Beyond the Timescape

Chapter 1: Alive

March. Early spring.

A forgotten corner in the eastern reaches of the South Phoenix Continent.

The sky was a suffocating canvas of gray and black, heavy and oppressive. It looked as though a cosmic entity had spilled ink across the firmament, the dark stains bleeding into the churning clouds. Crimson lightning arced through the gloom, accompanied by low, rumbling thunder that echoed like the growl of a dying god.

Blood-colored rain wept from the heavens, washing over the mortal realm in a tide of desolation.

Beneath the crimson downpour, a ruined city lay in dead silence.

Shattered walls and collapsed buildings littered the landscape. Everything was withered and decayed. Livid, bruised corpses and mangled flesh were strewn across the rubble, discarded like rotting autumn leaves.

The once-bustling streets were desolate. The sandy roads that used to teem with life were now devoid of sound. All that remained was a sickening slurry of blood, mud, dust, and shredded paper.

Not far away, a broken carriage sat mired in the muck. An abandoned rabbit doll hung from the carriage shaft, swaying limply in the wind. Its white fur was stained a sickly, wet red, exuding an eerie, sinister aura. Its dull, glass eyes seemed to harbor a lingering resentment as it stared blankly at the mottled stones ahead.

Among those stones lay a prone figure.

It was a boy of thirteen or fourteen. He wore tattered, filthy clothes, with a damaged leather pouch tied securely to his waist.

The boy lay perfectly still, his eyes narrowed into slits. The biting cold pierced his ragged coat, assaulting his wiry frame and steadily sapping his body heat. Yet, even as the bloody rain pelted his face, he didn’t blink. His gaze was locked forward, as cold and calculating as a hunting hawk.

Twenty paces away, a skeletal vulture was tearing into the rotting carcass of a stray dog. It paused every few seconds, its head snapping up to observe its surroundings. In these lethal ruins, even the rustle of the wind was enough to send it taking flight.

The boy waited. Like a seasoned hunter, he possessed infinite patience.

Finally, the opportunity presented itself. The greedy vulture plunged its head deep into the dog’s abdominal cavity, blinding itself to the world.

A lethal glint flashed in the boy’s eyes.

He launched himself forward, shooting out of the rubble like a loosed arrow. With a flick of his wrist, he drew a black iron spike from his leather pouch. The sharpened tip gleamed with a deadly chill.

Perhaps sensing the sudden spike in killing intent, the vulture startled. It yanked its head free, its wings snapping open to take flight.

It was too late.

With an expressionless face, the boy whipped his arm forward. The black iron spike blurred into a dark streak.

*Thud!*

The heavy iron pierced the vulture’s skull, shattering bone and killing the beast instantly. The sheer kinetic force carried the carcass backward, pinning it to the rotting wood of the nearby carriage.

The impact sent the blood-soaked rabbit doll swaying violently.

The boy’s expression didn’t change. Without breaking his stride, he closed the distance, grabbed the vulture’s corpse, and wrenched the iron spike free. He pulled with such force that a chunk of the carriage wood splintered off with it.

Without a backward glance, he turned and sprinted down the edge of the street.

The wind howled louder, catching the bloody doll on the carriage. It swung back and forth, as if watching the boy disappear into the ruins.

He moved further and further away.

The gale intensified, driving the freezing rain straight through the boy’s thin clothes. He shivered involuntarily, his brow furrowing as he pulled his collar tight. He drew in a sharp hiss of air through his teeth.

He hated the cold.

The only way to survive it was to find shelter, but the boy didn’t slow down. Dilapidated storefronts blurred past him as he navigated the treacherous streets.

He was running out of time.

Hunting the vulture had taken too long, and there was still one place he needed to check before nightfall.

*Almost there,* he thought, his voice a low, raspy murmur.

Livid corpses littered his path. Their faces were frozen in grotesque masks of agony, radiating an aura of despair that threatened to infect the mind of anyone who looked too closely.

The boy ignored them. He was used to the dead.

As the minutes ticked by, he cast anxious glances at the darkening sky. To him, the fading light was far more terrifying than any corpse.

Relief washed over him when a ruined pharmacy finally came into view. He dashed inside.

The interior was small and chaotic. Overturned medicine cabinets littered the floor, emitting a thick, musty stench like an opened tomb. In the corner sat the corpse of an old man. His skin was entirely bluish-black, and his lifeless eyes stared blankly at the doorway.

The boy swept his gaze across the room and immediately began digging through the scattered herbs.

Most of the plants had turned the same sickly bluish-black as the corpses, thoroughly corrupted. Only a rare few retained their natural color.

He sifted through the untainted herbs, his mind racing through his survival knowledge. Finally, he found what he needed: a stalk of Golden Wound Herb.

He stripped off his wet, thin shirt, revealing a massive, jagged gash across his chest. The wound was festering; the edges had already begun to blacken, and dark blood oozed from the center.

The boy stared at it for a second. He crushed the herb in his palm, took a deep breath, and clamped his jaw shut. With trembling fingers, he smeared the paste directly into the rotting flesh.

Agony erupted. It crashed over him like a tidal wave, wracking his small frame with uncontrollable shudders. He forced himself to endure. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead, dripping down his cheeks to splatter against the dark floorboards like spilled ink.

The torment lasted for over ten breaths. Once the herb was fully applied, his strength gave out. He slumped against a medicine cabinet, chest heaving as he gasped for air. It took him a long moment to recover enough to pull his shirt back on.

He checked the sky again. Time was running out. Reaching into his pouch, he carefully unfolded a tattered map.

It was a crude drawing of the city. The locations of all the pharmacies were marked. In the northeastern sector, several areas had been crossed out with deep fingernail scratches. Only two spots remained unmarked.

“After all this searching… it has to be in one of these two,” he muttered, his voice hoarse.

He folded the map away and turned to leave, but his eyes caught on the old man’s corpse. Specifically, the heavy leather coat draped over the body. The thick hide had somehow resisted the corruption.

The boy didn’t hesitate. He walked over, stripped the coat from the corpse, and pulled it on. It was too large for his wiry frame, but as the heavy leather enveloped him, he finally felt a sliver of warmth.

He looked down at the old man’s staring eyes. Reaching out, he gently brushed his hand over the corpse’s face, closing them.

“Rest in peace,” the boy whispered. He tore a curtain from the wall, draped it over the body, and walked out into the rain.

As he stepped past the threshold, a faint glimmer caught his eye. Half-buried in the bloody mud was a palm-sized shard of a mirror.

He looked down and saw his own reflection.

Beneath the layers of grime and dirt, the face staring back at him was strikingly handsome, with delicate, sharp features. But it lacked any of the innocence a thirteen-year-old should possess. His eyes were dead, cold, and utterly indifferent.

He stared at himself for a long moment. Then, he raised his boot and brought it down hard.

*Crack.*

Spiderweb fractures spidered across the glass. He ground the mirror into the mud, turned, and sprinted away.

Behind him, the shattered glass still reflected the sky above. It reflected the vast, cosmic horror that blotted out the heavens and loomed over all living beings—the Fragmented Face of God.

The Face was impossibly massive, its eyes closed in cold apathy. Strands of withered, twisted hair hung down from the heavens, piercing the clouds.

It was a natural fixture of this world, as permanent as the sun and the moon. Beneath its shadow, all living beings were less than insects. Its mere presence warped the laws of nature, forcing the world to mutate and adapt to its suffocating aura.

And now, beneath the shadow of the Fragmented Face, the last light of day bled from the sky.

Night fell like a black shroud, swallowing the ruined city and devouring the earth. The rain fell harder. The wind shrieked through the broken streets, sounding like the wails of vengeful ghosts.

The darkness awakened the city. Hair-raising screeches and guttural roars echoed from the shadows, answering the wind’s call.

The boy ran faster. He became a blur of motion, weaving nimbly through the labyrinth of debris in a desperate race against the encroaching night.

Just as he vaulted over a collapsed roof, his pupils shrank to pinpricks.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a figure sitting among the ruins. The person was leaning against a wall, their clothes perfectly clean, devoid of any wounds.

But what made the boy’s breath hitch was their skin. It was a normal, healthy color. Not bluish-black.

In this city, a body like that meant only one thing: they were alive.

And in the past nine days, the boy hadn’t seen a single living soul other than himself.

His mind raced. He wanted to investigate, but the suffocating darkness was already snapping at his heels. Gritting his teeth, he memorized the location and bolted.

He didn’t stop until he reached his temporary shelter, sliding inside just as the black fog of night swept over the street.

It was a tiny burrow, barely large enough for a dog, lined with scavenged bird feathers. The entrance was a narrow crack in the rubble that no adult could ever hope to squeeze through.

Moving proficiently in the dark, he grabbed the rocks and heavy books he had stockpiled inside and jammed them into the entrance, sealing himself in.

The moment the last rock clicked into place, the night outside swallowed the world.

The boy didn’t relax. He crouched in the pitch-black burrow, his knuckles white as he gripped the iron spike. He held his breath, listening.

The guttural roars of mutated beasts echoed through the stone, accompanied by shrill shrieks and the occasional sound of eerie, disjointed laughter. He waited, muscles coiled tight, until the heavy footsteps of a massive creature thundered past his hiding spot and faded into the distance.

Only then did he exhale and slump against the dirt wall.

Time seemed to stop in the suffocating darkness. He sat in silence, letting his frayed nerves slowly uncoil. He grabbed a battered water skin, took a few measured sips, and then pulled the dead vulture from his pouch.

Ignoring the nightmare unfolding outside, he brought the raw bird to his mouth and tore into it.

The meat was tough, tasting of copper and foul, astringent blood. He chewed methodically, forcing the cold flesh down his throat. His starving stomach cramped violently, desperately churning to digest the meal.

He didn’t stop until the entire vulture was gone.

A heavy wave of exhaustion crashed over him. His eyelids drooped, but his grip on the black iron spike never loosened. He sat there like a feral wolf feigning sleep—ready to snap his eyes open and kill at the slightest provocation.

Outside, the night ruled supreme.

The world beneath the Fragmented Face was impossibly vast, and the South Phoenix Continent was merely a single corner of it. Few knew the true scale of the world, but everyone, no matter where they stood, could look up and see the terrifying visage of the god that had ruined it.

No one knew exactly when the Fragmented Face had arrived. Ancient texts spoke of a forgotten era when the world was vibrant, overflowing with pure immortal spiritual energy.

Then, the Face was drawn from the depths of the void, bringing the apocalypse with it.

The ancient empires and mighty cultivators had exhausted every method to stop its descent, but they all failed. In the end, the strongest rulers abandoned the masses, taking a select few and fleeing to a place now known as the Holy Land.

The Face anchored itself in the sky, and the nightmare began.

Its toxic aura bled into the world, corrupting the mountains, the oceans, and the very spiritual energy that cultivators relied upon. Ninety-nine percent of all life was wiped out.

The survivors named the cosmic entity a ‘God,’ and they called their ruined world the ‘End Land.’

But the God’s mere presence wasn’t the only threat. Every few years—sometimes decades, sometimes centuries—the God would open its eyes for a few fleeting breaths.

Wherever its gaze fell, the land was instantly saturated with lethal mutagen. Life was eradicated, and the region was transformed into an eternal forbidden zone.

Over the epochs, the forbidden zones multiplied, and the habitable land shrank.

Nine days ago, the God had opened its eyes again. And it had looked directly at the boy’s city.

Everything within the region—over a dozen human cities and the sprawling slums outside them—was instantly bathed in apocalyptic radiation.

People and animals dissolved into blood mist. Others mutated into mindless abominations. The rest simply died, their souls shattered, leaving behind corrupted, bluish-black corpses.

Only a microscopic fraction of life survived.

The boy was one of them.

***

Inside the pitch-black burrow, a shrill shriek tore through the night, sounding dangerously close.

The boy’s eyes snapped open. The iron spike was instantly raised, his gaze locked onto the sealed entrance. He didn’t move a muscle until the shrieking entity circled the area and finally drifted away.

Sleep was no longer an option. He reached into his pouch and pulled out a smooth bamboo slip.

In the absolute darkness, he traced the carved characters with his calloused fingertips. A faint light seemed to ignite in his cold eyes. He sat up straight, crossed his legs, and steadied his breathing.

The boy’s name was Xu Qing.

He had grown up an orphan, fighting for scraps in the brutal slums outside the city walls.

When the apocalypse struck nine days ago, he had been hiding in a stone crevice. While the rest of the city screamed in terror and went mad, Xu Qing had calmly stared up at the sky. He had looked directly into the God’s cross-shaped pupils, feeling absolutely no fear.

Then, he saw a streak of purple light plummet from the heavens, crashing into the northeastern sector of the city.

The next second, he blacked out.

When he woke up, he was the only living human left.

He didn’t try to flee the city. He knew the rules of a newly formed forbidden zone. The blood rain acted as an impenetrable barrier—nothing could leave, and nothing could enter until the rain stopped and the zone stabilized.

To a slum rat like Xu Qing, the apocalypse was just another Tuesday.

In the slums, death was a constant companion. A starving vagrant, a rabid dog, a sudden fever, or even a particularly cold night could end your life. Survival was a daily, grueling war.

As long as he was breathing, nothing else mattered.

There had been fleeting moments of warmth in his past—a disgraced scholar who taught the slum children how to read, and fragmented memories of a family he had lost long ago. He clung to those memories, terrified they would fade, but time was a cruel thief.

He knew he wasn’t a true orphan. He had family out there somewhere.

His goal was simple: survive. If he could get stronger, and maybe live long enough to see his family again, that would be enough.

So, he ventured into the ruined city. He wanted to search the estates of the dead nobles for the legendary methods that allowed men to harness power. He also wanted to find that fallen purple light.

In the slums, the path to power was called ‘cultivation,’ and those who walked it were ‘cultivators.’ Becoming a cultivator was Xu Qing’s greatest desire.

He had seen them from afar—men and women who radiated an aura so terrifying that just looking at them made a mortal’s instincts scream in panic.

Five days ago, deep within the ruins of the City Lord’s manor, he had pried this bamboo slip from a corpse. It had nearly cost him his life, leaving him with the festering gash on his chest.

But it was worth it. The slip contained exactly what he sought: a cultivation method.

He had already memorized every word. He had no master to guide him, but the text was straightforward, focusing on visualization and breathing techniques.

The method was called the Sea Mountain Technique.

To cultivate, he had to visualize the totem carved into the bamboo slip while maintaining a specific breathing rhythm. The totem depicted a grotesque entity with a massive head, a stunted body, and a single leg. The text called it a *Xiao*.

As Xu Qing visualized the *Xiao*, his breathing shifted into a rhythmic cadence.

The air inside the burrow began to stir. Faint traces of spiritual energy seeped through the cracks, slowly drilling into his pores and flowing through his veins. It was freezing. Wherever the energy passed, it felt like ice water was being injected directly into his bloodstream.

Xu Qing hated the cold, but he gritted his teeth and endured. He refused to stop.

Hours passed. When he finally completed the cycle and opened his eyes, his clothes were drenched in cold sweat. His stomach, which had just digested an entire vulture, roared with a hollow, gnawing hunger.

He wiped the sweat from his brow and pressed a hand to his stomach, his eyes burning with determination.

Since he started practicing the Sea Mountain Technique, his appetite had skyrocketed, but his body had grown noticeably stronger and faster. The tangible progress made the freezing agony of cultivation bearable.

He looked toward the sealed entrance. Outside, the darkness was absolute, filled only with the echoing roars of monsters.

He still didn’t know why he had survived the God’s gaze. Maybe it was pure luck. Or maybe… it was because he had seen that purple light.

He had spent the last few days scouring the northeastern sector for the crash site, but had found nothing.

As he listened to the monsters howl, his mind drifted back to the figure he had seen in the ruins at sunset. The uncorrupted body.

It was located right in the northeastern sector.

Xu Qing’s eyes narrowed into dangerous slits.

*Is it connected to the purple light?*