Among the uncountable universes, two ancient lands stood proud: the Primordial Mainland and the Origin Mainland.
One was ancient, forged at the dawn of existence. The other, a testament to defiance, born from a cultivator who shattered the firmament and carved a new realm amidst the stars.
Between them lay a celestial pathway, a bridge forged from laws and mysteries, leading to realms unseen by ordinary eyes. It was said that those who dared to tread its path would glimpse truths capable of shattering entire worlds.
It was renowned as the Origin Voidspire.
At the heart of the Origin Voidspire stood a colossal tower, one that pierced the heavens themselves.
And atop that tower rested a massive, ancient book.
Its pages turned of their own accord, words etching themselves upon the parchment with each passing moment. After a time, the pages ceased to turn. The final words written were:
"The universe had moved on."
"But the laws never forget."
A handsome, ethereal young man appeared, a brush held loosely in his hand. He gazed upon the words and muttered softly, "Do they?"
He sighed.
Perhaps moved by his sigh or sensing his sorrow, the book closed itself. Upon its cover, ancient characters shimmered: Celestial Archives.
Moments later, another figure arrived.
An old man clad in simple cloth, but his hair was unlike anything mortal eyes could fathom. Strands of deep blue, each tangled with the void itself, each carrying a story of its own.
"Was the River of Starry Sky breached?" the old man asked.
The ethereal youth did not answer. His gaze was distant, staring into the unfathomable depths below. In one instant, he saw only endless void. In the next, two small dots flickered into existence. Then, two immense clusters of energy, one surrounded by a vast, cerulean river of power.
"Was it him?" the old man asked again.
This time, the young man raised his hand. The pages of the Celestial Archives flipped backward until they stopped at a single, ancient entry.
At the top of the page, it read:
"The laws remember."
The old man sighed once more as the pages turned again, revealing another passage.
"He repaid what he sowed,
But who will repay,
what he owes?"
Lifting his hand, the old man's void-threaded hair began to flutter, each strand whispering a story long forgotten.
At that moment, somewhere in the endless void, a stubborn blue flame, burning alone in defiance of the dark, flickered and disappeared.
The Old man turned his gaze to the young man, yet now the figure was no longer bound to a single form.
One moment a man, the next a woman, then a thousand shifting shapes, as if the essence of all creation danced upon his skin.
The old man spoke, his voice heavy as fate itself.
"What was broken shall demand its due; betrayal's price the soul shall rue."