The next day, right on the dot like sunrise breaking a ridge, Xiyue led us to wander the Inner World. Unlike the Prime Realm’s race-based blocs, power here gathered by nation, solid as carved stone.
There were alliances, sure, chains of states linked like a net across water, but the loudest say still belonged to the strongest one or two, a pair of peaks casting long shade. The rest only balanced the scale, a dam to keep great rivers from washing away the small.
Small bowl, full flavor. Though the Inner World spanned only as wide as the Central Continent, it held everything it should, with vast oceans like blue knives slicing its scant land into several regions.
The most powerful nation was Vansette, set in the western reaches like a fortress at dusk.
Compared to others, Vansette stood first in headcount, arcane industry, economy, culture, military, and resources, a mountain’s summit clear above cloud. Two or three Origin Realm guardians watched behind it like silent stars. Its tie to Xiyue ran deep, too; the first spark of magitech industry was kindled there at her nod, like fire set to dry tinder.
Inside, its power structure was nothing like the Prime Realm’s pyramid of empires. Over there, a king’s word rolled like thunder, and checks were moth-eaten screens. Here, the crown was a signboard in the wind, while real power ran through agencies like rivers through a delta.
A group’s decision felt steadier than one will alone, like a boat with many oars, and when profit tugged, cooler heads could keep the keel straight. In most Inner World nations, key officials were chosen by the people, a field of voices waving like grain, so trampling the public good was a line of fire you didn’t cross. I liked that, a quiet spring in the chest.
Because big powers and alliances held a delicate balance like crossed blades, war had stayed sheathed for a long time here. Skirmishes flickered now and then like brushfires, but the law stood taller and older than in the Prime Realm, walls of stone instead of wattle. Even common folk could live with a roof and rain, far better than the Prime Realm’s jungle, where tooth and claw wrote the rules.
In the Prime Realm, a noble could snuff a common life like pinching a candle, and walk away without a shadow. Mercy meant not hunting the family afterward, a winter sun that barely warmed. The Inner World different—whether a leader’s son or a tycoon’s heir, if they hurt an unrelated civilian, the weight of law would press like a mountain.
A prickle of unwillingness rose in me like grit on the tongue; in some ways, the Inner World felt more peaceful than the Prime Realm, and that rubbed against pride.
On a bustling avenue, engines howled overhead like iron geese, planes—second‑gen magitech airships—raking the clouds. Off the main road, magitech cars sprinted like wolves on stone, yet the air lay heavy as dirty gauze, and the land wore a tired face.
In just two or three hours, we swept through four or five small countries, a cursory glide like skipping stones. Each time we crossed a border, I spread my divine sense over the whole like a net, and in a blink I watched its past and present ripple clear as a pond.
There was plenty of novelty, fireworks that made me blink at first, but after enough bursts the colors thinned into smoke.
Most things pleased the eye, but the food fell short—unlike the Prime Realm’s nature‑leaning fare, the Inner World’s cuisine had revolved several times, a wheel spinning through eras. From street stalls to taverns to kitchen tables, cooks shoveled in additives like drifting snow, and jars lined shelves like a painted forest.
Maybe it made dishes taste brighter, but something felt off, like lacquer over wood; taste aside, the texture tugged wrong, wax where you craved spring.
Resources here were tight, so livestock were almost all man‑raised, meat like wet sponge under the knife; you could taste the growth serums like iron in the rain.
Thankfully, the food at Xiyue’s place kept the Prime Realm’s style, broths clear as spring water and flavors clean as wind, no trash thrown in, ingredients closer to ‘wild and true’.
Our main destination today was Vansette. The small and mid nations along the way felt much the same, stepping‑stones across a stream, worth a glance but not a day.
“Too many people in the Inner World. It’s hard to stroll,” I said, the words falling like a stone in a crowding tide.
The Inner World hit me with shock after shock, gadgets and wonders like a festival of lanterns. But too many bodies and the mood breaks; for me, the sight of a tide of people doused interest like wind snuffing a candle, even if none could touch our path.
“After all these years, Xinuo, you still hate noise and love quiet,” Xiyue said, her smile soft as moonlight through bamboo. “Crowds and bustle are one of the Inner World’s strengths. I hope you’ll settle your heart and feel it.”
“Forget the scene—how do you brag with air this murky?” FrostyLily Dream shot back, disdain sharp as frost on glass.
Xiyue only smiled, a closed fan under spring rain, and let silence do the answering.
…
Meanwhile, in the deepest part of the Soulless Sanctuary, after trials like knives and fires and more than one brush with death, Molor and Wilsar finally reached the marked coordinates, a lone star after a long night.
They crawled from a black hole where even fingers vanished, and the ageless quiet around them broke like a boulder dropped into a still sea, waves leaping to the eaves. With a bang, oil lamps along both walls bloomed at once like foxfire, and a wine‑dark violet glow washed over them, a welcome with a wicked smile.
“This place is creepy,” Molor muttered, shoulders hunching like a bird in cold. The Primordial Source aura pressed thick as gravestone fog, and standing firm felt like bracing against a gale.
“There’s a special prison at the end of this road, I can feel it, like iron behind a curtain,” Wilsar said, eyes like flint. “Maybe the Origin Realm being Lord Xiyue wants is there. Let’s push straight through.”
He gritted his teeth and drank a few deep breaths like draughts from a cold spring, then strode forward as if carrying a torch in a tunnel. Molor followed close, worry crawling like ants, but bridges behind were ash and there was no way back.
“How many years has it been since anyone set foot here?” a man’s voice floated from ahead, dry as fallen leaves yet heavy as thunder. The weight rolled over them, and even their breath wanted to freeze.
“Uh… we’re here on Lord Xiyue’s orders to find you,” Wilsar said, cold sweat beading like dew on stone. “Could you pull back your aura a bit, so we can pass?”
“Lord Xiyue… what a nostalgic name,” the voice sighed, like wind through an old pine.
As the last word fell, the pressure on Molor and Wilsar vanished like a storm lifting, and the air opened wide as sky.
