, Immortal Venerables, Immortal Emperors."
"That road is paved with bones. Even I didn't reach the end."
"So..."
The voice paused.
"Do you still want to cultivate?"
Shen Yi clutched the ancient book, his knuckles white.
He looked up.
The river was empty. No boat. No old man. No golden light. Just the rain, falling as it had for hours, and the rotting boats along the shore, and the distant mountain where the Spirit Sword Sect stood, unaware of what had just transpired.
He looked down at the book.
He thought about his father, who had died believing he was worthless.
He thought about the deacon, who had thrown his token in the mud.
He thought about sixteen years of being told he was trash, that he would never amount to anything, that broken spiritual roots meant broken dreams.
Then he thought about the old man's eyes—so deep, so ancient, so impossibly kind.
He took a deep breath.
Slowly, deliberately, he rose from his rock. He tucked the ancient book into his robe. He rewrapped the rusty iron sword and strapped it to his back.
Then he turned to face the river, fell to his knees, and pressed his forehead to the muddy ground.
"Disciple is willing," he said.
The rain continued to fall.
But somewhere, far away, on a mountain that existed between worlds, a man in green robes smiled.
---
Three months later.
A new mountain gate stood on the ruins of the Spirit Sword Sect's old entrance. It had taken three months and countless resources to rebuild what had been destroyed in an instant—though no one could explain how the destruction had happened in the first place. The deacon who had been on duty that day had been expelled for "negligence," though he swore until his last day at the sect that he had seen something impossible.
On this day, a young man in simple robes stood before the new mountain gate.
He looked ordinary. Unremarkable. His cultivation, to anyone who bothered to check, was still at Qi Condensation, third level—barely enough to be