The sky didn't simply darken—it collapsed.
A ripple of ancestral qi surged outward from the peak as the black sun cracked open like an egg, spilling blood-red light across the heavens. Every cultivator in a thousand-mile radius felt it. Every beast, plant, and river flinched. Even the stars, long distant and dead, seemed to shiver.
Above the shattered summit of the Dead Heavens Sect, the throne pulsed once more.
Then it began to descend.
Jin stood at the center of the Grand Courtyard, his robes untouched by the wind, his gaze unflinching as the Throne of Bone and Woe fell from its ancient tether in the sky.
It landed with a thunderclap.
A crater formed beneath its legs of carved spinal pillars. Screaming faces writhed across its surface—elders devoured by their own oaths, traitors eaten by ambition, lineages erased from history. Every sin ever buried by the Dead Heavens Sect had been absorbed into that throne.
And now, it had no master.
The throne pulsed once. Twice.
Then it spoke—not with words, but through blood.
A cut opened on Jin's chest, just beneath his sternum. Thin. Precise. A thread of scarlet floated from the wound, drawn toward the throne like incense toward a funeral flame.
The ancient will reached into him.
Searching.
Tasting.
And then—the throne screamed.
A keening, thunderous wail split the sky. Disciples across the sect collapsed to their knees. Mountains split. Clouds bled. Even the earth groaned.
The throne remembered.
It remembered the man who once sat upon it.
The one who shaped death like clay.
The one who tamed the grave.
Jin.
And yet… it did not yield.
Instead, it demanded a test.
A final judgment.
—
The Throne tore open the space before Jin.
A rift, circular, as smooth as a mirror.
Inside, a battlefield formed. No. Not just a battlefield—his battlefield.
Ten thousand years ago.
The final stand.
Jin stepped forward and saw it clearly: the burning skies of the Endless Purge, the corpses of heaven-tier cultivators strewn like wheat, and at the center—
Himself.
His past self. Younger. Less scarred. Eyes still carrying the fire of hope.
This was no illusion.
This was a duel.
The throne would not kneel unless Jin defeated the very version of himself that once ruled.
Jin cracked his neck.
"So be it."
He stepped into the mirror.
—
Time warped. Qi bent.
The world shifted.
Suddenly, he stood across from himself—cloaked in black and gold, the Bone Scripture engraved across his forearms, death aura blazing like wildfire.
The past-Jin said nothing.
He raised a hand.
A tide of bone dragons erupted from the ground.
Jin moved instantly. His current body surged with the weight of ten thousand years of cultivation. Forbidden techniques, dark arts perfected in silence, scars etched into spirit and soul alike.
He wasn't just a cultivator.
He was a scripture rewritten.
With one breath, he summoned the Gravewheel Lotus, spinning it through the air like a comet of silver flame. The first wave of bone dragons shattered into dust.
But his younger self advanced, uncaring. The Bone Scripture uncoiled from his arms, wrapping around his blades like sentient serpents.
They clashed.
And the world broke.
—
Blow for blow, they matched.
The past fought with fury, discipline, and purpose.
But the present fought with inevitability.
The battlefield bled. Every tree turned to ash. Rivers dried. The very laws of qi bent around their clash. Reality warped with each strike.
Then came the final technique.
The younger Jin roared, stabbing his blade into the earth.
"𝘍𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘚𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘱𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 – 𝘉𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘗𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘚𝘦𝘢𝘭!"
A thousand arms of ancestral flame rose from the ground, each one holding a weapon forged from memories of the dead. They descended like a storm, each blow capable of destroying a sect.
But Jin did not retreat.
He raised a single finger.
Tapped his chest.
"𝘍𝘰𝘳𝘣𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘯 𝘈𝘳𝘵 – 𝘙𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘢𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘛𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳."
The world reversed.
The Blood Palace Seal collapsed into itself, consumed by the chronolock of his cultivated soul. The younger Jin gasped, shaken—for just a second—hesitation bloomed.
And that second was enough.
Jin appeared behind him, faster than sound.
He whispered, "You were never ready to do what had to be done."
And struck.
A single palm. Silent. Gentle.
But layered with ten thousand years of weight.
The past version shattered like glass.
The world fell away.
—
He stood once more before the Throne of Bone and Woe.
But now, it bent.
Not in surrender.
But in recognition.
The throne shifted.
Chains unraveled from its legs. The screaming faces quieted. The crown of thorns above it dissolved into dust.
And on its seat—
A single flower bloomed.
The last flower of the Dead Heavens Sect.
A ghostly lotus. Pale blue.
Jin approached.
And sat.
Thunder rang. The earth opened. Rivers turned silver. The stars above aligned for a single breath. Every disciple in the Withered Crown felt it—the shift. The return.
The true master had come back.
And then the lotus burst into flame.
Spiritual flame.
And from its ashes—
A new scroll.
Sealed with three symbols: Grave, Heaven, Rebirth.
Jin took it.
Unrolled it.
And smiled.
"This," he said, voice quiet, "is the future."