Heaven Trampling Severance

Below skies that eternally aged, forever gray and never truly ablaze, the Dustfall Mortal Realm decayed like a forgotten world—abandoned even by the immortal names at the peak of existence. Every breath here felt like inhaling the dust and sorrow that had settled for millennia. The air itself was heavy, carrying the burden of an inescapable fate, an eternal reminder of the putrefaction that permeated every inch of being.

The sun, meant to bring warmth and life, was but a faint shadow here, a pale disc reluctant to touch the earth, its light feeling like a touch of disgust from an old god weary of the decay it revealed. Its thin gleam was just enough to highlight the mist hanging among skeletal trees, gaunt and broken silhouettes reaching like death's fingers clawing at the sky. Those trees, with their bare branches creaking in the wind, seemed to wail, telling bitter tales of lives long extinguished.

Ancient mist hung among them, shrouding withered villages trapped in the grip of frozen time—where the measure of a human life was counted not in years, but in scars, losses, and soul-chilling silence. Each house was a monument to deadly stillness, their empty windows staring out at a world that had ceased to care.

In this world, the line between life and death was a thread—thin, fragile, easily broken, easily forgotten. Death was an old friend, its presence so familiar that cries of sorrow had long dried up. A child could stumble and fall into a poisonous bog, a farmer could choke on the morning mist, and the world would merely whisper, then forget. And every soul born here came into the world already assigned their station: prey… or butcher.

There was no middle ground. No gray. Only brutal survival dictated by strength.

A Soul Awakening ceremony was being held in a muddy field—a patch of wet earth more suited for herds of cattle than for what was called a sacred altar where destinies were declared. Thick mud clung to worn boots, and every step produced a disgusting sucking sound that echoed in the gloomy air. Foul mist clung to the air, carrying the smell of damp soil, rotting grass, and something far more horrifying—the bone-deep scent of despair. Ancient clouds dragged themselves lazily across a sun that was no more than a dim blur behind a gray veil, as if the sky itself was weary.

Twelve youths stood in rigid rows, their bodies trembling not just from the piercing cold, but from a clash of burning fear, struggling ambition, and fragile arrogance plastered onto their already aged young faces. They were children of this world, shaped by its brutality, their eyes reflecting an insatiable hunger.

Behind them, a handful of village elders leaned wearily in creaking bamboo chairs, accompanied by the aroma of stale tobacco, cheap wine that smelled like vinegar, and the sighs of a world too tired to continue mourning the corpses buried beneath this cursed ground. Their faces, wrinkled by years and despair, radiated a deep apathy, as if they had seen too much misfortune to be surprised anymore.

In a silent corner of the damp field, a skinny youth stood alone. His tangled, deep crimson hair, like a dying fire refusing to fully extinguish, provided a strange contrast to the surrounding gray. His face was adorned with countless scars—a gash on his cheek, a white line across his forehead, a bite mark on his chin. His body was a canvas of this world's cruelty, each scar telling a story of brutal struggle for survival. Yet in his eyes—though dull, haggard, and weary—flickered the last embers of something that refused to die. Not hope, not anger. Just a stubborn unwillingness to succumb to the darkness threatening to consume him.

His name was Chen Tian. A name even ravens were reluctant to caw, for fear of catching his ill-fated destiny.

"I've confirmed it," one of the elders mumbled, his voice like the sigh of an old wind in an endless night, full of resignation. The cigarette between his fingers flickered, its flame almost dead. "That child… there's no hope. Not in this world. Not in any world."

One by one, the youths stepped forward, summoning their Martial Souls into existence. Varying lights of Qi emanated from their bodies. Some summoned valiant golden lions, their majestic auras radiating power. Some manifested gleaming, sharp energy-shimmering spears. Others summoned serpentine dragons proudly coiling amidst the mist, their scales faintly shimmering. Qinghe Village roared, faces glowing with undisguised envy, a real hunger, and a small, rotten pride that festered in places like this—where even a lotus born of mud was revered, not for its beauty, but because there was nothing better to adore.

A sturdy youth with a gleaming silver spear, Wang Li, was one of them. His Martial Soul was a Silver Spear Ape, a spear-wielding ape, radiating a Soul Sky Grade aura. He looked down upon Chen Tian, a mocking smirk etched on his face.

Then… it was Chen Tian's turn.

He stepped forward, his steps heavy, as if every inch of ground beneath him tried to drag him into the mud of fate. His shoulders were bowed under the weight of years he shouldn't yet have lived. His frail hands trembled—not with hope, for this world had long disarmed him of that—but because he knew exactly what was about to happen. This was not a world where justice thrived, or where sincerity meant anything. This was a world governed by strength, and if you lacked strength, your name would be spat upon, buried, and forgotten, as if you had never existed.

Chen Tian took a deep breath, as if swallowing bitterness one last time, filling his lungs with cold air that smelled of earth and death.

"Martial Soul… awaken."

Instantly, from the back of his right hand, a thin wisp of black-blue smoke rose, curling like grave mist from ancient ground. It swirled, congealing into the form of a small, slender sword—a blade as thin as a withered reed, deep midnight blue, with a crescent-moon hilt faded and eroded by the weight of years. The Martial Soul glimmered faintly, as if reluctant to show itself in a world that did not want it, as if it itself were ashamed of its existence.

Martial Soul: Dark Moon Blade.

Grade: Soul River.

For a moment, time stood still. The mist held its breath. Ravens in the distance fell silent, as if nature itself awaited the outcome.

And then… laughter erupted, tearing through the silence with unspeakable cruelty.

"HAHAHA! Soul River? By the heavens, how pathetic!" a bulky youth with a bear Martial Soul roared, his laughter crude.

"That tiny sword? It might break cutting an apple!" another scoffed, his voice filled with disdain.

"Chen Tian! This world is too cheap to even let you live!" Wang Li sneered, his sharp eyes filled with disgust.

"You are trash! Your destiny is food for low-grade Soul Beasts!"

This was not merely mockery. Not empty taunts from bitter youths. They were declarations, spoken by the very laws of that world. In the Dustfall Mortal Realm, one's Martial Soul was their destiny. And Soul River Grade? It wasn't just worthless—it was a death sentence. A name destined for a tombstone that even gods wouldn't bother to carve. It was an unforgivable disgrace, an indelible stain.

Chen Tian stood unmoving. The cold wind seeped through the old wounds on his body, chilling him to the bone. The world had never made room for the likes of him. And he knew… in this tattered and blood-stained land, more suited for carrion than men, his fate had been decided.

The world shifted in an instant. Upon the foul-smelling ground, amidst the jeering faces, Chen Tian fell into a puddle of his own blood. His breath came in ragged gasps, his body bruised, his bones cracking with a horrifying sound only he heard. His flesh was a tapestry of wounds, every gash, every bruise, telling a tale of endless suffering. In his half-dying eyes, the last light of dusk flickered, like the mocking gleam of a sky too cruel to let him depart in peace.

Around him, harsh laughter tore through the stale air like rusted knives stabbing a dying dignity.

"Hahaha! Trash like you… Soul Awakening Martial Soul Soul River Grade? Even a servant's child in an outer clan would have a Soul Earth Grade!"

"Maybe he should go and become a beggar!"

"Even that's too noble for him!"

Accompanied by bitter taunts, kicks and punches rained down upon his battered body, as if his flesh existed for no greater purpose than to be a vessel for their petty arrogance. Blow after blow struck him, every kick hitting ribs, every fist smashing his face, as if his very existence was an insult to the vile world they traversed. Blood gushed from his broken nose, soaking the mud, mixing with the dried blood already there.

And yet Chen Tian—though his bones were crushed, though his flesh bled, though pain seared every nerve—still refused to yield. In his tattered, fragmented consciousness, he struggled to summon the flickering wisp of his Martial Soul. A slender sword, midnight blue like a dying night sky, its crescent hilt ancient and worn. Soul River Grade—Dark Moon Blade. An existence so lowly it was but a step above empty mist. But as he forced that Martial Soul into being, the sword trembled… cracked… then shattered into fine black mist, vanishing as if it had never been.

And in that moment—an echo sounded, like a chain breaking somewhere deep within the fabric of time. The pain was not in his flesh—but in his soul, as if half his existence had been forcibly ripped away. The tremor pierced the ocean of his consciousness, seizing his body in brutal convulsions, until finally… his breath ceased.

The world fell silent.

Time held its breath.

A cold wind, gray mist curling like pale hands of death, swept over the lifeless body. The world seemed to forget him in that instant. And in that void, far beyond the confines of this realm, something ancient… stirred.

High above the skies untouched by mortal eyes, in a dimensional fold where law itself dared not crawl, a single white flower petal drifted slowly. It came from a place where even heavenly laws feared to tread. And within its simple form, it carried two eternal lights—the remnants of a battle that had reshaped history across countless kalpas.

On its left side, the mark of the Void Abyss Eclipse Eye—a violet-black eye, its spiral pupil slowly revolving, ancient law fractures softly bleeding from its edges, radiating an aura of emptiness. And on its right side, the Reincarnation Six Path Eye—a golden iris with six revolving mandalas, each orbiting in a different direction, holding the mysteries of rebirth and the secret threads of hidden destiny.

These eyes once belonged to Hei Xuan, the Heavenly Demon Emperor who cleaved the cosmos. Now, only his eternal will remained, encased within the fragile mortal petal, drifting upon the fractured river of time.

In the sky of the mortal realm, the petal descended slowly, moving silently, like a whisper of fate. Hei Xuan's faint consciousness observed the field.

"Weak… rotten… Hah, this lowly world is even filthier than I imagined… That one? Soul Sky Grade… Hmph, quite enough to serve as a vessel…"

The petal drifted towards a burly youth—Wang Li, the Martial Adept with the silver spear. His aura was clean, bright, strong, promising real potential. Hei Xuan, like an ancient predator hungry for survival, saw in him a glimmer of hope for return.

"Come to Grandfather Hei—!"

But fate—as if by the lazy hand of heaven—intervened. Wang Li stumbled over a tree root protruding from the mud, a small thing that changed everything. And the petal, like the bitter laughter of cruel fortune, fell askew, landing not upon Wang Li's brilliant aura, but upon Chen Tian's battered, bloodied, and lifeless body.

"YOU LITTLE—!"

Hei Xuan froze. For a moment, the world stood still. An ancient will that had traversed millions of kalpas was now fixed upon a body deemed trash.

"This one? Trash? A Soul River Grade? Hmph… damn fate. But… if the laws have decreed it… so be it." His tone was filled with deep annoyance, yet also a strange resignation.

The petal sank into Chen Tian's flesh. Piercing his fractured consciousness. Striking directly into his almost extinguished sea of soul, into the very core of his tattered existence. In that instant, Chen Tian's heart stopped beating.

Darkness. Silence. Emptiness.

In the unending abyss, a heavy sound like grinding chains echoed, tearing through the silence.

"You wretched boy… If not for those cursed laws… you would be ashes now. But… fine. Let's see how long you last in that rotting carcass."

Hei Xuan sneered. Yet somewhere, deep within his gaze… a shadow flickered. A memory of himself. A child equally helpless, equally despised, trampled by the world.

Chen Tian's sea of consciousness turned pitch black. At its center, a tall man with long hair and a majestic aura stood proudly. His left eye—the Void Abyss Eclipse Eye—pulsed with an abyssal light. His right eye—the Reincarnation Six Path Eye—slowly spun, touching the paths of mortal rebirth. An aura of ancient hatred and void-devouring will enveloped his figure, an aura that could make the universe tremble.

"I, Hei Xuan… the Heavenly Demon Emperor… shall now take refuge within this decaying shell. Live with me, or I shall reduce you to ashes."

Hei Xuan traced the sigils of life and death, forming a one-body pact with this wretched mortal. Their destinies were now intertwined, a fate that would change everything.

Chen Tian gave no answer. And yet—somewhere, in the deepest emptiness—a single ember flickered. Not power. Not anger. Just a stubborn fire that refused to die. Not vengeance. Not glory. Just a primal instinct burning:

I want to live.

Not for revenge. Not for greatness.

But to prove that even the foulest thing… has the right to defy its fate.

That day, Chen Tian—nameless son of nowhere, child of rust and bone—died.

And from his corpse arose a being who would one day slap fate, shatter the Mortal Realm, and make the heavens weep.