“The curtain falls here. Little ones, what’s your plan now?” Ugillian smiled, warmth like a hearth-lamp pooling in his eyes.

“Ugillian, you said you had a way to bring Eli back, right?” Edlyn’s urgency beat like a drum in fog.

Ugillian nodded lightly, a reed bowing in wind. “Mm. Yes, I do have a way.”

“So what do we do now?” Edlyn hurried, words tumbling like pebbles down a slope. “Do we drag Birand here?”

After all, Birand had devoured Eli’s soul, a shadow swallowing a candle’s flame.

To save Eli, they thought they’d have to haul that man in, like netting a shark from black water.

“Eh, no need for all that. Eli’s soul is under treatment.” Ugillian chuckled, voice soft as rain on tiles. “You can rest your worry for now.”

“Where?!” Edlyn rushed in and seized his shoulders, shaking him like a sapling in storm.

Ugillian flapped his hands like startled moths. “Hey now. My little terror, easy. I’m already half-dead, a guttering candle. If I keel over, there’s no one to save your sweetheart.”

“Ah… oh.” Calm spread first, like ripples on a lake; Liqianyu tugged her aside like guiding a kite.

“All right, all right—you look adrift, boats in mist. Why not stay here a while? I’ll call you when everything’s set.”

Ugillian’s gaze swept the group like a slow lantern across faces.

Edlyn blinked, lids fluttering like moth wings. “No objections.”

Li Gongxuan shrugged, shoulders loose as rope. “Let’s do that.”

Yiyi lowered her head, fingers knotting like twined vines. “Uh… everyone. I want to go back to the old house. Keep the old man company.”

“Oh? You’re Eli’s split-self, right?” Ugillian laughed, rustle like dry leaves. “Afraid I’ll settle those old meal tabs?”

Yiyi fluttered her hands like sparrows scattering. “No way… I just want to check in. He’s only a mortal.”

Ugillian stepped up and patted her shoulder, touch light as drifting cotton. “Just joking, little split-self. Go. I’ll wait for your true body to come honor me—like incense at a shrine—ha ha.”

In the orphanage, in a few new rooms, a handful of young women dressed as nurses tidied for the group, hands darting like swallows.

Li Gongxuan’s eyes shone like polished coins as he pestered the nurse with questions; the violet-haired girl’s face clouded like a brewing storm.

She set her resolve like a drawn bow: when it was just the two, this shameless flirt would look “good”—like a fox in a trap.

Liqianyu had vanished to roam like a stray wind; not even a shadow remained.

Akenachel was forced back into Angela’s body; now little Angela drooled on the pillow, sleeping heavy as a hibernating cub.

Yiyi returned to Eli’s house to keep the old man company, a lamp left burning through the night.

Edlyn stood on the balcony, wind brushing her like silk, and kept talking with Ugillian.

“Demonic Lord, did you retrieve the Source of the Abyss?” Ugillian smiled, eyes crinkling like old paper.

“What’s the Source of the Abyss?” Confusion welled first, and Edlyn’s words fell like soft rain.

“I went back to the Inferno and only got the Demon King’s Source that once belonged to Pandora, like picking up an old crown.”

“Do you mean this?” With doubt like thin mist, Edlyn drew out the unfused Demon King’s Source, set it on her palm like a heartstone, and offered it to Ugillian.

Ugillian shook his head, motion gentle as reeds. “No, that’s only your Life Source, not what I meant.”

“Then… what is it?” Confusion moved first; Edlyn’s voice trailed like a thread in wind.

Ugillian laid his withered hand on Edlyn’s head, a brittle leaf settling on dark hair.

A moment later, he frowned and withdrew his hand like a tide pulling back, puzzlement tightening like a knot in string.

“I can feel the Source of the Abyss. The moment you entered my sensing range, I felt that vast, ancient power, mountains humming under earth.” Ugillian’s brows pinched, clouds folding on his face.

“But… why can’t I find it? That’s not right.” He sighed, breath drifting like smoke.

“Forget it. Demonic Lord, I think I can teach you some Fiend combat methods.” He nodded like a pecking bird. “Your Life Source’s been tempered by the Source of the Abyss, a perfect creation in the Abyssal expanse. You just don’t yet know how to wield it.”

“…Fiend tactics?” Edlyn’s brows knit like crossed branches.

Most of her fighting craft came from the soul-brand Pandora kept from the Abyss, and from dueling the Hero—insights like sparks struck from steel.

But they didn’t fit her current vessel, armor one size off and biting.

So she nodded, a willow yielding to wind. “I’ll trouble you, sir.”

“Eh, don’t be so formal. By human generations, I’m your elder brother.” Ugillian laughed, grin opening like a chrysanthemum in frost.

Edlyn shook her head, tossing stray thoughts like leaves in a gust.

She kept silent a moment, then couldn’t help it: “What kind of brother is three hundred million years older than me?” Her voice rose like a lark at dawn.

Holy Paris, imperial capital, its spires needling the sky like silver thorns.

A small convoy rolled toward the palace’s rear gate, ants threading into a hive.

It carried goods for the royal clan, supplies stacked like neat bricks.

Fine firewood, rice, oil, salt; wines and drinks—everyday things, a jumble like market stalls.

Birand sat at the back of a carriage, half-eaten cucumber in hand, chewing as scenery slid past like a drifting river.

“So many years… still the same,” he murmured, voice settling like dust on stone.

Ascaraun held the reins, face puzzled like a tilted mask. “Hero, the terrain and buildings changed a dozen times. Why would you say that?”

“Just homesick, that’s all.” Birand relaxed, slumping like a faded banner, all the Hero’s aura gone to twilight.

He looked like a man at duskside, lifeless as ash blown thin.

“Phew. I feel tired, like a mountain after rain.” Birand tilted his head and stretched, bones popping like twigs.

“This body can’t resist fatigue well. Sigh—it’s not mine. A pity, a blade in the wrong scabbard.”

Under Birand’s uncanny power, every probing sense that tried to scan the convoy was pulled into another world and shown only household goods, mirrors flashing market stalls.

They confirmed it and withdrew their senses, retreating like tides from the shore at dusk.

Birand chuckled, sound thin as a knife’s edge. Match senses with him? Sparrows pecking at a dragon.

The two fell into quiet for a long stretch, snow settling on a silent road.

He asked anyway, words stepping forward like cautious feet. “My lord, I want to ask—your inner world, what is it…?”

Back when they reached the capital, something—sights striking chords, or Birand’s power slipping its leash—had pulled him in like a sudden whirlpool.

Ascaraun saw the spirit world that held Birand’s will, a landscape painted by a mind of fire and frost.

It had been a barren desert, lifeless as bleached bone on sand.

Birand’s figure appeared in that world, a lone tree breaking the crust.

Slowly, life bubbled up across the waste, springs awakening beneath sand.

Small, yet impossible to ignore, sparks catching in dry grass.

In moments, desolation lifted, dawn sweeping the plain like gold.

A boundless sea of flowers unfurled, and the man stood within it like a standing stone.

Wherever he walked, blossoms flared open like fireworks after dark.

Little trees pushed from soil, instantly branching, leafing, flowering, fruiting—growth racing like sped-up seasons.

It was a world of warmth and ease, sun on a winter wall deepening into balm.

Wildflowers without names. Butterflies flickered and danced like lantern-lights, no end in sight…

A breeze stroked the field; tender stems swayed with a lustrous wave. The boundless bloom looked like earthly paradise; butterflies spun, bees danced—busy sprites weaving through petals, freedom rushing like wild wind.

That freedom, that heady vitality, intoxicated like wine; soft fragrance wrapped you, swirled around your senses, sinking to the heart like spring water.

Ascaraun was stunned, shock striking like a bell in a temple.

But the feeling didn’t last, fading at the rim like a setting sun.

Suddenly he caught a note that fought the blossom-scent, sharp as iron tasting of rain.

He stood dumbstruck for a long beat before realizing, mind creaking like a door on old hinges.

It was blood-reek, metallic as rust under a blade.

He swept his gaze wide, eyes circling like hawks over fields.

The man sat cross-legged on the ground, still as a mountain in cloud.

Half his body sat in the flower-sea, the other hovered above a sea of blood, balance fine as a blade on silk.

Then the flowers twisted as if seized, contorting like smoke in a rising wind.

They seemed to wail in pain, reeds keening against a black shore.

But in mere moments, everything shifted again, change snapping like a whip across water.

The sea remained, but the altered blossoms looked uncanny, beauty edged with poison like lacquer.

A word rose in Ascaraun’s mind, surfacing like a red fish under moonlight.

Red spider lilies—like flames on graves.

The sky flushed scarlet, and that eerie bloom-scent hung like a veil over breath.

Ascaraun felt his life force draining, trickling away like sand through fingers.

He tried to resist, but his limbs were fixed like iron stakes hammered deep.

Just as he thought he’d die, strong hands settled on his shoulders, weight firm as stone on clay.

Birand looked at him, cold as moonlight on steel, and spoke slowly: “If you don’t want to die, stop staring at me.”

Ascaraun nodded on instinct, head bobbing like a puppet on strings.

Birand shrugged, careless as drifting ash in wind. “Nothing. I just didn’t rein my power in for a moment, a horse bolting from the gate.”

“Why is your spirit world two extremes?” Ascaraun couldn’t help asking, the question tugging like a thorn in flesh.

Birand sighed, sound deep as a cavern sighing out damp. “Ascaraun, I praised your smarts before. Knowing too much does you no good.”

Frustration pricked first; “But…”

“I lifted your curse so you wouldn’t look so sickly; it wasn’t to let you talk back.” Birand’s impatience flicked like a lash over stone.

“…I understand.” Resignation settled first, his voice low as dusk over fields.