Ascension of The Unholy Immortal

Before the age of Immortals and the rise of sects, before even the dominion of ancient races, there was the age from which all things stirred — the Primordial Emergence Era.

In this forgotten age, the fabric of reality had only just begun to weave itself into form. From the endless depths of the Void emerged the Primordial Heavenly Vein, a cosmic artery from which essence, law, and fate first bled into existence. It was not merely a force—it was the architect of realms, the breath behind stars, the heartbeat of creation. Through it, the original lifeforms were born: not beasts nor men, but shapeless beings of radiance and instinct, formed from pure Principle.

Mountains had not yet risen. The skies had no stars. And yet, within the chaos, the foundation of the Great Dao was etched.

From that era, the world drifted into a time of grandeur and dominion: the Nine Worlds Era. It was a hauntingly majestic epoch where nine supreme races ruled nine vast domains, each shaped by the bloodline of its sovereign race. These were not mortals, nor cultivators—they were existences bound to the laws of their realms, capable of twisting the very axioms of reality. The realms did not simply coexist; they waged wars of creation, sealed their skies, and fought for supremacy of existence itself.

But dominion is not eternal. The Nine Worlds crumbled under the weight of ambition, and from their fall arose a new dawn—the Golden Era.

This was an age where the art of cultivation flourished like wildfire upon dry earth. The mysteries of Immortal Qi, once scattered whispers, became sacred paths carved into the bones of the heavens. Sects rose with divine purpose. Realms were tamed by human will. The pursuit of the Dao became holy, and the tales of wandering sages and boundary-breaking geniuses etched themselves into legend.

And yet, within the radiant heights of the Golden Era, amidst the countless geniuses, saints, and sovereigns who clawed toward the heavens, there emerged a lineage of beings so rare, so transcendent, that their mere existence altered the very course of fate:

The Domain Lords.

Unlike sect leaders or celestial emperors, Domain Lords were not merely cultivators who rose above the rest—they were the sole rulers of a domain itself. Not by title, but by law.

In the Lower Domains, it was not uncommon for multiple Domain Lords to arise over the ages. The laws of those fragmented realms were immature, chaotic, and flexible. Many could shape and master localized Dao patterns, carving out regions of influence and ruling through partial authority.

But in the Upper Domain, the situation was altogether different.

There, the Dao was whole.

Complete.

Imposing.

To become a Domain Lord in the Upper Domain was to challenge the heavens directly.

It required grasping the entirety of a domain's governing laws, then tearing them down—and in their place, establishing one's own. Not merely altering the Dao, but replacing it. Such an act was not just defiance—it was reconstruction.

A cosmic rebellion made manifest.

To succeed was to become the sovereign lawmaker of heaven and earth within that domain.

Across the last billion years, only ten such beings have ever succeeded.

Each time, the act reshaped the world.

And each Domain Lord became the unchallenged monarch of their realm. Dao Lords, Dao Kings, even entire sects were powerless before them.

The mightiest figures of the Immortal Flourishing Era; the Immortal Sovereigns, could not hold a candle to a true Domain Lord.

For how can one battle the world itself, when the world answers to a single will?

The rise of a Domain Lord did not merely mark an era—it ended one. For wherever such a being emerged, the old order died, and a new heaven was written in its place.

Their names are not remembered as legends.

Not as cultivators.

But as world-forgers.

And among them, Primordial Sun True Lord stands as the tenth—and the last.

Yong Zhi's fingers tightened around his teacup.

"What's the secret, then?"

Shin Xuan's lips curled into a slow, knowing smile.

"He devoured the Yin half."

"Comprehending the Great Law of Everlasting Yang."

Yong Zhi's breath almost stopped. His mind raced, piecing together the implications.

Shin Xuan watched the realization dawn in Yong Zhi's eyes and chuckled. "And the rest… well, you can predict on your own."

Yong Zhi exhaled sharply.

The Primordial Sun True Lord hadn't just ascended—he had rewritten the rules of his own existence.

By devouring the Yin, he hadn't merely preserved his fate-defying nature—he had amplified it. The Great Law of Everlasting Yang wasn't just a cultivation achievement. It was a declaration.

The sun does not share the sky.

And neither did he.

That was why he became a Domain Lord. Not by bending to the heavens, but by forcing the heavens to bend to him.

Yong Zhi's gaze dropped to the chessboard. The black Yin piece still sat at the center, surrounded but unbroken. Shin Xuan's white Yang piece rested beside it—close.

A question burned in his throat.

"Then why… does fusion remain the dominant outcome?"

Shin Xuan's smile faded. His fingers traced the rim of his teacup, his voice dropping into something solemn.

"Because the heavenly order does not reward defiance. It tolerates it—until it doesn't."

He lifted the white piece and placed it directly atop the black one.

"The Yang half has more possibilities of winning not because it is stronger, but because the heavens may will it so. The Yin half hesitates not out of weakness, but because ..... you can guess."

A faint tremor ran through the board. The pieces vibrated, then stilled.

"The Primordial Sun True Lord was the exception, he made the heavens answer to his will or at least ..... his Yang half." Shin Xuan's eyes flickered strangely. "And exceptions… are remembered precisely because they are rare."

Yong Zhi stared at the superimposed pieces.

Somewhere, in the depths of his mind, a thought took root.

What if someone became the second exception?

But he didn't voice it.

Instead, he reached for his tea and drank deeply.

The game was far from over, and he had no intention of losing a match of wits to this black-hearted old fox.

For someone of his stature, losing a mere game of chess—of all things—would be nothing short of humiliating.