Ruins of the Ashen Hour

I knelt at the end of time, dug through the bones of three thousand eras with my bare hands, and planted the first seed.

They said the Immortality Tree was a celestial blessing, capable of creating an undying immortal abode.

But no one told me this:

Its roots devour time. When its flowers bloom, old friends turn to dust. With every inch the immortal abode rises, my flesh withers a little more.

Until today, when an Ashen Butterfly Flower blossomed in its branches.

Its petals bore these words: In the ninety-thousandth cycle of reincarnation, the one I killed with my own hands was my own name.

At last, I understand. The immortal abode is my prison, and immortality is a lie told by the gods.

If the immortal abode is built from my soul,

if reincarnation is the dregs chewed up by the Heavenly Dao,

then let this tree, having devoured all of time,

swallow the thirty-three heavens

until they are nothing but a wisp of smoke before my grave.