The Advent Of A God

The entire icy ground was now covered in jagged ice spikes, and the sky above had turned ominously dark, with fierce winds howling and hail swirling like blades in a storm.

Lylias stood alone in the heart of the devastated field, utterly silent. His hand was clenched so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.

Why… why didn't I consider the possibility that someone might use an apportation skill to interfere with the battle?

He slammed his leg into the ground.

The impact shattered the frozen earth beneath him, and molten lava burst through the cracks, consuming the ice in its path. Thick smoke and steam rose into the air, choking the landscape in ash and blistering heat.

But Lylias paid no attention. None of it mattered—not the destruction, not the ruin, not the sound of cracking stone or hissing flame.

What mattered was the mistake.

A mistake he had made.

And it wasn't just any misstep—it was a failure so basic, so careless, it gnawed at the very foundation of his pride.

He was one of the highest-ranking mage players in Deus Gracious, a master of battle and environmental control.

And yet… somehow… he had missed this.

He was fortunate this time. Whoever had used apportation—whoever had pulled his would-be victims from his grasp—hadn't used it to tilt the battle itself. They'd only taken the targets away.

But what if… next time… they do?

That thought struck him like a blade to the chest—sharp, merciless, and tearing straight through his pride.

It was unforgivable.

And as that realization spiraled through his thoughts, his frustration erupted in a deafening scream—a primal, furious cry that echoed across the entire mortal realm.

It was as if a beast long buried in silence had awakened—one filled with fury, shame, and searing pain.

The consequences were immediate.

And catastrophic.

Earthquakes split continents. Floods tore through valleys and drowned cities. Tsunamis swallowed coastlines. A wave of unnatural heat set the air ablaze. Across the realm, vegetation withered and aged within moments—forests crumbled to ash, farmlands turned to dust.

Every sect, every kingdom, every continent—felt the tremors of death.

Millions perished. Most were ordinary people, too weak to withstand even a sliver of the wrath he had unleashed. Countless weak cultivators, monsters, and spirit beasts were erased—snuffed out like fragile candles in a storm of divine rage.

It was as though the end of the world had come—not by fate, nor prophecy, but by one man's fury.

And then, at last, the destruction ceased.

Lylias stood alone amid a sea of fire and molten stone. The acrid air stung his lungs. Sweat drenched his hair. His eyes were hollow, staring blankly ahead. The rage had quieted, but not died—it simmered low, like embers waiting to burn again.

Slowly, he raised his hand.

"[Portal]," he said flatly.

It was a Sage-class spell—one of the most advanced in his arsenal. In the game, it could bypass any teleportation seal or anti-magic field by bending the rules of space and distance themselves.

A swirling blue vortex opened before him.

Then, he added, "Time Rewind."

The world shimmered.

The wheel of time turned backward. Gears groaned as they clawed at the recent past. The timeline unwound itself precisely five minutes—just before his foot had struck the ground and before catastrophe had bloomed.

That was the spell's limit.

If only my Time Rewind skill could go further… more than five minutes. I would have gladly gone back to the moment just before the apportation happened—and killed them with my own two hands!

Without another word, Lylias stepped into the portal and vanished.

....

"So let me get this straight," Lylias said, his voice edged with disbelief. "You're telling me… a woman dressed entirely in purple, with Qi identical to mine, shows up out of nowhere—summons items from thin air like I do—claims she's somehow connected to me, shows you my fight with those two siblings… and then just snaps her fingers and disappears?"

He stared at Biáshí, brow faintly furrowed.

She had told him everything the moment he returned to the stage. The crowd had seen her rush to him. Her face was tense—eyes filled with a mix of awe and concern... no... it was fear.

Fear for herself. For her people. Fear of what he might do.

She had spoken to protect herself and her city, not out of loyalty. Because if he had found out about the purple-robed woman from someone else... her fate would've been sealed.

And she knew that.

He could read her easily—she wasn't even trying to hide it.

"Speak up," he said, his voice sharper now, cutting the tension like a blade.

"Yes... that's what happened," Biáshí finally replied, her voice steady—but her eyes refused to meet his.

Lylias inhaled deeply, then exhaled in weary frustration. "The event is over. Go home—everyone. I need time to think."

He raised his voice slightly. "I'll give the prize to all who participated. No more questions. Just leave. That's an order."

There was no resistance.

The square fell silent. Slowly, the crowd began to disperse, no one daring to speak or even look back. His voice had stripped away all defiance.

Except one.

A girl, brown-haired, dressed in rags, didn't move. Instead, she walked toward him—small, steady steps.

"Hm… did you not hear what I said, little girl?"

"I did," she replied calmly. "But I can't miss this chance. I need to speak to you directly."

His eyes narrowed.

"What is it, then? Speak quickly and leave. I'd rather not stain the ground with your blood—I'm not exactly in the mood."

"Can you teach me how to cultivate?" the girl asked. Her eyes were wide, shining with resolve. She said cultivate as if the word itself was sacred.

Lylias blinked. One eyebrow rose.

"Huh? Why me? There are sects all across this region. Go knock on one of their doors."

"I tried," she said quickly. "But they won't take me. My roots are weak, too weak, they say. And I have no money. Look at me—do I look like someone with means?"

She straightened, shoulders squaring despite the rags she wore. Her voice was steady. Her gaze unwavering.

"But I believe… if you taught me, I could become strong. Unbelievably strong."

There was desperation—but no self-pity. Her voice carried belief. Fire.

For a moment, Lylias was silent.

"...You do look like a beggar. Perhaps you are one. But putting that aside... you want strength—but for what reason?"

The girl lowered her eyes. Her fists trembled.

"My mother… and my sister… they were taken by vile men. Violated… then killed. My father died protecting me. After that, I wandered. City after city, village after village. No hope. No help…"

Tears slipped down her cheeks as she clenched her fists tighter.

"I'm the only one left. The only one still alive. I want to avenge them... but I can't. I have nothing. No strength. No future. Until I saw you. You are very strong. Mysterious. Powerful—more than any one I've ever heard of. You gave me hope again…"

Silence followed.

Then Lylias asked flatly, "How long ago did this happen—the slaughter of your family?"

"One and a half years ago," she whispered.

"And you're what… thirteen now?"

She nodded. "Thirteen."

"I see."

His voice was unchanged. Emotionless.

He turned slightly away. His tone cold.

"But I can't teach you cultivation."

Her breath caught. "Why? Why can't you teach me?"

How the hell could I? I don't use Qi. I don't cultivate. I use mana and magic.

"Please… don't do this to me," she begged, tears falling freely. "Please…"

But he didn't stop. He didn't even glance back.

"I really don't care," he said quietly—and walked away, leaving her behind in silence.