Under the ancient tree burned to charcoal, Ouyang and his crew ringed a palm-sized sprite like stones circling a campfire, and the tiny sprite on his palm knew no fear, her finger jabbing the crowd like a twig poking a hornet’s nest.
“Honestly! Moer was sleeping like a curled cat, and you woke her up—that’s one thing. But you also burned Moer’s house to ash!”
Hands on hips, the little sprite’s emerald hair fluttered like willow leaves in a breeze, her cheeks puffed like a pufferfish, so cute she looked harmless as dew.
“What’s worse… who hit Moer just now? You disturb Moer’s nap, torch Moer’s home, and you even dare lay a hand on Moer!”
At that, Ouyang’s eyes slid like a cold blade toward the bruised Blood Kin. As if cued, the trio flicked their gazes at Devila like swallows peeking, then looked away as if nothing happened.
All those sidelong glances drew Moer’s gaze to Devila like a moth to a candle.
“It’s him,” Eunice said, face solemn as a winter pond. “He’s the one who proposed we cook out here.” She pointed at Devila like a spear of light, and Bartley followed up like thunder after lightning: “It’s him. He left last, and he didn’t put the fire out.”
“Heh…” The orc Valiant scratched his head like a bear in spring, trying to look honest. “I remember Lord Devila’s the one who slapped you.” He remembered that palm that knocked Moer out as clearly as a footprint in fresh snow.
With everyone pointing, Moer fixed Devila with a stare sharp as an icicle, as if she could kill him with her eyes alone.
Devila’s bruised face went black as a storm cloud, and the accusations hit him like cold rain. Aside from Eunice’s start, the rest felt hard to deny.
How could they do this? How could that pack of bastards flip like autumn leaves?!
Devila had thought he’d found a team worth staking his life on, a fire to warm his back in the night. He was wrong. They were bored tricksters who tripped allies for laughs, pitmates not lifemates, and if they didn’t kill him by accident, the stars already showed mercy.
Devila wore his heart like a lantern on his face, and Ouyang caught the flicker at a glance. But—without a designated fall guy, life loses its spice like soup without salt.
There were things Ouyang didn’t want Devila to touch, and secrets he didn’t want Devila to taste, so he played the fool like a fox rolling in snow, to pull Devila’s eyes away. In Ouyang’s view, Devila was a god-tier Blood Kin with steel in his fists, but a heart that hadn’t walked enough winter roads.
The Night Clan—an old grudge from the first dawn. People say time thins everything like tea gone cold. In Ouyang’s mind, that year still rose like fresh smoke.
Even a million years won’t wash it pale.
He lacked clean details, yet the hate burned like a star going supernova. In that blurred memory, they lived by stepping across corpses like stones in a flood.
If burying this world under rock and root could erase the Night Clan, Ouyang would shovel the earth with both hands, no hesitation. But that was a dream of frost. The Night Clan were ancient as bedrock, their depth a mountain Ouyang couldn’t shake.
“Uncle, have you ever liked someone?” That year, on that Valentine’s Day, Ouyang chanced upon the down-and-out Uncle Kamedi, the man who lit his path like a lantern in fog.
Kamedi, the blond uncle who always looked windblown and poor. In Ouyang’s memory, every Valentine’s, he went alone into the Mapleleaf grove and stared at the fire-red leaves like embers.
That day, Ouyang was just as lost as a stray leaf, and happened to pass the Red Maple Grove.
“Someone I like… ha, at my age, of course.” Kamedi leaned against a tree like a tired wolf, eyes tipping to the sky. He drew a dagger—blue as glacial ice, carved like winter. “Xiaoyang, when you meet someone you like, confess brave as spring thunder. Don’t wait… waiting rots your chance like fruit on the branch.”
Back then, Ouyang didn’t get it, not until he met a girl with twin ponytails.
“Jiling, do you know Uncle Kamedi’s story?” He told the twin-tail about Kamedi, words drifting like dandelion fluff.
“That? They say Kamedi’s an Ancient-kind.” Jiling’s eyes teased like ripples. “Do you know what that means? Forget it, a history flunker like you won’t keep it straight.”
“How would I not know this? Don’t act like I don’t,” Ouyang protested, sparks without fire.
“Since you know, then I’m done here. Go play by yourself.”
“Hey, don’t—”
He still pried news from Jiling in the end. Ancient-kind had many clan-bound meanings, but for the Other Shore, only those who lived through the First Era counted as Ancient-kind, like stones that saw the first sunrise.
“They say the one Kamedi loved died in the First Era, in that so-called never-die age, fell like a star anyway.”
Jiling spoke more than he expected, but Ouyang only caught scraps like rain through leaves. So, the one Uncle loved was already… No wonder he said that. No wonder he hunted the Night Clan’s trail like a hound in snow.
“Hey, are you even listening to Moer?” Pain stung his palm like a bee, and Ouyang snapped from the past. First thought—he’d been bitten. He flailed, and the tiny sprite flew like a leaf in a gust.
She smacked the charred trunk with a thud like a dropped fruit, and cold sweat beaded Ouyang’s brow like dew.
“Uwaah… you’re bullying Moer! Moer’s mad now!”
She wobbled midair like a drunk moth. A green light bloomed from her like spring breaking bud, and a rain of emerald fell over everything.
From earth to trunk, plants surged at a speed the eye could track, like time sped up by a river’s rush.
In moments, the blackened ground greened like a meadow after rain, and the ancient tree leafed out, lush as a cloud.
If it stopped there, Ouyang wouldn’t have worried. But the plants kept growing like a flood, and worse—their god-tier strength vanished like smoke on the wind.
“How dare you bully Moer—every one of you will be punished!”
She shouted, and the ground heaved with life like a jungle waking. A house nearby vanished under braided vines, the street grass shot past a meter like spears, and drifting leaves piled thick enough to bury a cottage like snowdrifts.
Without the power they leaned on like crutches, Devila and the rest panicked, hearts thumping like drums. What was going on? They hadn’t even grasped the first thread.
At last the little bean stopped, arms crossed like a tiny general, swaggering up to Ouyang with a glare bright as a firefly.
“Well? Scared now? Moer’s super strong, you know!”
They were shaken like reeds in wind, but it didn’t feel deadly, just wild.
“That’s enough, little bean. Put your domain away,” Ouyang said. He pinched Moer between thumb and forefinger like a teasing crane, the other hand pressing his brow as if a storm brewed there. He wasn’t spooked; he knew her roots like a half-read scroll.
Pinched like that, Moer didn’t look scared at all. She shut her eyes and mumbled like a sleepy child, “Cotton candy. Moer wants cotton candy. You used that bad trick of burning a house to wake Moer, so unless you give Moer hundreds of jin of cotton candy, Moer won’t put the domain away.”
“Fine, it’s just cotton candy. Forget hundreds of jin, I’ll drown you in tens of thousands.”
Moer loved cotton candy, measured by the jin like sacks of grain. That matched what Ouyang knew like twin tracks. What surprised him was how easy she was to coax, soft as wax in warm hands.
People called her the sprite of the ancient tree, a name like moss on stone.
She liked to live only on very old trees, the kind that drank centuries. Before he was sealed, Ouyang had sensed a strong aura in the central ancient tree of Ancient Memory Town, a pulse like a heart in bark. After much cross-checking, he’d concluded the cotton-candy-loving legendary bean-sprite lived there.
Back then, Ouyang hadn’t dared poke that hornet nest. After his sealing and a long drift of years, she was still in the tree like a sleeping seed. Had she really just slept through ages?
“Kid, listen. That little bean won’t give you the time of day most days. To wake her from deep sleep, I’ve got a one-of-a-kind method, guaranteed.” In memory, a shameless alchemist rubbed thumb and forefinger like flint striking. “This exclusive method’s only 998 star-coins! I’ll throw in a guide to identify her and a handbook to keep her happy. What a deal—nine-nine-eight, take the bean-sprite home late!”
Back then, he’d been green as spring wheat, and paid 998 star-coins to that crooked peddler for the so-called secret. The method was: burn.
Yes—first use the ‘manual’ to see if the little bean lived in that tree. Then set the tree on fire, and she’d pop right out like a startled bird. Otherwise, she’d sleep till mountains wore down and seas dried up; you could shout your throat raw and get no answer.
That’s why Ouyang staged the wild cookout, smoke as signal and flame as knock. Sensing Valiant’s aura midway was just a passing accident, like a fish jumping in a reflected moon.
