Charles Whitmore knew this was the fate waiting for him at the very end of this world.

“Better for the barbarians to have a king, than for the civilized lands to have none.”

A line from the old Lun Classics—one he had never imagined would one day echo so cruelly in a distant corner of the universe.

Yet here, in this broken sky and dying earth, “the civilized lands” truly had fallen.

And he… he was the last witness.

The heavens burned as though soaked in oil; the earth trembled like a dying beast. Corpses lay piled into mountains and seas, blood running in thick rivers that stank of iron and despair. Charles could see it everywhere—the black fumes rising from the ground, the death‑qi woven from tens of millions of fallen souls of these lands, twisting like a shroud over the blasted plains.

From every direction, the foreign iron cavalry rolled in like an endless tide.

No one ever learned where these riders came from, nor why they sought only to destroy. Ten years ago, they had appeared out of nothing—figures steeped in death, armored in shadows—and within mere years, they tore through every empire as if crushing rotten twigs.

Wherever their hooves passed, the world collapsed. Space cracked, mountains split, and entire kingdoms vanished into dust. Ten thousand lives became bone in a breath.

And now, the force Charles commanded was the last blade this world still held.

In the center of this stormy sea, he and the final army of Zhongtu Shenzhou drifted like a lone reed—waiting for the moment fate would swallow them whole.

After all these years of war, he had thought his heart tough enough. Iron enough.

But when the destined hour arrived, a tremor still ran through him.

Grief, pain, and despair rose like a tide—not for himself, but for the brothers still standing at his side, and for this land tied to his blood and soul.

“General, forgive us… we’ll take the first step ahead!”

“To come this far—none of it was your fault! You’ve done everything any man could!”

“No need to mourn! We were ready for this the day we took up arms. We never shamed the Tang! To fight beside you in this life… worth it!”

“General, may we meet again in the next life!”

“Foreign scum! Come on, then! One more fight! Hahaha—!”

One after another, familiar figures rushed past him. Their laughter rang bright—too bright—as they hurled themselves into the roaring ocean of enemy riders, like moths diving fearlessly into flame.

“Farewell… my dearest brothers. I’ll be with you soon.”

As those figures vanished one by one, brief as a night‑blooming flower, Charles’s vision finally blurred.

Tears burst free, hot and unrestrained, rolling down his face like rain from the eyes of a wounded tiger.

Charles Whitmore never belonged to this world. By all common sense, he should still be in that other time and space, soaking in sunlight and rain, finishing college, then living out an ordinary, peaceful life.

But thirty years ago, a strange meteor tore across the sky and dragged him into this land—one that resembled the Zhongtu Datang of China’s history, yet was utterly different. In that instant, he became a fifteen‑year‑old son of a military clan.

When he’d first arrived, he’d been rebellious, lost, feeling like every tree, every stone, every rule of this place pushed him away. He told himself none of it had anything to do with him.

Then the great calamity came—sweeping across the realm like a tide of ruin. One by one, those who loved him, and those he loved, fell. Only then did Charles awaken… only then did ambition strike his heart.

But by then, everything was already too late.

In this world, he had struggled through too much. Ten years of drifting, ten years of missed chances—his prime cultivation years lost forever. In the end, it was pure coincidence… his command skills, honed in his former life through strategy games, caught the attention of several elder Titans of the Empire.

They poured their lifeblood and qi into him, raising him up as the Empire’s final Grand Marshal, the last hope of Zhongtu.

But again—it had all come too late. He had missed too much. Even burning every last bit of strength, he still failed.

Charles slowly closed his eyes, grief cutting through him like a cold blade.

He didn’t fear death. What tormented him was that he couldn’t die yet. He was waiting. There was one man—one monster—who had to fall by his hand. Otherwise, even death could not give him peace.

That man was the root of all this devastation. Without him, the Empire would never have withered to this pitiful state.

Charles hated. The hatred sat in his chest like molten iron. Only blood—his blood—could wash it clean.

Yet the man was cunning. Always hiding in the shadows, never giving Charles a chance. But this time—this time Charles had made himself bait, standing alone in this dead‑end valley. And he knew the man would not resist stepping out.

He had hidden for over thirty years. But now, with victory nearly in his grasp, he would never slink away again.

“Charles Whitmore, give it up. I already spoke to the Great King. As long as you surrender, he’ll spare your life!”

A shout echoed from far away.

Behind the endless ranks of foreign iron riders, a plump figure poked out half a head, trembling as though afraid the wind itself might cut him. His gaze brimmed with pride, but beneath that shine lurked fear.

He wasn’t a coward by nature. But by the heavens—why was the man across from him so terrifying? Even with only a handful of soldiers, Charles always managed to cut down enemies tenfold, twentyfold their number.

He had commanded Zhongtu’s forces for only a few years, yet the warriors who’d died beneath his blade outnumbered decades of previous battles combined.

If he hadn’t been afraid of this man, he would never have stayed hidden for so long.

“Traitor!”

Charles Whitmore stared at that distant figure, hatred burning in his eyes. Without someone guiding the enemy, conspiring with them in secret, how could those foreign iron riders have torn through the lands in such a short time? How could they have conquered so much, so fast?

And all of it… all of it was because of him.

“Heh… Charles Whitmore, you really live up to your title as the God of War Tactics of Zhongtu. A useless second‑generation brat of the Whitmore Clan, somehow crawling his way up to become the Grand Marshal of All Forces… truly unbelievable. If those old fools had chosen you thirty years earlier, made you their heir… or if the Whitmore Clan hadn’t fallen back then, maybe Zhongtu really might’ve had a chance. But too bad—too late now!”

The shadowy figure let out a smug laugh.

“Charles, let me give you a word of advice. You’re a man of talent. The Great King already said—if you’re willing to surrender, he can spare your life, even turn you into one of them. How about it? Think it over.”

But Charles didn’t hear a word.

“Lucius Kingsley!”

He spat out the man’s true name, his voice sharp with fury. After all these years, he had finally waited for this moment. The rat had finally crawled out of his hole.

“Come with me—die for the Great Tang!”

The earth rumbled. In a deafening roar, waves of blinding light burst from Charles’s spear, as if a newborn sun rose between heaven and earth, bright enough to stab pain straight into one’s eyes.

“Fall back! Fall back!”

…

The winds howled. The moment Charles appeared, tens of thousands of foreign riders shuddered with instinctive terror, retreating like a collapsing tide.

“Protect the Divine Emissary!”

Several foreign elites snapped awake and rushed toward Lucius Kingsley, unleashing blazing auras and writhing black flame. But they were far, far too late.

A thunderous blast tore the sky apart. A falling radiance—like a burning meteor—crashed down, engulfing hundreds of foreign warriors and the man hidden among them.

“You—!”

A sharp, brief scream tore through the air. In the roaring blaze, that plump face twisted in terror—then dissolved into drifting ash.

He never imagined—right up to the moment of his death—that even with everything collapsing, even with no way out, Charles Whitmore would still muster every last shred of strength to strike at him.

Hatred, struggle… none of it could stand against that unstoppable spear.

“Finally… it’s done.”

A hard, bitter satisfaction surged through Charles.

Father… Mother… and all the countless beings of Shenzhou… you can rest now.

Death swept toward him. Charles let a faint smile tug at his lips, watching those countless blazing spears thrust at him. There was no fear—only release.

With a thunderous roar, at the final instant, he detonated his own dantian, dragging thousands of foreign iron riders down into the abyss with him.

People said a man’s last moment stretches into eternity.

He never believed it… but it was true.

Charles let out a ragged laugh. His heart, oddly, was calm—calmer than it had ever been.

After all these years, he was finally free.

Yet deep inside, an ache twisted sharply.

In that flash—bright as lightning—faces rose in his mind: Grandfather, Third Granduncle, his parents, his eldest brother, second brother, his cousin…

If only he hadn’t been so stubborn back then.

If only he had woken up sooner, stepped forward sooner…

If only he had used his gift for strategy to shield his family, to guard this land…

But now, everything was far too late.

Everyone he loved, and everyone who had loved him—gone.

All those precious people he once held close, who once cared for him… every last one of them had vanished.

If life could start over, he would never walk the same path again.

But fate offered no such mercy.

From this day on, the Central Plains would become the hunting ground of foreign riders.

A thousand years later, no one would even remember a people called Yanhuang, or a land once named Great Tang.

Regret, frustration, and bitter unwillingness twisted in Charles’s chest.

“It shouldn’t have ended like this—”

A tear slipped from the corner of his eye.

If life could begin again—if he had even one more chance to mend what he broke—he would give anything.

Anything.

Thunder rolled overhead, a low, violent rumble tearing through the void. As that thought flashed across Charles Whitmore’s mind, the darkness around him shuddered—then split. In the depths of that endless night, a blazing meteor suddenly streaked past his vision.

That… wasn’t that the very same star‑fall that had dragged him into this world all those years ago?

Host awakening. Initiating Fate Energy.

A cold, mechanical voice echoed through the abyss, stripped of all human warmth.

Fate’s chosen! He is Fate’s chosen! Stop him—stop him!

From the dark came the panicked roars of countless foreign iron riders—creatures who had never feared death now trembling like beasts cornered by the heavens. But Charles heard none of it. His sight dimmed. The world collapsed into pure black, and he fell… deeper and deeper.

…

“Why do they call you a traveler?”

It felt like the blink of an eye, yet also like centuries grinding past. Charles was pulled awake by a soft, curious voice drifting into his ears. The sound was bright, like silver bells tapping against each other—innocent, young, impossibly clear.

Like a pebble dropped into still water, her voice sent ripples tearing across Charles’s consciousness.

Who? Whose voice is that?

Aren’t the dead supposed to be silent? How can I still hear anything? Is this… some kind of illusion?

“Hmph!”

Before he could think further, a sharp huff sounded right at his ear. Then something jabbed hard at his side.

A finger.

Charles froze for half a breath—then realization struck him like a whip.

No. No, that’s wrong. If I’d died… how could I still have a body?

Does that mean… I’m not dead at all?

A low hum brushed past his mind, and a surge like a thousand waves roared through Charles Whitmore’s chest. He forced his eyes open, fighting the heaviness. In the next breath, a sharp beam of light pierced his vision, flushing away the darkness.

As his eyes adjusted, the world slowly brightened. Not far from him stood a little girl of about ten, cheeks puffed, glaring at him with clear displeasure.

“That’s what you get for ignoring me!”

She jabbed his arm again with her thin, stubborn little finger.

“Little sis?!”

Charles stared, stunned. The girl’s brows curved like crescent moons, her eyes bright as morning dew. Her skin was pale with a soft flush, and paired with her small silver‑red leather shorts, she looked like she’d been carved from jade.

But those two sky‑pointing horn braids on her head betrayed her mischievous nature. Who else could she be but his youngest sister, Yolanda Whitmore?

Except… his little sister was already—

Charles froze, mind blank, unable to keep up with what he was seeing.

Hadn’t he died? He remembered it clearly—the final moment when he’d charged into the endless tide of foreign iron cavalry, detonating his own dantian to end Ambrose Aldridge’s life. How could Yolanda be standing here? And this young?

Ten years old—he remembered that phase vividly. He was only five years older. If she was ten now, then he must be—

He lifted his arm. What he saw made his breath halt—a pair of small, pale, thin arms. Nothing like the scarred, battle‑worn limbs he remembered.

For a heartbeat, Charles couldn’t even form words. Could it be… had he really been reborn?

A storm of shock, joy, unease, and disbelief churned inside him.

“Little sis… pinch me.”

The words slipped out.

Before he finished speaking, a soft, delicate hand reached toward him. Around that snow‑white hand, faint white ripples pulsed outward, steady and firm.

Those faint waves clung to her skin, unmoving, hard as steel, giving off a pressure that made the air tighten.

“Ninth Rank of Origin Qi!”

Charles’s heart jolted hard. That thin halo of white ripples—he knew it well. It was the mark of a Ninth Rank Origin Qi practitioner. How could he forget? His little sister had been a prodigy since birth, blessed with monstrous strength. A tiny powerhouse wrapped in a girl’s frame.

Charles Whitmore winced. Letting her slap him awake? That was asking for pain.

“Little sis, wait—”

His face changed, instinctively trying to stop her, but it was already too late. A crisp crack split the air. Pain shot up his arm, and Charles was almost sure his radius had snapped.

“Ah—Yolanda, let go! Let go!”

Hearing his cry, the little girl froze, cheeks flushing. She stuck out her tongue and quickly withdrew her fingers, looking more awkward than apologetic.

“Big brother, don’t blame me. You told me to do it.”

She said it while pulling a face, clearly not feeling even a hint of guilt.

Charles could only give a bitter smile. As expected of the Yolanda in his memories—born with freakish strength that could lift boulders and tear planks apart. No “normal person” could handle that.

But as he rubbed his aching wrist, a wild joy surged up inside him. The pain, the sensation, the sight of her face… none of it was illusion.

He was alive.

“Could it be… heaven really heard me?”

For a moment, emotions tangled inside him—sour, bitter, sweet, all at once.

“Third Brother, I’m telling you, stop hanging around Zephyr Marshall. That bastard’s no good. He got you scolded by Father, and now people outside say you tried to snatch some poor girl. My brother needs to snatch girls? Ridiculous! If I see him next time, I’ll beat him. Every time I see him, I’ll beat him!”

Opposite him, Yolanda suddenly frowned, anger boiling up. Her tiny hands clenched, joints cracking like firecrackers. Clearly, her resentment was far from small.

“Yolanda…”

Hearing her voice so earnest and fierce, Charles felt his nose sting. He wrapped his arms around her, overwhelmed.

This was his little sister—the one who had always protected him, always stood on his side. And he, in that past life, had been too blind, too foolish to cherish her. Only after losing her had regret crushed him.

This time… heaven had given him another chance. He would not let her suffer again.

“Yolanda… thank you. But it’s fine. That bastard Zephyr Marshall—I'll deal with him myself.”

Charles spoke softly, but his voice was steady as steel.

Yolanda Whitmore froze for a heartbeat, then lifted her head from Charles Whitmore’s arms. Her wide eyes reflected his faint, distant gaze, full of bewildered light. This third brother of hers… he looked different today.

He used to slouch around all day, running with that pack of useless rascals. No matter how you looked at him, he wasn’t someone who could say such things with a straight face.

Right then, a thought flashed across her mind.

“Right, Third Brother, you still haven’t told me—what is a ‘traveler’? What does that word even mean? How come I’ve never heard it before?”

Her round eyes locked onto him, two big question marks floating inside them. After all that talk, the thing she cared about most still hadn’t been answered.

And for this, she was very, very displeased.

“This—”

Even with Charles Whitmore’s thick skin, he couldn’t help rubbing his nose, looking awkward as a cornered fox.

The whole “traveler” thing… That joke had come from the moment he first crossed into this world from another universe. Back then, he’d been full of resentment, unable to adapt, knowing no one, feeling like a passing shadow in a strange land—just a drifting illusion.

Then this little sister of his, with her twin braids and fierce little temper, had rushed up to him, calling him “Third Brother.” A moment of childish mischief struck him, and he teased her, telling her to call him a “traveler.”

But the girl had taken it seriously. Again and again she asked him what a “traveler” was. Thinking back carefully, it must have been this very moment.

Remembering it now made his scalp prickle with embarrassment.

“Well… a traveler means… a handsome guy.”

“Handsome guy?” Yolanda blinked, looking even more confused.

“Yeah! A good‑looking fella!”

Charles burst out laughing.

“Third Brother, you’re lying!”

She puffed up instantly, anger flaring. Young as she was, she wasn’t that easy to fool.

“Little Sis, suddenly remembered—Father might be coming back any moment now. You should hurry home. If he finds you here, things will get troublesome!”

Cold sweat prickled down Charles’ back as he hurriedly changed the subject. She was simple‑hearted and trusted him deeply, but if she figured out he’d tricked her… With her terrifying strength, once she exploded, he’d be the one suffering.

“Hmph!!”

The little girl’s cheeks were puffed tight with anger, her eyes still burning. She might be young, but she wasn’t someone easy to fool. Her brother’s words clearly hadn’t convinced her.

Charles Whitmore coaxed and dodged, barely managing to usher her out. Yet even as she left, she threw him a glare full of outrage.

“Father will be back soon! Mother sent me to call you. Don’t forget to go to the hall for dinner!”

Boom.

That single line cracked through his skull like thunder. His heart jerked, a chill sweeping through him.

Yolanda Whitmore stormed off after delivering the message, stomping out the door.

Charles touched his forehead—his palm came away damp. He’d truly thought she snuck in on her own. Turns out even if she fooled Father, Mother saw straight through everything.

But then again… with Yolanda’s little tricks, how could she possibly slip past Mother’s watchful eyes?

When she finally left, Charles shut the door. He leaned back against the wall, lifted his head slightly, eyes fixed on the high ceiling. His face cooled, gradually settling into a calm, hard stillness.

Today’s events were too strange. He needed time—quiet, solid time—to think.

Scenes from his final moments surfaced again, flashing sharp and bright. And that falling star he’d seen at the very end… its shape grew clearer and clearer. Some distant memories he thought long buried stirred awake, vivid once more.

He remembered it perfectly. In another universe, another Earth—summer of 2022. He had been walking down a street when a meteor streaked out of the sky and smashed straight into him. In the next breath, he was in this unfamiliar world.

Back then, he’d assumed there would be some kind of “traveler’s blessing.” But no. Life had been plain. Ordinary. Up until the moment he died, besides being the son of a general, he had no special trait that set him apart from any other human.

That meteor—mysterious and silent—brought him here, to a world far from his own. But beyond that, it had done nothing. No miracles. No gifts.

He never imagined that only at death’s door would it stir again.

“Was it resentment? Or the last piece of unwillingness?”

His thoughts surged and fell like waves.

Whatever the reason, he had returned. Truly returned. Thirty years back. This year, he was fifteen. His little sister, ten.

And Zhongtu Shenzhou stood at the peak of its glory—more prosperous and powerful than ever before.

Neither the Qin nor the Han had ever reached such vast lands. From the East Sea to the Congling Mountains, from Jiaozhi in the south to Yinshan in the north—every stretch belonged to the empire.

With six hundred thousand soldiers under its banner, the Great Tang had nailed its claim across the lands of the Divine Continent, pressing every border tribe and foreign nation beneath its heel. The army shone with so many brilliant commanders that people called it the Era of a Hundred Generals. Even the fiercest riders from beyond the sands bowed to this vast empire.

In just a few decades, the empire’s borders swelled again and again, reaching the scale it held today. This place was the undisputed heart of the world. This was the peak age of Zhongtu.

And the man who sat in the palace was revered across the Divine Continent as the Sacred Emperor. In Zhongtu, people soaked themselves in pride, drunk on the illusion of everlasting glory.

But aside from Charles Whitmore, no one knew the truth—that beneath this armor of greatness, the empire was already sliding downward, its strength hollowing out grain by grain. Behind the shine of prosperity, horses were worn and bows long unstrung, and danger hid like wolves in tall grass.

To the west, on the high plateau, the forces of Usizang surged upward, stepping quickly into their most fearsome era. Even farther west, the White‑robed Da Shi had collapsed, and in its place rose the darkest, strongest era of the Black‑robed Da Shi.

In the northeast, Yuangai Suwen sharpened blades and tightened saddles. In the southern Erhai, shadows churned unseen.

Every threat was ready to burst the moment a spark touched it.

Yet the people of the Great Tang of Zhongtu drifted contentedly in their dream of prosperity. They sensed nothing. Even while foreign tribes gathered strength, staring at the Central Plains like hungry beasts, the Confucian scholars within court and out were stirring up a new tide of thought—urging the court to dismiss its armies, give up its borders, and sway the barbarians with rituals and righteousness, hoping to trade steel for peace.

It was a self‑crippling madness.

A tiger tearing out its own claws.

A wolf snapping off its own fangs.

Four years later, when the tribes struck like starving wolves, when even greater calamities swept the land, Zhongtu had no strength left to fight back.

And when those dangers all erupted at once, heaven collapsed in the southeast, earth split in the northwest, and the empire—this vast, dazzling empire—fell into ruin.

His own Whitmore clan, too, went from glory to decay within those same four years. A house of generals and ministers was crushed into the mud, struggling like a beast with broken limbs.

In his past life, Charles Whitmore stumbled blind until all was beyond saving. But in this life, carrying the memories of an entire lifetime, he would never let it happen again.

Why had such a mighty empire shattered so quickly? He had torn that question apart countless times back then. If he could follow the plan he’d conceived thirty years later, everything could still be changed.

But before all that, he had to stop something else—something that would soon strike his family with brutal force. His little sister, his elder brother, his father and mother, the whole Whitmore clan… everyone had been swept into disaster by that single event.

It was after that moment that the Whitmore family began its long, unstoppable fall.

The people he had loved—and those who had loved him—had all drifted away after that single turning point, one event after another pushing them further from his side. And all of it had happened not long after he first crossed into this world.

Back then, he had been ignorant, blind to the storm gathering over his head. But in this life, he would never let it happen again.

If a man could not even guard his own household, how could he hope to guard the world? Under a fallen nest, how could any egg remain intact? If he failed to save his family from their destined ruin, what strength would he have left to save this land?

No matter what came his way, he would stop it.

With that thought burning in his chest, Charles Whitmore pushed open the door and strode out. Outside, the buildings rose in neat rows, their silhouettes achingly familiar. As he gazed at them, he knew with a heavy certainty that what came next would matter more than anything for the path ahead.