Volume One: The Scroll of New Rain Chapter Thirty-Five: The Heavens Open Their Eyes

A vast, invisible eye opened in the high heavens, gazing indifferently down upon this world, much like the eye of a child peering with mild curiosity and cold detachment into an anthill. After sweeping over all below with a chilling, fearsome gaze, the eye closed. Soon another eye appeared in the sky—this one visible, smaller than the last, and radiant with golden light.

The golden giant eye surveyed the world, at last fixing upon the single patch of light amid the darkness—a small courtyard, where three souls stood. It lingered there a moment longer.

Under that tremendous gaze, Ye Mingke felt crushed by an awe so vast he could barely breathe, his limbs cold as ice. Yet his uncle’s warm hand held his own, giving him the courage to face the colossal eye together.

After a brief pause, the golden eye closed once more.

Ye Mingke’s chest had barely loosened when, from the lofty darkness above, a shattering, heart-stopping sound split the air. A gigantic hand, shimmering with golden light, tore open the distant night; endless radiance poured in through the rift like boiling oil plunging into water—roaring, seething, spreading.

Scorching brilliance clashed with the darkness of this world, instantly conquering a corner of the sky.

The golden hand halted for a heartbeat, then moved again with a thunderous force. In the next instant, it was as though countless thunders exploded at once.

The heavens collapsed.

Ye Mingke’s hands trembled uncontrollably. He looked up as a sea of light surged across the firmament.

At the vanguard of that light, countless dazzling sparks burst forth like celestial maidens scattering blossoms, drawing brilliant trails through the darkness.

Within those lights were wonders he had never even heard of in Da Bai’s tales: immortal palaces, flying swords, celestial ships, and hosts of gods and heavenly soldiers as numerous as grains of sand in the Ganges.

Ye Mingke gazed in despair at the onrushing brilliance.

Everyone loves the light—but if you are the darkness, can you truly accept being devoured by it?

Yet before the light, what darkness can remain untouched?

“Mingke, do not fear. I promised—we will always be here.”

His uncle gently stroked his hair, palm warm with reassurance.

Uncle Jian lifted his head as well, looking to the blinding approach of light, and spoke softly:

“Awaken!”

His voice was not loud, but it echoed through every inch of this world, rolling like thunder.

“Awaken!” he called again, and a second crash resounded across the land.

Suddenly, this silent world stirred, quivering.

Thump, thump—as though thousands of long-stilled hearts began to beat anew.

Layer upon layer, innumerable corpses opened countless eyes, gazing up at the sky invaded by light.

Even the colossal bodies and bones, vast as mountains, began to tremble.

A giant armored corpse, mountainous in size, stirred and exhaled swirling black mist from its withered, hollow eyes. It breathed out ghostly blue vapor at the encroaching light, then slowly rose and bent its knees in a crouch.

Boom.

A deep crater erupted where the giant had lain, and like a massive meteor in reverse, it vaulted skyward, plunging into the nearest beam of dazzling light.

Boom.

The giant, borne on the flood of brilliance, crashed violently back to earth.

Standing atop a shattered celestial ship, the giant slowly turned to face the trio in the courtyard, then thunderously pressed fist to palm and dropped to one knee, lowering a face as withered as ancient stone.

“Demon Army, Nineteenth Legion Commander, Shadow of the Abyss—at your service, Young Master!”

Behind the withered giant, the earth split open again and again, as more immense figures surged up, hurling themselves into the light.

These titans shattered every ray drawing near the courtyard, then landed and knelt just as the first had, pressing fists to hearts.

“Demon Army, Twenty-first Legion Deputy Commander, Qin Ming—at your service, Young Master!”

“Demon Army, Chief Armorer, Heavenly Craftsman Liu Yuan—at your service, Young Master!”

“Demon Army, Seventh Legion Deputy Commander—”

“Demon Army—”

One after another, the gigantic figures knelt. Their voices, like thunder, merged into a single roar that shook even the light in the sky:

“The Demon Army presents itself to the Young Master!”

And it was not only those towering forms. Beneath them, countless armored, broken corpses—of all sizes—rose at the sound, as if summoned by an ancient trumpet, bowing in the direction of the courtyard.

From the courtyard at the center, hundreds of thousands of soldiers returned from death, packed tightly, all kneeling. Every cry was wild with fervor and the sorrow of long separation.

“Who are they kneeling to?” Ye Mingke asked, dazed, turning to Uncle Jian.

“They kneel to you, and to your father. They kneel to the army that was once their hope, and to themselves,” Uncle Jian replied. “They are demons, but also the greatest warriors the world has ever known.”

He looked out at the million soldiers returned from death. For once, his usually calm expression flickered with a heroic pride, and his eyes blazed with the spirit of the sword.

“They have died, but today they will fight one final battle—to open a path for you.”

“Who are they? Who am I?” Ye Mingke stared into the fevered eyes fixed on him, lost.

“They are your kin. They have always been at your side,” Uncle Jian said softly.

The nearest withered giant swayed and extended a hand. Upon that hand sat Old Wang, the night watchman who had so often chatted with Mingke during his nocturnal wanderings.

The old man smiled gently at Mingke, just as he had throughout the past sixteen years.

Another familiar figure stood upon a giant’s shoulder—the mason Old Liu, who often gave him clay dolls for Tao Yao.

And besides them, many more familiar faces from the town. They watched him, eyes warm as if looking on their own child.

“Mingke, what is reality?” Uncle Jian suddenly asked again—the very question he had once posed in a rainstorm when Mingke had asked if the little town was real.

Ye Mingke looked up at these people—so familiar, yet in forms entirely unknown to him. All these years, had they been protecting him all along?

He had no time to answer. Once more, the heavens split asunder, a colossal rift of light cleaving the darkness.

Years later, after many roads and mysteries, after learning so much of the little town’s riddles, he would have many thoughts about that question. But never again would he have the chance to answer Uncle Jian—the question his uncle had cared about most. For Uncle Jian had sworn, to him and to someone else, never to deceive him.

And Uncle Jian was just that sort of man—his every word, though not sworn as an oath, weighed more than any vow.

Again, a thunderous crack split the sky. A chasm of radiance stretched across the darkness above.

All those celestial palaces and myriad gods advancing in the light halted, falling silent, lining up in two solemn ranks.

Ten thousand gods stood in reverent array, as if about to welcome their emperor.

The Emperor of the Gods.

The rift in the sky widened, until it yawned like a vast abyss of light. It extended forward, at last becoming a broad, radiant path.

A golden figure, crowned and robed in imperial majesty, dazzling with boundless light, strode quietly down this path, stepping into the world.

His steps made no sound, but as he entered, the whole world seemed to tremble and incline toward him, wailing in protest.

His footsteps seemed to press upon every heart; all who beheld him could not help but feel compelled to bow in awe and fear.

He was the Emperor of the Gods, and thus the emperor of all things.

“A being above the immortals.”

In that moment, Ye Mingke, trembling, remembered what his uncle had said years ago, when speaking of that trial—a suspicion that behind the game of the immortals was one who stood above even them.

That being had demanded he leave the town six years later.

Had this being arrived? He had destroyed the town, destroyed even himself—of course he had to leave.

The imperial figure stood aloft, ignoring the teeming Demon Army below, simply observing this small world constructed from an ancient battlefield.

“How interesting,” the Emperor laughed softly.

Though not loud, and though laughter, his voice still carried irresistible authority and dominance.

Surveying the world, he spoke:

“With the ten million corpses of the Demon Army from the Battle of the Fallen Sun as its foundation, with the core of the sun as its axis, and with the broken World Tree, Mengke, as its support, this world stands—cut off from the heavenly order, balanced between truth and illusion, whole and self-sufficient.”

“No, not entirely self-sufficient. Built on the Demon Army’s remains, with their mighty will to fight but heavy rancor, so each month, for one night, this world must vent its malice as it shifts from illusion toward reality.”

“The town vanishes on nights of the full moon? So everything Qiao Qiao saw that year was real—this is why the townsfolk all bar their doors and sleep on those nights!” Ye Mingke suddenly realized.

“Such craft, such a grand array—no wonder I, in all these years, failed to find it,” the Emperor mused.

He looked down at the millions of demon soldiers as if they were nothing, fixing his gaze instead on Jiannan Tian seated in his wheelchair.

“Sword Master, this is no worldly formation. Tell me, was it arranged by someone from the Far Shore?”

“The Lord of Six Realms has questions even for one such as I?” Jiannan Tian replied coolly.

“Among those honored in the way of the sword, only the Sword Master stands supreme. I am proud, but do not look lightly upon the sword’s true sovereign. If you would rather not answer, so be it—why ask at your own expense?”

The Emperor gazed at the calm, clear-browed man below, smiling openly.

“Pity, those of the Far Shore—even if they are from beyond, they remain bound to the same river and cannot escape its current. Such a formation, even exhausting the powers of your Demon Realm, Azure Palace, and the rebellious heavens, could not be sustained for many years.”

“Otherwise, this world might have served as a ferry upon the river of fate.”