Time reached the two-hundred-millionth year.
When the last trace of colorlessness was completely replaced by pale red, and the countless thread cocoons woven from the "Zhou Heng" affix had all transformed into pale red, Zhou Heng felt that he had become somewhat different.
The feeling was exceedingly subtle. It was not a surge in power, nor a sudden jump in some number on his attribute panel, but an almost fundamental change at the deepest level of his perception, as though someone had lifted a thin veil before his eyes whose existence he had never previously noticed.
Then he saw countless versions of himself.
Within the field of vision observable to the "Heng God of All Beings," in every gap between those pale-red thread cocoons woven from the words "Zhou Heng," along the boundaries where microcosmic dimensions and macrocosmic dimensions intersected and overlapped, countless figures of "Zhou Heng" emerged in layer upon layer, like reflections in fragments of mirrors.
Some sat upright like him, enduring the passage of years in some unknown void.
Some stood gazing into the distance, looking at scenery he could not see.
Some lowered their heads in contemplation, seemingly pondering questions entirely different from his own.
Some were even fighting, wielding unknown powers against unknown enemies on unknown battlefields.
Their postures varied, their expressions differed, yet without exception, they all had faces exactly like his.
But strangely, these versions of "him" did not interfere with him.
They simply existed there in silence, as though inhabiting countless parallel worlds, sharing the same point of origin with him yet never intersecting.
Zhou Heng could see them, but they could not see Zhou Heng, as though separated by a pane of glass that allowed sight in only one direction, visible to one another yet forever beyond reach.
Zhou Heng watched