Smoke rose from the charred remains of the chimera, curling toward the high, shattered glass ceiling of the coliseum. Silence sat heavy over the crowd, thick as wool. Nobody dared to breathe, their eyes fixed on the lone man standing in the center of the arena without a single scratch on his body. Suddenly, a pillar of pure, white-hot starlight punched through the ceiling, striking the earth just inches from Ruan's boots. Heat surged outward in a violent wave, melting the reinforced stone floor into bubbling, black slag. Spectators in the front rows screamed, shielding their faces as the air turned into a furnace, singing their hair and clothes. Gravity warped instantly. Heavy, suffocating pressure fell upon the entire stadium like a collapsing mountain. Bones groaned under the sudden strain as thousands of people were forced onto their knees, their joints popping. Guild masters, high-ranking hunters, and wealthy sponsors alike were pinned to the ground, their faces pressed against the cold stone. Blood dripped from their noses and ears, their system-granted shields shattering like fragile glass under the immense weight. Air itself became a luxury, leaving everyone gasping as the atmosphere turned into a thick, poisonous soup. Despair, raw and primal, rippled through the stands as people realized their beloved system could not save them. These hunters, who had spent decades boasting of their absolute power, were now nothing more than insects waiting to be crushed. Amidst the chaos, Ruan stood perfectly still. His posture was relaxed, yet his feet were rooted deep into the trembling earth, absorbing the shockwaves. A low, resonant hum began to echo from the sky, shaking the very foundations of the city outside. Clouds parted above the ruined ceiling, revealing a massive, swirling vortex of golden light. Descending from the rift came a figure of blinding majesty. Feathered wings, woven from white-hot plasma, stretched across the sky, casting a harsh, artificial glow over the ruined arena. This was the Archangel of Judgment, a manifestation of the celestial powers that ruled the world from behind the system. Its face was a mask of cold, metallic perfection, its eyes burning with the light of a thousand dying stars. Trembling, a hunter nearby tried to look up, only to have his skull forced back down by a sudden surge of divine gravity. "Mortal," the entity commanded, its voice a thunderous roar that echoed directly inside the minds of everyone present. "Your strength is an anomaly that must be erased." Silence stretched, thick and suffocating, as the golden light of its wings flared brighter, blinding those who dared to look. Ruan did not blink, his dark eyes locked onto the celestial intruder. Sweat dripped from the temples of the S-class hunters in the front rows, their bodies paralyzed by the sheer presence of the beast. Air itself seemed to bow, bending around the golden entity. Only Ruan remained upright, a lone pillar of defiance in a sea of broken wills. His spine was perfectly straight, a stubborn needle pointing toward the sky. "Bow," the Archangel of Judgment demanded, the golden light around it pulsing like a beating heart. "Accept the covenant of the High Heavens and become a vessel of our light, or face absolute annihilation." Ruan's hand slowly drifted toward the hilt of his weathered blade. Cold steel met his fingers, a grounding sensation that cut through the noise of his raging emotions. Images of the Great Purge replayed in his mind's eye, unbidden and agonizingly sharp. Fire had rained from the heavens for forty days and forty nights, wiping out the great martial sects. He remembered his brothers from the Mount Hua sect, their broken swords scattered across the burning mountain peaks. They had died fighting, refusing to bend their knees to these celestial parasites who demanded their absolute servitude. He remembered his master, an old man with a beard like snow, who could split a falling leaf with a wooden stick. The old man had stood on the highest peak of Mount Hua, facing a legion of descending gods. "Do not look down, Ruan," the master had whispered, his back straight despite his bleeding wounds. "A martial artist only bows to the earth that feeds him and the ancestors who taught him. Never to the sky." Those words had kept Ruan alive through a century of cold, lonely nights in the isolation chamber. They had kept him sane when he woke up to a world that had forgotten his name and his art. Grief, ancient and heavy, swelled in his chest like a rising tide, clawing at his throat. It was the guilt of a survivor, the crushing weight of being the only one left to remember the glory of mortal strength. Every friend he had ever laughed with, every rival he had ever clashed blades with—all of them were dust, erased from history. Now, the perpetrator of that ancient genocide stood right in front of him, demanding his submission. Slowly, Ruan drew his sword. A simple, unadorned iron blade slid from its scabbard with a soft, metallic whisper. To the spectators watching through the monitors, the weapon looked pitifully weak, a simple piece of metal with no glowing runes or divine enchantments. But in Ruan's hand, the blade was a conduit of absolute will. Pure, concentrated sword qi began to coat the edge, humming with a quiet, deadly vibration. Air around the iron blade began to warp, distorting the light. It was not the flashy, colorful mana of the system, which relied on the permission of a constellation. Years of perfect breathing and absolute mental focus had forged this energy, the natural inner force of humanity. It was the accumulation of human potential, pushed to its absolute limit. "A foolish choice," the Archangel declared, its eyes flaring with divine wrath. "Let your blood wash away your insolence." With a wave of its hand, the sky filled with spears of solid light, pointing directly at Ruan. Each spear vibrated with enough energy to level a mountain, ready to tear him to pieces. Ruan did not dodge, nor did he take a defensive stance. Instead, he took a single step forward, his movements fluid and precise, a perfect execution of Mount Hua's legendary footwork. As the spears of light rained down, he swung his sword in a single, vertical slash. It was a basic motion, the very first strike he had learned as a child. Yet, executed with the perfection of a man who had practiced it millions of times, it became something transcendent. A thin, black line of absolute emptiness sliced through the air. Spears of light were severed in half, dissolving into harmless sparks before they could touch his skin. Unstoppable, the slash traveled upward, cutting through the golden barrier surrounding the Archangel. Before the entity could even comprehend what was happening, the invisible line of force split its glowing body cleanly down the center. Time seemed to freeze as the severed halves of the giant entity hovered in the air. Horror painted the faces of the surviving hunters as they watched the sky warp. The severed projection of the Archangel does not vanish; instead, its divine blood spills onto the arena floor, igniting a portal that begins pulling the entire city into a pocket dimension.

Chapter 10: The First Gaze of the Heavens