The void trembled as the First Ancestor moved. Eyes closed, soul burning with wrath, he tore through the fabric of time.
No formation. No ritual. Just will.
The River of Time shrieked as his hand breached its flow. Waves of forgotten moments and unborn futures convulsed, resisting his intrusion. The Heavenly Dao flared in protest—but could not stop him. He was never part of its design.
A spiral of black and silver light erupted in the skies above the Fairy Realm. The heavens cracked. Laws screamed. The very stars dimmed. Beings across dimensions felt it—a pressure ancient and absolute descending upon them.
And then… he appeared.
The skies split like paper as a colossal rift tore open. From its center stepped a man, clothed not in silk or armor, but in existence itself. Void-black robes shimmered like dying galaxies, his hair drifted with strands of starlight, and his eyes… his eyes glowed with swirling Dao—the kind never meant to be wielded by mortal or immortal.
He stood at the center of the Fairy Realm, atop the shattered altar of his ancestral empire. The world stopped.
Across continents, kings and sages fell to their knees. Divine beasts wailed. Immortal sects sealed their gates. The rulers of the Fairy Realm—beings who hadn't bowed in millions of years—prostrated themselves in terror and awe.
From deep within the Earth's veins, from sealed tombs beneath sacred mountains, they stirred.
The ancient ancestors of the Voidborn bloodline—those whose names were whispered in forgotten dialects, those thought long dead—awakened. Their eyes opened with tears and reverence.
"He has returned..." one whispered, kneeling in golden mist.
"It is truly him…" another wept, their aged hands trembling.
The ancestors of other great clans rose and trembled. They whispered urgent warnings to their descendants:
"Bury your pride. Hide your jealousy. Do not meet his gaze. Show no hatred—or he will end you with a thought."
The sealed palace at the heart of the empire shook open, gates wide as galaxies creaked, revealing the ancestral throne—dustless and waiting. As the First Ancestor walked the palace path, the ground bloomed with celestial lotuses. The realm itself recognized its true ruler.
He walked with the majesty of creation incarnate. Each step he took carried the weight of stars and the elegance of prophecy fulfilled. The names rang across the realm—The First Blood, The Void Sovereign, The Emperor of All Fates, The Origin That Walks.
The ancient spirits formed a grand procession, bowing on either side of the path, chanting the sacred hymns of the Voidborn.
He climbed the steps and turned his gaze upon the world.
"I am the origin," his voice rang, neither loud nor soft, but final. "I am the First Blood. I am the one who shaped fate… and now, I shall unmake it."
He sat.
And in that moment, reality itself bent around him. Dao laws bowed. Forbidden skies realigned. The world was no longer in balance—it was in submission.
The Fairy Realm had a ruler once more.