They became heroes of their peoples, remembered and celebrated by all. Their names became the mark of an era, known to every adult and child among their own kind.
Those who had fallen were the finest heroes of their age. Could not even one of them have survived? People had hoped for a miracle.
But a hundred lonely years passed, and not one hero returned against all odds. No matter how extraordinary or gifted they had been in life, death was still death.
"Tell me, is there Samsara in this world?" Many mighty races grieved. Entire peoples roared at the heavens, hoping their greatest heroes, slain in battle, might one day walk the Human Realm again.
But could that hope come true? A person's death was like a lamp going out. If there was no Samsara, how could there be rebirth? There was no next life; many powerful cultivators agreed on that.
Their cries to heaven were only an outlet for grief and anger. Few truly imagined that a miracle might happen.
The elder Great Saints sighed. Once someone had died, they could not return. Even the Ancient Great Emperors had accepted that. They had not sought rebirth or pinned their hopes on the future; they had fought for the present.
A hundred years passed, a hundred years of sorrow. At last, the curtain slowly fell on an age.
Yet among the ruins of blood and bone, new hope took root. A generation of young experts grew up. They had witnessed the bloodiest upheaval in history and watched peerless warriors march to their deaths without a moment's hesitation. It had marked them deeply as children, hardening their resolve. Having felt the rampage of those supreme auras, they grew stronger than the generation before them.
Many had died, but this generation,