At noon, the sun hung like a burning coin, and the town drifted under the ancient tree’s shade. They set up the ceremony by old custom, hushed as leaves. Many fretted over the runaway children, yet the mayoral handover was weighty as stone.
In a vast, blank world, two identical Xi faced each other like twin moons. One had white hair and pointed ears, a subtle difference etched like frost.
“If he succeeds, the consequences will be unbearable.” The white-haired Xi spoke soft as winter sun. “For this world, you have to do it.” She stroked the orange-haired Xi with elder-like calm, a hand smoothing ripples.
Her smile was gentle, bright—snow catching dawn.
“I… understand.”
Watching the sun crawl west, Ouyang’s chest scratched with nameless impatience, a sparrow trapped under ribs. It felt like a bad omen rolling in like distant thunder.
He sighed. Since Xi unlocked the triple seals, his memories tangled like threads in a storm. He felt that when all the seals fell, he wouldn’t be himself anymore, a mask slipping into mist.
He wanted to rebel, yet found no thread to pull. It was all dream-thin: when the dream broke, everything would end. He would vanish too—like those chaotic memories. Perhaps the void was his harbor.
He played carefree in daylight, but solitude stirred thoughts like wind over reeds. Gazing up, he sighed. Moer fluttered over on tiny dragonfly wings and perched on his shoulder, light as pollen.
“Stop overthinking. Maybe it’s just a kind lie,” she said, voice like a bell.
“Hm? Little bean, do you know something?”
Her look said she wouldn’t explain; her lips held secrets like locked lacquer. “Little bean, no cotton candy unless you talk.”
He feared her a bit, yet pressed on; truth felt close, a thin membrane between fingers. He could almost pierce it, but the last layer was tough as hide. Moer grinned and pulled cotton candy from nowhere, a cloud on a stick. She ate with mock elegance, the sugar bigger than she was.
“Right now, you’re a kid in rebellion…” Moer took a huge bite, sugar webbing her hair. “You know the grown-ups mean well, but you want to push back.”
“No!” Ouyang’s shout cracked like a snapped twig. “I can feel the lies in this—kind or not. I want the truth.”
“Mm…” Moer didn’t answer. She lifted her face to the sky, eyes dark as pools.
“Void is void—no concept, no return,” she said at last, settling on his head like a feather. “Once you become void, recovery is hopeless. Long ago, you already became nothing. You found your origin, but you can’t be restored. You will disappear—vanish from every concept.”
“What about me now?”
She bit the cloud again, words slow as dew. “That’s why you have memory gaps. That slice belongs to the void-Ouyang, the first Lord of the Starry Citadel. And you—he created you.”
“A vessel!? I’m just a container for his revival?” Ouyang cut in, heart thudding like drums.
“Idiot.” She glared, then bit again, sugar bright as frost. “You’re the heir to his will. Void can’t resurrect. He’s held out this long by grit alone. Humans carry regrets and unfinished dreams; you were made to bear them. But—something happened. You didn’t receive the full inheritance.”
In that instant, understanding struck like a bell. The White Elf had set the seals to block his full inheritance.
“Got it. Remember this.” Moer’s voice sharpened like a blade. “The White Elf clan is the Sin Clan. Moer stands with your side, but she can’t help in the open. You woke me to borrow my strength—wrong from the start.” She pointed to the sky, a warning like a hawk’s shadow. “Be careful on your own. I’m going back to sleep.” She waved, and the little bean vanished like a spark.
Usually, Ouyang would quip back, but not today. He couldn’t accept being created, a man spun from wishes. Yet he found no flaw in her words; truth sat there, cold as water.
As for her warning—the White Elf clan is the Sin Clan… “Maybe I already have my answer,” he thought. “She and I are alike in too many ways.” Xi’s puffed cheeks flashed in his mind, round as dumplings when he teased her. He sighed, helpless.
He watched the sun sink, a red coin folding into clouds. A prickle rose: he’d forgotten something.
What had he forgotten?
Moer zipped back from afar, wings whirring like cicadas. “You idiot, you’re still here!”
“Huh? Weren’t you going to sleep?”
“Sleep? A whole crowd is around Moer’s house. How could I sleep?” She grabbed him like a straw and shot toward the town center, air singing. Palm-sized she might be, but his weight was dust to her. Then it hit Ouyang like a dropped stone—he hadn’t attended the handover.
He’d stood up White Soul. That guy might make him pay later.
Soon, Moer set him down before the ancient tree, roots coiled like dragons. Seeing Ouyang saunter in late, White Soul’s mouth twitched; displeasure flashed like a knife.
“Since you’re here, let’s begin.”
He’d wanted to give a speech, to set hearts ablaze like torches. But the sunset bled fast; time was a narrowing lane. He skipped the words.
The townsfolk looked at Ouyang with secret gratitude, eyes like lanterns. His delay spared them White Soul’s epic monologue. The old monster had records of talking from dawn to dusk; trauma lingered like smoke. Waiting beat hearing that river of words.
White Soul read their faces and knew, a storm behind his eyes. He snorted at Ouyang; if not for Moer, he’d have thrashed him before the rites.
Torches on the ground formed a complex pattern, antlers of flame interlacing. Grains were scattered by rule, a harvest mandala. As White Soul chanted an unknown rite, fire flared and braided into one blaze.
A sigil bloomed on the back of his hand, ink of light. It lifted free and floated, steady as a star.
“Alright, that thing’s yours. The rest isn’t my business.” He hunched, hands behind his back, voice drifting like ash. “If the sigil accepts you, you’re the next mayor.”
Ouyang nodded and reached, fingers ready to close on light.
Heat pricked his skin. A hand flashed in—Xi’s—and the sigil landed in her palm like a captured moth. “I won’t let you rule this town.” Her hair lightened with each word, white spilling like snow.
Gasps fluttered through the crowd. No one expected this—and the one who barred the rite was the Glachidor Clan’s eldest daughter.
“Lianlian, do you really have to do this?” Ouyang rubbed his warm hand, eyes steady. He called her Lianlian, not Xi. Xi and Lian were two people, and the Xi-Lian in his memory meant Lianlian.
