“Give me but a century more, and the sundering of my essence would be complete…” The voice, frail as a moth’s wing, drifted through the void. “Alas, the shard of spirit I managed to sever was far too meager. With the main body consumed, this wisp of consciousness is like a rootless tree, destined to wither away. The Yun Demon Shire has fallen, its Demon Tower shattered, offering no haven! And I dare not trespass into other shires to leech their demonic power…”

Wary beyond measure, the remnant spirit feebly steered itself into the vast expanse, each passing moment threatening to extinguish its very existence.

Flight itself became a torment, each breath of wind siphoning away its dwindling essence. Nearing the brink of oblivion, even memories began to fray, dissolving into a muddled haze. Just as it teetered on the edge of eternal dissipation, a faint pulse of demonic energy stirred from the land below. It emanated from the very heart of the Soulforger Tribe! In those days, the Soulforgers were few, barely numbering a hundred thousand, scattered across the lands in search of souls to claim. Only a meager ten thousand remained within the ancestral lands.

These fervent souls, their faces etched with zeal, knelt before a crude idol of black stone, nestled at the tribe’s center. A subtle miasma of demonic energy spiraled from their crowns, clinging to the air around them.

The cloud demon’s shard, its memory blurred and essence drained, surged forth instinctively, drawn to the black idol like a moth to a flame. The instant it merged with the stone, the idol seemed to quicken, imbued with newfound sentience. The ambient demonic energy swirled around it, strengthening its newfound life.

As the years drifted by, the cloud demon’s essence slumbered within the black stone, its memories, fragmented by its desperate escape, dissolving into a hazy fog.

It was but a shard, a mere fragment of the whole, and within the fog of its fading memories, it absorbed the fervent prayers of the Soulforger tribe, each one steeped in the veneration of a figure known as Wang Lin.

At first, a flicker of resistance sparked within its fading awareness. But as the tribe grew, swelling to a million souls and beyond, the daily veneration eroded its will, until the name ‘Wang Lin,’ the name of their progenitor, echoed within its very being.

Thus, it lived through centuries, slowly losing its past self. With each passing day, it abandoned all memory, embraced the illusion, and truly believed that it was Wang Lin, the ancestor of the Soulforger tribe.

Malleable as clay beneath a sculptor’s hand, the idol itself began to change, its crude features softening into a visage that mirrored the phantom of Wang Lin that haunted the tribes prayers, and so too, did the demon within transform into the likeness of the man he believed he was.

Wang Lin, now observing this spectacle, beheld before him an ancient demon, a perfect copy of himself, a puzzle of strange fate woven before his eyes. The events, both seen and guessed, fell into place.

After a moment of deep consideration, Wang Lin fixed his gaze on the ancient demon, his voice a low murmur: “Such a generous gift of a demon, presented to me so freely… It would be a waste to refuse. It believes itself to be me… Then let it become my second Avatar!”

“My true form is a God of Ancients, my first Avatar is a cultivator, and the second a demon of the past! Perhaps, one day, I will forge a third avatar from the ancient ways of the Devil! The fusion of the three… Could such a thing awaken the ancient blood within?” The idea sparked a fire in Wang Lin’s heart as a smile lit his face at the thought of the demon before him, a gift delivered by fate itself.

He departed from the cave, allowing his spirit and body to rejoin, opening his eyes to see the black stone before him. His smile widened.

Taking a breath, Wang Lin crossed his legs upon the ground, his hands weaving seals upon his knees. With a silent incantation, he released a wave of his own spirit, enveloping the black stone and casting it with a torrent of arcane markings.

To fashion this creature into a second avatar, he must forge a bond of unity, a symphony of heart and mind where his will would resonate without resistance. The avatar must embrace his spirit, allowing it to merge with, even supplant, its own.

Simple in concept, yet the path ahead was fraught with peril. Forceful subjugation might succeed, but only with servitors far weaker than himself, avatars whose power would pale in comparison to his own. Those of equal or greater strength would resist such coercion.

Thus lay the first great trial, the challenge of selecting and shaping a body for the avatar.

Lacking the means of brute force, only the passage of time and unending devotion could bridge the divide, though even this path was shadowed by the risk of rebellion, a rift in the heart of the avatar.

But such concerns held little sway for Wang Lin, for the demon already believed itself to be Wang Lin. It required little manipulation, needing only to be suffused with his divine awareness, an awareness of who commands whom. This the demon would accept, for Wang Lin was the greater power.

Yet caution was etched into Wang Lin’s soul. In the days that followed, he not only mingled his spirit with the demon, forming an unbreakable bond, but also imprinted the knowledge of subservience. A mere thought from Wang Lin would compel instant obedience.

Nor did his art end here. Wang Lin invoked the puppet master techniques of the Immortal Emperor Qing Lin, binding the second avatar with layers of magical chains, ensuring utter control, leaving nothing to chance.

Gazing upon the finished idol, Wang Lin felt a sense of perfect harmony, a kinship deeper than blood.

“Yet alas, this second avatar lacks a physical form, bound to the stone statue, unable to move freely. Its attacks can only be waged through demonic awareness. For now, its strength is but that of a Nascent Soul cultivator.”

“But it is a seed, a spark of the ancient demon. Nourished with the proper demonic energy, it will burgeon, and in time, rise to the full might of an ancient demon.” Wang Lin understood that haste would be his undoing. This was a task for time.

After entrusting the Soulforger Sect with the care of the idol, setting wards of formidable power and reminding them to continue their daily venerations, Wang Lin departed, leaving his second avatar behind.

“This second Avatar is a seed, of little use to me now, but when it blooms…” Anticipation flickered in Wang Lin’s eyes as he vanished from the land.

The Rippling Demon Shire, scarred by its centuries-past war with the Fire Demon Shire, had emerged victorious, but the cost had been steep. Even now, after centuries, its population remained far below its former glory.

The once-bustling heart of the shire, the city of Rippling Demon, though not desolate, paled in comparison to the vibrant hub Wang Lin remembered from his first arrival centuries ago.

The streets still lined with shops, though few pedestrians walked among them, those who passed by did so with a glance and a hurried foot.

Within the bounds of the ancient city, a river flowed, meandering downstream to join the city’s outer canals, creating a natural, flowing course. It was here, upon the riverbank, that Wang Lin sat quietly, watching the current.

If the threads of time could be woven backwards, one would find him in the very same spot as he was those centuries past.

The man was the same, the place the same, the river the same. But time was a river of its own, and now the boats were gone, and the music had faded.

A pang of longing twisted his heart as Wang Lin surveyed the empty river. He could almost hear the echo of music from centuries gone by. But it was weak, so very weak.

He remembered, so clear in his mind, the blind girl upon the boat. Were it not for a chance encounter with the Immortal Emperor, they would have never met.

Now, the memory of her face was but a solitary silhouette and a sound so full of sadness.

He sat and watched the sun set. It had been but a moment, and yet a lifetime had passed. A memory can wash over you, or stay with you through all of life’s changes.

“Perhaps… this is the sorrow of being.” Wang Lin sighed as only with memories comes time. Without the ability to remember, neither the past nor the future would exist.

“I wonder if Mo Lihai is still alive…”

Beside Wang Lin rested a wineskin, filled with wine he had taken from the same shop all those years ago. Its signboard was the same, but…

Wang Lin took a sip.

“Even the taste has changed.” Wang Lin let out a bitter laugh and set down the wineskin.

“Of course it has. The old vintner’s descendants lack the skill of their ancestors, unable to capture the taste of time.” A calm voice spoke from behind him.

Wang Lin did not turn. “Centuries have passed, but Immortal Emperor, you seem to have lost your carefree ways!”

A sigh came from behind Wang Lin as a man in a purple robe sat beside him. The man was handsome. But now, he was greying and worn.

“Taste this.” The man said, handing a skin of wine to Wang Lin.

Wang Lin took a sip. “It is the wine of those times.” he smiled. “I knew you would return. I saved a few bottles to share a night of drinking! Wang brother, are you perhaps melancholic, as the music of our day is gone?” The man said, holding up his own skin, taking a long drink, a glint in his eye. “Wang brother, are you saddened by the lack of music from those days?”

A sound of music then drifted from afar, lonely, sad, wrapping them in sound. In the darkness, a large boat made its way down the river.

And upon the boat was a woman, seated with her back to Wang Lin, playing a song.