Where the earth no longer breathes, and the heavens no longer see."
The wind screamed as Zang Xuan stood upon the edge of the Crimson Abyss. His black robe snapped like a battle banner behind him, and the hilt of Requiem of the Fallen Sky pulsed at his back.
This was not mere wind — it carried whispers. Whispers that tugged at the minds of the weak. Screams of regret. Laughter of the lost. Lies twisted into truths.
Zang Xuan closed his eyes and let the wind pass through him. The abyss did not frighten him. It beckoned. It remembered him.
His gloved hand pressed lightly on a prayer stone etched with runes older than the empire itself. The words had long faded from most minds, but he spoke them anyway — not to pray, but to mark the moment.
"Here falls the last of restraint. Here begins the unraveling of the Nine Fates."
And with that, he stepped off the edge.
He did not fall.
He descended.
"Where gods bled, and kings wept."
The fall lasted longer than a mortal breath could hold. Minutes passed. Hours. Perhaps more. Time was unstable here. The weight of countless oaths, betrayals, and forbidden pacts had bent the flow of reality.
When Zang Xuan landed, it was without sound — his footstep absorbed by the obsidian jade floor of the Inverted Temple.
It was built upside down, suspended within the void-chasm by unseen threads. Gravity twisted here. Orientation was meaningless. The architecture bled purpose — every column, every arch, designed not for aesthetics but for containment.
The walls were carved from dragon bone and cursed silver. The altar in the center pulsed like a wounded heart. And above it, floating within a nexus of spiritual current, was the thing he came for:
The Scroll of Nine Dooms.
Its presence alone bent the laws of cultivation. No Qi flowed near it. It did not pulse — it drank energy. Like a black hole in the sea of spirit.
But between him and the scroll… stood something else.
"Once a hero, now a curse."
It had been human once.
The moment Zang Xuan approached the altar, the floor groaned. Chains rattled. And from the blackened corner of the temple — a figure rose.
Twelve feet tall. Body wrapped in soulsteel bindings, inscribed with forgotten martial commandments. Its flesh had long rotted, yet it moved with unnatural precision. A mask of bone covered what once was a face — three eyes glowing faintly beneath it.
A spear formed in its hand. Not conjured — but grown from its palm. Twisted, barbed, dripping with ghostly ichor.
"The pact forbids mortals…"
Its voice echoed from all directions.
"…from laying hands upon the scroll."
Zang Xuan's left hand slid to his sword. The weapon whined, eager.
"I am no mere mortal."
"Steel may shatter, but will — never."
The Guardian surged forward, weightless despite its monstrous form. The spear in its grasp whistled through the air like a phantom's cry, aiming straight for Zang Xuan's throat.
But Zang Xuan was already gone.
With the soundless grace of a shadow, he shifted two steps to the side, his fingers dancing over the hilt of his sword. The Requiem of the Fallen Sky left its sheath in a streak of pale light. Its edge met the spear.
Clang.
The clash sent shockwaves through the inverted temple, rattling ancient chains that suspended the structure. Sparks and spiritual pressure rippled outward, carving cracks into the dragon bone floor.
Zang Xuan's eyes narrowed. This guardian wasn't simply strong — it remembered every technique ever used against it.
And it was adapting.
The next exchange was faster.
Zang Xuan ducked under a sweeping strike, reversed his blade mid-spin, and aimed for the guardian's exposed flank. But as the sword touched the guardian's skin, the metal groaned — its body was absorbing spiritual energy. He leapt back, flipping through the air to land on a distant column.
"You're a prison," he murmured, examining the guardian. "And the scroll is your ward."
The guardian raised its spear vertically in a salute. Not out of mockery — but respect.
Zang Xuan narrowed his eyes. There was still humanity left in this cursed being. Perhaps... too much.
-
Zang Xuan's aura shifted.
He drew in breath, and the entire void paused. Even the altar pulsed slower, as if time itself dared not intrude.
Then he moved.
One step forward — and the sword sang.
A crescent of light carved through space, not air. It bent around the guardian's spear, slicing into the ancient bindings of soulsteel on its arm. The metal sizzled, burning with celestial flame. The guardian recoiled, not in pain — but confusion.
It had not felt pain in centuries.
The Second Form followed — Falling Star Rain — a cascade of piercing strikes from impossible angles. Each slash tore not only flesh, but memory, disrupting the guardian's ability to adapt. Sparks of spectral blue blood scattered across the floor like fragments of shattered moonlight.
And then...
The Third Form: Heaven-Binding Lock — a forbidden art.
Zang Xuan blurred. One hundred afterimages spread across the temple, each mirroring a different timeline, a different destiny where he fought and died. The guardian struck — and struck illusions. Again. And again. Until—
The real Zang Xuan appeared behind it, sword poised.
"This ends."
He struck.
The guardian fell to one knee. Not dead — but sealed once more.
---
The Scroll of Nine Dooms hovered before him.
It was not bound in paper, but dragon-hide. The edges were rimmed with phoenix feather threads. Sealed with the blood of nine kings and one god.
Zang Xuan stepped forward, and the entire temple groaned. The moment his fingers touched the scroll, a thousand voices screamed.
"Unworthy!"
"Chosen!"
"Doombringer!"
Flashes of prophecy surged into his mind — images of worlds burning, cities falling, immortals weeping at his feet. Then, silence.
And the scroll opened.
Nine characters, each written in divine script, ignited across the parchment. Each one seared itself into Zang Xuan's soul — not as words, but as truths.
He who bears the Nine Dooms... shall unmake the heavens.
His eyes darkened. Not with malice.
With acceptance.