“These angels are all god-tier, the vampires too… What the hell was that idiot Devila thinking?” Cold dread crawled up Ouyang’s neck like mist as he ducked.

If he had his Supreme God strength back, this would be nothing. But this wasn’t his castle; without home-law immunity, his peak power sat caged.

“My castle!? Where is my castle?” The thought struck like lightning through fog. It was lost somewhere in the Mist Mirage. His chest tightened; resolve hardened.

“Brothers, it’s not that I won’t save you. I have to find the castle first. Then I’ll come back and avenge you.” He left the words like footprints.

He spun away, not sparing a glance for the fainted Devila. When it’s time to sell someone out, he cuts clean, like a blade through rain.

He meant to go, but a figure streaked down—an angel with three pairs of white wings, snow bright against the sky. “A Six-wing Archangel?!”

Hot fury surged like fire under ice; he wanted to curse that angel’s ancestors eighteen generations deep. He wasn’t even cannon fodder, and they sent an Archangel.

“Devila, you piece of trash.” He kept it under his breath, knowing this angel was born from Devila’s mind inside the fog’s dream.

She hovered, gold hair streaming like sunlight on water. Her wings unfurled; white feathers drifted on the wind. “Human, you side with the Blood Kin.”

“Let holy light cleanse your heart.” The crisp voice rang from an expressionless face, clear as bells in a cold chapel.

He loathed these birdfolk, yet he had to admit—angels had blood like polished jade. Like elves: women stunning, men striking. In the mortal world, she’d topple crowds.

No escape. He tossed the banner onto the dirt, gripped his longsword with one hand. “Birdman, bring it on.” His pulse hammered like drums.

Her hands came together; pure light spread like dawn mist. “Defiler, be purified.” The glow rolled out, white as snowfall over stone.

Instinct snapped; he raised the blade. The light veered around the steel like a river around rock. His breath stalled, mind racing like storm wind.

Two possibilities: the sword repelled the light, or the light dodged on its own. He didn’t buy the first—this sword was dead, cold as a tomb.

“First among supreme artifacts—of course.” Even dead, its leftover aura made common forces shy away, like beasts circling a fallen dragon, cowed by lingering majesty.

So with this blade. Memory settled like dust after thunder.

“Prepare to be judged!” He laughed, swinging; every ranged strike missed like rain blown aside. She stopped casting at range and drew a sword like starlight.

Close quarters, then—but in a heartbeat, they met. Clang. Steel kissed steel; her blade shattered into light particles, scattering like fireflies in wind.

Her armor followed, dissolving into glittering grain. She stood in minimal cloth, most skin bare, moon-pale beneath the broken sky. He froze mid-swing, breath locked.

A shock ran cold, then bright. “An artifact… a supreme artifact. This thing’s a killing star.” Awe thrummed; a new idea flared like sparks.

To feed metal to the Divine Sword, start a war. Only war makes rebels draw out their best weapons; the blade can drink richer, rarer metal.

Top-grade alloys don’t sit idle; they’re forged into treasures. Who would hand those over? Only war cracks chests open and spills hidden hoards like coins.

“That diary screwed me, but it broke the stalemate too.” Hope rose like dawn. “If I restore even one-millionth of this blade, shadows mean nothing.”

“Swing once at the concept, and it’s over.” Concept strikes—said to belong only to a Primordial Deity. Attack the idea, not the body; end the game.

I don’t need a name or a face. I only need to know you exist. Then I strike the concept of “that person,” ignoring space like cutting fog.

Across from him, panic fluttered across the angel’s face like birds scattering. She covered her chest, wings beating to flee. Power towered, but the blade broke rules.

Stronger or not, if you can’t land a hit, strength is wind in a jar. She turned to run; he couldn’t just let a storm blow past.

“Damn it—if only she couldn’t fly!” The thought bit, then bloomed. His grip tightened. First among artifacts, even dead—it should cut the concept of “flight.”

“Fall for me.” He clasped the hilt with both hands. The world blurred into lines and shadows, abstract as ink wash. A voice rose inside.

Cut there. Follow that trajectory. His mind steadied like a blade on an anvil; he swung along the line the world traced for him.

The angel dropped like a wing snapped in winter. Her feathers thrashed uselessly; flight had been severed at the idea. Terror streaked her face like rain.

She tried a spell to rise again, but it failed like sparks in rain. He hadn’t cut her wings; he’d cut the concept of “flight.”

Far off, the battered trio saw the Six-wing Archangel plummet, and they cheered like a surf breaking. If Ouyang toppled an Upper God Archangel, he had to be Supreme God.

With a backer like that, they feared nothing. Even under fists, hope rose like sunrise—dawn on the bruised horizon.

“Why… why…” She hit earth without harm, but horror bloomed. The sky, once a garden to stroll, stood distant as stars beyond glass.

For a heartbeat, she tasted a mortal’s hunger for blue—how those without wings ache for sky like thirst for water. Panic ebbed; power stirred.

In Ouyang’s eyes, panic cooled into action. She vanished; she reappeared far away, like a candle snuffed, then lit deeper in the dark.

Spatial shift. His rage bit like frost. He’d meant to keep an angel penned in his castle, and she dared slip the net with a blink.

“Fine. Then lose your power.” He raised the blade, gaze narrowed; that hazy feeling flooded back, like fog thickening over a river.

Cut there. Follow the line. “There—that trajectory.” Black and white filled his sight like ink on rice paper. He swung along the clear path.

She crumpled, strength gone, soft as a puppet with cut strings. “My… power… my… power…” Her whisper broke like wind through reeds.

She lay there staring at the sky, an angel with broken wings, stripped of all light. Despair settled over her like ash.

It looked long, but it happened fast, a storm in a breath. Angels in the sky turned, fury rising like thunderheads.

“Die, human…” “You dare harm the Archangel…” Voices poured down, a chorus of steel, angry as a swarm.

Ouyang watched the dense flock with a crooked smile, cool as night wind. The test had told him how to use the dead Divine Sword.

If they were true angels, this number would send him running like deer through brush. He breathed out, calm. “Illusion is still illusion.”

He swung along the line the world drew. Angels popped into light particles, one after another, like snow melting in morning sun.

The sky rained light, drifting like petals. It was the rain angels make when they die. The Blood Kin who’d been pummeling the trio froze, stunned.

“Hahaha… You vampires, see? This is the Lord High God’s power!” The tiger-headed beastman, all bruises and grit, bolted to hoist the banner above the castle.

“Lord High God, I’ve finished the job!” His voice rang like a gong across stone.

Ouyang turned. Inside the castle, the Blood Kin stood frozen like figures trapped in amber. Time felt stalled; everything held its breath.

The wind slowed, thinning like silk drawn out. His gut tightened; danger loomed like storm on the horizon.

He glanced back at the angel on the ground, empty-eyed, life-lorn as autumn fields. “Try it. Maybe it’ll work.”

The angel was a phantom born of the Mist Mirage—false memories, false flesh, dream turned shape. If he cut the concept of “illusion,”

would she become real?