On a quiet lane, Ouyang watched the sun bleed west, the still lake washed crimson like spilled dye.

“Made a killing—those fools were dumber than bricks.” He hefted a coin-stuffed sack, the metal chiming like wind-bells.

A day and a night since the “showtime,” a haze drifted over him like river mist at dusk.

Emptiness hit first, then the itch in his hands—he had nothing to do, like a blade left to rust.

“No idiot girl to fleece—no wonder I feel off, like sand in my boot.” His grumble rose, a spark thrown into dry grass.

“Ouyang!” The shout knifed the distance, and a chill blew up like wind from the abyss.

Summer or not, that gust bit to the bone like ice from hell’s floor.

He flinched before thought, and guilt lit his heels—he bolted like a deer under arrows.

“This makes no sense,” he hissed, a king under rain, a Demon King cowed by weather like a damp wick.

“Stop, you bastard!” The voice chased him like thunder, snapping branches in its wake.

Behind, Xi clutched a torn skirt, mud spattering like ink, her grace stripped like bark in a storm.

If not for her voice, he’d never link this smeared, rain-streaked figure to that stunning beauty like moon over snow.

Her patience shattered first, like porcelain on stone, rage rising like a red tide.

After his stunt, the story turned crooked like a river bend, and she’d missed her moment to speak.

In that town her name curdled like sour wine; no door opened, no hearth held flame.

She left penniless, a mage under a thin sky, swatting wolves like flies with flickers of spell-light.

In one day and one night she ate a few wild fruits, drinking stream-water like a bird at dawn.

When enemies meet, blood runs hot; her reason burned away like paper in a brazier.

She would teach that vile Demon King a lesson, like a thorn drawn from flesh.

They ran, hunter and hunted, footsteps drumming like rain on drums, breath white as mist.

Ouyang had lungs like bellows, but her magic kept pace like a kite tugged by wind.

“Coward! Don’t run if you’ve got guts!” Her voice snapped like a whip in rain.

“Joke’s on you. You say stop and I stop? Where’s a Demon King’s face then?” His laugh flicked like a spark off steel.

“You still have a face?” Her laugh cut back, sharp as sleet on skin.

Seeing her skim faster by spell, Ouyang grinned like a fox and slid into the trees like a shadow.

Under branches, her speed snagged like silk on thorns, and trunks walled the sight like pillars in a temple.

“Shameless—utterly shameless.” She veered round bark and hunted his trail like a hawk in fog.

If every Demon King was like Ouyang, she thought, rage would flood the world like a storm-born sea.

Time seeped away like oil in sand; the sky dimmed until the forest felt like a closed coffin.

Clouds smothered moon and stars like ink over jade, and thunder stitched the dark with fierce white seams.

“It’s going to pour.” The words tasted of iron, and she was lost, like a boat spun in black water.

Regret hit like cold rain—she knew he was a jinx, yet anger had dragged her like a hook.

Since meeting Ouyang, disaster pecked her days like crows—teleported far from home, an inn fallen flat.

Then dishwashing like chains on wrists, then kicked from town like dust from a boot.

Now lost in a night forest, with a storm rolling in like drums from the hills.

“Damn it…” The memories cut thin skin; her nerves snapped like bowstrings in frost.

She sat hard on the ground, staring at the sky like a blind statue, tears spilling like a broken dam.

“Mmph…” The whimper was small, a candle-wick in wind, trembling.

Boom. Thunder cracked overhead like a hammer on bronze, and she startled like a hare in a snare.

Then rain came in sheets, a river poured from the roof of the world, harsh as gravel on glass.

Sanity whispered first, a pale lantern—find shelter, find any dry edge under this fallen sky.

But with no moon, the forest was ink, the path a vanished thread in a black loom.

Her magic was spent like a burned-out talisman; without it, she was only a girl in storm-wet cloth.

Splat—her foot slid like an eel, and she pitched into mud, her head striking bark like a dull gong.

She pushed up, heavy as soaked cotton, and slipped again, the ground slick as oil.

Lightning flashed like a knife, and she staggered forward on stubborn will, a moth under rain.

Her body grew leaden, weighed by water and clinging clay like chains.

Another blaze split the dark, and she glimpsed her hands, black with mud and streaked with blood like ink on rice paper.

The world blurred like a fogged mirror; then it all went black, a lantern snuffed by wet fingers.

Not long after she fell, Ouyang arrived under an Oil Paper Umbrella, its ribs tapping like a cricket’s wing.

He stopped by her body and crouched, a shadow folding like a crane over still water.

“She’s breathing. Even now, not dead… tch.” He sighed, face cold as a winter lake.

Detachment iced his eyes—like a god peering down a high step, unruffled by mortal tides.

Sensing warmth, Xi clutched his right leg like driftwood, seeking the only fire in rain.

The rain drummed on leaves like a thousand hands, and thunder roared like a god with a spear.

Ouyang pinched her mud-caked cheek, cool fingers like river stones on fevered skin.

His touch was cold; she hugged tighter, a drowning grip on the last dry shore.

“Did I go too far?” The doubt rose first, a bruise beneath armor, throbbing.

“All those grudges, all that hate, burned out in an age long buried like bones.”

“People of this era did nothing wrong. She did nothing wrong.” His voice threaded rain like a low reed.

He argued with himself, stacking reasons like tiles, trying to roof a storm.

“Fine. I still need her power for the seal to come. Mercy it is.”

“The seal isn’t fully undone. She can’t die.” The words settled like stones in a basket.

His Oil Paper Umbrella vanished like mist, yet no drop dared touch him, the air taut like a clear bell.

Holding Xi, he stared up into the wet black, brow knotted like a tied cord, wariness cold as iron.

He walked, and suddenly her body burned hot, heat rolling off like fevered coals.

“Great. She’s sick, of course,” he muttered, worry flicking like a moth before flame.

Soaked so long, face-first in puddles, illness was a coin tossed by fate, bound to land.

He searched left and right, the forest a maze of slick ribs and dripping hair.

Finding nothing, the Demon King’s temper cracked like thunder; he drove a fist into rock.

Boom. Stone caved like damp bread, and a cave yawned open, dark as a bear’s den.

“Sealed so long my smarts went soft,” he snorted, pride sparking. “Should’ve punched first.”

He laid Xi down and sprinted out, a blur like a black arrow under rain.

One kick slammed a towering tree, its girth ten-men wide; wood screamed, and it snapped like a match.

He still lacked his full strength, but a Demon King’s power was not a campfire tale.

In that era, even the Divine Realm kept its feet dry, watching the flood like wary cranes.

Prayers rose like smoke, yet only a handful of gods slipped secret help, no avatars thrown on the board.

Back then, “Demon King” meant the peak itself, strength like a mountain staring down all winds.

“Which bastard dares disturb my sleep?” An ancient voice rolled from the sundered giant like thunder from roots.

At once, the rain froze midfall like beads on a string, and clouds ripped apart like silk.

The downpour vanished; moonlight spilled like milk, washing the world pale and clear.

Ouyang took the blow first; the voice hit like a tidal bell, flinging him into a wall.

“Ancient Turtle… bored enough to live in a tree?” He knew that tone like an old scar under a sleeve.

A basin-sized turtle trundled forward, slow as winter, yet crossed a thousand meters in a few heartbeats.

The moment their eyes met, he felt laid bare like scrolls unrolled before a lamp.

Not felt—known. The Ancient Turtle, oldest of living things, read him like grain in wood.

“Why would a being of your caliber hide in a backwater?” He grimaced, a king in a chicken coop.

“Rest easy,” the Ancient Turtle said, voice like wind through pines. “I had my reasons to linger.”

“Now that you’ve broken the seal, my promise is kept. I’ll be going, like a tide on schedule.”

“Wait—” His question leapt, a spark chasing dry reed.

But the Ancient Turtle was gone, like a ripple swallowed by night, and the sky slammed back to storm.

Rain roared again, clouds stitched tight like a black cloak, as if nothing had ever happened at all.

Staring at the tree he’d kicked down, Ouyang sank into thought, quiet as a stone under rain.