Chapter 97: The Convergence of Fates

The rift yawned wider than the legends ever dared to imagine—an ancient wound in the very fabric of the Eternal Sky. Its edges pulsed with strange light, a living thing bleeding from one realm into another, whispering secrets of chaos and creation. Below it, the warriors of the Eternal Sky Sect and their allies gathered like a tide about to break—each face a mask of determination, dread, and the burden of destiny.

Zhao Lianxu stood at the forefront, his silhouette carved sharply against the dying light of dusk. The world seemed to hold its breath around him. His robes, embroidered with threads from the Heart of the Chaos Core, caught the wind and shimmered like liquid starlight. His eyes, deep pools swirling with the weight of past and future, surveyed the amassed forces. Not a man, but a convergence of legacies—Prince of the Multiverse, scion of demons and gods, wielder of fractured time and space.

He raised the Voidglass Halberd, a weapon forged from the remnants of collapsing stars and broken timelines. It sang through the air, a sound not just heard but felt—an echo in the bones.

"Brothers and sisters of the realm," Zhao's voice rang clear, steady like a mountain stream despite the storm around them, "we stand on the edge of the known. What lies beyond the breach is not a foe of flesh and blood alone, but the unraveling of existence itself. Our enemies wield time as a blade and shadow as a shield. Yet we must meet them—not with fear, but with the fire of our resolve."

Elder Huixin stepped forward, gripping the Banner of Heaven's Will with knuckles white as bone. His voice trembled but held firm. "Prince Zhao, the armies are ready. Yet the dimensions between us and that rift twist like a serpent's coil. What awaits us in the void beyond?"

Zhao's gaze hardened, eyes flickering with the prismatic light of the Space-Time Codex embedded within his veins. "Truth. And damnation. But we do not cower before fate. We forge it with our hands."

The warhosts took a collective breath. Somewhere, deep in the rift, the air hummed with an unholy melody—a dirge of worlds colliding, of destinies tearing at the seams.

Far from the front, in the Tower of Twelve Horizons, Yanmei stood beneath the Celestial Mirror, her reflection fractured by countless dimensions. Her fingers traced the cool glass as visions rippled within—a kaleidoscope of Zhao Lianxu battling echoes of himself, the eternal war unraveling like a tapestry consumed by flame.

Grand Scholar Mei'an's footsteps were soft, yet they echoed through the chamber's silence. "Your Majesty, the Temple of Silent Time has opened its gates. The Heart of the Chaos Core pulses within—unguarded, but its power is a double-edged sword."

Yanmei swallowed the lump rising in her throat. "If I retrieve the Heart, I risk breaking the pact with the Ancients. Yet without it, Zhao Lianxu will perish in the void."

Mei'an's gaze was unwavering. "The choice is yours. But remember, sometimes the greatest sacrifices birth the brightest dawns."

Yanmei's breath steadied. "Prepare my wingship. Tonight, we fly not as rulers or warriors, but as fate's instruments."

Beneath the mortal realms, in the Abyss of Eternal Return, shadows writhed like serpents in a pit. The Warden of Voidlight awoke, his form an amalgamation of starless void and ancient despair. His eyes—black holes swallowing light and hope—swept across his gathered legion of voidborn horrors.

"The vessel of paradox has pierced the veil," he hissed, voice like the grinding of cosmic bones. "The heir of Kairoth rises. We shall feast on his despair or his flesh."

Around him, creatures formed from forgotten nightmares stirred, claws and teeth dripping with entropy.

"Bring me his soul's fracture," the Warden commanded. "Or his corpse. There shall be no victory for the living."

High above, Lady Veyra stirred from the thirteen thrones of the Nether Sanctum. Her silver flames flickered with sorrow and determination. Once, Zhao Lianxu's bloodline sang in harmony with hers—now that melody was a dirge of loss and vengeance.

"I will go," she declared to the shadowed lords. "His blood remembers what his heart tries to forget. Perhaps my presence can guide him through the darkness."

No words answered, but the weight of her conviction settled like a tide turning beneath a storm.

Back on the mortal realm, Zhao Lianxu approached the Temple of Fractured Stars, where the last fragment of the Space-Time Codex awaited. Its guardian, Eoriv, a being of pale light cloaked in starry galaxies, emerged from the shadows.

"You seek wholeness," Eoriv's voice chimed like distant bells. "Then face your echoes."

A swirling mirror formed, reflecting countless versions of Zhao—failed, broken, and twisted by time. Each echoed a past self, wailing with pain and fury.

Zhao raised his halberd but did not strike. Instead, he closed his eyes and reached inward—embracing each echo with names whispered like prayers.

One by one, they dissolved into his being.

When the final reflection faded, the Codex burst into prismatic fire, fusing fully into Zhao's veins, igniting the threads of fate with a brilliance that scorched the stars themselves.

Meanwhile, Yanmei's journey through the Temple of Silent Time was a trial of spirit and flesh. The labyrinth of living stone shifted with every heartbeat, twisting time's flow—showing her visions of what might have been: a life with Zhao in peace, a child cradled beneath ancient trees, an empire united by love.

Each vision pulled at her soul like a siren's call, threatening to drown her resolve in comfort.

Yet she pressed on, battling illusions and pain until, at the temple's heart, the Heart of the Chaos Core floated—silent, ancient, and fierce.

Reaching out, Yanmei grasped it, and agony lanced through her, searing her spirit with the scream of the Ancients' broken pact.

"If I must burn to save him," she whispered through the fire in her veins, "then I will be the pyre."

Back at the Eternal Sky Sect, the three moons aligned above the floating spires, signaling the Convergence. Zhao Lianxu stood on the precipice, eyes locked on the rift's expanding maw.

From the abyss came a scream—a sound not of terror, but of existence denied and desperate to reclaim itself.

He whispered—not to gods, but to the sum of his choices and scars:

"May what I become still remember who I am."

Lightning danced across the heavens.

The War of Realms had truly begun.