Chapter 177: Shadows That Walk Between Worlds

The crimson sun dipped beneath the broken horizon of the Eastern Dominion, casting long shadows that crawled across the obsidian wastelands. From the depths of the fractured skies, streaks of violet aurora bled through the clouds like the veins of a dying god. The remnants of the Voidstorm still pulsed far above, but down below, the true storm—the one of destiny, deception, and power—was coiling in silence.

Zhao Lianxu stood within the Sanctuary of Threads, a vast circular chamber hidden deep beneath the Skyroot Citadel. Walls woven with living sigils glowed faintly with spiritual resonance, flickering in response to his turbulent aura. At the center of the sanctuary hovered the Astral Loom, an ancient relic that recorded and manipulated the fate lines of thousands of realms. Its whirring threads reflected flickers of countless lives, all tethered to the fragile balance of this moment.

Zhao's fingers trembled slightly as he reached toward the Loom—not from fear, but from the knowledge that what he was about to do would forever reshape not only his world but the many others that spun in its orbit.

"Your bloodline is the only one that can access the Hidden Weave," said Grand Scholar Yaoru, stepping forward from the shadows. Her long silver robes swayed like starlight, and her blind eyes glimmered with inner sight. "But even you must understand the cost."

Zhao didn't look away from the Loom. "The Voidborn Sect nearly ruptured the ley lines beneath Lianxu. The multiverse is hemorrhaging at the seams. I need to see what lies ahead—what darkness hunts beyond this veil."

Yaoru tilted her head. "Even the gods feared the Hidden Weave. It doesn't merely reveal what may come. It reflects what you may become."

"I've walked through time, through chaos and sword-light," Zhao said softly. "Whatever lies within... I must face it."

His hand closed over the spindle of the Astral Loom. Light exploded outward.

In the reflection of the threads, Zhao fell into a realm beyond realms. There was no ground beneath his feet, no air in his lungs—only sensation, memory, and mirrors of fate. He stood before three versions of himself:

—One cloaked in void-black robes, his eyes dripping shadow, lips curled in cruelty. —One clad in celestial armor, aloof, distant, wielding power like a scalpel. —And one broken, kneeling in blood, hands trembling as he clutched the dying body of someone Zhao couldn't see.

"What is this?" Zhao whispered.

A voice answered. "These are the echoes of what you might become. Each forged by choice. Each by sacrifice."

The Void-Emperor version stepped forward, mocking. "You've tasted the dark, haven't you? The Realm of Chaos offered its power freely. I took it. I conquered. They feared me, yes—but they obeyed. Isn't that what you want?"

Zhao's eyes narrowed. "Fear is not loyalty. And conquest without meaning is emptiness."

The Celestial Avatar smiled coldly. "Then you are soft. Rule demands clarity—detachment. Save what can be saved. Sacrifice the rest. It is the only way to preserve the balance."

The Broken Self said nothing, only wept.

Zhao turned away from the illusions. "You are possibilities, not destiny. I forge my own path."

As the Loom's threads unraveled the scene, a final image flickered: a woman—Yue—bound in chains of temporal steel, her voice muffled by a seal of silence. Behind her stood a shadow cloaked in formless void, its face flickering through countless identities—father, mentor, traitor, friend.

Zhao's heartbeat surged. "Who is that?"

Yaoru's voice echoed distantly. "That... is the Weaver of Ends."

Zhao gasped as he was pulled back into the Sanctuary. His knees hit the cold sigil-inscribed floor, breath ragged.

Yaoru knelt beside him. "What did you see?"

He rose slowly, face pale but eyes blazing with resolve. "I saw the one who hides behind all veils. The true architect of this war. The one who walks through every path, guiding the Voidborn, the Shadow Sect... perhaps even the gods themselves."

"You mean the Weeping Mask?" Yaoru asked.

"No," Zhao said. "Older than that. A being who writes endings."

Later that night, the inner court convened in the Moonshadow Hall. Ministers, generals, and spiritual elders gathered, tension coiled like a serpent in the air.

"The Nexus Portals are failing," reported General Huo, slamming a jade seal onto the table. "Starline travel between major realms is now erratic. We lost contact with the Celestial Sandscape two days ago."

"And the Beast Clans have withdrawn into their ancestral voidships," added Elder Zhenshi. "They smell war."

Zhao's voice was calm but iron-bound. "Prepare for battle, yes. But not just with weapons. Prepare with clarity. There is something else—something that wears many faces—guiding our enemies."

Yue stepped forward from his side, offering a scroll marked in blooded runes. "We intercepted this from a Voidborn carrier. It speaks of an awakening. A 'heart buried beneath shattered stars.'"

Elder Zhenshi paled. "The Heart of Nihil..."

"The old myths?" General Huo snorted. "I thought that was destroyed in the First Collapse."

"No," Yue whispered. "Merely hidden."

Zhao's jaw tightened. "Then we find it. Before they do."

That night, as storms raged over the peaks of the Skyroot Range, Zhao stood alone in his private chamber, staring at a map etched not with ink but with starlight.

Each flicker marked a point of unraveling—a place where reality had begun to twist. Where time buckled. Where chaos bled.

He traced one glowing node. The Ruins of Quas'tor—the oldest shrine of the Demon World, and the resting place of his maternal ancestors.

Yue entered quietly behind him. "You plan to go there?"

"I must," he said. "If I am to stop what's coming, I need to embrace all three legacies. Even the one born in shadow."

She walked to his side, placing her hand in his. "Then I'll go with you."

He looked down at her, the weight of past and future etched in his gaze. "We might not come back."

She smiled. "Then let us make our journey one worth never returning from."

Far away, in the blackened crypts beneath the ruins of the Eternal Sky Temple, the Weaver of Ends stood in silence.

A hundred masks hung behind him.

One by one, he began to don them.

Each one... a name from Zhao Lianxu's past.

Each one... a piece of the end he was writing.