Immortal Paladin

In the beginning of time, there had been nothing, and then… there was life.

From the silent womb of the Origin, the Shén (神) had arisen—beings without gestation or design, born fully formed from causality itself. They had not learned the laws of existence; they had ‘been’ those laws. With thought alone, they had stretched reality outward, carving dimensions from emptiness, igniting stars, seeding time, and allowing matter to dream of form. The universe had been their first and greatest work.

Life had followed in their wake, fragile and multitudinous. Mortals had looked skyward and named their creators gods, and with each whispered prayer and trembling act of worship, the Shén had ascended further beyond themselves. They had watched their creation with distant admiration, timeless observers presiding over a cosmos that breathed and struggled beneath them.

But life had carried an inevitability the Shén had not accounted for.

It was… Death.

Mortals withered. Civilizations eroded. Worshipers vanished into stillness, one by one, devoured by the passage of time. The Shén had found this intolerable. They had reached into the afterflow of existence and pulled the dead back into form, rewriting endings as if they were errors.

Yet the miracle had birthed a question.

When something returned, bearing memories but clothed in new flesh, was it truly the same being that had died?

The Shén had recoiled from the implication. They had buried the question beneath celebration and excess, choosing not to look too closely at what they had undone. From resurrection came ascension, creating a new generation of gods, mortals reborn into divinity, shedding their mortal shells and inheriting fragments of Shén authority.

An era of prosperity soon followed, however, they didn’t know it was just the prelude of a catastrophe waiting to explode upon itself.

Where there was will, there had been desire. Where there was desire, there had been conflict. And when conflict was wielded by gods, reality itself had bled. The universe had fractured beneath endless war—good and evil defined and redefined by those with the power to enforce meaning. Even as epochs collapsed into dust, the war had continued, unbroken, bleeding into contemporary time like an unhealed scar.

By then, the Shén had vanished into obscurity.

In their absence, the Supreme Beings had emerged, existences that stood apart from gods and demons alike. Seven such beings had been recorded across all known histories. Of them, the most recent had been Supreme Death.

He sat upon his throne, his form was unmoving as he idly listened to the intruder’s words.

“Yeah, the Heavenly Demon was alive,” a voice said, intruding without resistance. “Can you believe it?”

A wispy figure coalesced in one corner of the chamber. It was the Supreme Heart’s projection, flickering like a nervous thought. Death did not turn his head.

“I mean,” Heart continued, pacing theatrically before him, “we agreed to give him the axe. Clean, unanimous decision. And then I saw him right there, kicking the ass of one of your kids. Conquest, was it?”

“Conquest was not my ‘kid’ as you put it and you know that,” Death had replied, his tone flat, drained of inflection. His voice carried no threat, no irritation. It simply was.

Heart paused, then laughed lightly. “Still touchy about lineage, I see.”

Death remained seated. “We agreed not to touch the Hollowed World. Why were you telling me this?”

Heart’s grin widened, though his form wavered. “Because I knew you wouldn’t tattle. We’re like the best of friends, right?”

Among the Six Supremes, Heart had been the most insincere, his domain of humanity having taught him every method of manipulation ever conceived. His confidence had not been misplaced. Death did not care for the internal politics of the Six. Alliances, betrayals, rules… they all ended the same way.

Death raised one hand and traced the jagged wound embedded in his chest, a rupture in concept rather than flesh. It had been inflicted during the war against the Supreme Void, a conflict so absolute that even Supremes had been forced into seclusion afterward. The others had hidden themselves away to heal, to mend their fractured essences.

Death had not.

The wound pulsed faintly, leaking silence.

He could have healed it. The knowledge rested easily within him. But he had left it untouched, allowing the ache to persist, a reminder carved into his being.

Heart watched him for a moment, his mockery dimming. “You really don’t plan on fixing that, do you?”

Death’s fingers stilled.

“No,” he said at last.

Heart continued in his eccentric streak.

“So why am I telling you this?” he said, voice bright with theatrical intrigue. “Well, this new Supreme Vessel after the Heavenly Demon… I think he might be trouble, you know?”

Supreme Death did not respond.

“The six domains revolve around the Abyss at a pretty steady pace,” Heart went on, gesturing as phantom constellations spun briefly around him. “The Hollowed World was placed on the fringes of those domains, nice and tidy. But now?” He leaned forward, grin sharpening. “Now the world that served as the prison of the Supreme Void is sitting right in front of your domain.”

He paused deliberately.

“I’m just saying,” Heart added, lowering his voice, “this might be your big chance to, you know… kill yourself.”

The words echoed faintly through the palace of endings.

“Isn’t that your greatest dream?” Heart chuckled. “I mean, look at you. You used to look like a chad before—look-maxing and all. Now your skin color’s changed after you basically drained yourself dry with blood.” He tilted his head, feigning curiosity. “Didn’t you use to be black?”

Death’s gaze finally shifted.

“What do you want?” he asked, stern and cold.

Heart’s grin widened. “I’ll help you die. Fulfill the big dream.” He spread his arms. “Still, it’s pretty disappointing. You’d probably be the strongest of us all if you just decided to lock in—”

“What do you want?” Death asked again, sharper this time, the space between words collapsing inward.

Heart stopped smiling.

“Nothing, really,” he said, his expression suddenly plain.

Death did not believe him.

Among the Six Supremes, the Supreme Heart bore the most vile titles from supreme scam, hedonist, piece of shit, vile piece of shit, irredeemable piece of shit. The names clung to him like truths too persistent to erase.

Death raised a finger and pointed.

“Die.”

The Law of Death surged forth, absolute and unquestionable. Heart vanished instantly, evading the decree by a margin so thin it shredded causality itself. The entire palace collapsed into ash, and then the ash unraveled into nothing.

A heartbeat later, Heart reappeared, panting theatrically.

“Son of a bitch,” he exclaimed, clutching his chest. “You scared the shit out of me!”

“I will not repeat myself,” Death said, his voice steady amid the nothingness. “What do you want?”

“Boring,” Heart replied with a sigh. Then his tone shifted, slipping into something calculated. “Give me the Wheel of Reincarnation.”

Death’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly.

“I think it’s broken,” Heart continued casually, “but I also think I can fix it.”

“You are about to do something reckless again,” Death said. “The last time you tried something, the others did not take it nicely.”

“Oh, come on,” Heart waved him off. “Don’t think too much about it. The preparations alone will take ages. I won’t be able to do anything until I gather the necessary items.” He smiled again, slow and deliberate. “Anyway, here’s the deal. You give me what I want, and I give you what you want.”

“A method for me to die?” Death asked.

Even among the Six Supremes, Supreme Death was an anomaly. He could not die. How could death itself be killed? He had once tried ending himself with ‘life’, birthing the Four Horsemen in the process. The result had been catastrophic… and insufficient.

Silence stretched between them.

At last, Death spoke.

“We have a deal.”

The Supreme Heart departed soon after, carrying with him the broken pieces of the Wheel of Reincarnation. They vanished into his keeping as though they had never belonged to Death in the first place, leaving behind only absence and the faint aftertaste of deceit.

As for the Supreme Death, he remained seated for a long while, unmoving.

He was uncertain whether the method Heart had whispered to him would truly work. The proposal itself had been audacious, absurd even… but Heart had spoken with confidence, not bravado. There had been calculation behind it.

“Sly man,” Death murmured. “As expected of the Supreme Void…”

Only then did he fully grasp Heart’s intent. By revealing his “little trip” to the Hollowed World, Heart had willingly handed Death a leash. A fragile one, perhaps, but a leash nonetheless… one that subtly tilted Death’s judgment toward agreement. If the ‘method’ had been a lie, Death needed only to speak of that transgression, and the other Supremes would descend upon Heart with relentless scrutiny. If it had been the truth, then there would be no consequences at all.

After all, Death would already be dead.

Death doubted whether such a leash would hold for long. Knowing the Supreme Heart, its value would erode quickly, worn down by schemes yet unimagined.

He rose from his throne.

His robes flowed like pale clouds, white upon white, adorned with patterns of thorns and dark petals that seemed to bloom and wither as he moved. Around him, the palace reconstructed itself, layers of reality knitting back into place. Stone reformed, arches returned, and silence settled once more. Yet the damage lingered, a massive hole remained in the far-left wall, exposing the rest of the underworld beyond.

The palace groaned.

For a fleeting moment, its true nature revealed itself not merely a structure, but a hungry ghost shaped into architecture, devouring meaning and memory alike. Then it stilled.

Through the opening, the underworld stretched barren and immense. Souls lay scattered across Death’s domain, drifting aimlessly like ash on an eternal wind, their numbers thinning and swelling beyond sight.

Among the Six Supremes, the Supreme Death was infamous for his negligence.

He could not be bothered.

Such matters had always been left to that old fool, Meng Po, whose obsession with her duties had bordered on mania. Of course, she had gone and done something reckless. Of course, she had been killed for it.

Death stepped forward and in a single bound, space folded.

He arrived within the private manor of one of the Four Horsemen.

A young boy reclined atop a throne far too large for him, his dark skin contrasting against the pale stone, dark curly hair spilling untamed around his face. His expression was one of profound boredom. When he noticed Death, his eyes widened.

“Father!” the boy cried.

“Do not call me that,” Death said sharply.

The boy flinched. Hurt flickered across his face before discipline smothered it. He straightened and bowed his head.

“I apologize, Lord Supreme.”

The boy had been crafted in Death’s likeness from personality, appearance, and temperament, but without his memories. He was the byproduct of one of Death’s many attempts to end himself, a fragment shaped into autonomy.

Death regarded him quietly.

“I am going to die soon,” Death said. “I want you to arrange my funeral.”

The boy recoiled. “B-but—father—”

Death’s gaze hardened.

“I said do not call me that.”

Silence fell.

Then Death continued, his voice lower. “It is not certain yet. Listen carefully. I should have given you a name when I had the chance. I will do so now.” He paused, considering. “Grim. Yes. That will do.”

The boy froze.

“From now on, you are Grim,” Death said. “The day I die, you will also die. So will the rest of the Horsemen. Make it count.”

Grim’s hands trembled. “Why… why are you telling me this?”

“Because I am you,” Death replied calmly. “If it is not meant to be, and the rest of the Horsemen will it, then I will not truly die.” A faint, hollow sound escaped him, almost laughter. “You will understand in due time.”

Death reached out and placed a hand upon Grim’s head.

The gesture was awkward, restrained, yet unmistakably gentle. It was a rare emotion, something fragile and human, surfacing from a being that should have long since shed such things. Death knew exactly why it had stirred.

It was the residue of his brief interaction with the Supreme Heart.

Such was the influence the Six Supremes exerted upon one another, the likes of the Supreme Heart was just one example of such forces capable of awakening even the smallest and most dangerous remnants of humanity within Death himself.

“Ah, pathetic…”

The boy winced, mistaking Death’s derision for himself.

“Take care,” said Death. “Do me a favor and tell the others my impending death.”

Death strolled through his domain without purpose or haste, his presence rippling across the afterlife like a slow tide. He absorbed the sights in silence from the pained souls drifting without direction, the endless suffering born not of judgment, but of neglect. The afterlife had been mismanaged for far too long, and it showed.

Wicked ghosts had begun to assert themselves. They carved territories out of despair, crowned themselves kings of ruins, fed on fear and memory. Death watched them without interest. Order and chaos meant little here; all paths ended the same.

Eventually, he stopped.

Before him lay a dead world.

It was barren, cracked open like a fossilized corpse floating in nothingness. This was the place where he had awakened, where Supreme Death had first opened his eyes to existence. He stood upon its ashen surface and let stillness take him.

He tried to reminisce about his life before all of this.

But he could barely remember it.

The death of memories did that to a being. They eroded quietly, losing edges, losing names, losing faces. And yet, dead as they were, those memories returned again and again, surfacing relentlessly within his mind like corpses refusing to stay buried.

Again and again, he killed them.

Each time they rose, he severed them, excised the warmth, and erased the ache. But today was different.

Today, he did not act immediately.

He allowed himself to soak in whatever shred of humanity remained within him. He let it linger. It was thin, fragile, and dangerous. Then, slowly and deliberately, he killed that too.

He could not afford to be swayed by something like the heart. Not when the Supreme Heart existed. To cling to emotion was to invite manipulation, to lose control to machinations far subtler than force.

“This is enough,” Death said quietly.

His voice echoed across the dead world, swallowed by silence.

“I’m tired. I’m ready to go.”

Names surfaced unbidden.

“Da Wei. David. Whoever you are…” His voice faltered for the briefest instant. “Don’t miss your shot.”

He wished sincerely for his death to come at the hands of another. Even the Six Supremes had been unable to grant him that release. He looked down at the world beneath his feet.

“This place has to go.”

Whatever little attachment he had left for this dead world, he released it. Without ceremony, without regret. The world imploded inward, collapsing upon itself as if crushed by an unseen fist, before bursting apart into drifting ash. Its remnants scattered into nothing, erased even from memory.

“Soon,” Death murmured. “It’s going to be my turn.”

He could feel it, fate drawing closer each day, tightening like a noose woven from inevitability.

“Yes,” he continued softly. “I just have to believe in it. This nightmare is going to end. And I’ll finally wake up again.”

His gaze unfocused, turned inward.

“Beside my loving wife. Watching a movie on a Saturday night. Eating popcorn.”

The image was warm. Gentle. Human.

Yet his voice carried none of it.

It seeped only dread. It was cold, hollow, and eerie, as though warmth itself had died before reaching his throat.

“Yes,” he said at last. “That sounds good.”

He turned away from the drifting ashes, his form dissolving back into the vastness of his domain.

“Home,” Death whispered. “Yes. I’m going to be home soon.”