The transition to Rank 3 had stripped Fang Yuan of his human frailty. Floating in the heart of the Silver Nebula, he felt the gravitational tug of nearby white dwarfs as if they were pulses in his own veins. His indigo threads were no longer physical strings; they were gravitational anchors that could warp the light of a star.
"The Abyss is behind me," Fang Yuan whispered, his voice vibrating through the vacuum of space, carried by the very dark matter he now commanded. "And the Multiverse is a vast, unwritten scroll."
In his palm, the Star-Core had shrunk into a dense, obsidian sphere, pulsing with the consciousness of the First Constellation. It was his compass and his battery. But as he scanned the silver mists, he realized he wasn't alone in this sector.
Dozens of derelict star-ships, ancient and overgrown with crystalline moss, drifted in a graveyard of a fallen Rank 3 civilization. These were the remains of Eron's people.
Suddenly, a ripple in the fabric of space caught his attention. It wasn't a Demon, nor a Weaver. It was a signal—a rhythmic, desperate transmission coming from a shattered moon nearby.
«...Master... if you can... hear this... the Void... it followed us...»
It was Lia's frequency. But it was distorted, as if she were being held between two dimensions.
Fang Yuan's eyes glowed with a cold, violet intensity. He had reached the level of a Galactic Overlord, but the hunt had only just begun. The Abyssal Overlord had marked him, and even here, in a graveyard of stars, the shadows were reaching out.
"A king needs a throne," Fang Yuan said, his threads expanding to grip the drifting star-ships, pulling them toward the shattered moon. "And a God needs a temple. I shall build mine from the bones of this dead nebula."