CHAPTER 428: ASCENDING TO HIGHER DIMENSION

The throne pulsed with agreement, as if demanding the answer itself.

He sighed, not in weariness, but in inevitability. His hand raised, and the crimson tendrils of the throne reached outward, stretching across space, curling around Volarisa’s edges like vines of living sovereignty. He had thought to leave it free, untouched... but he could no longer afford the luxury of hesitation.

"Then let it be so," Asher murmured, pressing his palm into the armrest.

The twelfth seal ignited.

The Throne of Ten Stellar Galaxies—now Twelve—roared like a living entity, its runes burning so bright that stars across its domain flickered in resonance.

And far beyond, in dimensions unseen, higher beings stirred. For such a throne was never meant to exist in the lower dimension. Each seal he forged was a defiance of order, a slap across the face of ancient laws that governed the cosmos.

When Volarisa bent beneath his throne, a storm of whispers filled the void. Some were in awe. Some trembled in terror. Others burned with hunger.

Asher paid them no mind. His eyes lingered on the empty void where Volarisa once stood, his expression unreadable. At last, he raised his gaze upward and muttered, "Time to ascend."

This was no small step. To rise beyond Star-Forger, one had to shatter their own core into powder—refining it into a luminous nebula that could contain body, soul, and origin as one. Only then could a cultivator touch the Nebula Rank and begin their climb into higher dimensions.

The path was dangerous, often fatal. But Asher had long abandoned hesitation.

Sitting cross-legged in the abyss, his body stilled. Crimson light swirled around him as his Star Core began to tremble, cracks lacing its surface like a breaking mirror. Pressure leaked from him in waves, shaking entire star systems that still bent to his Throne.

"Human body... human soul... human origin," he whispered, his voice like a decree. "Then I shall ascend as a High Human."

The core shattered.

Light erupted—scarlet, black, and gold at once—filling the void as if a newborn galaxy had been born from his chest. Energy seared through his veins, tearing his flesh apart, only to knit it back together stronger than before. His soul screamed as fragments of his being scattered, dissolving into dust, only to be drawn back into the forming nebula that spun within him.

The Throne of Twelve Stellar Galaxies pulsed with unimaginable force, its vast dominion bending to Asher’s will as he began his ascension. Instead of resisting, the galaxies under his reign aligned themselves, their cores and stars trembling as they released streams of raw cosmic essence. One by one, each galaxy poured its power into him—hellfire from one, endless void from another, rivers of soul-light, storms of darkness, oceans of time, and more.

Their combined energies spiraled into Asher, stabilizing his foundation and keeping his existence intact, shielding him from the destructive backlash of tearing down his own core. The throne did not merely stand behind him—it actively held him upright, ensuring his spirit, body, and origin did not collapse under the impossible strain.

The power converged until it wove itself into a colossal cocoon of blood-crimson and starlight, enveloping Asher’s entire form. Within, his flesh dissolved into streams of energy, his bones shattered into radiant motes, his core crumbled into fine dust—only to be reforged, remade, and redefined.

He was no longer breaking down. He was being reborn.

The cocoon pulsed like a living star, each thrum shaking the galaxies tethered to the throne. And within it, Asher’s existence shed the old shell of the mortal peak—ascending into the vast unknown of the Higher Human.

Weeks bled into months as the cocoon remained sealed in silence, pulsing faintly with the rhythm of creation itself. It became a beacon across realms—each flare of crimson light shaking entire star systems into fear or reverence. Then, at last, cracks began to run across its vast surface. The shroud broke apart in fragments of radiant dust, dissolving into the void, and from within stepped Asher.

His beauty was no longer mortal. His hair, once white silver, now shone a silvery-white that shimmered with starlight, flowing like a river of moonlit silk moonlight. His eyes, once a sharp crimson, now burned deeper, richer—a shade of red that seemed to carry entire galaxies within their depths. It was not the beauty of youth but the allure of eternity; where once he might have been compared to a man in his prime, now he radiated the charm and weight of an emperor a hundred lifetimes refined.

This was no mere transformation of flesh. It was the passive effect of his ascension—a higher being stepping fully into his truth. His very presence bent the air around him, forcing all life to instinctively bow. His aura no longer leaked power, but controlled it perfectly, like an ocean sealed behind glass. Every movement, even the way he breathed, was mastery incarnate.

"Good," Asher murmured, his voice resonant, vibrating with layered tones that felt less like sound and more like law itself. With his final breath inside the cocoon, the last vestiges of weakness passed from him, and his body solidified into its new perfection.

As he stood tall, he raised his hand slowly. Energy gathered—his strength had not simply doubled but multiplied countless times over. His body, soul, and origin had been reforged into a singular whole, his essence fully harmonized with the higher dimensions. The throne of twelve stellar galaxies still hummed faintly behind him, their power embedded deep within his new self.

"My powers have greatly increased," he whispered again, not as a plea but as a quiet acknowledgment. His ascension was complete—his strength vast enough that even his casual presence pressed down on the very fabric of the lower dimension.

The void trembled.

The space of the Lower Realm buckled beneath the force of his new existence, unable to contain him. Like a chain stretched too far, reality itself strained against him. The black robe of the Magnus household fell lightly onto his shoulders, anchoring him with one final tie to what he had once been.

Then it happened.

The dimension itself rebelled against him. Cracks split across the skies of the lower planes, as if the world screamed that he no longer belonged here. Pressure, invisible yet absolute, bore down on Asher—forcing him upward, rejecting his existence. He did not resist.

Instead, he let go.

A calm breath escaped him, and his form dissolved into radiance, stepping seamlessly into the higher dimension. The Lower Realm, relieved of the burden, healed behind him—its skies mended, its laws restored, but never again the same after having borne witness to his passage.

Asher was gone from that plane, his being carried upward into a greater reality.