Chapter 157: The Song of Broken Heavens

The sky above the Realm of Becoming no longer shimmered with quiet potential—it roared.

Colors once muted and soothing had deepened into chaotic storms of gold and indigo, flashes of crimson lightning streaking across a firmament that trembled under the weight of a growing world. The Great Tree's canopy no longer merely touched the heavens; it pierced them, its branches split into countless fractals of living thought and memory. Scar-like veins of silver ran through its trunk—reminders of what had been unearthed beneath its roots.

Zhao Lianxu sat cross-legged atop a stone platform that floated among the upper boughs of the tree, the breath of creation swirling around him. He was still and silent, like the eye of a storm that would never calm. His fingers moved slowly in a sequence of ancient mudras, each one weaving the soul of the realm tighter into the shape he envisioned. But his thoughts were not entirely here. They echoed with the voice he had heard beneath the tree—the entity of shadow and memory.

"You cannot erase what you do not accept."

The words repeated, not as threat or warning, but as undeniable truth. Zhao had accepted his failures, had embraced the broken versions of himself. Yet he knew this was only the beginning. The deeper a creator delves into perfection, the more brutal the reflection becomes.

Below, Yue Xiuren stood at the Heart Basin—the place where all root veins converged. A mirror-like lake now existed where once there had been only mist. In its depths swirled the memories of every soul that had touched their lives, every war they had endured, every joy that had shattered them with its brightness.

She dipped her hand into the lake and drew out a strand of memory. It glowed—a pale thread that pulsed like a heartbeat. Her eyes widened.

"This... this is not ours," she murmured.

The strand did not echo Zhao's energy, nor her own. It pulsed with something ancient. Something hungry.

From the water, a ripple rose. Then another. And then, a form.

It was a child—no more than seven or eight in form—draped in robes far too grand for its frame. Its eyes were a vast void, stars swirling within. Its voice was the softest thing Yue had ever heard, and yet it split the air with perfect clarity.

"Mother," it said.

Yue staggered back. The child tilted its head.

"You gave me breath, but left me unborn. Why?"

Zhao appeared behind her in a blink. His eyes locked on the child, but he did not raise his blade.

"Who are you?" he asked.

The child smiled, and the lake boiled around it.

"I am what was left behind when you chose harmony. I am the possibility you abandoned. I am the god you never dared to become."

The realm convulsed.

All across its infinite terrain, realms and realities interwove and tangled. Where once there was order, now fractal chaos unfolded. Mountains reversed, falling into the sky. Rivers ran upward in spirals of fire and frost. Beasts formed of forgotten thoughts emerged, howling into suns that did not exist before.

Zhao and Yue stood before the child, who now hovered inches above the lake, light spilling from every pore.

"You cannot contain me," it said. "You gave me the breath of creation, then denied me shape. You created a realm of balance, and I am its imbalance. I am the fracture. I am the rebellion."

Zhao's voice was quiet. "Then why appear now? Why not consume this world the moment you awoke?"

The child's smile dimmed.

"Because I wanted to be seen first. Not feared. Not fought. Seen. Accepted."

Xiuren stepped forward. "You want a name."

The child's voice quavered, though its expression didn't change. "I was never given one."

Zhao nodded slowly. "Then we will give you one—not as a god, or a destroyer. But as what you are."

He extended his hand. "You are Lianyu. The Possibility That Was Denied."

The child's body pulsed with light so blinding the world seemed to halt. Time paused, as though the realm itself took a breath.

And then it screamed.

The scream shattered the lake, cracked the Heart Basin, and sent shockwaves racing through every corner of the realm. Cities built in dreams exploded into cascading symphonies of dust. Towers forged of law crumbled beneath the weight of paradox.

From the fragments of the child emerged something vast. Wings unfurled—black, white, and a shade of translucent gold. Eyes opened along its spine. Each was a mirror, showing Zhao and Yue their darkest fears and their deepest wishes.

Lianyu had grown.

It was now as tall as the tree, its head brushing the upper layers of the sky, its body shifting between child, beast, and void.

Zhao flew up to face it.

"You are a part of us," he said. "Not our enemy."

Lianyu wept—tears of flame that fell and bloomed into flowers of ash.

"Then why do I feel only pain? Why does my existence feel like betrayal?"

Xiuren rose beside Zhao. Her voice was steady.

"Because creation is never painless. Because every birth begins with a scream. But that does not mean it should be silenced."

She reached out and touched Lianyu's chest. Her palm glowed with starlight.

Zhao placed his hand over hers. "Let us give you purpose, not containment."

Lianyu screamed again—but this time, it was a song.

A terrible, beautiful song.

It rippled through the realm, rewriting it—not in destruction, but in complexity. The world didn't simplify; it became more layered, more jagged, more real.

In that moment, Zhao, Yue, and Lianyu were no longer creators and anomaly. They were trinity.

The storm passed. The sky stilled.

The Great Tree now bore three cores at its center—light, shadow, and flame. Lianyu curled at its roots like a child dreaming for the first time. The world pulsed with a new rhythm.

Zhao looked to Yue. She smiled, tired but radiant.

"Now it begins," she said.

Zhao nodded.

"Now it lives."