Fang Yuan did not descend like a falling star; he simply rewrote his coordinates. One moment he was a ghost in the vacuum, and the next, he was a silent observer in a narrow alleyway of Silver-Heaven, the capital of the moon Aethelgard.
He suppressed his aura, shedding the translucent glow of the Weaver. In its place stood a tall, strikingly handsome young man with long black hair and eyes that seemed to hold the weight of dead galaxies. He wore a simple traveler's robe, but his posture carried the weight of an apex predator.
The city was alive with the Festival of Prophecy. The air was thick with the scent of toasted honey-bread, rare spices, and spiritual incense. Thousands cheered, their faces bright with hope for their "Golden Child," Kaelen.
Fang Yuan walked toward the Great Plaza, where a circle of sages sat beneath an ancient white tree, debating the celestial scripts. Among them was Edrick, a scholar who had spent fifty years reading the stars.
"You speak of the Golden King as your shield against the 'Coming Darkness,'" Fang Yuan's voice cut through the festive noise, calm yet sharp enough to silence the nearby crowd. "But what if the prophecy itself is the darkness?"
The sages froze. Edrick looked up, his eyes narrowing at the stranger. "Who are you, traveler? How dare you question the words of the ancestors? The stars do not lie. They have shown us that Kaelen is the light that will repel the void."
Fang Yuan sat casually on the edge of a marble fountain. He dipped a finger into the water. With a thought, he forced the liquid into a Temporal Paradox—the water froze into ice and evaporated into steam at the exact same moment, flickering between states in his palm.
"The stars do not lie," Fang Yuan agreed, watching the sages' eyes widen in terror at the impossible display. "But they do not tell the whole truth. They show you what they want you to see. Tell me, old man... if Kaelen is the shield, who forged the sword that is destined to break him?"
A heavy silence fell. The festive music seemed to dim as the temperature in the plaza dropped. The people nearby felt a sudden, inexplicable chill in their bones, as if time itself had slowed down around this stranger.
A young woman asked, her voice trembling, "You speak as if you have seen this sword. Are you a seer from the Far Reaches?"
Fang Yuan looked at her, seeing the golden threads of her life—a thread that was destined to be cut very soon. He smiled, a cold, hollow expression. "I am merely a traveler who has seen how the story ends. The prophecy says your hero wins, but it forgets to mention the cost. The cost is all of your souls, sacrificed just so he can ascend."
"Blasphemy!" Edrick shouted, his hand shaking as he gripped his staff. "Guards! There is a heretic in the plaza!"
But before a single soldier could move, Fang Yuan was gone. He didn't run; he simply ceased to be in that space. Only his voice remained, echoing in the minds of everyone present like a psychic scar:
"A hero needs victims to prove his glory... and I am here to make sure the victims are the first to reap the harvest."