In the endless stretch of the Immortal World, a realm where time did not flow and no mortal or beast dared to intrude, there lay a hidden land untouched by conflict or greed.
This land was a peaceful sanctuary, cloaked in rich greenery. Towering trees formed dense forests whose leaves whispered in the wind, and clear rivers sparkled like silver threads under a sky that never changed.
At the heart of this quiet world stood a small, humble hut. Though its wooden frame was worn and aged, it stood strong, sheltering its lone inhabitant from the world it had left behind.
Sitting silently at the doorstep of the hut was a man. His long white hair flowed like old silk, untouched by the breeze. His robes were ragged, stained by time instead of color, and covered in the dust of countless years.
Yet nothing about him moved—not even when the wind brushed by. It was as though both he and the world around him had become still.
Though his face appeared young, there was an ancient weight in his eyes. No light, no emotion—only the heavy silence of an eternal search.
This man had once reached heights few dared to imagine. From the first step of cultivation—Qi Refining—he had climbed far beyond even the peak of Immortality. He had become a god among gods.
Yet, even after countless battles, victories, and the slaying of deities, something remained missing.
The sword he had carried through every battle—once an extension of his body and soul—remained silent.
No matter how many enemies he defeated or how much power he gained, the sword never truly responded to him. It was strong, yes, but empty. A tool without spirit. A companion without a voice.
Realizing this painful truth, he gave up everything—his name, his titles, his fame. He vanished into the forgotten corners of the Immortal World, seeking not power, but understanding.
Here, in this sacred place free from greed and noise, he found peace. He took the swords he had claimed in countless battles and planted them in the earth, as though returning them to rest. Their once-bright auras dimmed, becoming like ancient trees surrounding the hut.
In time, he carved a formation into the ground—one that connected his soul to every sword rooted there. And from that moment on, he never moved again. Seasons passed. Years became centuries. Centuries faded into ages. He remained still, eyes open, lost in deep meditation.
He no longer lived for the world. He had become something else—a vessel of purpose. Through thought alone, he began to inscribe his knowledge onto a single sword twenty meters away.
The blade glowed like molten iron, yet remained cool to the touch. Words of crimson fire appeared across its surface, crackling with power.
Each inscription was a fragment of his understanding—techniques that shattered logic, sword arts capable of splitting worlds, insights that could take one beyond godhood.
The air trembled with each word, and the other swords around him shivered as if waking from a deep sleep.
He had achieved the impossible: refining his foundation after Immortality, evolving his soul and sword as one. But even then, he felt no joy. No pride.
Sword after sword, he continued his work. He engraved every stage of cultivation, from the basics to realms with no name. Thousands of years passed. Then tens of thousands. Eventually, over a million years faded like dust in the wind.
And finally, he wrote the last character.
It was the key to infinite potential—the ultimate sword technique.
But the moment it was complete, the air shifted.
The swords around him began to shake violently. The inscriptions glowed with divine light. Energy burst from the blades, surging uncontrollably. The swords cracked and shattered, becoming fragments of light. These pieces floated upward, merging into the fiery words now suspended in the air.
The formation trembled. Time slowed.
Cosmic Divine Energy—something beyond even Immortal understanding—filled the space.
His body, perfected over eternity, began to crumble. His soul, now one with the technique, glowed with power.
In that instant, the world broke.
The sky tore open. Light and energy surged across realms. Faraway Immortals and gods felt the change and rushed toward the source.
But it was too late.
A shockwave tore through everything. The land vanished. His body turned to ash. Stars exploded. Deities were thrown across realms like leaves in a storm. The strongest among them sealed the souls of the fallen, scattering them to far-off worlds.
Then… silence.
The swords stopped. The light faded.
And from that silence, his soul emerged—now fused with the Cosmic Divine Sword Spirit.
But something else followed.
A hand appeared in the void. Enormous. Ancient. It reached through space, grasping for the power that had just been born.
With terrifying force, the hand tore open a portal and pulled the soul into it. Planets collapsed. Space screamed. All was swallowed.
And then came the true monster.
From the depths of that portal stepped a figure of unimaginable power. The strongest deity in existence. His very presence bent the fabric of space.
He looked down at his palm—a single drop of blood flowing from a tiny cut.
And he smiled.
"A cut… After all these countless eons… finally, someone made me bleed." He laughed, the sound shaking entire galaxies. "Let's see what becomes of you now, swordmaker."
With a flick of his sleeve, he vanished.