The first sign was not fire.
It was silence.
Across the city of Qīngluò, sounds began to vanish one by one, as if swallowed by an unseen void. The wind died. Lantern flames froze in mid-flicker. Even the distant hum of nocturnal insects faded into nothingness. Time itself seemed to hesitate, uncertain whether it should continue.
Xuán Yèmíng felt it immediately.
The Black Oath stirred beneath his skin, no longer whispering, but tightening—alert, attentive, almost reverent. He halted in the middle of a narrow street, his gaze lifting instinctively toward the heavens.
The sky was changing.
At first, it was subtle. A faint distortion rippled across the clouds, bending light in unnatural arcs. Then came the fracture—a thin, jagged line of pale radiance tearing across the night like a wound forced open.
It did not widen.
It did not close.
It simply existed.
People noticed.
Cries echoed as cultivators stumbled into the streets, pointing upward in disbelief. Sect disciples emerged from their compounds, formation discipline forgotten as fear replaced training. Even the most seasoned elders felt a pressure descend upon their souls, heavy and undeniable.
This was not an illusion.
This was not a heavenly phenomenon.
This was a warning.
Xuán Yèmíng exhaled slowly.
So it has begun.
Deep beneath the earth, far below the city, ancient seals trembled. Sigils carved during an age long erased flared briefly, their light unstable. The balance—so carefully maintained through blood and sacrifice—had shifted beyond acceptable thresholds.
And the world was reacting.
Within the Lotus Profaned Sect, Lián Suòyīn stood motionless in her inner sanctum, eyes closed, her hand pressed against a jade altar etched with forbidden scripts. The moment the fracture appeared, every oath bound to her sect shuddered violently.
Several shattered outright.
Disciples screamed as backlash tore through their cultivation bases. Some collapsed, bleeding from the eyes. Others laughed hysterically as suppressed desires surged beyond control.
Lián Suòyīn opened her eyes.
Her expression was not fear.
It was recognition.
"So," she murmured. "You have stepped deeper than I anticipated."
She could feel him—Xuán Yèmíng—like a dark star exerting gravitational pull. Their pact had not caused the fracture alone, but it had aligned with something far older, far more dangerous.
The Black Oath had been acknowledged by the world.
Elsewhere, far beyond Qīngluò, reactions cascaded.
In the capital of the Lónghuán Dynasty, the sky darkened unnaturally despite the presence of protective arrays layered upon arrays. Court astrologers collapsed to their knees as their instruments shattered. Divine beasts bound to the dynasty roared in panic, their chains of oath and blood vibrating violently.
Lóng Zhāotiān rose from his meditation chamber, blood seeping from the corner of his mouth.
"The seals," he whispered.
Elders rushed into the hall, panic barely restrained beneath centuries of discipline.
"Patriarch," one said urgently, "the Heavenly Boundary responded. This has not occurred since—"
"Silence," Lóng Zhāotiān snapped.
His gaze fixed on the distant horizon, where even the capital's reinforced sky showed faint distortions.
"It has been activated," he said grimly. "The Black Oath lives."
A deathly hush followed.
"That is impossible," another elder protested. "Zhēn Wáng was erased. The convergence was destroyed."
"Destroyed?" Lóng Zhāotiān's eyes burned with cold fury. "No. Buried. And now… awakened."
He clenched his fist.
"Find the source. Quietly. Before the other dynasties realize what this means."
But it was already too late.
In distant territories, dynastic mirrors cracked. Ancient sect bells rang without being struck. Oracles screamed prophecies they could not stop speaking.
When the sky splits, the lie has failed.
When the oath returns, the world must bleed.
Back in Qīngluò, chaos spread like wildfire.
The Iron Vein Sect mobilized its inner disciples, convinced an enemy had launched a covert attack. The River Ash Sect sealed its compounds, executing several elders to suppress rumors of betrayal. Smaller sects panicked, desperately renewing vows to dynasties that could no longer fully protect them.
Xuán Yèmíng moved through the disorder unseen.
Fear was useful.
Panic loosened vows.
Every frightened promise, every desperate oath sworn in the streets fed the Black Oath's awareness. Xuán Yèmíng did not actively corrupt them—not yet—but he felt their weight, their instability.
The world was overextended.
It had relied too long on promises stacked upon promises, never questioning whether the foundation could endure.
At the city's highest vantage point, Xuán Yèmíng stopped.
The fracture in the sky pulsed once—slow, deliberate—before stabilizing into a faint scar that refused to disappear.
A message.
Not to mortals.
To systems.
I am here.
Xuán Yèmíng closed his eyes briefly.
In the depths of his consciousness, Zhēn Wáng stirred.
"This is earlier than expected," the ancient presence murmured. "You have accelerated the convergence."
Xuán Yèmíng did not deny it. "The world was already dying."
"Yes," Zhēn Wáng agreed. "But now it knows."
"What happens next?" Xuán Yèmíng asked.
"Containment," Zhēn Wáng replied. "They will attempt to isolate you. Suppress anomalies. Rewrite history if necessary."
Xuán Yèmíng's lips curved faintly.
"They cannot rewrite broken oaths."
"No," Zhēn Wáng said. "But they will try to drown the truth in blood."
Xuán Yèmíng opened his eyes.
Across the city, soldiers bearing dynastic insignia were already entering through the gates. Their formation was tight, disciplined. Their arrival swift.
The Lónghuán Dynasty was responding.
He turned away.
Confrontation now would be wasteful.
This chapter of the apocalypse was not about destruction.
It was about announcement.
In the Lotus Profaned Sect, Lián Suòyīn issued quiet commands, activating hidden contingencies, moving assets, erasing traces. She understood the implication of the sky's fracture better than most.
The age of subtlety was ending.
And those who adapted slowly would be crushed.
As dawn approached, the fracture dimmed—but did not vanish.
The world exhaled, shaken, altered.
Xuán Yèmíng disappeared into the shifting tides of fear and rumor, his presence dissolving once more into anonymity. Yet everywhere he had passed, vows trembled. Bonds weakened. Certainty eroded.
The dynasties would convene.
The sects would panic.
The gods—if they still listened—would avert their gaze.
And somewhere, deep beneath the fabric of reality, the Black Oath continued to tighten its grip.
The sky had split.
The lie had been exposed.
And the apocalypse, long postponed through sacrifice and denial, had finally been acknowledged.
Not as a distant prophecy.
But as an approaching inevitability.