The world does not remember who spoke first;
it only remembers the voice that everyone obeyed.
And so, I began to speak.
At first, a whisper into the courts of men. Kingdoms were already bleeding from famine, taxation, and faith. I merely added language to the wound. A single phrase, planted like a seed of corrosion:
"A lie repeated by the righteous becomes virtue."
It spread like fire. Priests quoted it to justify cruelty; rulers used it to silence dissent. I never needed to appear. My words did the killing.
In the capital of Jinzhou, I wore the face of a wandering scholar. The emperor summoned me after hearing that the stars bowed at my name. He asked what price I demanded for my wisdom.
"Only that you listen," I said.
He laughed, indulgent. "You scholars think listening can rule nations?"
So I spoke one sentence:
"From this moment, loyalty means agreement."
The hall fell silent. Every minister nodded, not by choice but by definition. The concept of disobedience ceased to exist.
By dawn, the empire was mine — not politically, but linguistically.
But empires are hungry for faith.
I turned next to the temples.
The gods were still worshiped by millions, but words reach faster than prayers. I traveled through villages, speaking to monks and beggars alike:
"The divine is not power — it is consensus."
They pondered, repeated, believed.
Soon temples burned themselves down voluntarily, priests rewriting their scriptures in my name. Not out of devotion — out of definition.
The world began to warp.
Belief itself bent to cognition.
Still, I felt the price gnawing at me.
Each time I altered reality, the archive inside me expanded — an ocean of memories, names, and meanings I never lived. When I closed my eyes, I saw every conversation in history. When I opened them, I saw words crawling beneath people's skin, forming the laws that governed their flesh.
And then, a voice — not from within, but above.
"You have altered too much. Heaven recalibrates."
The sky darkened. Clouds twisted into glyphs of judgment. Thunder spoke in ancient syntax: the language of origin.
But I smiled, unafraid.
"Then let Heaven learn a new grammar."
Lightning struck — and stopped midair, frozen by my will.
I touched it, feeling the heat of divine syntax melt into my palm, and absorbed it into the Archive.
"I redefine the divine."
That night, the first god died by definition.
And the age of Heaven's dominion ended.