Bang!
Dao Wei hit the ground running, using the terrain—the cliffs, the stones, the ruins scattered like bones—to stay just ahead. With every breath, he came closer to the edge of all things.
But he was weakening. "Just a little further," he told himself. "I can make it… I must…"
Each footstep echoed louder now. The ground beneath his heels cracked. Ahead, the mist thickened. The Abyss whispered louder.
Behind him, another roar. The final blow was coming.
Dao Wei turned sharply, dug his heel into the rock, and thrust his hand forward—forming a blade sigil drawn from the knowledge of the Formation God. The symbol glowed, surged, and then exploded in a dome of silver and black light.
Whoosh!
It bought him seconds—but it was enough.
He dashed forward, the wind howling now, the ground shivering beneath his steps.
The thick dead undergrowth and tangled vines seemed to part before him, as if nature itself recognized his urgency.
"I must keep going... I cannot let them catch up," Dao Wei muttered to himself.
As he approached the very edge of the valley, a sense of foreboding loomed in the distance. The Endless Abyss, treacherous with a fiery pitch-black river running at its depths, stood as a formidable barrier between him and freedom.
Yet, Dao Wei steeled his resolve, knowing that facing his own demise was preferable to falling into the hands of the Demon Sect.
A voice deeper than the world itself whispered, "This is the price of your freedom."
Rustle!
Behind him, the chasers emerged from the shattered formation, blades raised.
"Enough running!" The thunder-armored one sneered.
Dao Wei turned one last time.
He smiled—blood dripping from his lips.
"No."
"Just enough."
Rumble!
Above the edge of Death Valley, the clouds swirled like ancient dragons, black and silver, their coiling forms lit by the faint light of a lonely moon. The wind howled across the jagged cliffs, tugging at Dao Wei's blood-streaked robes like fingers urging him back—urging him to stop.
But he did not.
Dao Wei stood on the precipice, face painted in shadows and moonlight, blood trailing from the corner of his mouth. His once radiant halo flickered, flickered... then steadied again with a faint pulse, like the heartbeat of a dying star.
Behind him, three persuaders stepped forward, blades gleaming with malicious light. They had chased him across the entire Deadwood Forest. They had shattered mountains, silenced rivers, cracked the sky—and now, at last, they had him cornered.
"Hahaha, Sword Childe," the flame-armored one, now only with one arm, sneered. "You could have lived a long life. You were talented. You had promise."
The fox-masked added, "And yet, you chose this path. You chose to be hunted."
The third, clad in thunder-forged armor, lifted his blade. "This ends now."
But Dao Wei didn't flinch.
His fingers tightened around his sword's hilt—his last weapon, chipped and blackened by endless battle, yet still burning with his soul.
He drew in a slow, ragged breath.
All sound around him seemed to vanish. The howling wind fell silent. The tremble of the earth grew still.
Time paused.
And within that stillness, he heard the whisper again—low, ancient, like a lullaby sung by gods to dying stars.
"Dao Wei… no force… simply be..."
He closed his eyes. For a moment, he saw them all again.
His master standing under the plum blossoms, hands folded behind his back, smiling gently.
His sworn brothers laughing around the moonlight.
The ruins of his sect behind him. His comrades buried. The sword halls silent.
He opened his eyes, and they burned with crimson rings.
"This is my only choice… Better to meet my fate on my own terms." The words passed his lips like a prayer.
Then—he moved.
In a blaze of silver and starlight, Dao Wei stepped forward and slashed.
CLANG!
The world erupted. His blade roared like a storm reborn. The sword light surged forth like a wave of divine fury, cutting through air, energy, and illusion. The flame-armored guy was caught in the blast, staggering back with a pained cry, blood arcing through the air.
Even the ground trembled beneath the weight of the blow. Cracks split through stone like spiderwebs. The abyss shivered.
But the attack drained him.
Dao Wei faltered—his sword lowered, his knees buckling.
The fox-masked lady lunged at him, steel shrieking.
Bang!
Blood sprayed like sprinklers.
The blade struck Dao Wei's chest with a dull, final sound—a sound like a bell tolling for the dead.
His body flew backward like a falling star, spinning in slow, cruel grace. He hit the earth near the cliff's edge, his limbs sprawled, his breath shallow.
The world blurred.
But even as pain laced through every nerve, he smiled. There was peace in it—no longer running. No longer resisting fate.
Just facing it.
He raised his head slowly, blood trickling past his chin, and met the gaze of his killers.
A grin curled across his lips.
"You'll never understand," he said, voice weak but clear. "But this... this is still my victory."
And with that—He turned.
Whoosh!
And leaped.
The wind screamed.
Not a scream of agony—but of release. A long, trembling exhale from the heavens themselves, as if the world had been holding back for far too long.
Dao Wei had let go of everything. His body, bloodied and spent, plunged from the jagged lip of the world. The fractured edge of Death Valley crumbled behind him, vanishing from view. And suddenly, he was weightless.
The sky broke open above him—shattered like glass dropped in slow motion.
Moonlight fractured across the clouds, scattering into a thousand pale shards that rained down like petals. And the stars…
One by one, they winked out, as if ashamed to watch.
His fall was not a fall of terror. It was a surrender—gentle, almost sacred.
Down he went, arms slack at his sides, Skyfall slipping from his fingers like a memory too heavy to hold. His long hair streamed upward, a silver river against the void, and his blood—still warm, still red, traced delicate lines in the air before vanishing into the deepening dark.
His breath slowed.
The glow of the abyss rose to meet him, not with hunger, but with welcome.
A soft, shimmering black—the color of dreams half-forgotten. Like velvet soaked in memory, the kind worn by mourning kings or midnight gods. It opened for him like the arms of an old friend.
Dao Wei's body was broken. His bones fractured. His spirit splintered.
And yet—For the first time in what felt like centuries…
He was at peace.
There was no sword to raise.
No enemy to kill.
No crown to carry.
No name to defend—Only the wind, soft now, whispering lullabies through the air. Only gravity, kind and inevitable, guiding him down.
Only silence, deep and vast, wrapping around him like a cocoon spun from the night.
The last thing he saw… Was the moon—high and silent, distant as a god he no longer served. Its pale face grew smaller, dimmer, as if it too were letting go.
And in that final instant—just before the darkness took everything—Dao Wei smiled.
It wasn't bitter, vengeful, or even sad.
It was the smile of someone who had walked through fire, and now saw water, the smile of a soul finally unchained.
And then—Darkness.
It wasn't empty. Nor was it cruel.
It was... still, almost serene.
A womb. A tomb. A beginning and an end. Like the perfect resting place.
The powerhouses stood at the edge of the cliff, their breaths ragged, eyes wide with disbelief. The thunder-armored one stepped forward, peering into the endless trench, his voice low, almost reverent.
"No one… has ever returned from the Bottomless Abyss."
One by one, the others joined him. They might have come out on top but they also suffered a great deal but still didn't get a thing from him.
Soon after, the rest of the Demon Sect's Vanguards emerged, their boots crunching over loose stones, their faces flushed with the exertion of the chase.
Guard 1, hunched and panting, scanned the surroundings. "Did he really fall?"
"Check the area," he barked, voice still recovering from the climb. "Make sure he hasn't eluded us."
Guard 5 leaned over the edge, peering down into the infinite dark. "There's no sign of him."
Guard 3 exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple. "He must have met his end in the depths. No soul returns from that place."
Rumble!
Thunder rolled in the far distance, echoing like a funeral drum.
The Demon Sect's Vanguards stood in silence, their victory tasting bitter. They had done their duty. The Death God was gone. The Sword Childe had fallen.
But none of them spoke of the weight in their chests, the unease crawling under their skin.
Something about it felt wrong.
Like the last page of a story that refused to end.
One of the assassins, younger than the rest, glanced again into the abyss, his voice barely above a whisper.
"What if he's not gone?"