Dark clouds loomed overhead, pressing down as if within arm’s reach, suffocating and heavy. Beneath his feet, the furious sea surged with violent yet shadowy whirlpools, pulling him inexorably downward… Ji Xing stared blankly around, bewildered as to why he had suddenly found himself at the southernmost reaches of the Eastern Sea. A nameless dread gripped him—a sense of impending doom, an inescapable calamity.
Splash!
With a deafening roar, waves surged hundreds of feet high, nearly swallowing Ji Xing whole. His gaze fixed in shock as he witnessed the seabed collapsing layer by layer, as if undergoing total disintegration. Countless deep-sea creatures perished without resistance, their corpses turning to dust in an instant.
This destruction spread in all directions, threatening to engulf the entire Real World. A thick, inky darkness pervaded, concealing unspeakable horrors that sent chills down his spine.
“Is this the end of the epoch, the apocalypse preached by the Luo Sect?” The thought flashed through Ji Xing’s mind, intensifying his terror.
Just then, he noticed two unfamiliar objects in his hands. In his left was an ordinary wooden box, light as if empty, while his right gripped an ancient stone stele half a man’s height, inscribed with four archaic seal characters: “Jade Void Su Meng.”
“Jade Void Su Meng—isn’t that the name of our Ancestral Master?” A spark of realization struck Ji Xing. Without hesitation, he hurled the stele and the wooden box into the raging sea.
As the two objects sank beneath the waves, the storm instantly calmed. The seabed’s collapse slowed, and the apocalyptic scene vanished.
“It worked!” Relief flooded Ji Xing, and he couldn’t help but shout in exhilaration.
With that cry, he jolted awake. The vision faded, replaced by the simple interior of a thatched hut. His master sat cross-legged, meditating as the first purple light of dawn seeped in.
Gradually, memories of the previous day returned. After paying respects to the Primordial Heavenly Venerable and the Ancestral Master, the Yuanhuang Heavenly Venerable, Ji Xing had officially been accepted into the sect. He had learned that the nameless cultivation method he practiced was derived from the “Seven Swords of Severing Heaven,” filling him with joy. He had stayed overnight, seeking his master’s guidance until late, then began meditating—only to fall into a nightmare.
“Since reaching the External Scenery realm, I rarely dream, let alone have nightmares…” Ji Xing frowned, puzzled, as he glanced around.
Suddenly, his gaze sharpened. Before the statue of the Yuanhuang Ancestral Master lay an ordinary wooden box, and leaning against it was a half-man-high stone stele, exuding an ancient aura.
“They… they really exist?” Startled, Ji Xing instinctively looked to his master, He Mu, who remained deep in meditation, oblivious to the outside world.
A mix of confusion, anticipation, and shock swirled within him. Cautiously, Ji Xing approached and touched the stele. Unlike in his dream, it bore no inscriptions.
The moment he made contact, the stele shrank abruptly to palm-size, landing in his hand. The wooden box slipped down beside it.
Holding both, a thought struck Ji Xing:
“Did the Ancestral Master enter my dream to guide me? To have me cast these into the southernmost Eastern Sea?”
“Is that where the Real World is weakest, where the Netherworld’s corruption and the apocalypse will begin?”
Pondering, he concealed the objects. When He Mu finished his breathing exercises, Ji Xing tested the waters with a few questions. Finding his master unaware, he kept the matter secret and continued his training.
Half a month later, Ji Xing gathered friends and left his birthplace. Excusing himself from the group, he headed south alone, straight for the dreamt-of location.
After teleportation and flight, the sea came into view. The sky was clear, the ocean calm—utterly unlike the apocalyptic vision. Frowning, Ji Xing decided to proceed regardless.
Retrieving the stele, he found it blank. On impulse, he traced four characters with his finger: “Jade Void Su Meng.” Then he cast both objects into the sea.
Nothing happened. After a long wait, he left in disappointment.
The moment he vanished, a whirlwind stirred. A furry hand emerged, snatching the wooden box.
It was the Nine Spirits Holy Sage!
Once a guardian of the Netherworld, it had received a message from Meng Qi long ago. Now, it took the box to deliver to the Green Emperor.
The box, made of mundane materials, was empty—completely void.
What did this signify? Pondering, the sage glanced at the sunken stele before returning to the Fusang Ancient Tree Realm.
The Green Emperor opened the box. Empty. Yet as the Fusang’s aura seeped in, ripples formed—a fleeting, formless fruit flickered into being, then vanished.
“Creation from nothingness…” The sage’s eyes darkened with realization.
…
Deep in the Netherworld, atop a black peak, Meng Qi sat in meditation. Occasionally, he lured lost souls to carry jade boxes to the Fusang Realm—none succeeded, sparking clashes among mighty powers.
Time passed indeterminably. Suddenly, his eyes opened—pools of darkness encompassing all existence, time included.
Then, from the Tushita Palace, flames surged. A jade box descended from beyond the Thirty-Three Heavens, landing before him.
Inside lay an object neither banner nor axe, wreathed in primal chaos. Two primordial Dao patterns spelled its name:
“Pangu.”
The Pangu Banner—the Primordial Heavenly Venerable’s mightiest weapon!
Though merely a manifestation, its aura rivaled the original.
“The ‘Pangu Fruit,’ severed by the Primordial Heavenly Venerable? Like the ‘Dao-Yi Seal’ of old? Held back until now… fearing I’d refuse the burden?” Meng Qi’s gaze remained unfathomable as he grasped the banner, activating the Formless Seal.
Years may have passed when the banner vanished, leaving Meng Qi more ethereal than ever.
Rising, he looked beyond the Netherworld—to the Underworld, the Vacuum Hometown, locking eyes with the radiant moon.
The void erupted, then collapsed into chaos.
“Today, I collect what was owed yesterday.”
A sword and blade materialized behind him: the Tyrant’s Blade and the Human Emperor’s Sword, their auras intertwining.
Expressionless, Meng Qi stepped forward, openly defying the sea of suffering, awaiting no opportune moment—whether Maitreya seized the chance or not was another matter.
From lofty realms—Tushita, the Demon Emperor’s Hall, the Pure Land, the Vacuum Hometown, the Spiritual Mountain’s peak, and the Fusang Realm—countless unfathomable gazes turned his way.
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