After Xiao Chen read the name on the cover—Heaven-Devouring Emperor Scripture—his heart trembled.
"Scripture… Devouring…"
He repeated the words silently, tasting their meaning. He did not fully understand what a scripture was, but the word devour made his chest tighten. Almost instinctively, his thoughts returned to that white light—how it had been swallowing his qi again and again, leaving nothing behind, no matter how hard he tried.
For the first time in a long while, his confidence—already fragile—deflated even further.
Devouring… Is that what has been happening to me all this time?
A trace of fear crept into his heart.
If this scripture had anything to do with that white light, then opening it might mean suffering that pain again.
Xiao Chen clenched his fists.
His hands trembled slightly, but he did not pull them back.
After all… what was he afraid of?
He had no family who would cry for him if he died.
No one had ever truly supported him in his life.
From the moment he could remember, he had always been alone.
His memories drifted backward, unbidden.
He had once been nothing more than a child placed inside a carton, abandoned on the side of a street in the kingdom's bustling marketplace. On the carton, someone had written a name—Xiao Chen—as if that alone was enough to define his existence.
No date of birth.
No explanation.
No apology.
Just a name.
An old man had been the one to find him.
The man was already advanced in age, his back bent, his hair thin and gray. He ran a small food stall in the business district, selling simple meals to passersby. When he saw the abandoned child, the old man did not hesitate. He picked him up, held him in trembling arms, and took him home.
The old man never knew Xiao Chen's exact age. He only said that the child could not have been more than three years old when he found him.
The day they met became Xiao Chen's birthday.
From that day on, the old man treated him like the son he had never had.
They lived simply. The food was never abundant, but Xiao Chen never went hungry. At night, the old man would tell him stories—stories about cultivators, about people who could fly through the sky and shatter mountains with their fists. Xiao Chen listened with wide eyes, his heart full of dreams he didn't yet understand.
But happiness had always been fragile in his life.
Two years later, the old man fell sick.
Very sick.
There was no one else by the old man's side. No relatives. No friends close enough to help. Xiao Chen, still a child, did what he could—fetching water, wiping sweat from the old man's forehead, calling his name again and again.
It was useless.
The old man died quietly.
People who had known the old man came to bury him. They patted Xiao Chen's head, sighed, and left.
Xiao Chen stayed.
He waited by the grave, convinced the old man would wake up.
He slept beside the grave for three days.
Three days without food.
Three days without water.
Three days of crying until his voice turned hoarse.
He was only around five years old. He did not understand the true meaning of death. He only knew that the person who had held his hand, who had fed him, who had called him son, was not waking up.
Eventually, weak and dizzy, he left the grave.
He returned to the old man's food stall in the business district, hoping—foolishly—that things would be the same as before.
But the stall was locked.
On the wooden board, a notice was posted.
Xiao Chen could not read all the words back then, but he heard people talking.
They said the old man had loaned the stall ten days before he fell sick.
They said he wanted money to buy cultivation resources.
They said he wanted to help the child he had taken in.
Only later did Xiao Chen understand.
The old man had given up everything he had—for him.
That was the only time in his life someone had truly acted like family.
Remembering this, Xiao Chen's chest tightened.
If he died now, there would be no grave for anyone to kneel before.
If he suffered, there would be no one to share the pain.
So what was there to fear?
Even if this scripture brought pain… even if it brought death… at least he would be walking forward instead of remaining weak.
Xiao Chen steadied his breathing.
His eyes hardened with resolve.
Slowly, he reached out and opened the golden book.
The moment his fingers touched the first page, the entire dark space trembled.
A brilliant white light erupted from the scripture, far purer and more overwhelming than anything he had seen before. It flooded his vision, swallowing the darkness whole. His mind shook as if struck by thunder, yet strangely, he felt no pain—only a crushing sense of vastness, as though something ancient and boundless was finally revealing itself.
The pages flipped on their own.
Runes he did not recognize floated into the air, forming patterns beyond mortal comprehension. Each symbol carried an oppressive weight, as if the heavens themselves were pressing down upon him.
Xiao Chen's heart pounded violently.
Then—
His vision froze.
On the first revealed page, words began to appear, carved in light itself.
Xiao Chen stared at them.
And he saw—
[End of Chapter]