In the boundless expanse of the Immortal World—a realm untouched by time and isolated from the interference of man or beast—there lay a hidden stretch of verdant land. This secluded sanctuary was veiled in layers of vibrant greenery, blanketed by dense forests whose canopies whispered in the wind, and adorned with clear rivers that shimmered like silver threads under the eternal sky.
Amidst this tranquil wilderness, standing like a forgotten relic of time, was a humble hut. Though aged and worn by centuries, its structure stood firm against nature's test, offering shelter from the world, no matter how modest.
At the threshold of the hut, seated with an almost statuesque stillness, was a man with long white hair that flowed like ancient silk, untouched by the breeze. His robes were tattered, colored by time rather than dye, and soiled by dust collected over decades, yet they did not flutter even when the wind brushed past him—as if they, too, had succumbed to the stillness that surrounded him.
His face, surprisingly youthful and unmarred by the harsh life he had endured, betrayed none of the wisdom or sorrow hidden within his ancient eyes. There was no light in them, no reflection of emotion—only the weight of an eternal quest.
This man had once reached heights that others could not even dream of. He had ascended beyond the mortal coil, stepping into godhood through sheer mastery of spiritual energy, climbing from Qi Refining all the way to realms that defied name and form.
Yet, amidst the vast power he acquired, there remained a void in his heart—a hollowness born from his inability to truly master the sword that had accompanied him through blood and battle.
A sword that had not only protected him through countless dangers but had also become an extension of his very being. Still, despite all his victories, he had failed to feel the sword resonate within his soul.
He had once held the title of Deity Slayer, having felled countless gods, Immortals, demons, and beings from the most powerful races of the realms. But when he finally saw the truth—that despite wielding might unmatched, his swords were hollow, emotionless tools—he renounced his titles and glory.
Leaving behind his legend and name, he wandered the Immortal World in search of solitude. What he sought was not recognition but understanding—understanding of the sword, its spirit, its essence, and its connection to the soul.
It was here, in this untouched land devoid of treasures and beings, that he found peace. He grounded the many divine swords he had taken from battle into the soil as if planting seeds.
Their once radiant auras dimmed, rooted like ancient trees around his hut. Slowly, painstakingly, he built his home, forming a place of quiet contemplation, away from the noise of the world. Afterward, he carved an ancient formation upon the land, one that connected his very soul to every sword embedded in the ground.
From that moment onward, he sat motionless at the doorstep of the hut. Seasons came and passed, years melted into centuries, and centuries faded into ages, but the man did not move an inch. His eyes remained open, void of expression, while his soul remained in quiet meditation, harmonizing with the blades.
He was no longer a man of flesh and desire but a vessel of silent purpose. Without raising his hand, without shifting a single muscle, he began to inscribe his knowledge upon a single sword that stood twenty meters away—its surface glowing as if it were molten iron, yet untouched by flame.
The words etched themselves onto the blade in streaks of crimson fire, crackling with power, each inscription holding a fragment of his comprehension—techniques that surpassed logic, sword arts capable of splitting realms, foundations meant to transcend even godhood. With every letter formed, the air trembled, and the surrounding swords shivered as though awakening from a deep slumber. They bore witness to the culmination of an immortal's tireless devotion.
Though he had discovered what was thought impossible—the ability to reforge and evolve one's foundation even after achieving Immortality—he did not rejoice. He continued writing, cycling through different swords as needed, each one controlled by mere thought.
Years turned into millennia, and the records of cultivation, from the very beginning stages of Qi Refining to realms beyond gods, were etched into swords, one after another.
Then, after more than a million years, he wrote the final character—the key to unlocking infinite potential. Yet, when he completed this ultimate truth, there was no joy. No pride. Only a deeper emptiness. At that moment, the air shifted.
The swords, once quivering with restrained excitement, began to shake violently. The glowing words shimmered with divine light, and a current of raw divine energy surged into them.
As the inscriptions glowed brighter, the swords began to fracture, unable to contain the power. Time itself slowed as the entire formation stilled. With a soundless roar, the swords shattered into shards of light, which were absorbed into the fiery inscriptions that now hung in the air.
The divine light intensified, fusing with a deeper, darker power—Cosmic Divine Energy, something beyond mortal comprehension. The immortal's body, long refined to the pinnacle of perfection, began to tremble. His soul resonated as it merged with the very technique he had created.
Elsewhere, the sky split. Divine and Cosmic light burst from the hidden land, stretching across worlds. Immortals from distant realms felt it and raced toward the source, believing a supreme treasure had appeared. But they were too late.
As the words hovered, merging into a single radiant sword technique, shockwaves burst outward. The entire region was obliterated in an instant. His perfected body turned to ash; only his soul remained. The impact tore through the realm, killing weaker Immortals, shattering stars, and sending even deities flying across worlds.
The survivors scrambled to flee, collecting the souls of the fallen, preserving what they could. Powerful deities sealed the souls of their comrades to give them new life on distant planets.
But even then, the waves continued to expand. The swords across the Immortal World trembled in unison, while in the Lower World, mortals gazed at the sky as it was consumed by radiant light, unaware of what truly transpired.
And then—silence. The swords stopped. The waves ceased. And from the light, the immortal's soul emerged, now fused with the Cosmic Divine Sword Spirit. Which might explode the realm itself, but in that silence came something more terrifying.
A hand appeared in the void of space, vast enough to dwarf a star, reaching out as if to grasp the power that had been born. The hand tore open a portal, warping space itself, and pulled the soul through it. Planets crumbled, stars dimmed, and space screamed as the impact erased everything around it.
From within the portal, the strongest deity in existence appeared, his figure towering and his presence swallowing all light. He looked at his bleeding palm, blood as vast as oceans dripping from a cut so small, yet so significant. A wide, mad grin spread across his face.
"This one… made me bleed. After billions of decades… finally, my blood spills again. Hahahahaha!"
His eyes gleamed with excitement and danger as he stared at his hand, then toward the fading portal. "The soul has been cast into an unknown world… He must abide by its laws, regardless of what he once was. Let's see what becomes of him now."
With a flick of his sleeve, he vanished.
And thus begins the next chapter of the Immortal who forged the impossible.