Chapter 11 — The Eyes of the Forgotten
Long before there were sects… before techniques were carved into stone and passed down through bloodlines… before the dantians aligned in harmony… there were The Three.
They were not born. They awakened.
Not in this world, but beneath it—deep in the spiritual marrow of the realms, where existence blurred and law was optional.
Their names were never spoken. But now, they were called by titles:
The Sword God, whose every breath split reality and whose silence taught war.
The Martial God, the eternal challenger who defeated time itself.
The Demon God, the fallen reflection of man's ambition — not evil, but liberated from morality.
These were not cultivators.
They were the embodiment of what cultivators chased.
Their presence was myth.
But myths have gravity.
And now, that gravity was shifting.
High above the mortal world, past the spiritual cloudlines of the Middle Realm, there floated a land forgotten by maps — The Hollow Sky.
There, inside a black marble temple that had no doors, no entrance, and no time, the Sword God sat alone.
No sword in hand.
He didn't need one.
Because everything was his blade.
His eyes were closed, and still — he watched the world.
When the Violet Lightning Sect fell, he felt it.
When the cursed gained minds, he noted it.
And when the Origin Cultivation Manual stirred?
He stood.
A voice echoed from the temple's ceiling — though no ceiling was visible.
"Will you descend?"
The Sword God did not answer.
Because he already was.
In the burning heart of the Ruinous Depths, buried beneath the lowest planes of the demonic territories, the Demon God laughed.
He had been asleep. Or perhaps… simply uninterested.
But now?
The scent of chaos.
The fracture of structure.
The resurgence of that technique.
His six eyes opened, each shaped like a twisted spiral. He spoke to no one, yet the flames of the underworld flared with glee.
"The mortals call it forbidden.
But what is forbidden if not divine?"
He rose, dragging behind him a blade of bone too heavy for physics and too real for fantasy.
And in the Silent Vale, where no sound had ever been heard — even by those who trained there — the Martial God meditated.
He had not fought in 400 years.
Because no one had been worthy.
He sat, back straight, body unmoving, as snow fell and melted before touching him.
But then…
He opened one eye.
He felt the Origin Manual awaken — not in body, but in mind.
Not in cultivation… but in purpose.
The Martial God smiled.
Not because war was coming.
But because the opponent he had been waiting for might finally exist.
Back in the mortal world, those sensitive to spiritual tremors began to suffer.
Elders in seclusion coughed blood.
Beasts of high rank ran mad through forests.
Spiritual arrays shorted out, and sacred grounds cracked at the seams.
The very rules of cultivation began to fray.
And far, far below — in one of the random secret realms that only opened once every hundred years — a child with no sect and no training stood before a monument.
It bore a symbol.
An eye, closed, surrounded by three rings.
The child reached out to touch it.
And somewhere… something opened its eyes in response.