Meteor Fall Master in the 'Starry Abyss'

Cold, unfeeling, devoid of resonance, neither dead nor immortal.

I wasn't always like this.

From as far back as I can remember, this Starry Abyss was like a witch's Magic Potion.

Boiling, chaotic, rolling in a vacuum with an unreal stench.

At that time, there was neither heaven nor earth, nor living beings.

The shadows of dragon wings had not yet arrived, the titan's blade was not yet sharp, the Magic Eye's schemes were still gestating.

It was a world without joy or sorrow, without the warmth or coldness of the human world, neither void nor complete.

There was no reason for my arrival, I came to this world without choice.

No common sense, no awareness, no loss, no gain.

Unable to recall what I was like at that time, nor did I care what that witch's potion surrounding me meant.

Unaware of beauty or ugliness, indistinguishable between light and dark.

We couldn't even tell if the things existing with us were our kin.

I had no name, I had nothing, I was not me.

Later generations simply called me 'Zhi Xiang', so let it be.

Years later, when people thought we were lofty and mysterious, sharing the universe's longevity and believed we were beings beyond deities.

But I was well aware that after the false eternity, there was nothing.

In my long years, the time that could be deemed 'meaningful' was less than a tiny fraction of one in a million billion.

Like the vastness of dust, living alone without distinguishing pure from impure.

Until that day came.

The deities' blade sliced through the starry sky, six beings with porcelain-skin and jade-bones were born from chaos.

From that moment, the witch's potion was overturned.

The bottom of the pot was quickly drained, the cosmos became extremely dark, everything then was in darkness.

"The Starry Abyss is in peril, if I do not go on an expedition, who will?"

Six blazing blades were raised high, the shimmering tips birthing the first stellar.

The boiling potion cooled down, and for a long period afterward, they transformed into stars.

When they chose unwaveringly to persist for this newborn universe, I did not understand their purpose.

'Why fight? Wouldn't it be fine to live aimlessly?'

When I blinked, the heroes of old had already fallen and decayed, the wars against foreign enemies turned into power struggles.

'Why vie for power? It'll just be taken by others anyway.'

When I soon figured something out, the halls of The Pantheon had already fallen, and they became myriad stars, continuing to shine in the galaxy.

'Why become stars? They could just stay still.'

The world changed bit by bit, and before I knew it, even I began to be altered by it.

'I'm not detached from this starry sky, existing in solitude.'

When I realized this, I had already begun my wandering through the universe.

Billions of years? Can't quite remember, the Starry Abyss does not affect me, it takes a long time for me to realize 'I' am 'I'.

I watched the sun destroy itself due to aging, initially not understanding how its Strength was lost, I watched the sun, seeing a stellar destroy itself, lost in my own world as even the children of mortals would find that a boring experience.

I was full of curiosity about the universe.

After the witch's Magic Potion was spilled, the universe suddenly became distinct; they had various titles, the Destroyer and The Pantheon initiated a new era.

It should be said, this was a grand act, like the budding Life under the sea, a lightning strike bringing fire.

Even I, it took me a long time to realize, this was a meaningful turning point.

But what is meaning?

During my wandering years, 'meaning' wasn't yet meaningful, Civilization was just beginning, they barely had any awareness of self, it's difficult even for me to recall what Life and Civilization initially did.

I think, perhaps they didn't even know what they were supposed to do.

Even when Civilization developed to a high degree, most couldn't escape the Fate of destruction.

'Meaning'?

For a long time, I believed 'meaning' did not exist, Life was just a cycle.

They are too insignificant.

I stretched out my form in full measure, without doing anything, could destroy the achievements of generations in their entirety.

They are too brief.

I once stood by the sea, with just a skiff on the waters, a Fisherman claimed to hunt a white whale.

Thinking about where to go next, there was a mortal drawn to my appearance, dressed in splendor, reciting sonnets and singing love songs in my ear.

When I made up my mind, turning back to reply, the world had already plunged into an ice-bound state.

Their Civilization seemed to have been annihilated in a nuclear war.

To me, this is merely a fleeting trance.

They are too short-sighted.

A warrior once confidently proclaimed that he had established an eternal dynasty, with the worst enemies defeated.

I watched him perish, the Kingdom collapse, descendants vie for power, warlords skirmish, peoples suffer, and uprisings erupt.

Then, as a new regime ascended, a gentleman in a suit claimed they had established the freest and most enlightened nation, and the old order was no more.

I watched them fall from noble Sages to insatiable money lords, diligent people become lazy, Intellectuals turn into sycophantic minstrels.

So everything begins anew.

Time and time again, one after another.

Whenever I feel history is destined, some reckless individual always steps forward.

"Are you kidding! History has never changed?"

They shout:

"If history kept standing still, the Sun wouldn't set, darkness wouldn't come!"

No matter the Species, no matter the civilization.

I have told various people: History is just a cycle, no matter how you act, it's merely rolling in circles like a wheel.

"Cycle? Rolling is moving forward!"

They always scoff at my foresight.

"If history never changes, if every struggle is meaningless, then the sky shouldn't be dark, countless tragedies wouldn't unfold."

They pen intense passion, throw themselves into soldiering, and then become insignificant ink blots in this Grand Narrative.

From that moment, I suddenly realized, 'meaning' is 'meaningless'.

Their lives are too short to write epics.

— So they write books and pass on the torch.

Their lives are too weak to change the course.

— So they teach and adapt, evolving Technologies.

Their lives are too rushed to accomplish every task in the world.

— So they utilize their Talents, specializing to the extreme, under Society's division of labor, each plays their role well.

In the meaningless cycle of Void, countless people press on, for an ideal more ethereal than Void, or a goal, a Revolution, a War, giving it their all.

Are they foolish? Not necessarily, many have significant academic Achievements.

Are they weak? Not necessarily, many wield power like a Blade on the battlefield.

Are they short-sighted? Not necessarily, many have long planned ahead,

I questioned them:

'Do you know you are but a weak speck in this era's flood? You will not be remembered by history, for even history gradually distorts in the Cosmic vastness.'

In the Feudal Era, the uprising Slave confusingly said:

"I don't know, but I want to live, live as a free person."

In the Classical Era, the armored Knight shook his head and said:

"Maybe that's the case, but for honor and faith, I must press on."

In the Industrial Era, the citizen carrying a steel Gun chuckled:

"Besides these shackles, we had nothing; why care about being forgotten?"

In the Cosmic Era, the Soldier donned heavy astronaut gear, full of confidence, firmly said:

"I don't need history to recognize me, nor time to remember me; the mountains will remember me, the seas will remember me, from me onwards, everyone will be me."

Time rolls forward, the cycle never breaks.

I don't know whether it's the small Mortal that halts, or the Eternal undying me.

A Mortal's Life is too short, their greatest regret is not being able to write grand ideals.

My Life is too long, yet I've never possessed their ideals.

After uncounted ages, various civilizations have turned.

I've seen mighty Empires crumble and fall, heard poor tribes cry out in free and brave shouts,

No matter what Species, no matter what Era, no matter what civilization.

From Deities to Mortals, from Slaves to Astronauts, from Mortal to Ascender.

From Utopia's unrealistic fantasies to the pursuit of Grand Narrative.

Every era harbors such beings, who believe in tomorrow, believe in different things, believe the Sun will dispel darkness.

The long dark nights are always driven away by the light, and then shadows cling to you.

Yet they relish it.

To the short-lived Mortal, their lives are too short to see the inevitability of history, only to see hope, battling against the night.

In some respects, they are right.