When Daniel finally saw light ahead, a full century had already passed.
"This journey is a little too long, don’t you think?" he muttered, exhaling softly.
Beside him, Kartora smiled faintly, her voice light and amused.
"No matter how far we’ve traveled," she said, "at least it proves that my direction was correct."
Indeed, their voyage had been unimaginably vast.
They had spent a hundred years inside the ti tunnel itself, moving through an existence that no longer obeyed any natural law of duration.
Daniel hadn’t even bothered to use Ti Stream this ti.
Here, within the interstice of tilines, ti itself had lost aning.
Even if he invoked the ability, he would only loop back to the mont he stepped into the portal.
Those hundred years spent traveling could never be undone.
In the quiet that had stretched across centuries, Kartora had beco his longest companion — the one who had walked beside him through endless silence and collapsing ti.
The two stepped together through the radiant veil of light.
...
And on the other side, Daniel realized sothing astonishing.
They had arrived five million years before his present era.
This was no re journey — it was a dive into the deepest past of the Land of Origin itself.
The mont he erged, Daniel could feel that the very fabric of space was... unstable.
Reality rippled like a fragile mirror; temporal fissures appeared and vanished at random, as though the world itself was still learning how to exist.
Kartora’s face, however, glowed with excitent.
"It should be here," she whispered. "This tiline — this is the one!"
Daniel nodded, extending his mind power outward in vast waves, scanning every layer of the surrounding dinsion.
At the sa ti, his avatars split away, spreading through the air to begin an imdiate exploration of this ancient, half-ford Land of Origin.
But the sight that greeted him was far from familiar.
There was no Storm Sea.
The entire surface of the world was one massive, continuous continent.
And high above, countless stellar bodies burned in the sky — so tearing free from the heavens and plunging to the ground as falling stars.
Daniel frowned deeply.
This defied the very laws of the Primordial Plane.
Normally, stellar entities were bound by the strictest cosmic order.
None could leave their celestial spheres at will.
Yet here, he saw hundreds — thousands — forcing their way out of orbit, their flas streaking across the sky like rivers of light.
Each falling star carried the death of a god.
As they fell, their divinities ignited, burning themselves out entirely before ever touching the earth.
And yet, the exodus did not stop.
Endless stellar beings continued to hurl themselves down, desperate to escape the binding laws of the Primordial Plane.
The few who remained above had already surrendered to the system — accepting their confinent as the price of survival.
It was beautiful... and tragic.
The sky was filled with a magnificent teor storm, thousands of divine lives perishing in silence.
The spectacle was breathtaking — a dance of light that could only be born from annihilation.
Beautiful, and cruel.
Even so, Daniel could tell — the number of stellar bodies was overwhelming.
In the modern Primordial Plane, the stars were spread across unimaginable distances, each separated by oceans of void.
But here, five million years in the past, they were packed so tightly they almost touched.
It was a sea of stars so dense that light itself seed solid.
Daniel could barely comprehend it.
This was a cosmos in its infancy, still bursting with raw, unfiltered divinity.
...
Turning his perception inward, Daniel extended his awareness toward the ntal Plane.
At this point in ti, the only things that had even begun to stir within the ntal Plane were the stellar consciousnesses themselves — faint, half-ford sparks of thought.
No other life, no structured will, no civilizations of mind.
The deep sea plane, the banishnt plane, all the later realms he knew — none of them yet existed.
The Land of Origin itself was barren.
Primitive.
There was life here, but it was rudintary — microscopic, single-celled, the barest whisper of biology.
No animals, no beasts, not even plants as Daniel understood them.
And gods?
There were no gods at all.
This was a world before divinity.
Yet even in that emptiness, Daniel could feel sothing ancient and desolate stirring beneath the surface — a faint pulse of law, vast and alien.
It was a different order, one that predated everything he understood.
This Land of Origin resembled the Backworld far more than the world he had co from.
After a mont’s contemplation, Daniel decided to test sothing.
From within his ntal realm, he summoned one of his people — a demigod-ranked human awakener.
The mont the man appeared in this barren world, sothing incredible happened.
The universe responded.
A tidal surge of divine power rushed toward him from every direction, flooding his body, his soul, his very na.
The barren air itself seed to sing.
In an instant, his strength expanded to the peak of demigod rank — no rituals, no resistance, no interference.
And even more strangely, his will remained intact.
He did not lose control, nor did he fall under any alien influence.
His consciousness was whole.
Seeing this, Daniel’s eyes narrowed in thought.
He tried again — summoning several more humans, each of high tier.
As soon as they erged, each was similarly transford, chosen by the nascent world itself.
Within seconds, they had inherited divine thrones and ascended as Old Gods.
Fascinated, Daniel observed carefully.
These new gods — all once human — began to exert mutual influence upon one another.
The first to ascend, the one who had reached demigod first, radiated a subtle dominance.
The others unconsciously synchronized with his divine presence, their thoughts and auras adjusting slightly to match.
Daniel tested further, comparing and asuring through ntal Deduction.
The conclusion ca quickly.
The higher the tier, the stronger the divine power — the greater the influence exerted upon others.
The entire structure of the Old God System operated through this principle.
Over ti, lesser gods would inevitably begin to conform — rge — with the strongest among them.
Their divinity would harmonize, their wills becoming interwoven.
The weaker you were, the more easily you were shaped by those above you.
The Old God system was, in essence, a chain of assimilation.
Yet what Daniel found particularly interesting was that the influence wasn’t purely one-directional.
Each god affected the others in return, albeit faintly.
The balance constantly shifted as power flowed between them.
This mutual distortion — this contagion of identity — was the defining mark of the ancient divine order.
In the modern system, godhood was isolated: a clear boundary separated each domain.
But here, in this primordial ti, godhood was a living network — fluid, mutable, and perilous.
Daniel observed the experint for a long ti.
The differences between his subjects were small; their powers roughly equal.
As a result, the influence they exerted over one another was minimal — almost imperceptible.
Still, he sensed it — a faint resonance threading between their minds.
A ripple of shared thought.
It was so subtle that even the gods themselves didn’t notice it.
Had Daniel not possessed the Eye of Insight and Psychic Perception, he might have missed it too.
But the evidence was there.
The stronger the god, the deeper their influence over the rest — and the more dangerous the entire system beca.
The conclusion was clear:
The Old God lineage was fundantally unstable.
Powerful, yes — but perilous beyond comprehension.
Unlike the modern pantheon, the ancient divine order offered no safety.
To join it was to risk becoming sothing else entirely.
Every new god added to its chorus only deepened the danger — and brought the system one step closer to consuming itself.
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