OmniscientWriter

The book was written in his own blood. The answers will drown the world.

Li Zhe Ran—once a prodigy of the Celestial Sword Sect—now crawls through the Crypt of Whispers, his shattered meridians leaking spiritual rot. There, he finds it: a tome stitched from the skin of dead philosophers, its pages pulsing with cursed truths. Swallowing its words to reclaim his power, Zhe Ran awakens as a living paradox.

His body rebels:
Ribs crack into venomous orchids whispering Nietzsche’s bleakest axioms.
Blood crystallizes into chains etched with Xunzi’s warnings.
Every truth he devours feeds the Philosopher’s Bloom, a sentient rot that turns cities into forests of flesh-bound trees screaming in Sartrean despair.

To survive, Zhe Ran binds six women, each a disciple of warring philosophies:
Mei-Xing, a Confucian sword saint who kills chaos to preserve order.
Ilse, a nihilistic alchemist brewing godhood from corpses.
Lian, a poison cultivator whose kisses unravel souls into poetry.
Claire, a dualist artificer who splits mind from body—even if it kills her.
Nadiya, a Dostoevskian madwoman who weaponizes suffering.
Kotone, a Shinto exorcist bargaining with the ghosts in Zhe Ran’s bones.

But the Tome’s final truth will unravel them all... Now, his past, present, and future are colliding… and the only way to escape the loop is to destroy every truth he has ever loved.

Tome of Ten Thousand Truths

The air curdled into tar-thick tension, charged with ozone and the copper tang of approaching violence. Young Zhe Ran's drawstroke birthed a crescent moon of purified qi—Luminous Cicada leaving its scabbard in a motion so flawless it seemed to cut time itself. The sword's song became a war hymn vibrating in perfect sympathy with its wielder's still-uncorrupted golden core.

"Third Form: Autumn Moon Cuts Water!" Zhe Ran's declaration shook peach blossoms from trembling trees. Luminous Cicada blurred into silver afterimages that hung shimmering in the humid air like guillotine blades paused mid-fall.

Seven disciples froze mid-descent, their sword-gliders disintegrating into plum flower petals. Golden cores visible through translucent flesh—crystalline structures pulsing with captured starlight—sputtered and dimmed as Zhe Ran's precision strike severed their connection to the sect's collective qi. They fell like wilted lotuses, bodies preserved in perfect stasis by blade-work so precise it suspended even death's inevitable descent.

Elder Shu's beard-scrolls burst into ash. For three trembling heartbeats, raw astonishment melted the old man's features into something nearly human. Then his face recomposed itself into calcified wrath, eyes narrowing to slits that leaked vermilion smoke.

"Fool!" The epithet struck with physical force, shattering nearby boulders into gravel. Elder Shu's palm thrust forward trailing comet-tails of pò-destroying qi—the same corporeal soul destruction technique that had once eradicated the Heretical Starfish Dynasty, now turned against the Celestial Sword Sect's own prodigy.

The blow hit with the seismic finality of a mountain's collapse, as young Zhe Ran's ribs cracked in discordant succession—G# minor, then Bb diminished—as he pivot into Fifth Form: Willow Bends to Truth. His desperate redirection carved spirals in the air itself, the transferred force ripping through bedrock like paper. The ravine vomited up geysers of pulverized limestone as shockwaves raced through its bones.

The earth convulsed in tectonic agony. Cliff faces peeled away in granite scabs, boulders transforming into meteors that screamed through the village's thatched roofs. A mother's arms became splintered shields over her child's head. An ancestral shrine dedicated to Harvest Gods collapsed inward, burying centuries of piety and prayer under the rubble.

Zhe Ran spun like a dervish forged from pure desperation, his golden core flaring nova-bright. Protective qi erupted in a coruscating dome—a perfect replication of the sect's Great Defense Array—falling stones vaporizing against its shimmering surface and raining down as glass beads that etched tiny craters in upturned faces.

In his sacrificial gambit, the young cultivator's back arched like a supplicant before the altar—open, vulnerable, drenched in sweat that sizzled where it struck the buckling earth. Elder Shu's second strike came adorned with perverse ceremony, the old man's palm imprint glowing with the same sigil that graced the sect's ceremonial welcome gates.

The second palm-strike landed true.

The impact birthed a sound beyond thunder—more alike the death knell of idealism made flesh. Zhe Ran's scream tore through the valley in visible ripples, uprooting ancient cypresses as it echoed. Luminous Cicada slipped from spasming fingers, its song decaying into atonal shrieks as it tumbled end over end towards the blood-soaked loam.

Fractured Mandate of Heaven III