Chapter Text
The concept of destiny in the cultivation world was often romanticized as a river, flowing relentlessly toward a vast and glorious ocean. Cultivators spoke of the Heavenly Dao as if it were a grand tapestry woven by benevolent gods. Shen Yuan knew the truth. Destiny was not a river, and it certainly was not a beautiful tapestry. Destiny was an iron track, and he was strapped securely to the carriage, hurtling blindly toward a cliff edge while a digitized voice in his head counted down the miles.
For years, Shen Yuan had lived within the rigid, suffocating confines of a pre-written story. He had transmigrated into the body of Shen Qingqiu, the detestable scum villain of a trashy web novel, and spent every waking hour desperately trying to alter his gruesome fate. He had treated Luo Binghe with kindness for purely selfish reasons. He had offered him guidance, protected him from the worst of the peak's bullies, and allowed himself to believe that perhaps, against all odds, he had changed the script. He had allowed himself to believe he had molded a hero instead of a monster and managed to circumvent his own gruesome end.
The Immortal Alliance Conference proved him utterly wrong.
The sky above Jue Di Gorge was the color of a festering wound. Ash rained down from the heavens like dirty snow, coating the leaves of the ancient, twisted trees in a layer of gray. The air was thick with the stench of sulfur, burning foliage, and the metallic tang of fresh blood. The conference was supposed to be a triumph. It was supposed to be the glorious stage where Luo Binghe revealed his unparalleled talent to the elite sects. Instead, a demonic invasion had turned the gorge into a slaughterhouse.
Shen Yuan stood near the precipice of the Endless Abyss. The heat radiating from the massive, gaping tear in the earth below was blistering. Below him swirling clouds of black miasma and red lightning obscured the bottomless drop.
He gripped the hilt of his sword so tightly his knuckles shone white against the dark leather. His heart hammered against his ribs. A translucent blue screen hovered directly in his line of sight, completely unaffected by the chaotic winds tearing through the gorge. The glowing text was devoid of empathy.
[ SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: Critical Plot Point Approaching. Subject 'Luo Binghe' must enter the Endless Abyss. ]
Shen Yuan swallowed hard, his throat dry as sandpaper. He tried to close his eyes to dispel the screen, hoping it was a hallucination brought on by the exhaustion of battle. When he opened his eyes, the notification remained, blinking with a steady, commanding rhythm.
A few paces away, Luo Binghe stood trembling among the corpses of lesser demons. His usually pristine white and green Cang Qiong Mountain uniform was shredded and soaked in dark blood. His hair was completely undone, whipping wildly around his pale face in the strong winds. But what drew the eye, what cemented his terrible fate and shattered Shen Yuan’s hopes, was the glowing crimson sigil blazing brightly on the boy's forehead.
The mark of a Heavenly Demon.
Luo Binghe looked at Shen Qingqiu with wide, terrified eyes. He looked like a child who had just broken a precious heirloom, waiting for a punishment he knew he deserved yet desperately hoped to avoid. "Shizun," Binghe rasped, his voice cracking. He took a small, uncertain step forward, his hands trembling at his sides. "Shizun, it isn't what you think. This disciple... this disciple does not know what this is."
Shen Yuan knew exactly what it was. He knew the lore of this world better than he knew his own name. He knew the script demanded that Luo Binghe be cast into the Endless Abyss to suffer unimaginable torment, to forge his demonic core in the fires of hell, and to return years later as an unstoppable conqueror.
Another screen popped up, layering itself over the first.
[ WARNING: Failure to execute the 'Endless Abyss' plot point will result in a catastrophic deviation. Penalty for refusal: Complete Annihilation of the host's soul. ]
The threat was absolute. There was no negotiation, no alternative path, and no mercy.
Shen Yuan wanted to scream. He wanted to grab Luo Binghe by his blood-soaked shoulders, pull him into a tight embrace, and summon his sword to fly them away from this cursed gorge forever. He wanted to hide them both in the mortal realm, discard their cultivation tools, and live out their days as simple, anonymous men.
He could not do it. He was a coward, terrified of the void of death that the System promised. He rationalized his impending cruelty with frantic logic. He told himself that Binghe needed this trial to become the supreme ruler he was destined to be. He told himself the boy would survive, grow stronger, and eventually understand that this was the only way. It was a flimsy, pathetic lie.
"Shizun, please," Binghe begged, sinking slowly to his knees on the jagged rocks. Tears carved clean, pale tracks through the soot and gore on his face. "Please look at me. I am still your disciple. I'm still Binghe."
Shen Yuan forced his face into a mask of icy disdain. He channeled every ounce of the original Shen Qingqiu's haughty arrogance, burying his own terror beneath a veneer of disgust. He raised his chin, looking down at the broken boy before him as if he were nothing more than a stain on his boots.
"A demon," Shen Qingqiu said loudly. His voice was cold, flat, and completely devoid of any previous affection. It echoed terribly over the deep roar of the Abyss. "A vile, filthy creature of the demon realm. How dare you call me Shizun."
Luo Binghe flinched as if he had been physically struck. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. The hope that had been clinging desperately to his features dissolved.
The sound of Xiu Ya leaving its scabbard was a sharp, ringing hiss that seemed to pierce through the ambient noise of the battlefield. The blade gleamed with a cold, unforgiving spiritual light, reflecting the crimson sky above.
Luo Binghe did not raise his own sword. He did not summon his newly awakened demonic energy to defend himself. He simply stayed on his knees, staring up at his master, entirely open and entirely vulnerable. He was offering his life to the only god he worshipped.
"Shizun," he whispered one final time, bowing his head slightly, exposing the fragile column of his neck.
Shen Yuan lunged forward.
He closed his eyes at the last possible second, unable to bear the sight of the metal piercing flesh. The physical sensation was sickening, a dreadful resistance followed by a wet, tearing slide. The blade slid through the fabric of Binghe's robes, parted skin and muscle, and sank deep into his chest. Shen Yuan had meticulously calculated the angle in his mind, ensuring the blade missed the heart by a safe fraction of an inch, but the wound was still massive and devastating.
Warm blood spurted out instantly, coating Shen Yuan's hand. It burned like acid against his skin.
When Shen Yuan finally forced his eyes open, the world seemed to have stopped spinning. Luo Binghe's hands were wrapped weakly around the sharp, silver blade of Xiu Ya, slicing his own palms open to the bone in an attempt to hold the weapon steady. He looked down at the sword protruding from his own chest, taking a shaky, wet breath, then slowly lifted his gaze back to Shen Yuan's face.
The devastation in those dark eyes was heartbreaking. The unwavering devotion, the youthful love, the trust he had harbored for years vanished entirely. In their place remained an abyss of betrayal much deeper and much darker than the gorge yawning beneath them.
Shen Yuan ripped the sword out with a violent, twisting motion.
The action tore a ragged, wet gasp from Binghe's throat. The force of the withdrawal pushed the young demon backward, his balance completely compromised. His heels slipped over the crumbling, jagged edge of the precipice.
Gravity claimed him immediately.
As Luo Binghe began to fall backward into the swirling black and red miasma of the Endless Abyss, his eyes remained locked on Shen Yuan. There was no anger yet, no fiery promise of future vengeance. There was only hollow sorrow. He fell silently, like a broken doll discarded into the fire.
In that singular microsecond, the control Shen Yuan had maintained completely disintegrated. The facade of the scum villain shattered into a thousand useless pieces. He dropped Xiu Ya. The sword clattered uselessly against the bloodstained stones, forgotten entirely.
"Binghe!" Shen Yuan screamed. It was not the elegant, measured voice of Peak Lord Shen Qingqiu. It was the desperate, raw, and hideous shriek of a man who realized he had just destroyed the only beautiful thing in his miserable existence. Shen Yuan threw himself forward, disregarding his own safety, disregarding the System, disregarding the plot. He dropped to his knees at the very edge of the cliff and reached his hand out over the void, straining his shoulder, desperate to grab the boy's flailing robes, to catch his wrist, to do absolutely anything to take the action back.
His fingers brushed empty air. Luo Binghe was already too far gone, swallowed by the rising shadows.
Then, the impossible happened.
The empty space between Shen Yuan's outstretched fingertips and Luo Binghe's falling form suddenly warped, bending like water disturbed by a stone. A loud, sharp noise echoed across the gorge, identical to the sound of a heavy hammer smashing through a massive pane of thick glass.
The air fractured.
Jagged, glowing silver lines spider-webbed across the empty space separating them. It was as if reality was a painted mirror that had just taken a blow. The cracks spread outward with exponential speed. They distorted the image of the falling boy, splintered the crimson sky overhead, and tore violently through the dark rock of the gorge. Fragments of the world seemed to peel away, revealing a void of white nothingness beneath the fabric of their reality.
The blue System screen that had been hovering passively in the corner of his vision violently glitched. It expanded rapidly, consuming his entire field of view, blocking out the gorge, the shattered air, and the abyss. The calming blue color inverted, flashing into a blinding, hazardous, and angry red.
A mechanical siren began to blare directly inside Shen Yuan's skull. It was a deafening sound, the desperate alarm of a dying machine trying to hold together a collapsing structure.
[ FATAL ERROR. FATAL ERROR. FATAL ERROR. ]
The text bled across the red screen, distorted and trembling as if the code itself was weeping.
[ NARRATIVE INTEGRITY COMPROMISED. ]
[ SUBJECT 'LUO BINGHE' MENTAL STATE: CRITICAL ANOMALY DETECTED. ]
[ ALERT: PROTAGONIST SOUL CORRUPTION LEVEL FATAL. THE PILLAR OF THIS WORLD HAS SHATTERED. ]
Shen Yuan gripped his head with both hands, falling entirely onto his stomach on the cracked ground. The jagged silver lines in the air were widening rapidly, consuming the gorge. The furious wind had stopped entirely. The blistering heat had vanished. There was only the screaming red text and the horrible, unending sound of the universe breaking apart like fragile porcelain.
"What did I do?" Shen Yuan gasped, coughing as the pressure in his chest became unbearable. He curled into a tight ball on the edge of the white void. "System! What is happening? Bring him back! I made a mistake, let me try again!"
The System did not answer in its usual, robotic voice. Instead, the final message appeared in massive white letters against the bleeding crimson background, completely devoid of its usual formatting.
[ REALITY COLLAPSE IMMINENT. ]
[ INITIATING EMERGENCY PROTOCOL: FLOWER-LIKE YEARS. ]
[ ATTEMPTING TO REBOOT TIMELINE... ]
The blaring siren cut off instantly, replaced by a silence so absolute it made Shen Yuan's ears ring. The suffocating red light vanished. The oppressive heat of the Endless Abyss evaporated, replaced by a sudden, biting chill.
Shen Yuan sucked in a massive, ragged breath, his lungs burning fiercely as if he had just been pulled from the depths of a freezing ocean. His eyes snapped open.
He was staring at a beautifully carved, vaulted wooden ceiling. The faint, delicate scent of burning sandalwood and fresh, rain-washed bamboo leaves filled his nose, replacing the stench of sulfur and death. Soft, gentle morning sunlight filtered through the intricate paper screens of nearby windows, casting a warm, golden grid across polished bamboo floorboards.
He was lying in his own bed, inside his private bamboo house on Qing Jing Peak.
Shen Yuan bolted upright so fast his vision swam with dark spots. He tangled his limbs frantically in the luxurious, silken green blankets, kicking them away as if they were made of fire. He was drenched in a cold, clammy sweat. His chest heaved as he hurriedly patted himself down, checking his chest, his arms, his legs. He was wearing pristine, pale green sleepwear. There was no blood on his hands. There was no ash in his hair.
He looked wildly around the room, his breathing shallow and rapid. The bamboo house was exactly as it always was. Quiet, peaceful, perfectly ordered, and untouched by the horrors of the demon realm. His extensive collection of rare, painted fans rested neatly on a display shelf across the room.
"A dream?" he whispered to the empty room. His voice trembled violently, cracking in the middle of the word. "Was it all just a nightmare?"
He scrambled out of the bed, his bare feet slapping loudly against the cool, polished floorboards. He needed water. He needed to splash his face. As he reached blindly for the smooth jade teapot resting on his low table, a sharp, rhythmic knocking echoed through the quiet house, coming from the sliding front door. Shen Yuan froze instantly, his hand hovering inches from the jade porcelain.
"Shizun?" a voice called from outside.
Shen Yuan's breath hitched painfully in his throat. The teapot slipped from his trembling fingers, hitting the bamboo floor with a dull, heavy thud. It did not break, but lukewarm water spilled rapidly across the polished wood, soaking into his white socks.
That voice. It was high, clear, and incredibly youthful. It lacked the deep, resonant, and slightly melancholic tone of the teenage Luo Binghe he had just pushed into the fire. It was the soft, uncertain voice of a child. "Shizun, this disciple has prepared your morning tea," the small voice continued, muffled slightly by the paper door but filled with a nervous yet desperate eagerness to please. "Ming Fan-shixiong instructed me to bring it to you before your morning meditation."
Shen Yuan stumbled backward, his shoulder blades hitting the solid wall of his bedroom. The world tilted dangerously on its axis, spinning him into a new kind of vertigo. He recognized this exact morning. He recognized the specific tone of the boy's voice, the exact phrasing of the words, the specific, cruel instruction from Ming Fan meant to disturb his rest.
A familiar blue System screen chimed, appearing in the center of his vision with a soft, innocuous ping. It was back to its standard azure color.
[ SYSTEM REBOOT COMPLETE. ]
[ Current Date: Year 1, Day 1 of 'The Disciple's Training' Arc. ]
[ Objective: Maintain the persona of Shen Qingqiu. Do not act out of character. ]
Shen Yuan slid slowly down the bamboo wall until he was sitting on the cold floor, bringing his knees tightly to his chest and burying his face deep in his folded arms. It was the morning a young, hopeful, and innocent Luo Binghe had officially been accepted as his disciple.
The world had not just hit a reset button. No, it had wound itself backward, dragging his consciousness back through time and trapping him at the very beginning of the nightmare. The memory of the sword piercing warm flesh, the look of ultimate, soul-crushing betrayal, the physical shattering of the air itself, it was all branded permanently into his mind. He remembered the heat. He remembered the blood.
He had broken the protagonist. He had broken the entire foundation of the world, and the System had simply glued the pieces back together, wiped the board clean, and forced him to play the game again, but at a different time.
Outside the sliding paper door, the child waited patiently. He held a wooden tray bearing a cup of hot tea, completely unaware of the bloody future that had already happened, and entirely unaware of the broken man weeping silently on the other side of the screen.