Chapter 126
Permutation of the Eons
Per the Ancient Covenant, there were 33 Seals—from the Avowed to the Exalted to the Unhindered. Ancient Clans all existed within the Covenant, and when it came time to chance their survival on the distant future they weren't sure would even occur, Lord T'wan cast from Divine Stone 33 Seals, radiant, circular pendants that had in them the most complex array that humanity had ever been able to decipher of those that belonged to the Demons—Time Stasis, the Demons dubbed it.
All things, living and otherwise, within the stasis would never wither, would never age, would never rot, and would never die—they would, however, never grow either, never improve, and never evolve. Time ceased to matter, as did all things derived from it.
The Time Stasis array, however, was so complex that True Essence of over a thousand quasi-Immortals had to be used, killing them all in the process—something that only the most Senior of those who would be entombed in time were familiar with.
The Seals would not respond to any external influence—even if the world itself were to burn down to ashes, consuming all in its path, the Seals would never flinch. Those within would never know, damned to an eternal prison of neither life nor death.
Now, however, the Seals were breaking—one by one, the snapping sounds echoed into infinity as those who had slumbered for millennia were beginning to wake.
**
Ashen clouds stormed through the entire sky above the Ashlands. Whether it was a child huddled around the roaring flames in the Northern Ashlands, or the noble scholar sipping tea leisurely in the Central Ashlands, they all bore witness to the exact same thing—the change of the world, the silent shift that seemed to have no given forewarning.
With the clouds came the storms, and with the storms the bolts—all those unlucky to be hit were turned to ash in the blink of an eye, mortal and cultivator alike. There were no defenses that could seemingly withstand the judgment from beyond, and masses quickly began to stream into whatever underground settlements they could find.
**
He opened his eyes, eyelids feeling heavy.
A sigh escaped his parched, bloodied lips as he peered past the hallowed walls cast in obsidian and to the world outside that he had abandoned.
It had come too soon—the change of Age, the foretold and forewarned pathos that he was desperately praying would only come once he'd found a successor.
But fate was cruel and twisted, and it made a mockery of the plans of men. It likely had to do with the waking of the Forest, and whatever apparition existed therein—something became the kindling to the fire that awakened the slumbering Primordial Qi, wittingly or otherwise, and now... now was the question.
He could not leave, for if he stepped out even for a moment, the walls guarding the world would come crashing down. The monsters beyond the ken of his fellow people would swarm the Ashlands, consuming everything in their wake. Even the Forest, mighty though it was, would fall. It was not enough to be an Immortal, for it was all a lie.
"Oh, dear friend," he mumbled empty words, looking down at the rusted sword resting by his side. "It appears our time together won't be for long." The sword shuddered and seemed to cry out, prompting a rare smile to emerge on his lips. "Yes, indeed. Death... ah, death would be a liberation for the both of us. But, before we depart, we must paint the cosmic realms with their blood... and pray that there would be those willing to step forward when we fall."
**
Lei Feng frowned, looking up at the suddenly shifting skies.
Had he been a moment slower just a second earlier and not quickly activated his movement art, a bolt of black lightning would have likely evaporated him from existence.
It was unlike anything he'd ever seen, and merely standing beside the vapors of smoke that it left after itself felt... suffocating. His Qi felt sluggish, and moving it around was almost twice as laborious. It was unlike anything he'd ever experienced before—even when fighting others who could alter his ability to use Qi, it was never this bad. At most, he'd only feel it was slightly sluggish but never outright difficult.
His heart paused for a moment, and he pondered whether staying here was worth it—perhaps it was best to return to the Central Ashlands and inform the Elders of what he'd seen.
But...
He couldn't. Not yet, anyway. He saw her—the portrait of a silver-haired woman with cold, detached eyes. Perfect, luscious lips; striking, piercing gaze; the sort of immortal beauty that was difficult to encounter even in the Central Ashlands—and he certainly was not nearly enough important to be so lucky to encounter one.
Here, though, his word was divine—there was nobody who could stand up to him. He could have anything he wanted, and he wanted her. Perhaps so much that he was willing to even take her with him—veiled, of course, as otherwise others would likely kill him—and wed her.
A weather anomaly, weird though it was, wasn't enough to deter him and make him turn around and leave. If he were to waste such a lucky opportunity, he would never forgive himself.
**
Beyond the skies and beyond the stars and beyond the membrane of reality itself, there was a shadow-cast court. Black tendrils shaped like vapors and smoke framed the edges of all things, dancing and writhing to the soundless existence. Silhouettes would occasionally emerge, though coated in thick vapors still, walking about for a moment before disappearing.
Tall and wide halls webbed out in a zig-zag pattern from the central chamber; the latter was perfectly hexagonal, a writhing concert of statues cast out of obsidian stone arising from the center and outward, like a flower blooming. Their faces were of agony, arms stretching out as though toward a reprieve that was just beyond the tip of their fingers, their pain forever immortalized.
Opposite them, elevated on a suspended platform, was a throne—a throne of shadows and enduring silence, its jagged tips shuttling outward from the splat. Its cresting rail was a bendy bone of white, enormously large as though ripped from a beast that could trample over a building in one step, and it caused the only other color to appear—that of bright red.
In a seemingly uneven, yet perfectly predictable, pattern, the bone would shudder and drip blood from its opposite ends, and the blood would trail down through the air as though there was a pipe guiding it, landing directly on the seat for it to be soaked up by the figure seated on top of it.
As all things around, the figure was cast in thick shadow, their features imperceptible. For how long the figure remained seated, its eyes closed, it was unknown. However, when they snapped open, it caused the entire court to shake violently, dust and debris bleeding into the shadows.
The eyes were bejeweled rubies, terrifyingly imposing and emotionless, as though bereft of all but a singular desire to consume. They looked beyond the veil of shadows and through the false skies and saw it—the storm sweeping the ashes that were stolen.
The court quaked once more, the statues suddenly wailing in agony, their voices tearing through the walls.
"It has come," the voice was vile and coarse, depraved beyond all else; were a mortal to hear it, they would either die on the spot or go mad, devoured by a visage of things that the voice bore within itself. "Death... has come..."
**
Beyond the veil of the Ashlands, on the opposite end of the court, there was a palace—a gilded structure of gold and silver, its walls bejeweled with precious stones, its gardens home to the rarest and wildest flora the realm had to offer.
The walls of its interior held no free room, with either paintings or statues or cups or anything else that shined taking up every inch of it. It was ostentatious beyond reason, gaudy even for the most wealth-obsessed.
And at its center was a hall, tall and wide, and the only place bereft of all decorations—there was nothing but simple, barren columns holding up the domed ceiling, a singular praying mat, and aging stone.
On top of the praying mat was an elderly man, his hair and beard wild and long and as white as snow, his figure skeletal—simple, tattered, brown robes hung loose from his frame, his bones jutting out from beneath his stretched-out skin. He seemed more a mummy than a person, as still as a statue frozen in time—until he suddenly opened his eyes.
Unlike the rest of him, his eyes radiated life and energy beyond all else, terribly bright and golden. He looked past the garish halls that his descendants decorated and past the membrane of the tiny realm and saw the storm raging—a storm that signaled the changing of tides. For a moment, he peered up from the Ashlands and toward where he knew she hid—as he awoke, so did she.
"Old grudges and new," he mumbled softly. "Time has come to undo them all, it seems."