A gigantic skull loomed, and a pitch-black corridor yawned like a hungry throat ready to swallow all. Everyone felt that dread, while Ouyang marched on, banging the walls with his iron shovel like a drummer taunting the dark.

“Mr. Ouyang, doing this might…” Ang’s voice flickered like a candle in wind, warning that tomb monsters might wake. Ouyang waved it off, humming a tune bright as sun on water.

They understood none of it; the language slid past like birdsong at dawn. They only felt the cheer, like sparrows lifting from a reed bed.

In truth, Ouyang sang, “Under the big bridge before my gate… a flock of ducks drifting by,” light as ripples on a pond.

So yes, Ouyang bullied the four a little, fox-sly among clueless chicks.

They walked for long minutes. His easy humming eased the tight knot in everyone’s chest, like warm tea in cold hands. If the Grand Scholar looked that cheerful, it had to be safe. They halted when a stone door blocked the way ahead, squat and heavy as a mountain.

Ya lifted his sword, ready to smash. Shuo grabbed him, firm as iron tongs. “Don’t mess around. Leave the professional work to Grand Scholar Ouyang.”

Without noticing, they’d gone from “Mr. Ouyang” to “Grand Scholar Ouyang,” like titles slipping on with respect.

“Exactly. If you trigger a trap or a curse by fooling around, you’ll be the sinner,” Ang warned. Ya glanced at Ouyang and sheathed his greatsword, steel sighing like rain on stone.

Ouyang leaned in, eyes skimming left and right across the massive slab, like a hawk looking for tracks. Their gazes praised his back, steady as a seasoned craftsman. Truth was, he knew this door held no clues at all.

There were two ways through. One was special: walk through the wall, warp space, that kind of trick. Forcing the door was also possible, but the fallout was a coin tossed to fate.

The second way was…

“Open Sesame!”

He barked the words, and the stone door groaned open like an old whale. “Figures. That idiot even used the same passphrase,” Ouyang muttered, thoughts snapping like dry twigs.

He hadn’t used any language the four recognized, so in their eyes he’d intoned a spell, a charm glittering like frost.

“As expected of a Grand Scholar. I didn’t know you could do that,” Jie breathed, eyes bright as moons on water. Ang’s gaze shone with pride, like a lantern held high. He’d brought Ouyang here; every feat gilded his judgment.

Past the door ran a cramped passage, just wide enough for one person to slide through. Crystals hung above like frozen stars, shedding cold light. Narrow in width, the passage soared in height, a stone throat rising into shadow.

Not far ahead, a green iron barrel blocked the way, coughing up flame in sharp breaths. Farther still, more barrels glowed, and bricks jutted from the walls like uneven teeth.

Ouyang frowned. The scene rang familiar; with music it would be perfect, like a stage waiting for its tune.

“Hmph. This level thinks it can cage me?” He shot forward, feet quick as wind over reeds. He reached the big barrel, and as the fire guttered out, he climbed its meter-high lip and swung across like a cat over a stream.

“Don’t fall,” he called back, words tapping like knuckles on wood. The warning felt odd to them, like a riddle without ink. Ang waited for the next lull of flame, scrambled up the green barrel, and peered down. Inside, only black—an open throat to the unknown.

They learned on the run. The tight corridor spat monsters at intervals; above, strangers leaned out and tossed things down like hail. Here, fighting mattered less than slipping away like a fish through reeds.

Fireballs skimmed from ahead, rocks dropped from above, and barrels birthed creatures like nests breaking open. Misery stacked like bricks.

“How do those fireballs work? They fly through barrels—and those pests above never stop!” Ang groused, face weary as a worn boot.

Ouyang watched them stutter and stop, then pointed up, voice sharp as a bell. “Move. If the hourglass empties and we’re still here, it’s over.”

They looked up at the suspended hourglass, sand falling like pale rain. Hearts snagged; the last grains were almost gone.

They ran like startled deer. At last, a flagpole rose ahead, and beyond it a castle of stacked bricks loomed, rough and square as an old fort.

“Go!”

Ouyang shouted. Bricks jutting from the walls let them shift positions, steps hopping like sparrows on a fence. In a one-person tunnel, changing order was a puzzle on rails.

Now Ouyang was last, Jie just before him, Ang in front, with Ya and Shuo tucked behind Ang like shadows.

“Jump and yank the flag,” Ouyang called as Ang cleared the final green barrel. The pole stood right there, silver as a spear.

Jie’s turn came. She strained and wobbled, strength thinning like silk. Ouyang moved closer and kicked the big barrel, a sharp thud. The jolt shook, and Jie slipped, dropping like a leaf.

In that split breath, Ouyang grabbed her, arms tight as ropes. He hauled her up, muscles singing like bowstrings, and then he himself slipped, falling into the last green barrel like a stone into deep water.

“No—!”

Jie cried, voice tearing like paper, but the barrel had swallowed Ouyang whole.

Above, the hourglass emptied; the final grains fell like frost. From behind surged a mass of monsters, a dark tide. Jie’s grief bit like winter, but Shuo had to drag her forward, hand firm as iron.

“Quick, the castle’s got a passage!” Ang’s shout rang ahead, bright and urgent.

When they regrouped, heads bowed like wilted stalks. Without the Grand Scholar, the road ahead looked long as a cold river. “I’m sorry… the barrel shook, I lost my balance… Ouyang, he…”

Jie’s voice trembled like a reed. In her chest the blame coiled; her strength had been too thin. If she’d been solid, that small quake wouldn’t have dropped her. Ouyang wouldn’t have had to trade himself for her.

“Your Highness, it isn’t time to grieve,” Shuo said, tone lifting like a drum. “We keep going. Don’t waste Grand Scholar Ouyang’s goodwill. Carry his share. Reach the end. Live.”

A few words lit her like sunrise. “Kasholassos, you’re right. I’ll carry Ouyang’s share. I’ll live. I’ll reach the end.”

On the other side, Ouyang dropped through the last barrel and landed in a world tiled with squares. Red, yellow, white, green, blue, black—six colors gleamed like a painter’s tray.

Around him, darkness stretched like an ocean at night. Beneath his feet floated a giant cube of squares, no up or down, no pull of gravity—only a silent, lit shape. Each of its six faces shone with crystal light, bright as icicles.

“Ha ha ha… Foolish human, struggle,” a voice boomed, heavy as a gong. “Only when you match each face’s colors can you depart. Otherwise, stay forever.”

Ouyang knew the voice at once; Kooson had awakened, the big oaf rising like a bear from winter sleep. And he hadn’t recognized Ouyang at all.

Ouyang snorted, sharp as flint. A puzzle Kooson couldn’t crack didn’t mean no one could. With a head that thick, cubes would stump him for life.

Ouyang went to work, hands and feet turning the massive cube, joints grinding like millstones. Big pieces move slow; he twisted for half an hour, breath steady as a metronome. He set the last face, color-perfect.

The cube exploded like a glass flower. A door bloomed at the center, pale as bone. Ouyang grabbed the handle without hesitation and slipped through like a shadow.

On a black skeletal throne, a horned giant snapped his eyes open, light flashing like cold steel. He stared at Ouyang stepping through the door, disbelief rough as sand in his voice.

“Impossible… you… you matched all six? What manner of being are you?”

The giant was Kooson, lauded as the Demon King of Kings, a mountain with horns like crescent blades. He tried to rise, but a long sword pinned his chest, nailing him to the throne like a butterfly to board.

Ouyang hadn’t noticed the four crouching in the distance, peeking like mice at a banquet. “Isn’t that Grand Scholar Ouyang?” Ang felt his thoughts jam like gears.

Jie’s joy sprang up like spring grass; she stepped forward to call out. Shuo hauled her back, grip steady as granite.

“Don’t move yet. Watch the field. The Demon King’s awake.”

Before the skull throne, Ouyang drew out a pickaxe, metal dark as night. He approached Kooson, step by step, like a hunter closing in. “Kid, where’s your treasure? Speak straight.”

The four’s hearts pounded, drums in a temple. That was a Demon King, the Demon King of Kings. And Ouyang talked like the crown sat on his own head.

Kooson sneered, lip curling like a knife. “Mortal, worship me as your lord, and I shall grant you—”

Before he could finish, Ouyang’s pickaxe rang off Kooson’s horns, a bright clang like struck bells.

“Mortal, you dare—”

“Quit the noise. Where’s your treasure?”

“Ha ha… foolish mortal—”

Kooson stalled, so Ouyang twisted the sword buried in his chest, hand steady as iron. A scream ripped out, metal tearing on stone.

“Talk. My time’s short. Tell me where your treasure lies.”