Myth Beyond Heaven

Yin leaned forward slightly, and the void around Long Chen and Qian Jinglei constricted, making them gasp for air that wouldn’t come. “I want Yun Lintian broken at the peak of his power, by my hand, not rushed and fractured by the meddling of that time-obsessed fool. Their deaths,” he said, pointing at the fallen, “are not for you to give. They are mine to take, or to leave, as it suits my purpose. You have wasted my resources.”

The revelation struck Long Xi, Long Qingxuan, and Nantian Fengyu with a new kind of horror. Their lives, their deaths, were just variables in a cosmic calculation between these primordial monsters.

They weren’t even granted the dignity of being targets; they were merely pawns, their value measured only in how their suffering could be used to manipulate Yun Lintian.

Long Chen was trembling uncontrollably. “F-forgive us, Lord Yin! We acted thoughtlessly! We sought only to serve you!”

“Thoughtless service is worse than deliberate betrayal,” Yin said coldly. “It creates messes.”

He straightened up, the pressure around his servants easing slightly, but the threat remained, palpable and absolute. “Remember your place. You are tools. A tool does not decide which nail to hammer. It waits for the hand that wields it.”

He turned away from them, dismissing their existence. His attention returned to Yun Lintian. “Now, thanks to your… enthusiasm… the timeline has accelerated. The whetstone is already bloody. Let’s see if our prospective ’Primordial Origin’ can finish his meal before I lose my patience.”

He began walking slowly towards the meditating Yun Lintian, his hands still clasped behind his back. The air around him warped, reality itself seeming to unravel and die in his wake.

Long Xi, with the last dregs of her strength, tried to push herself up, to put her body between Yin and Yun Lintian. But it was useless. Her body refused to obey.

All she could do was watch, her heart filled with a despair so complete it was a void in itself, as the embodiment of Uncreation moved to claim his prize.

Buzz—

The air, already thick with the oppressive weight of Yin’s presence, suddenly congealed into something even more solid, more absolute. It was as if the universe itself held its breath.

Yin, who had taken only a few deliberate steps toward the meditating Yun Lintian, paused mid-stride.

A slow, intrigued smile touched his lips, a predator sensing another of its kind. He turned around, his movements languid and utterly unbothered.

From the shimmering, chaotic energy still pouring from the open Gate, the very fabric of space twisted and folded. Two figures emerged as if stepping through a silver curtain.

One was Nian Shi, the God of Time. His silver robes were immaculate, his expression cold and detached, but the power radiating from him was a sharp, temporal pressure that made time itself feel unstable.

Beside him stood Tantai Lanling, her form radiating a fierce, protective energy, her gaze sweeping the horrific scene with a flicker of grim acknowledgment.

Their arrival did not bring relief. It brought a new, even more terrifying layer of pressure. The sacred land now hosted both the end of all things and the master of time itself.

The conflict was no longer one-sided; it was a standoff between two primordial titans, and the Land of Beyond Heaven was their chosen battleground.

Yin’s smile widened, a flash of perfect white teeth in his handsome, evil face. “Nian Shi,” he greeted, his voice a smooth, mocking drawl. “You’re late. The party has already started. Your lackeys, oh I mean, your former lackeys, it seems, were overeager and started the main event without you.”

He gestured vaguely at the corpses and the wounded.

Nian Shi’s silver eyes, deep and ancient as the River of Time itself, swept over the carnage before settling coldly on Yin. He ignored the jab about his ’former lackeys’.

His voice, when he spoke, was like the chime of frozen crystals, devoid of warmth. “Late? Perhaps. Or perhaps my timing is, as always, perfect.” His gaze narrowed infinitesimally. “It seems you are a little… off today, Yin.”

Yin spread his arms wide in a gesture of mocking invitation, the embodiment of Uncreation seemingly basking in the attention. “Off? Where? Do point it out. I’m always curious to hear the observations of a being so… linear.”

A cold smirk touched Nian Shi’s lips. “You play the fool, but it does not suit you. I have already pieced it together. The inconsistencies. The movements that should be impossible even for you. The hunting hounds that operate with a coordination that defies a singular will trapped in a singular point.”

He took a single step forward, and the flow of time in the immediate area seemed to slow, then stutter. “There must be another ’you’ out there. All this time. A second self. A fragment. Something. You are not as contained as the Creator believed you to be.”

The words landed not with a bang, but with a silent, seismic shockwave that rippled through the souls of the listeners.

Long Xi, Long Qingxuan, and Nantian Fengyu, who had believed they had reached the absolute depths of horror, felt their minds reel.

What? Their internal voices screamed in unison. Another Yin? The concept was so blasphemous, so universe-shattering, that it short-circuited their comprehension.

The single entity of Uncreation was a fundamental pillar of existence, a terrifying constant. The idea that there could be more than one was a paradox that threatened to unravel their very understanding of reality. The despair in their hearts curdled into a new, formless dread.

Long Chen and Qian Jinglei, still kneeling, trembled even more violently. This was a secret far above their paygrade. They kept their heads pressed to the ground, not daring to breathe.

Yin watched Nian Shi for a long, silent moment. Then, he threw his head back and laughed. It was not a joyful sound; it was the sound of void cracking, of stars dying, cold and utterly devoid of mirth.

“You think too much, old friend,” Yin said, wiping a non-existent tear from the corner of his eye. “Always connecting dots that aren’t there. Weaving narratives out of temporal static. Is this what eternity has done to you? Made you paranoid?”

He shook his head, the picture of amused condescension. “There is only me. The one and only. The great imbalance. The end of your precious story. The so-called ’hunting hounds’ in your mouth are merely well-crafted tools, nothing more. To think I would need a ’second self’… your arrogance in believing you could comprehend my methods is, as always, astounding.”