Ancient Memory Town moved as usual—sunrise to work, sunset to rest—like fields breathing with light, then folding into shadow.

Only two things counted as news, ripples across a still pond; one was Ouyang becoming mayor.

By plan, Ouyang and White Soul had him take the seat, but the road hit a stone.

Without the Mark’s recognition, Ouyang’s mayoral journey sank like a sail without wind.

So White Soul, that old monster, kept the post, a weathered pine refusing to fall.

When townsfolk heard, they let stones drop from their chests and ate extra bowls at supper.

The other matter was the children, leaves swept ahead of a storm.

When the demon army struck, Snow led them to flee like swallows in driving rain.

Ten days passed; news finally came, bleak as frost.

Adults held their hearts like brittle glass, dreading the crack of bad tidings.

Word from the capital said remnant demons hounded the children like wolves on a trail.

A Sky Knight saw them, but a demon commander chased him like a hawk, leaving no strength to save.

The sighting was at the kingdom’s far west, Dragon Gorge, edge of the world.

Dragons stand atop the food chain, thunder on a lonely mountain.

Anything tangled with dragons means danger, like fire licking dry grass.

It’s called Dragon Gorge because someone saw dragon traces there, footprints like scorch marks.

No proof of dragons, but drakes swarm there like a scaled flood.

Many guessed the children were caught by demons or eaten by drakes, a candle in the wind.

The town sat uneasy, a small boat wobbling on chop.

In Ancient Memory Town, in a Glachidor Clan room, a miniature black castle sat on a table like a storm cloud.

A girl circled it, urgent as a moth around a lamp.

That mini fortress was Ouyang’s mobile castle, forged by a mysterious alchemist, sturdy as a stone skipping a roaring river of time.

The girl was Xi, of course, a calm flame under wind.

Two other girls sat nearby: one hugged a teddy and cupped tea, watching like a theater crowd.

The other, in a blue‑white maid dress, swept a floor strewn with shells, peels, bones, and leftovers, a battlefield of crumbs.

Inside the mini castle, Ouyang and his crew played cards, gods bored stiff huddling like sparrows in rain.

Last night, after the capital’s news, a whim struck him like lightning.

He laid a feast in his room, tables shining like a harvest moon.

The gods ate and bickered, turning the Glachidor base into a henhouse in a fox’s night.

Worst was Ouyang’s demonic singing drilling ears like cold needles; by morning, many households came to complain.

When Xi stormed in to demand justice, Ouyang and his henchmen ducked into the mini castle like turtles into shells.

Xi could only glare at the fortress, eyes ringed like bruised moons.

After a night of that noise, she swore to pound Ouyang like a drum.

But a turtle in a shell leaves you helpless, hands sliding off like rain on slate.

Xi tried smoke, fire, and flood, siege tricks like old war tales.

If it were a simple shell, the turtle would yield like soaked wood.

But that castle isn’t a shell; Ouyang’s mobile fortress is water‑and‑fire proof, blade‑and‑arrow strong, a stubborn mountain.

“Ouyang, get out of there!” Her voice cracked like a whip.

Xi sprawled over the table, breath thin like ash from a spent incense.

Through the tiny windows, she saw Ouyang and company still playing cards, laughter like dice rattling.

Her temper blew out like a candle; this time, she truly had none left.

Inside, six clustered around a table, a campfire of faces.

Devila, the handsome one, drew a card with elegance like a flowing ribbon.

He peeked and smirked, “Heh, Ouyang, get ready to lose those artifacts to me.”

Devila brimmed with confidence, wins and losses all night like tides.

He finally held a big hand, a tiger’s paw on the table.

With a slap, he shoved in all his chips, going big to end it like a sprung trap.

Valiant the orc scratched his head like a bear in spring.

Ouyang caught helplessness at his eye’s corner, a shadow like dusk.

Dwarf Bartley stroked his little beard and sighed, head shaking like a pendulum.

Water Goddess Eunice, only one‑fifty tall, stood on tiptoe to see, like a child at a counter.

She didn’t need the view; one look at Devila’s face told all—he wore his heart like a banner.

Normally, Ouyang would fold like a leaf in rain.

Instead, he pushed his chips in without checking his cards, bold as a storm.

He waved to Ruola at his side, cueing her to flip like a conductor’s baton.

Devila’s buried memory surged back like a tide.

He remembered the doom of cards flipped by Ruola, a guillotine drop.

Sure enough, Ruola turned the card, and despair fell on Devila like a curtain.

“How is this fair? How is this not cheating?”

The elegant Devila clawed his tangled hair, madness rising like wildfire.

How can you play a game like this?

Ruola, the fallen angel, looked powerless, a mascot with clipped wings like a grounded snowbird.

But last night’s games showed her terror, luck heavy as a rolling boulder.

If she flips, she crushes the table, fate pinned like a beetle.

Shaken, they tried other games, testing destiny like gamblers at a shrine.

One lesson stood: never play luck‑based games with Ruola.

Dice tosses, she guesses right every time, like a seer with clear water.

Coin flips, she calls it true, sun and moon aligned.

That is, unless Ouyang cheats, hands moving like wind through reeds.

She calls tails; Ouyang swaps the coin to heads unseen, sleight like a ghost.

That despicable Ouyang even had Ruola flip for him, fortune bent like a crooked scale.

Devila didn’t know the phrase “got played,” but his mood matched it, rain on a wedding.

“Dear vampire sir, I bet more. Your chips don’t cover it. So, sell yourself.”

Ouyang pulled a scroll from nowhere like a magician and handed it to Devila.

Devila scanned it and flared with rage like a torch in dry grass.

A prewritten slave contract lay there, ink like shackles.

Would a proud progenitor vampire sell himself over cards?

Was Ouyang’s brain made of mush, a melon left in rain?

Devila tossed the scroll aside, arms crossed like a wall.

He stared at Ouyang with arrogant fire; his face said, “I won’t sign. Hit me if you can.”

Arrogant—this vampire was too arrogant, plume high like a rooster.

As archbishop of Ouyang’s Demonic God cult, Eunice backed Ouyang like a river to sea.

She never thought the unruly pope would defy Ouyang so bluntly, sparks against flint.

Ouyang snorted twice, then went quiet, chin on palm like a cat plotting.

In this castle, he had a hundred ways to make Devila suffer, nets tight as vines.

“Little bat, I’ll spare you for now. I’m heading out to negotiate. When I’m back, it’s your doom.”

“Boys, keep that bat penned. Don’t let him slip,” he ordered, and the trio ringed Devila like wolves.

In the room, the mini castle shed a Yulan‑blue halo like moonlight on water.

Ouyang stepped out beside Xi as if walking through a still lake.

He glanced at Xi, calm as frost on bamboo.

Her haggard face told him he’d won, a net snug on fish.

“Made up your mind? Lend me your power. Gold will fall like rain for you.”

“And the brats lost in Dragon Gorge—if they still live, I might bring them back.”

His pitch pressed Xi’s heart like a sly merchant’s thumb on a scale.

Yesterday, Ouyang offered Xi a fifty‑fifty split of the Demon King’s treasure, a lure bright as metal.

But after being conned again and again, how could Xi trust him, scars like rings on a tree?

Soon after she refused, word from the capital carried Dragon Gorge’s news like a raven.

When he heard, Ouyang knew his chance had come, a door swinging open.

Sealed space channels threw the demon army into chaos, ants flooded from their hill.

Red lightning struck, wounding big figures like trees split by storm.

The demon host hides, waiting to rise again, embers under ash.

The kingdom’s united army presses the advantage, waves hammering cliffs without rest.

So the kingdom has no spare hands for Dragon Gorge, a cliff left to night.

In town, only White Soul, that old monster, had the power, a mountain in mist.

But Ouyang knew he wouldn’t accept Xi’s plea, because White Soul cannot leave Ancient Memory Town, roots bound to soil.

So, after thinking it through, Xi’s only help was Ouyang’s crew, a lantern in fog.

With that thought, Ouyang’s mood soared like a kite; hence last night’s feast.

Xi knew Ouyang would use her power for no good, a fox borrowing a torch.

But she had no choice, path narrowed like a canyon.

Besides, she didn’t even know how her vow‑made‑real gift could be turned to evil.

Even if he did, the harm likely wouldn’t be massive, a ripple not a wave.

Thinking that, Xi made her decision, a blade finally set down.