Lord of the void realm

Mist clung low to the trees as Raizen walked, the morning air cool against his skin. Behind him, the old man's hut was already out of sight, swallowed by the forest. Three days had passed since his breakthrough, and the void within him was no longer still—it pulsed steadily, alive, as if awaiting its next command.

His footsteps were silent. Birds didn't flee. Beasts didn't stir. Space subtly folded around him, muffling presence, bending weight. It wasn't invisibility. It was irrelevance. The world simply chose to ignore him—until he wished otherwise.

He didn't walk fast, yet each step covered more ground than it should.

A crumbling stone pillar marked the edge of the Spirit Road—a jagged scar of a path connecting wild lands and border cities. Caravans, mercenaries, and wandering cultivators took this route, though many never reached their destination.

Raizen stopped and looked ahead.

The land shifted from wild forest to cracked hills and dry grass. The wind carried the scent of smoke, metal, and faint blood.

He wasn't alone anymore.

Two figures crouched behind a boulder ahead, whispering too loudly.

"Just one kid?" one muttered. "Easy."

Raizen sighed.

The bandits jumped out with confidence only ignorance could breed. One wielded a chain with hooked ends, the other a short axe glowing faintly with spirit runes.

"Hand over the bag and boots," the taller one grinned. "Nice and slow."

Raizen tilted his head. "You want my boots?"

"They're enchanted, right? Saw the shimmer."

Raizen looked down. His boots were stitched leather, worn from forest dirt. The shimmer was void residue—unstable space clinging to him like fog. These fools mistook it for some cheap enchantment.

"I'll give you a warning," Raizen said quietly.

They laughed.

He lifted a finger.

The air between them twisted—barely visible, like a heatwave. Then it split, silently. A thin, flawless line ran across the tall man's chest.

The man blinked.

Then fell in half.

The second bandit froze mid-step. His mouth opened to scream, but space folded around him like a mirror shattering. He vanished—no sound, no light. Just gone.

Raizen exhaled. "Still too crude."

He resumed walking.

By afternoon, the road widened. Wagons rumbled past, pulled by scaled oxen. Traders sat atop them, some nodding politely, others watching him with suspicion. His robes were too clean. His gaze too calm.

A trio of junior cultivators passed him on the left. One bumped his shoulder, trying to test him.

Raizen didn't react.

But the boy stumbled a few steps forward, shivering, as if cold fingers brushed his spine. He didn't look back.

Raizen reached a rise in the trail just as the sun dipped west.

Below him, nestled between spiked hills and river forks, stood Langrave City.

Massive walls lined with obsidian stone. Guard towers shimmered with spirit light. Flags of cultivation sects flapped in the evening wind—burning crimson, deep violet, radiant gold. Streets bustled with carts, beasts, and spirit cultivators in layered robes and armor.

Above the gate was a massive sigil—a mark carved into the wall by someone powerful. It pulsed faintly, watching.

Raizen studied it for a moment, then stepped forward.

A quiet grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

The world thought it was ready.

But it didn't know the void had arrived.

The stage is set. Raizen is about to rewrite the rules.