rin's native world—Dracois.
Far below its skies, rin’s true body—the Lunar Tree—shudders.
Its roots thicken, twist, and burrow deeper, carving through strata like serpents searching for prey.
They push downward.
Deeper.
Hotter.
Until they reach the core of the world.
Then they coil.
And the Lunar Tree enfolds the core like a beast capturing a beating heart.
Monts later, it begins to devour.
The Nalvuri are the first to notice.
A race born of calculation and destiny—seers who read probability the way mortals read breath.
Their god, weakened and resting aboard the void-ship above Dracois, freezes.
A black on coils around the fate-line of their entire race—an on so heavy the god does not even attempt to explore it.
He is injured.
He is vulnerable.
He chooses survival.
He orders a complete retreat.
The Nalvuri abandon Dracois.
The native humans cheer as their invaders depart—believing they have won.
Believing the world has been liberated.
They do not realise the radiation energy sustaining Dracois is already thinning…
Year by year, breath by breath.
Soon after, a strange tree begins growing in the desert.
At first small.
Then larger.
Then, impossibly tall, piercing the cloud layer of the world.
Many believe it to be a spiritual treasure.
Many co to seize it.
None returned.
Its vines drink them dry.
Their flesh, their blood, their life—absorbed without rcy.
The tree grows.
And grows.
And grows.
The world's radiation fades completely.
Dracois becos an ordinary world again.
Then the desertification begins.
The sands spread outward from the tree in every direction as the roots siphon every nutrient, every drop of energy, every breath of life.
Humans resist.
They unite.
They fight.
It is useless.
The world shrivels beneath the hunger of the Lunar Tree.
Finally, where Dracois once stood—where continents once thrived, where oceans once churned—
There is only a colossal World Tree, its trunk like a pillar supporting the heavens, its roots piercing the void and drinking from it.
Then—
A sigh escapes the bark.
A translucent figure steps out from within the great tree:
An old man in black, long silver hair trailing behind him, the Dream Mirror hanging from his neck like a locket.
He gazes at the ruined world with calm satisfaction.
“I have finally awakened.”
His fingers brush the Dream Mirror.
“My plan worked. Choosing that boy… a child surrounded by Heaven and Earth’s favour.”
He closes his eyes, sensing inward.
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
When they open again, his features soften with frustration.
“The Dao injury I suffered when attempting to break through Stage Seven… remains.”
A faint chuckle escapes him.
“I had planned to take the boy as a servant—to aid my recovery.”
His expression shifts into a crooked smile.
“It seems he did not have the luck for that.”
Then, almost fondly:
“No… perhaps this is his luck.
A fortune of a generation—
to help recover.”
----------
At the supre world, inside the residence of the Spirit Dragon Clan, a heavy stillness hangs over the eting chamber. The air itself feels weighed down as the latest war report from the Human Race and the Fire Divine Race is announced.
A result none of them wanted to hear.
The human race has won.
An elder’s face twists as he asks, “Gu Qi, are you certain the human in this report is the sa one who escaped from you?”
Gu Qi nods stiffly. “From the picture… yes. It is him. And now he has advanced to the Great Saint realm.”
Another elder frowns deeply. “Where did he obtain a Quasi-Supre Weapon? There is no record of such an item ever existing.”
The Holy Son folds his arms, voice steady but eyes cold. “He escaped into the void. Perhaps he crossed paths with humans from the Human World, and they gave it to him.”
Silence crashes through the chamber.
Human World.
The words alone drain colour from several faces.
An elder breaks the tension with a hesitant whisper.
“Should we… halt the announcent of the execution?”
The Holy Son imdiately answers, “No—we cannot.”
Every pair of eyes turns toward him.
He speaks slowly, calculatingly.
“Everyone in the universe is fighting for the chance to beco the next Supre. My own chances are low unless I obtain assistance… specifically, Gu Silan’s assistance.”
He pauses—letting his intention settle.
“Our clan possesses a supre technique—the Fire and Frost Harmony Technique. It is divided into two paths: the Fire Chapter and the Frost Chapter. Two practitioners can cultivate them separately, and when their Daos align, dual cultivation will allow both to break through to Quasi-Supre with ease.”
He presses on.
“Gu Silan’s Dao perfectly matches the Frost Chapter. If she fully masters it, and I master the Fire Chapter, then dual cultivation with her will allow to break through quickly—boosting my chances of becoming a Supre far beyond the others.”
The implication is clear:
rin must die.
And it would be best if Gu Silan killed him herself, making it easier for the Holy Son to later bind her to him through the Harmony Technique.
An elder slams his palm on the table.
“But if the Human Race supports rin, then this is like an egg striking stone—and we are the egg!”
Murmurs ripple.
The Spirit Dragon Clan is powerful, yes.
But the entire Human Race… is still the strongest race in the Supre World—even with their Supres absent.
The Patriarch lifts a hand, silencing them.
“Then stop spreading the execution notice.”
At those words, the Holy Son’s composure cracks.
This is not going according to his plan.
His mind races—calculating, weighing risks, threading destiny lines—and then a spark flashes in his eyes.
Leverage.
He abruptly bows and shouts, “Patriarch—we must continue spreading the execution news!”
Every elder stares at him, so in confusion, others in irritation.
One sneers, “Gu Yanzhen, we know you want to kill your competitor, but you must consider the clan’s survival.”
The Holy Son lifts his head, gaze sharp.
“It is not only I who sees rin as a threat.”
He sweeps his hand across the room.
“There are countless others who want him dead.”
The Patriarch narrows his eyes. “Who? The Fire Divine Race?”
The Holy Son smiles faintly.
“Not only them. The Fire Divine Race, the Ancient Divine Race, the Holy Spirit Race, the Dapeng Clan, and many more. No power in this world wants the birth of a new Human Supre.”
Silence falls again—but this ti, it is agreent.
Slowly, one by one, the elders nod.
The Patriarch leans back, expression darkening.
The execution will proceed.
And the entire world will be watching.
---
rin steps off the void boat, boots touching the scorched stone.
Behind him, the dingy vessel—rowed by a skeleton draped in rotted flesh—silently fades back into the void, as if it had never existed.
He turns once, gaze sweeping over the horizon of Furness Hell—a world of endless crimson fla, molten rivers, and floating smithing platforms suspended by heat alone.
Then he moves.
Not toward the cloud city above, where traders and weapon refiners haggle over treasures worth entire lifetis—
—but toward the centre, where the true fire sleeps below the surface.
The entire ground of Furness Hell burns, a world-forge built for Saints and Quasi-Supres to temper their weapons.
But rin dismisses the upper flas instantly.
Too weak.
His Dao has already reached the Flowering Stage, equal in essence to a Quasi-Supre.
And his goal is not to refine so ordinary weapon—but to create a Dao Weapon equal to his future realm.
For that, the surface fire ans nothing.
He walks among the crowds.
Tao Space experts stand on floating anvils, refining spirit blades.
Fights break out nearby as cultivators compete over territory, flas roaring with each clash.
rin ignores all of them and continues.
At the centre of the layer, the heat is enough to lt Saint-grade steel into vapour.
He pauses only briefly—because the fire law here is exquisite—but shakes his head.
Not now.
Increasing his comprehension would deepen his Dao, but also slow his future advancent.
And what he needs right now is not a higher understanding—
—But to reach Quasi-Supre as quickly as possible and forge the weapon that will perfectly rge with his Dao.
From Great Saint onward, the path is no longer about accumulating power; it is to harmonise body and Dao until, at Quasi-Supre, they beco one.
Only then can the Dao naturally distort the world.
He steps into the throat of the volcano, descending.
A hole opens downward, leading to the next layer.
The second layer greets him with heat that can lt Saint Kings.
Still insufficient.
He continues down, passing the third layer—hot enough to scorch Dao Lords to mist.
Then the fourth—where even Quasi-Supre materials begin to warp.
But rin walks through it with steady breath.
Finally, the fifth layer.
Here, the fire is thick, viscous, like molten law itself.
Not enough to lt the two Quasi-Supre weapons he carries—
but perfect for lting the auxiliary materials he prepared.
And exactly hot enough to forge the embryo of his Virtual Engine Dao Weapon.
He stops.
Flas curl around him like serpents, unable to burn his body.
He opens his storage ring and takes out the materials—each one glowing with its own Dao rhythm.
Then he lifts his hand.
Fire gathers—
compressed, shaped, sharpened by his will—
and wraps around the materials.
They lt one by one, turning into shimring pools of essence.
rin begins shaping them.
Slowly, deliberately, he moulds the molten tal and spiritual ores into a miniature Virtual Engine, its core a condensed Heavenly Eye.
And as he shapes—
He engraves runes.
Stroke by stroke, line by line.
Each rune corresponds to a law he controls:
Five Elents, Emotion, Space, Devouring, and now the beginnings of Fire and Ice.
And deeper still—
—the structural logic of his Dao.
The flas dance in perfect rhythm to his movents.
This is not rely forging.
This is worldbuilding in tal,
a Dao given form.
And this embryo—when complete—
will be the weapon through which rin shakes the Supre World.
---
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