_Majin_

Betrayed. Buried. But never broken.

Lucien was a prodigy—gifted with a power the world feared, envied, and ultimately destroyed. Framed by his mentors, abandoned by his lover, and cast into the deepest prison by the gods themselves, he was left to rot in darkness… alone.

But in the silence beneath the realms, something ancient whispered to him.

Centuries passed. Kingdoms rose and crumbled. Gods fell. And in the depths, Lucien changed. Hardened by solitude. Sharpened by pain. Molded by the Void.

Now, the world has forgotten him.
But he remembers everything.

He walks free—not as a hero, not as a villain—but as a force that bends reality itself. As realms clash and war consumes the skies, one name will echo louder than the gods:

Lucien. The Void’s chosen.

Whisper of the void

The wine gourd struck the glass floor and rolled, spilling its contents like liquid gold across the divine tiles of the Sky Pavilion.

High above the world, in a city woven of cloudlight and crystal, the old man didn't move.

His eyes stared through everything — through the horizon, through time itself.

Silence answered him. But deep beneath the heavens, the world began to stir.

A forgotten chasm, sealed by divine arrays and layered spatial barriers, trembled. The air — stale, heavy, unmoving for centuries — began to shift.

From within the pitch-black cell, a figure stood.

He didn't rush. He didn't breathe hard. He simply stood — as if the very act bent the laws of time and qi.

The restraints that once bound him… gone.

The darkness that once silenced him… shattered.

His body had changed. Hardened. Refined through agony and decades of isolation. But it was his aura — cold, vast, detached — that made the air itself seem to fracture.

Light refused to touch him. Space bent around him like a void refusing existence.

Chains once laced with divine sigils now crumbled beneath his bare feet. With each step, something ancient inside him stirred — not rage… but clarity.

"Still alive… after all," Lucien murmured, voice deep, raw, almost foreign to his own ears.

There was no ceiling. Only the shadow of eternity.

All across the Sky Pavilion, cultivators dropped to one knee — not out of reverence… but survival.

"He's broken the seal," the old man muttered, breath shaky. "After all this time…"

Another elder rushed in, cloak billowing. "Grand Scholar, what's happening?!"

The old man didn't look away from the sky.

"The curse failed. The seal failed. Time failed."

He turned slowly. Face pale. Voice hollow.

He walks again