Refining the Heavens (炼天)

PROLOGUE - CHAPTER 1: SAINT EMPIRE

Before mortals, there were gods.

They are existences that stood at the pinnacle, born of the primal chaos, and held powers that could destroy stars and shake the universe.

Proud of their strength, they grew arrogant and contested against each other like a child's cruel game.

Soon, the first among them was vanquished disappearing into nothingness. At that time, the other gods stood still in shock, because death was, but a concept they had not tested before.

Yet, fear was a foreign thing to them.

As if wanting to test out their limits, their battles only escalated to reach a cataclysmic scale. Some of the gods turned to create lesser beings to help them fight their wars and the rest soon followed.

Death and destruction spanned across the cosmos, and countless species were made extinct every day but the gods only created more. It was a time of great turmoil and suffering for the creatures they made until finally, out of the great calamity, eight supreme gods raised to the top and peace came.

The Devourer of Worlds

The Omniscient One

The Endless

The Unlimited

The Weapon

The Beast

The Demon

And one who rules everything,

The Lord of Realms

They divided the world amongst themselves but, secured of their high thrones and lofty places, corruption soon seeped in.

Everyone thought that it will last forever until the destiny of one who will replace one of the eight was born, and once again the world trembled for the chaos that was about to return.

.....

In the long yellowed grass, a shadowy figure ran frightfully fleeing. His unsteady steps and panicked expression was precisely what his pursuers want.

He is the prey in their game.

Fumbling about, he tried to orientate himself, but there was nothing he can use to tell the direction he is going. There are only green, yellow, and brown, the rustling of grass and that annoying strand of hair which kept falling into his eye.

The ones after him are near. He can feel it, and it is all over if they catch him.

A light buzzing from a common summer insect was lost in the noise of his frenzied scrambling.

All of a sudden, four – no, five – people rushed at him.

He whipped out his weapon, a meter-and-half long paper fan; the symbol of the erudite scholars.

On the weapon is calligraphy of the words: Trainee Fan, Not for resale.

Ranked Three Hundred and nine, he is at the bottom rung of his class. Though he did not want to admit, there is only a handful that he can beat in a fight.

His heart raced as the action sprung then everything ended in the span of a few breaths.

The difference is too significant.

Five boys rolled on the ground, most of them holding their stomach.

"Gosh, it was you guys? You had me frightened for a while," he said before chirpily moving off.

One of the boys lying face down muttered, "Alan, your plans never work."

"Gah, who would've thought that we'd lose five-on-one."