Chapter 78: The Altar of Final Concord

The Altar of Final Concord rose like a jagged crown at the heart of a petrified storm. Frozen lightning streaks wove around its base, caught in a moment of eternal silence. The mountain beneath, carved from time itself, pulsed faintly under Zhao Lianxu's feet, echoing every step with ancient whispers. The winds here did not howl; they murmured secrets. The sky was not dark; it shimmered with suspended dawn, where stars blinked slowly like tired eyes struggling to remain open.

Zhao stood before the Altar, a sliver of silver flame burning in his eyes. He had crossed the Bridge of Eternal Doubt, cast aside the inherited illusions that had bound him since birth, and stepped through the Gate of Eternal Synthesis. Each trial had stripped him of roles, of facades, of the masks others had placed on him. What remained was not a prince or a chosen one, not even a hero. What remained was a man who chose to understand his own truth, regardless of the consequences.

The Altar itself was not ornate. It was a flat, wide slab of obsidian embedded in a spiral of white stone veins that pulsed like a heartbeat. Seven pillars surrounded it in a loose arc, each one representing an aspect of existence—Chaos, Order, Time, Will, Destruction, Creation, and Void. Above it all, a celestial glyph hovered, shifting between runes of different realms, refusing to settle. It was the Seal of the Architect, the one who had orchestrated the great illusion of balance in the multiverse.

Zhao inhaled.

His body still bore the scars from the confrontation on the Bridge. The space-time legacy within him twisted gently beneath his skin, a current of paradox he now understood but had not yet fully mastered. The demonic blood within him lay still, but awake, coiled like a serpent watching its own tail. And at his core, his Multiuniverse Destructive Body no longer raged. It pulsed with quiet power, waiting for the final key.

A voice echoed, low and rippling, not through air, but through thought itself.

"You have come."

The sky dimmed, just enough to make the approaching figure seem like a sunrise wrapped in shadow. He wore no crown, no armor, no robes of station. His body was lean, draped in a simple tunic that shimmered with cosmic dust. His face was unremarkable—neither kind nor cruel, neither young nor old. But his eyes contained the swirl of galaxies, and in his presence, the seven pillars bowed slightly, as if in acknowledgment.

The Architect.

Zhao's fists clenched, but he remained still. "I am not here to seek revenge."

"No," the Architect said. His voice was like silk over a blade. "You are here because you want to know why."

The Architect did not walk. He simply stepped forward, and the space between collapsed. One blink, and he stood across the Altar.

"Why you were made. Why you were betrayed. Why everything led here."

Zhao's gaze hardened. "You turned my parents into pawns. You orchestrated deaths, rebellions, and chaos. You made me this."

The Architect tilted his head. "And what is this? A prince without a throne? A weapon without a war? Or something... more?"

Zhao did not answer.

The Architect raised a hand, and reality rippled. The sky above became a window. Scenes unfurled like tapestries of living light.

-- A younger Zhao, training with a blade too heavy for him, sweat mixing with tears.

-- His mother, wrapped in demon silk, humming lullabies into the void.

-- His father, standing alone in a council of gods, defying them with law etched into his bones.

-- Xuanyin, in moonlight, placing a seal on her own heart before drawing her sword.

-- The seal the Architect now lifted from the air, revealing its final scene.

A war.

A future not yet lived.

A convergence of all realms into one blinding clash.

"This was always coming," the Architect said softly. "The multiverse cannot sustain infinite divergence. A singularity must form. A unity. You are not a weapon. You are a catalyst."

Zhao looked away. The war in the vision burned cities made of stars. It shattered realms, broke suns like glass. And in its center...

Him.

Not fighting.

But deciding.

"I did not ask for this," Zhao said.

"No one asks to become fire," the Architect said. "Yet without fire, the old cannot fall, and the new cannot rise."

Zhao stepped forward, placing both palms on the Altar. It burned cold against his skin.

"Then let me choose what burns."

The seven pillars flared.

From each emerged a spirit—figures draped in the aspects they embodied.

The Spirit of Chaos, laughing with eyes made of torn galaxies.

The Spirit of Order, with a face of symmetry and a voice like chains.

The Spirit of Time, ancient and childlike, carrying clocks that ticked backwards.

Will, Destruction, Creation, and Void followed—each offering not power, but questions.

To take the Architect's place, Zhao would have to answer.

Not with words.

But with soul.

Each spirit drew near, whispering a dilemma.

Order: *"Would you sacrifice your beloved to save the world?"

Chaos: "Would you plunge the world into war to free it from stagnation?"

Time: "Would you erase a moment of pain, knowing it would undo your strength?"

Creation: "Would you birth a new realm, knowing it would destroy the old?"

Void: "Would you choose peace, even if it meant silence forever?"

Will: "Would you bend others to your truth to protect them?"

Destruction: "Would you end everything to begin again?"

Zhao's heart trembled.

He saw Xuanyin in every answer.

Her laughter, her betrayal, her love.

He saw his mother and father, broken and breaking others to protect him.

He saw himself—not as he was, but as he might be.

Then he answered.

"I would not choose peace over truth. I would not sacrifice love for duty. I would not save the world if it meant enslaving it to my will. I would not erase pain that taught me compassion."

He paused.

"And I would not fear destruction. Because sometimes, to heal, the wound must be opened. The poison bled. The infection burned."

Silence.

Then the pillars exploded in light.

The Architect closed his eyes.

"Then you are ready."

He reached out, and Zhao took his hand.

In that instant, everything within Zhao unraveled and rewove. His three bloodlines harmonized, no longer vying for dominance. The space-time legacy aligned with his heartbeat. The demonic flame cooled into purpose. And the Multiuniverse Destructive Body pulsed with creation.

The Architect stepped back.

He smiled.

"Then I am no longer needed."

He faded, not into death, but into memory.

Zhao stood at the Altar. Alone. Whole.

The war had not ended.

But for the first time, the multiverse had a heart.

And it beat with his will.