The sky above Heaven's Edge was painted with streaks of crimson and gray, the blood-colored clouds swirling like the last breath of a dying world, and at the center of it all stood a single man—Jin Xuanji, known to the world as the Heaven-Breaker, the youngest cultivator to ever reach the threshold of the Heaven-Breaking Realm, a legend in the making, a monster in the eyes of the righteous, and the only one left standing on a battlefield soaked in blood, corpses, and shattered dreams.
The wind howled like the cries of the dead, and the ground beneath his feet was littered with the bodies of his fallen comrades, the ones who had followed him despite the heavens calling him cursed, the ones who had dared to dream that the cycle of fate could be broken, that one man's will could overturn the heavens themselves—but all of them had been cut down, slain not by demons or devils, but by those they once called allies, the righteous sects, the so-called pillars of balance and justice, the guardians of order who now stood with blades drawn and eyes filled with fear.
Jin Xuanji's breathing was slow, controlled, his chest rising and falling as spiritual energy pulsed around him like a living storm, his robe tattered and soaked in blood, not his own, but that of those who thought numbers and tradition could stop a man who had glimpsed a realm beyond the understanding of mortals, a realm where fate held no chains.
"You disappoint me, Elder Han," Jin Xuanji said, his voice low but filled with weight, like thunder rolling in the distance, calm but terrifying, as he stared at the old man before him—his master, his teacher, the one who had nurtured him in his youth, only to betray him at the peak of his glory.
Elder Han's white robe was spotless, untouched by the blood of war, and his eyes were filled not with guilt or remorse, but cold calculation, the kind only those who have lived too long in power understand, the kind that weighed lives like coins and judged merit by obedience.
"You went too far, Jin Xuanji," Elder Han replied, his tone like ice, detached and firm, as if speaking to a rebellious disciple rather than the one who had once been his greatest pride. "The Immortal Realm is not meant to be touched by mortals. You have went here without becoming an immortal, your actions risked upsetting the heavenly balance. I gave you every opportunity to turn back, but you chose arrogance. You chose heresy."
Jin Xuanji let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh, but there was no humor in it, only disappointment and fury buried deep beneath layers of cold control.
"Heresy?" he repeated, stepping forward slowly, each footstep leaving a faint imprint on the cracked stone beneath him. "You watched them murder my friends, my people, and now you call me heretic because I refused to kneel before your broken ideals?"
Elder Han said nothing.
The other elders standing in the distance shifted uncomfortably, their eyes flickering with unease, but none dared to speak—not when Jin Xuanji's presence still pressed down like a mountain.
"You fear me," Jin Xuanji continued, lifting his hand slightly, and in response, the wind gathered around him, his spiritual aura rising like a tidal wave. "Not because I'm evil. Not because I broke the rules. You fear me because I proved that your rules can be broken."
That was the truth—and they all knew it.
Heaven's rules, fate's law, the so-called heavenly order—he had pierced through all of them, not through luck or inheritance, but through endless cultivation, through sleepless nights drenched in sweat and blood, through sacrifices no one else had the will to make.
And now they stood against him.
Elder Han raised his hand slightly, and three shadows flickered through the sky—three figures landing behind him with explosive force, their auras shaking the earth as they revealed themselves: the Three Slaughtering Kings, peak cultivators of the Soul Manifestation Realm, ancient monsters who had not taken action in centuries, summoned only in times of existential threat.
Apparently, Jin Xuanji was that threat.
"Jin Xuanji," one of them said, a tall man with a long black spear and silver hair flowing down his back, his eyes sharp and unblinking, "you've reached too far, too fast. Return to the earth, and let the heavens rebalance themselves."
Jin Xuanji didn't reply immediately—he simply raised his hand, and with it, a sword of pure spiritual essence formed in his palm, glowing with a pale blue flame, a manifestation of his will, a weapon that had no name, because it didn't need one—it was forged not by technique, but by intent.
And his intent was death.
"You want to rebalance the heavens?" he said finally, his voice quiet but filled with venom. "Then let's start by removing the trash."
Without warning, he vanished.
The first of the Slaughtering Kings barely had time to react before Jin Xuanji appeared behind him, blade slicing through the air like lightning—there was a flash of blue, a scream, and then the man's body hit the ground, his arm severed and spiritual core shattered in one strike.
The second moved faster, launching dozens of energy spears into the air, turning the battlefield into a net of destruction—but Jin Xuanji moved like a shadow through the gaps, spinning through the air, parrying the final spear with a single twist of his wrist, and driving his sword into the man's chest, where it pulsed once and then exploded with pure spiritual fire.
The third tried to run.
He didn't make it three steps before Jin Xuanji caught him by the throat and slammed him into the ground so hard the earth cracked in a three-meter radius, his cultivation dispersing like smoke as his body convulsed under the pressure.
It all happened in seconds.
Three peak cultivators defeated without mercy, without effort.
The elders in the background stared in horror.
Elder Han's face finally showed emotion—rage, fear, disbelief—but he suppressed it quickly, stepping forward and drawing a thin blade from his sleeve, a sword that shone with the light of divine blessing, a weapon of heavenly craftsmanship known as the Celestial Fang, passed down for generations, said to contain the will of a fallen star.
"You've gone too far, Xuanji," he said, but now his voice trembled slightly, and Jin Xuanji heard it.
"I haven't gone far enough," Jin Xuanji answered, lifting his sword again, his aura still rising like a second sun. "Because if I had, you'd already be dead."
The two of them moved at the same time.
The collision shook the mountain, lightning splitting the clouds above, the entire landscape trembling from the sheer force of their blows.
Swords clashed, energy blasted outward, space distorted—their battle wasn't one of fancy techniques, but raw mastery, a contest of will, speed, and killing intent. Jin Xuanji fought like a storm unleashed, like someone who had nothing left to lose and everything to burn, and Elder Han fought with desperation, the calm mask slipping, revealing the fear beneath every strike.
They fought across the peak, their weapons carving lines into stone, their energy sending shockwaves across the valley, until finally, with one final blow, Jin Xuanji disarmed his former master, the Celestial Fang sent spinning across the battlefield, embedding itself into the ground like a broken symbol of an era coming to an end.
Jin Xuanji stood over him, sword raised.
And for the first time, Elder Han looked old.
"Finish it," the elder whispered, voice almost inaudible. "Do it, and prove to the heavens how far you've fallen."
Jin Xuanji hesitated—but only for a moment.
Then, without a word, he turned.
But Elder Han moved faster.
From the folds of his robe, he drew a dagger—one wrapped in ancient sealing talismans, a cursed weapon forbidden by every sect, a blade that did not cut flesh, but soul.
And he plunged it into Jin Xuanji's back.
Jin Xuanji staggered.
His sword dropped from his hand.
His spiritual energy erupted violently, tearing apart the earth around them, a final uncontrolled burst from a man betrayed by everything he once trusted.
Then silence.
Dust rose.
The battlefield fell quiet.
And Jin Xuanji's body stood motionless, back arched, head tilted forward, the dagger still lodged in his back.
Elder Han fell to his knees, coughing blood, barely able to breathe.
And as the wind carried the ashes of the dead across the mountain, no one could tell whether the Heaven-Breaker was still alive.
Or if fate had finally claimed him.