“Epoch Calendar, Year 70,047 of the Third Epoch.

I sacrificed the Boundless Sea. I spent a million years stealing a drop from the river of time, yet it still won’t open the gate. Maybe I need a different angle.

Emotion threads through all things—grief and laughter alike. Maybe if I start there, a new road will show.”

“Epoch Calendar, Year 130,000 of the Third Epoch.

Too slow. Painfully slow. Without a strong enemy, hearts don’t swing—no vows to guard, no surges of hate. Those ones in the Abyss only need a pretext to strike. Honestly, there’s no better set of villains.”

“Epoch Calendar, Year 327,000 of the Third Epoch.

Everything unfurled like my script. War rolled over the myriad worlds like a black tide. Original Sin, mindless, only craved to swallow all. What I didn’t foresee—the Moon Goddess fell. That girl who always wanted to play savior traded her breath for others’ escape. Foolish… but do I have the right to judge?

I hid her shattered soul in the Boundless Sea. Maybe when snow drifts to bells again, I’ll rouse the City of Time and pull her back.”

Ouyang turned pages in a book forged of light, its glow like frost on ancient glass. The entries spoke of ages so old they felt like stones sunk in a deep lake. Moon Goddess? In his memory, Moon Goddess was a title, the master’s mantle of the Star-Moon Temple.

He only knew the seventy-seventh Moon Goddess. The diary likely meant the first—the legendary Supreme Moon Goddess. Yet the chronicles he’d read never recorded her fall. Just… disappearance.

“So this is the truth? Who’s the owner of this diary?”

The diary wasn’t penned day by day. Each entry was dropped after long intervals—sometimes ten thousand years, sometimes several hundred thousand, like stars appearing in a slow sky. Even Ouyang felt tired reading such a long life.

He kept turning.

“Epoch Calendar, End of the Third Epoch.

The curtain fell just as the script said, the stage swept clean like a night wind over empty streets. Good thing his wounds improved; otherwise I’d have had to end it myself, and my mask would crack.

But enough people hate me already. If his injuries hadn’t eased, I’d simply let them hate me more.”

Ouyang frowned, thoughts like crows wheeling. In the histories he knew, the one who ended the Third Epoch was His Majesty the God Emperor. Many readers wondered why the God Emperor—who sparked a Twilight of the Gods in the Second Epoch—only appeared at the final, darkest hour.

“He was wounded! But the God Emperor sounded his paean in the Second Epoch—so how did he get hurt?”

Ouyang tried to read on. The next pages blurred, fogged by intent; the diary’s owner clearly didn’t want them seen. He flipped forward. When the script cleared again, it was already the Eighth Epoch—the very epoch of Ouyang’s arrival.

“Epoch Calendar, Eighth Epoch, Year 123,000.

A day worth a toast. I finally found my lost memory. A whole epoch gone—who would remember me now?”

“Epoch Calendar, Eighth Epoch, Year 124,000.

Finally, Ouyang, that brat, came back. Alas, playing nanny is exhausting.”

Ouyang was dumbstruck, like a fish thrown on dry sand. How did this involve him? And the dates were wrong. He remembered arriving in Year 130,000 of the Eighth Epoch. How could he show up early?

“Epoch Calendar, Eighth Epoch, Year 135,000.

Original Sin sprouted self-awareness. I meant to erase this failed vessel, but thinking twice, I’ll grant it a chance. Strip Origin from Sin—maybe a miraculous life will be born.”

He turned to the final page.

“Epoch Calendar, Eighth Epoch, Year 170,000.

I wanted to study Origin and Sin, but time’s a tightening noose. Origin and Sin are tangled, a knot that will take years to pull. If Sin devours Origin, Original Sin becomes a monster that knows only destruction.

Child… good luck. After a few million years, it’s time I went home.”

That was the end. Reading the last page, Ouyang finally understood the shape inside the flame. “Origin and Sin… then the aware one I saw should be Origin.”

He let out a long breath, like steam in winter. The Origin–Sin mess wasn’t being ignored; someone had moved, then shoved the burden his way. The diary’s nods to him made it feel eight-tenths certain—the problem was left for Ouyang.

“As expected—irresponsible seniors, tossing hot coals down the line.”

He sighed deep, then realized a fresh snag. “Original Sin? Why don’t I see it?” The place held only a workbench and a book—everything else was a blank white ocean. Where was the cage? Where was the prisoner?

“Wait… don’t tell me… they all ran?”

The room still tasted of Original Sin’s aura, like iron on the tongue. But Ouyang saw nothing. He remembered running into Origin not long ago. “Feels bad… Did Origin and Sin both get out?”

As he puzzled over it, the diary flared, light blazing like dawn. When it dimmed, new words floated on the page: Yes, both ran!

Ouyang stared, stunned, and then another burst of light spilled like sparks. A broken longsword rose into the air, hanging like a dead star. The diary flashed again. When the glow faded, fresh words bled through: Boy, this is the sword the God Emperor wielded. Take it, defeat the Source of Evil, and save the world!

“What is this? Save the world? Don’t kid me.” Still, Ouyang picked up the “longsword the God Emperor used” as if it were inevitable. “Come on—this wreck? Any village smith could hammer something prettier.”

He held it one-handed and gave it a few swings. The feel was muddy, like waterlogged wood. Worst of all, the rust ate the blade like moths—just looking at it shaved off his momentum.

He tapped the blade with a finger—clank, clank. “Hey, aren’t you supposed to be impressive? I’ve been knocking forever, and nothing.” True artifacts have a will like a sleeping beast; this sword sat cold. He decided it was fake.

Light blazed again. Ouyang leaned close. New words swam up: It’s dead. Feed it the best metal; it should revive. Goodbye!

“What? I get it. You’re tossing me the hot potato? Why don’t you feed it yourself?” The diary didn’t hear his roar. It faded like ash in wind.

In that instant, Ouyang knew he’d been set up. He gripped the sword, teeth grinding like stones. Then his face twisted, on the edge of tears. Everything in his space ring spilled out without his say—metals gleaming like caught sunlight, the treasure he’d robbed from Kooson—flying free like swallows.

They circled the sword, then shattered into particles like sand.

When his space ring ran dry of metal, even the Divine Grace Crystal winked out. Ouyang stared at the sword. Half a day passed in a long beat. The sword stayed silent. “Who wants to raise a lord like this? Even if I tried, I couldn’t afford it.”

He set the sword under his boot and ground it, heel to hilt. Not a flicker. He accepted the diary’s verdict—“It’s dead.” A peerless artifact wouldn’t let him trample it like a doormat.

With a banner slung over his left shoulder and the longsword over his right, Ouyang finally noticed Devila was gone. He shot the stubborn sword a hateful look—it refused to enter the space ring—and stared at the world of pure white, blank as paper.

“Where’d that guy run off to? Don’t tell me something grabbed him for lunch?”

He wandered, footsteps echoing like taps on an empty drum. A rumble rolled from not far away. He jolted like a shot of adrenaline straight to the heart. “What’s happening? Ouyang the Great is here! Clear out!”

He sprinted. The mist peeled back, and green hills and clear waters wrapped him like a painted scroll.

This wasn’t a place he’d imagined, which meant it was someone else’s heart painting the scene. So beyond Ouyang and Devila, others were nearby.

He looked up. A vast city floated in the sky, angels swarming around it like a river of light. Below, a grim black castle bared two fangs toward the heavens.

A war between the Blood Kin and angels?

He figured nine times out of ten it was Devila’s mess. Sure enough, not far off he spotted Devila—a gold-haired, handsome vampire, pale as moonstone. A few others stood with him. By Ouyang’s sense, they weren’t manifested by the mist—they were real.

“Ouyang? You didn’t die?”

Devila looked spent, like a candle burned down to wick. Seeing Ouyang, he asked that with hollow eyes.

“You’re the one dying. I’m the overlord of the star river. A little illusion can’t kill me.”

“I knew Lord Ouyang was the strongest. Then the rest’s yours.” Devila pointed at the Blood Kin in the black castle, then at the angels in the sky. He dropped like a felled tree and passed out.

Trouble. Trouble sprouting like weeds these days. Ouyang’s temper snapped like a bowstring. He snatched up Devila’s fallen banner, faced three nearby people, and barked, “You three—God-below-tier weaklings—your hour’s come. Go. Plant this banner on that castle. Earn your membership.

Me? I’m planting it on the bird-men’s turf. Don’t anyone get in my way.”

Two men and one woman stared, dazed, like deer in torchlight. They didn’t fully understand, but Ouyang radiated pressure like a storm. Devila had been God-above tier, and he worshiped Ouyang. So maybe Ouyang was God-top.

With a powerhouse watching over them, a tiger-headed, human-bodied beastman pounded his chest like a drum, grabbed the banner, and charged the Blood Kin’s black keep. The other two—a dwarf and a human woman—went wide-eyed, fearing their chance to earn credit would be stolen.

They bolted after him, feet drumming dirt.

In the rear, Ouyang shook his head, a crooked smile like a knife. “A flock of bird-brained fools—so easy to rile. Fine, go be cannon fodder. I’ll watch, weigh the blades on both sides.”