The rules of the world are being silently tampered with, and "abnormalities" are eroding reality like rust spots.
My brother was the first one to be [formatted]. In order to find him, I was forced to set foot on the Dead Souls Plain and became a [Seventh Vessel] that should not exist.
They said that by refining the "Shuitian Pot", they can reverse the cause and effect and recover everything from the ruins.
But the pot spirit whispered: Every time you use it, you need to sacrifice the proof of your existence-your memory.
The Palace of the Past regards me as a variable, the White Bone Temple calls me the original, and the Netherworld Sect plants a peeping eye in my soul.
And my brother who turned into a peach wood puppet seemed to have awakened a cold "him" in his body.
This is a dead game in which the era is the chessboard and all living beings are the pawns.
I use my past as fuel to ignite a flame that burns away the rules.
I want to seek justice for all the names that should not be erased in this forgotten ruins.
