The sky above the valley had turned unnatural.
Clouds gathered slowly, spiraling toward a single point high in the heavens. They did not roll like ordinary storm clouds, nor did lightning flash through their depths. Instead, they moved with quiet inevitability, like a colossal whirlpool swallowing the sky itself. The light of the sun dimmed gradually, as if the world itself were holding its breath, waiting for some final verdict to descend.
Shadows stretched across the valley floor, long and distorted. The distant mountains, once jagged and proud, now appeared blurred, their forms bending beneath the oppressive weight of the darkening sky.
It was not the quiet of peace.
It was the quiet of judgment.
Even the wind had ceased.
Tall pine trees, lining the valley in rigid, frozen rows, remained utterly still. Needles hung motionless. Birds vanished from the sky. Insects hidden among the grass had fallen silent. Time itself seemed to hesitate, as if the world had paused to witness the final act of a life lived in extremes.
The world waited.
Below the dark vortex, a lone figure stood.
Li Wuchen.
His robes fluttered faintly despite the still air, their once-deep black faded to ash from centuries of battle and wandering. Long hair, streaked with gray, hung over his shoulders. His face bore the quiet weight of someone who had endured more than most could imagine.
Four hundred and sixty years.
Four hundred and sixty years of struggle.
Four hundred and sixty years in a world where weakness was devoured, where kindness was a liability, and only the strong survived.
He had seen sects rise and collapse like fragile towers of sand. Cities had burned beneath the fury of cultivators capable of shattering mountains. Friends had become enemies; enemies had become nothing more than bones forgotten beneath dust.
Through it all, Li Wuchen had continued forward.
Step by step.
Until today.
A faint aura surrounded him, subtle yet suffocating. The valley's spiritual energy had long since been exhausted, leaving the land brittle and lifeless. Grass had withered to gray strands; the pines bore the scars of age. The world itself seemed unwilling to approach him.
Li Wuchen lifted his gaze toward the heavens.
The spiraling clouds tightened.
An invisible pressure descended.
"So it begins," he murmured.
Calm. Indifferent. Experienced.
For centuries, cultivators had believed the fifth realm was the limit—the peak of mortal power, the threshold where one could stand before the heavens themselves.
Li Wuchen had surpassed it.
Step by step. Century by century. Against expectation. Against limitation. Against the disbelief of the world itself.
Ascension.
And as always, the heavens would not allow it without resistance.
Heavenly tribulation.
Yet something was wrong.
No thunder. No crackling lightning. No roaring winds capable of flattening mountains.
Only slow, deliberate rotation of clouds, silent and immense, like a black ocean turning upon itself.
The valley's silence became almost suffocating.
Li Wuchen's eyes narrowed.
Then—a leaf fell from a nearby pine tree.
It drifted lazily. Halfway down, it stopped. Suspended in air. Frozen.
For a brief, terrifying moment, the world itself seemed paused.
Then the leaf continued its descent.
The earth beneath Li Wuchen's feet cracked, thin fissures spreading across stone. Then, as if repelled by some unseen force, the cracks reversed. The stone slid back together like a wound closing.
Reality itself had begun to twist.
Li Wuchen exhaled slowly.
"…Time."
He had lived long enough to recognize it. This tribulation was not made of lightning or fire. It was something far more insidious.
The sky twisted again.
Invisible waves spread outward. Pressure multiplied instantly. Li Wuchen's body trembled. Bones creaked under the invisible force. Blood seeped from the corner of his mouth.
Yet he did not flinch.
Pain had long ceased to matter. Four hundred and sixty years of life had taught him that suffering alone could not bend a resolute will.
The air warped. His vision blurred. A strange crawling sensation spread across his skin.
He looked down. Deep wrinkles etched across his hands. His hair whitened in an instant. Decades, centuries, rolled over him in a single breath.
Then reversed violently. Wrinkles vanished. Hair darkened. Body snapped back.
The storm tore through his meridians.
Li Wuchen clenched his fists.
"So this is the tribulation…"
It did not strike with force.
It eroded.
It rewrote.
It tested existence itself.
The vortex descended further. Light dimmed.
Fragments of memory appeared:
A starving child wandering a snow-covered village;
A boy carrying firewood heavier than his own body;
Winters where hunger gnawed endlessly at his stomach;
The gates of a small sect opening beneath towering pines—the beginning of a long and merciless road;
Battles fought beneath crimson skies;
Enemies collapsing beneath his blade;
Cities reduced to ash;
Decades and centuries dissolving like dust in the wind.
The visions flickered faster, more intensely.
Li Wuchen's expression remained unchanged.
Memories could not shake him. He had already lived through them all.
But the tribulation escalated.
Time aged him again.
Centuries passed over his skin. Bones weakened. Organs faltered.
Then reversed violently.
The repeated destruction shattered internal balance. Spiritual energy erupted uncontrollably. The earth beneath him fractured. Pine trees snapped under pressure. Stones hung suspended in air. The valley had become a place where time itself had lost its rules.
Yet the tribulation continued.
Li Wuchen closed his eyes.
During ascension, a cultivator's life reflects in their very existence. Path walked, power gained, choices made—all condensed into something deeper.
Dao marks.
They were not chosen consciously.
They were not ornaments of virtue or enlightenment.
They were the product of survival.
Li Wuchen had never sought enlightenment. Philosophy had never guided him.
He had done only one thing: survive.
And he had survived through a Dao he barely understood—a Dao of Devouring.
Not a gentle path of reflection or virtue. Not the teachings of benevolent masters. This Dao demanded slaughter, precision, and relentless hunger. Li Wuchen did not fully know its depth, nor its ultimate consequences, but he knew enough to wield it.
It allowed him to absorb. Not in kindness, not for justice. But for survival. The strength, the energy, even the life essence of others—he could turn all of it to his advantage. Body, blood, soul—all became tools to accelerate his growth. Each struggle, each battle, each desperate chance he snatched from fate became nourishment.
It was a cruel, demonic path. Painful. Bloody. Necessary.
Even with it, progress was agonizingly slow.
Even with it, countless failures had left him broken and exhausted.
Strange, jagged patterns formed beneath his skin. Dark lines twisted across flesh like runes etched with screams he could neither hear nor feel directly. Spiritual energy that approached vanished, devoured. Even fragments of distorted time were drawn to him, swallowed and absorbed.
Li Wuchen's eyes narrowed. The marks pulsed faintly, first visible signs of the Dao of Devouring asserting itself. He did not fully understand it yet, but the Dao worked in mysterious ways.
The vortex tightened violently. Pressure multiplied. Chaos spread. Time fractured, shattered, collapsed. Meridians ruptured. Blood spurted from his mouth. Spiritual sea cracked.
Still he did not scream.
His body disintegrated. Flesh crumbled. Bones shattered. Meridians dissolved.
Only consciousness remained. Floating in darkness.
So this was death.
Strangely, Li Wuchen felt no fear. Four hundred and sixty years—longer than most could dream of living. The path had been walked. Success or failure now mattered little.
As consciousness faded, an unseen force caught him. A vast, ancient current. Time itself flowed around him like a boundless ocean. Memories twisted violently as the current dragged him backward. Battles. Journeys. Years collapsing into seconds.
Any ordinary soul would have been destroyed. Yet he endured.
The current dragged him faster. Deeper. Everything dissolved into blinding darkness.
Then—the darkness shattered.
Li Wuchen opened his eyes.
Cold mountain air rushed into his lungs. The scent of pine filled his senses.
For a moment he remained still. Two hands before him—young, unscarred. His body light, fragile. Immense power gone.
Yet his mind was calm. Experienced. Ancient.
He looked around. A narrow mountain path wound through tall pines. Voices drifted—young, excited, nervous.
Li Wuchen's gaze grew distant.
Black Pine Mountain.
Four hundred and sixty years ago, he had walked this path for the first time. A poor village boy seeking a chance to escape a mortal life.
Now—he had returned.
"…Sixteen," he murmured. Not surprise. Not joy. Only acknowledgment.
Voices grew louder. Other youths walked toward the same destination: the Black Pine Sect recruitment trial.
Li Wuchen lifted his head. Calm. Determined. Ancient.
Four hundred and sixty years ago, his path had begun here. Now, it would begin again.
The world had not changed.
But he had.
And the path ahead would be different.