664: Chapter 665 Where the pen begins, all things bow down.

At this very instant—at the end of the River of Time, a ray of light suddenly tore open.

This was not light.

It was the Universe opening its eyes.

It was not dawn, not dusk, not starlight—this was the first wisp of consciousness birthed from the Chaos placenta.

It carried the untamed savagery of the beginning of creation, the most primitive breath of all things not yet named, and a sense of antiquity that made one's Soul tremble.

The place where it appeared was so distant it could not be measured, so distant it exceeded the limits of perception, so distant that even the word "distant" was torn to dust there.

This was an absolute Domain that the River of Time could not reach, a forbidden zone that the web of Karma could not touch, a wasteland where even the Heavenly Maiden had never stepped and the Nether Maiden dared not pry.

Yet the moment it lit up—the end of the entire endless Void Realm was burned through.

It was not the deep blue of the Heavenly Maiden—cold like seawater frozen beneath ancient ice sheets; beautiful as it was, it ultimately carried a hint of femininity.

It was not the grey-black of the Nether Maiden—rotten like a toxic swamp settled for billions of years at the bottom of the abyss, drowning everything, yet ultimately revealing a sinister Death Qi.

This was a mysterious cyan.

You would understand the moment you saw it—this was the color of the first rock chiseled out when the world was created, the color of the first sprout tearing through the soil in the primordial ages, the color of the sky reflected without reservation in the pupils of ancient ancestors when they first looked up.

It was not seen.

It was recognized by the Soul.

The instant you saw it, you would have an illusion that was absurd to the extreme, yet real to the bone marrow—as if what you were seeing was not light, but the entire Universe remembering what it looked like when it was just born.

This cyan light did not belong to this era.

It did not belong to any recorded age.

It belonged to—the age of Chaos before the birth of the River of Time, when Laws were still sleeping, order had not been established, and all phenomena had not yet manifested.

An age where only the most primitive power roared in the Void Realm, and only the purest will burned in the darkness.

At the center of the exploding cyan light, a figure stepped through the light.

His steps were extremely steady.

With every footfall, the Void Realm condensed as if submitting beneath his feet; only after stepping firmly did he take the next step.

This steadiness was not caution—it was ultimate composure, like a beast awakened from the primordial era pacing in its own territory, each step taken as a matter of course, each step making the mountains and rivers tremble.

Yet his speed was suffocating.

The first step, he was still at the end of the end of time.

The second step, he had already crossed half the battlefield.

The third step, he hovered directly above the battlefield, his robes fluttering, overlooking all living beings.

Three steps.

Merely three steps.

From a Domain that even the Heavenly Maiden could not reach to this battlefield that had just been intertwined with blood and fire—three steps finished, as if the entire endless Void Realm were just his backyard, a matter of strolling a few steps.

He was draped in a cyan robe, the hem trailing a long tail of light in the Void Realm.

Within the tail of light, countless fragmented images flashed crazily—battlefields engulfed in flames, smoke blotting out the sun, cries of battle shattering the firmament, flesh and blood flying amidst the clash of swords, the earth cracked, the sky stained red.

Mountains of corpses where blood flowed like rivers, severed limbs piled into hills, fresh blood gathering into giant rivers, soaking every inch of land, every breath of air.

And the back of a person—standing alone in the eternal night, facing endless enemies, clothes tattered, covered in blood, yet the sword in his hand was never put down.

His spine was held straight, like a spear that would never break, like a mountain that would never collapse.

Those images flowed endlessly in his tail of light, every frame soaked with blood and tears, every frame engraved with defiance and madness.

In those images, there was his charge alone, his holding of the line alone, his determination to carve a bloody path through mountains of corpses and seas of blood alone.

In those images, he never fell. Never retreated. Never gave up.

His right hand gripped a heavy sword.

So heavy that the surrounding Void Realm was slightly collapsing, as if even the Void Realm could not bear its existence.

The blade was wide and thick, like a door panel, covered in dense patterns—layered and overlapping, so dense they were countless, as if this sword itself were a history of war poured with blood, every page writing only two words: "Live."

On the sword, divine fire burned unceasingly.

That was not a fire of the mortal world.

Not the orange-red of burning wood, not the crimson of magma, not the silver-white of lightning—this was the first wisp of firelight at the beginning of Chaos, the first heartbeat of the Universe's birth, the primordial fire that dispelled darkness and split the nothingness.

This fire could incinerate all things, burn through Karma, ignite even time, melt even space, and even the word "eternity" sizzled under its scorching heat.

The divine fire was pure gold—molten gold, the scorching sun at noon, so brilliant that one dared not look directly at it.

Yet, under the infiltration of the cyan light, the gold constantly changed, sometimes exploding with golden light like a god descending, sometimes flowing with cyan light like an echo from the primordial era.

The two colors intertwined crazily on the sword, so magnificent it left one speechless.

When the flames danced, the surrounding Void Realm twisted, collapsed, and melted, as if the very concept of "Void Realm" was shivering and kneeling in submission under the high temperature.

His face could not be seen clearly.

Not because it was blurry, not because it was obscured—but because he was surrounded by dense cyan mist.

This mist was not water vapor, not magical power, but something condensed from power older than the River of Time—not belonging to Karma, not to endings, not to time and space, not to the Five Elements, not to Yin and Yang, not to life and death.

This was the source of all Laws, the starting point of all phenomena, the mother of all things.

It was the Law of all Laws, the root of all power, the Foundation of all existence.

It was born earlier than Karma, perished later than endings, was more eternal than time and space, and was more fundamental than the Five Elements.

If Karma was the rule, then it was the hand that made the rule.

If time was a river, then it was the shovel that dug the riverbed.

If space was a container, then it was the fire that forged the container.

Yet the Heavenly Maiden did not need to see his face clearly.

Because the instant she saw this cyan figure—her heartbeat skipped a beat.

It was not shock. It was not fear.

It was the feeling of something being tightly gripped in the deepest part of the Soul.

It was like a person in an endless sea of people, suddenly seeing an old friend they thought they would never see again in this life.

It was like a traveler who had drifted in a long dream for billions of years, suddenly hearing a voice familiar enough to break one's heart.

It was like a person sinking in eternal darkness, suddenly having a ray of light pierce through all despair and shine on her face.

Her hands were shaking.

This pair of hands that had held the Sword of Causality for who knows how many eras and had never trembled—at this moment, they were shaking.

Slightly, almost imperceptibly.

Like the last leaf in the autumn wind, like the lingering echo that refused to stop after a string was plucked.

The Sword of Causality trembled slightly in her palm—not fear, not anger, but a kind of... excitement that even she could not name.

This excitement was like a seed buried in the bottom of her heart for billions of years, the instant she saw this figure, it suddenly broke the soil, grew wildly, bloomed, and blossomed into a flower that even she felt strange about.

This emotion was too intense, too complex, so intense that for a moment she couldn't distinguish—did she want to rush up and punch him, asking where he had gone all these years? Or did she want to throw herself into his arms and cry out all the grievances of billions of years?

Finally, this figure spoke.

His voice was deep, hoarse, like the first low roar emitted by a giant beast waking from an eternal slumber.

It carried the haziness of just waking up, the rawness of not having spoken for a long time, and the fatigue of having Transmigrated from a past so distant it could not be traced.

Yet it was this hoarse voice that contained an unquestionable majesty—a domineering power where one word spoken made all Laws bow.

This was not feigned.

It was an aura tempered from countless life-and-death battles, something settled into the bones after crawling out of mountains of corpses and seas of blood.

Just as the sun need not deliberately shine, the sea need not deliberately have tides, and high mountains need not deliberately be towering—he just stood there, said one sentence, and the entire battlefield fell into deathly silence.

"Touch her."

Two words.

The first word, "Touch," was as light as a sigh, as light as stating a trivial matter.

Yet this light, floating word made everyone present—including the Heavenly Maiden—feel a bone-chilling cold creep up their spines.

Because in this word "Touch," there was something colder than death: judgment.

The second word, "her," was as heavy as a heavenly hammer smashing into everyone's heart.

It carried an inviolable possessiveness, an untouchable desire to protect, and something more scorching than Killing Intent—a reverse scale.

Whoever dares to touch her must die.

This was not a threat. This was a verdict.

From deep to high-pitched, from hoarse to sharp, the power contained in that voice made the entire River of Time boil—the river water surged, evaporated, and roared crazily as if it had been boiled; ten-thousand-foot giant waves rose to the sky, shattering the Void Realm, emitting a deafening roar, as if the entire river were kneeling and trembling before this sentence.

It made the water of the River of the Nether flow backward—rushing crazily from downstream back to upstream, the entire river was so intimidated by this will that it lost its direction, even forgetting the instinct to flow.

It made the Bronze Immortal Palace emit a "humming" wail—this palace, which could suppress even the Sword of Causality and the Scythe of Endings, was now trembling, its verdigris peeling off rustlingly, and a sword mark on the palace gate leaked a shrill wail, as if it would collapse at any moment.

"You all have invited your own deaths."

The moment this sentence fell, this figure moved.

He just pointed the heavy sword of divine fire in his hand forward.

No chopping, no hacking, no sweeping, no upward slash—no flashy sword moves.

Just a plain, unremarkable point, like extending a finger to point in a certain direction, like picking up a pen to write a character.

Simple to the extreme. Ordinary to the extreme.

Yet it was this unremarkable point—that caused the atmosphere of the entire battlefield—to collapse.

It was as if an invisible giant hand had gripped everyone's throat, the air solidified, time stalled, Karma severed, and even "existence" itself was screaming as it fled.

In the direction this finger pointed, the Void Realm was collapsing, Laws were shattering, and even "meaning" was annihilated under this point.

Because this was not a point. It was a verdict.

Where the pen falls, all things bow.