Chaos had divided, and heaven and earth had taken shape. The great Pangu collapsed, drained of strength. His left eye became the sun and his right the moon; his blood became rivers and seas, and his flesh became thousands of miles of fertile land. Yet the countless living beings never noticed that, in the instant his mighty body fell, a wisp of an utterly yin, bitterly cold breath slipped quietly from his mouth.
It was the sigh of the creator of heaven and earth at the “end” of his own existence. It was the newborn universe’s first conception of “death.”
This wisp of breath, mixed with a drop of Pangu’s defiant blood, unwilling to fall silent, descended to the foot of Buzhou Mountain and into an immeasurable sea of blood formed from the accumulated remains of three thousand Chaos Gods.
The sea of blood was foul, devouring all life. Even the most ferocious primordial beast souls would vanish the moment they fell into it. Yet the Primordial Era knew no years, and after an unknown number of eons, a pale humanoid figure slowly opened his eyes in the deepest part of the sea.
There were no stars being born and dying in his pupils, no runes of the Great Dao, only the silent void.
He parted his lips. The first sound he uttered was dry and ancient, yet it made the entire sea of blood howl in lament.
“… … Hungry.”
