A young man of impeccable appearance stood in a realm where the sky had no defined color and the ground seemed made of layers of solidified clouds.

  His features were too perfect, even for the standards of the cultivation world. His eyes were black as the void, deep and steady. His hair equally dark, falling straight over his shoulders. Sharp, straight brows, as if drawn with the tip of a sword.

  There was no exaggeration in his beauty; he was simply someone whose presence clashed with reality itself.

  He held an unsheathed sword.

  There was no fury on his face. There was no arrogance. Only a solemn indifference and an intent to fight so clear that the space around him seemed to tense on its own.

  Before him stood a far older existence, a figure whose energy easily surpassed that of any ordinary immortal.

  His body was not completely human; his silhouette was wrapped in layers of immortal energy, and behind him floated a core of light that pulsed with the force of a small sun.

  Even so, that existence slightly frowned.

  “A mere youth from the lower world dares to unsheathe a sword before me,” he said, his deep voice making reality itself tremble. “Even if your concept is sharp, your cultivation is insufficient.”

  The young man did not respond.

  The sword descended.

  There was no exaggerated movement, no grand technique—only a clean slash that split space in a straight line. The immortal existence blocked the attack with a gesture, and the impact opened cracks in the void that took time to close.

  Although his power was clearly superior, a persistent pressure surrounded him—not from the young man’s brute force, but from the purity of his intent. It was like facing a blade that did not hesitate, a will that did not waver.

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  They exchanged attacks.

  Space tore and rejoined. Waves of energy swept across the immortal realm like silent tides. The young swordsman advanced without taking a single step back, cutting apart every attack thrown at him, even when the difference in strength was evident.

  It was then that the immortal existence felt something.

  His expression changed for a brief instant. He turned his head backward, toward the place where he had protected, for eras, an artifact of heaven and earth that was about to be born.

  It was already too late.

  There, where the artifact should have been, stood a young man with slightly golden hair that shone under the light of the realm. His golden eyes reflected the surrounding energy with a mocking tone.

  He was as handsome as the swordsman, but his presence was different: lighter, more fluid, as if the world itself were a stage made for him.

  He held the treasure in his hand.

  “Thank you for taking care of it for so long,” he said with a wide smile. “Without your effort, it would have been a waste. After all, in every story, someone always has to do the hard work before the protagonist arrives.”

  The immortal existence roared in fury.

  He attempted to release a far greater amount of power to finish the young swordsman once and for all, but at that very moment, he discovered that his opponent was no longer in front of him.

  Hundreds of thousands of Li away, a dark line had cut through space as if it were cloth, leaving behind a clean slash that had not yet fully closed.

  The swordsman was already far away, moving through the void like a blade choosing its own path.

  Enraged, the existence directed his gaze toward the golden-eyed youth.

  The youth raised his hand and waved calmly.

  Behind him, dragon wings made of spiritual energy began to form—dense and structured, each scale composed of intricate patterns that vibrated with power. When the existence tried to follow, the young man simply flapped once.

  He disappeared.

  He reappeared hundreds of thousands of Li farther away.

  Another flap.

  Another rupture in space.

  It was not ordinary flight; each movement was a leap through the void, as if space were merely an optional distance.

  As he fled, his voice rang out clearly, without a trace of fear.

  “Old man, don’t be so angry,” he said in a mocking tone. “The most important skill of any cultivator is not fighting… it is knowing how to run.”

  His laughter faded into the distance as he and the young swordsman disappeared beyond the reach of the immortal existence, leaving behind a disturbed realm and a furious guardian who, for the first time in eras, had been deceived.