Lord of the void realm

The floating lanterns dimmed as the sun dipped behind Langrave's stone towers. The plaza where Raizen sat grew restless. Cultivators moved in packs, boasting about sect offers, bloodline rituals, or duels fought earlier that day.

But more and more eyes were drifting toward him.

He hadn't moved in hours. Still. Calm. Untouched. Like a beast asleep in the middle of a battlefield.

That alone was offense enough for someone.

A sharp voice cut through the noise. "Hey!"

Raizen opened one eye.

A tall youth in violet robes stepped forward, flanked by three others wearing black sashes with silver edges—disciples of the Silver Orchid Sect, known for their precision swordplay and arrogance.

"You've been sitting in our sector for too long," the youth said, puffing his chest. "Either you're stupid or trying to provoke something."

Raizen didn't answer.

The youth's lip twitched. "You think hiding your cultivation makes you special? You don't even have a sect badge."

Still no response.

"Fine." He snapped his fingers. "Draw your weapon or kneel."

Raizen stood slowly. His eyes locked with the youth's—and in that instant, the world changed.

The crowd didn't see what happened.

They only saw the Silver Orchid disciple freeze.

His knees buckled. His mouth opened, but no sound came. Sweat poured down his face. His sword clattered to the stone.

One second passed.

Two.

Then space cracked around Raizen's fingers.

A narrow tear formed midair — not loud, not flashing, just a clean ripple of nothingness that slid forward.

It stopped a hair from the youth's throat.

Raizen spoke at last. "Kneel?"

The ripple vanished.

The boy collapsed in a heap, gasping, crying without meaning to. His body didn't bleed. But something in his mind had shattered. His spirit had tasted absolute erasure. Not death—nonexistence.

The plaza fell dead silent.

Dozens of cultivators stood frozen. A few elders from minor sects who had been watching stepped back slowly. One whispered, "That wasn't spiritual pressure. That was... void slicing."

Raizen turned and walked away.

He didn't rush. The crowd parted like water, silent, wide-eyed.

But behind the calm, things were already shifting.

At the top of Langrave's Inner Wall, a robed woman watched from behind a jade curtain. Her robes bore the symbol of the Dawnflame Pavilion, a sect that trained elites to become realm governors.

She turned to the man behind her. "Send word to the upper pavilion."

"About what?"

"That boy. He's not from any sect. Not even rogue. His technique didn't touch time, energy, or qi."

"Then what did it use?"

She stared at the plaza below.

"Nothing."

---

Far away, in a mist-covered realm that even stars bowed to, a sleeping celestial elder stirred.

One eye opened.

"Void is breathing again," he muttered.

---

Meanwhile, Raizen stepped into the shadowed alley behind a sect library wall. He looked once at the seal covering the building's stone base—a defensive formation designed to keep thieves out.

He smiled faintly.

Space folded.

He vanished.

Not into the library, but into the space behind it—the shadow gap that most didn't even know existed. There, in that dead zone, he observed glowing scrolls through a spatial echo.

Sword styles. Flame techniques. Mind-binding arts. He absorbed the patterns. Not the words. Not the ink. Just the essence.

And in his mind, the void began to thread them into something new.

A technique that never needed form or flame.

A technique that would end battles before they began.