Darkness, viscous and almost liquid, surged overhead. Black insects crawled through holes torn in space. At this moment, the Ancient Dragon Kingdom resembled an apocalyptic scene.
Su Xiao faced the oncoming apocalypse alone. His long blade was drawn, its tip angled toward the ground. If his back and this apocalyptic scene were painted together, the result would certainly be magnificent.
Yet someone really was doing exactly that. It was a hunched old man with a mechanical monocle embedded over his left eye, completely replacing its function. His face and skin were covered in wrinkles, while his four arms proved he was not human. His grizzled, slightly disheveled hair was tied into a thick braid, and the fabric of his long cloak was somewhat tattered, sometimes concealing his four arms.
He sat on a dead tree stump. Before him stood an ancient easel that seemed to have come from the First Era. He was an ancient existence—the Painter.
Do not assume the Painter had come to help Su Xiao. Such beings were far too ancient. They did not merely witness history; they were themselves part of history. He had appeared here only because, while observing fate, he had discovered that several of the fate lines of the Dukaine, this Abyssal insect family, led to destruction. That was why he had come to record it.
Su Xiao held his long blade with its tip angled toward the ground, standing alone against the scene of insects devouring the world. This was what the Painter was currently recording. Yet he existed between nothingness, both within this world and not completely present. He was a pure recorder.
Liquid darkness flowed down from above. Su Xiao leaped backward, and just after he cleared the area, a vast mass of liquid darkness crashed down where he had