Upon the city wall stood a towering figure.
There was no wind.
In the Primordial Void, wind did not exist to begin with. Yet within thirty meters of that figure, the Primordial Purple Qi churning across countless miles had congealed into stillness, as though it had encountered something it dared not behold. It silently retreated, not daring to draw even half a step closer.
It was a silent reverence.
It was not caused by pressure, nor forced by Dao laws. It was simply—his very existence.
He only needed to stand there.
His figure was exceedingly tall, yet it was impossible to say just how tall.
If measured by the standards of All Heavens and Myriad Realms, there would likely be no result—because the eyes told you he was merely humanoid, while the soul trembled and said that he was plainly a mountain, a sea, an entire world.
He wore a black robe, unembroidered and unpatterned, without gold or ornament.
Yet the curve of that robe's hanging hem seemed to scoop the entire Primordial Void within its folds. With the slightest movement, currents silently rolled forth, pushing the fragments of shattered worlds that had drifted for countless ancient epochs even farther away.
He did not speak. He did not move. He did not even direct his gaze anywhere.
Yet even so, the surrounding void slowly revolved around him as its axis.
His face.
If there was anything in this world that should not be seen clearly, it was his face.
Not because it was blurred, not because it was concealed. On the contrary—his face was so clear that it made one's heart palpitate.
Its contours were carved by a blade, sharply defined, as though personally sculpted by the Heaven-Opening axe. Every line was a Great Dao, every detail a law. Yet