Thump—the human cannon that was Kooson hit ground like a tossed boulder, while Irina’s head spun like a lantern wheel; a breath ago she’d sworn she was dead.
Bile first, then breath—Irina swayed like a reed in crosswind, whispering “Ouyang,” and to Fei it rang with vinegar and smoke, every syllable blaming him.
Yes, all roads led to Ouyang—if he hadn’t shown up, would Kooson have panicked like a startled horse, choosing a mad dash that ground them like millstones?
Enough—truly enough—Irina’s memory flashed like firelight: that night in Terracafe, Ouyang kept her sleepless like an owl, then the night before he and Xi left, fire and clamor again.
“Where that guy walks, peace never grows,” she snapped, like a stone skipping across a black pond.
Inside the castle, Xi’s lashes fluttered like moth wings, and a white ward bloomed around her like moonlit frost; her white hair floated as if in a tide-less sea.
On the floor, Ouyang—charred like a fallen log—pushed himself up, his movements creaking like a door after a storm.
“So you planned to kill us?” His voice was winter-cold, yet his heat rose like noon sun; he leaned in, eyes skimming Xi’s body like a medic counting bones.
“See? Everything’s intact; I’d never break the contract,” he said, hands fanning air like lazy fans, his tone a tavern chat pretending there was no blood in history.
Lian’s guard rose like a drawbridge; Ouyang’s warmth, after that past, felt like silk hiding a blade, and the wrongness itched like sand in the eye.
“Planning to have Xi undo the rest of your seals? Don’t even dream,” Lian’s voice was ice on stone; each seal cost a sliver of life, like candles guttering one by one.
When the last seal burns out, Xi would be a flame in wind—gone—and though Lian shouldn’t have to worry, she still cast that warning like a thrown dagger.
“What are you so afraid of?” Ouyang stretched like a cat, and a column of water washed him clean; char flaked off like ash, skin blooming back to color.
When the water fell, not a scorch mark clung; if Xi had seen the charcoal stick that was him, she’d doubt the spring-bright figure now bouncing before her.
Lian’s pupils pinched like shutters; she watched him as if he were a mirage wavering over hot stone.
“You’re not Xi—how do you know that silly girl wouldn’t?” Ouyang’s gaze drifted back, a needle finding true north, but Xi had already shed the white hair and the pointed elf ears.
Blinking, dazed, Xi stared at Ouyang like a bird stunned mid-flight, her mind still falling from the cliff she’d just survived.
“Idiot girl, wake up,” Ouyang said, waving a hand before her face like a fan stirring summer heat.
The crackle came back—whoosh, crack, pop—lightning in her chest; she remembered the drop, death’s cold hand, and how Lian seized the reins like an older sister yanking a child from a fire.
“Wait—let me explain—” Ouyang sprang back like a frog at a torch, opening space before red lightning could comb his hair into some tacky punk crown.
“Ten seconds! If you’re not done, you’ll see what happens,” Xi hissed, voice like a wire in stormwind.
Relief washed him like rain on dust; dealing with a clear head felt like sunlight after fog. “We’ve got acquaintances outside—you know them,” he said, ten words like pebbles skipped fast across water.
He feared the lightning, so he kept it tight; and as he expected, the moment she heard “acquaintances,” Xi stowed the storm like a silk fan folding shut.
Around others, she moved like a noble’s portrait—elegant and measured—because she was the Glachidor Clan’s eldest daughter and sole heir, a crest carved in jade.
“I’ll spare you for now. I’m going to see which acquaintance,” she said, smoothing her clothes like a calm lake and taming her hair like combed clouds.
Her image mattered like a mirror kept spotless—though with Ouyang, she’d long given up; that scoundrel had already seen the stage without curtains.
Watching her back like a white crane leaving a shore, Ouyang waved at Valiant, who lingered in the shadows like a patient bear.
“Come on—let’s show our faces,” he grinned; while the castle fed him full power like a river feeds the sea, he sketched himself a black cloak, storm-sleek and dramatic.
He slung the long sword used by the God Emperor over his shoulder like a banner, then paused, eyeing Valiant as if weighing a hammer’s head.
“No good—my right-hand man needs bite,” he said, and with a broad gesture, armor bloomed on Valiant—pitch-black with jutting spikes like midnight fangs.
“At a glance? Stylish as thunder,” Ouyang preened, pride drifting like snow. “Genius is a life lonely as winter,” he sighed, then added, “Don’t forget the battle flag—that’s our mark.”
Out came the familiar white flag, a red skull painted bold as fresh blood; it was the banner Ouyang called war’s face, snapping like a hawk’s wing.
More than once, Devila had wanted to ask: why not remove the red skull and leave a pure white flag—only, white means surrender, like a raised empty hand.
Thankfully, Ouyang’s standards hadn’t sunk to calling a surrender flag a battle flag; Devila never voiced the question, though his face wrote every thought like ink on rice paper.
Ouyang saw it in a glance like a mirror flash and let it pass, a stone sinking without ripples; trouble could wait for other tides.
Outside the castle, Irina’s nausea evaporated like mist under sun the moment she saw Xi; she shot her arm up, waving like a banner in wind.
“Xi!” Irina beamed, voice like bells. “Over here! I knew if that big bad Ouyang was around, you’d be here too—” and Xi’s smile twisted, oddly bright and awkward.
What did she mean, “where Ouyang is, Xi is”? Xi knew Irina’s meaning wasn’t hers, yet warmth rose like dawn, coloring her cheeks.
Irina didn’t overthink; she snatched Xi’s hand and chirped like sparrows in spring, forgetting to even introduce Amelie and Fei as the chatter spun on.
Then Ouyang strode out, cloak black as a stormfront, and behind him an orc in night-armor marched with the battle flag like a soldier stepping into thunder.
“Void…” Amelie’s whisper cut their talk like a drawn blade; her fingers locked on the hilt, ready to bare steel like lightning from a cloud.
Ouyang stood unblinking, the Divine Sword in hand like a scepter; with a curt snort, he leveled the point at Amelie as if planting a spear.
“Second Sword of the Nine Hells—hmph. You’ve wanted a match forever; today I’ll oblige,” he said, challenge ringing like steel on stone.
Xi knew the truth like cold water: outside the castle, Ouyang turned weak as paper; she wondered where he found that sky-high swagger—right now he was a paper tiger.
With ten seals shackling him like iron rings, Ouyang’s raw power sat lowest among the Demon Kings, a candle in a gale beside Kooson’s torch.
From his words, Fei and Irina pieced a picture like a mosaic: Amelie had long questioned Ouyang’s First Seat and wanted to spar; now he’d finally agreed.
Of course, that was only their guess—smoke that might hide a different fire.
On Amelie’s side, the hilt trembled like a leaf; she’d wanted this duel since long ago, and now, granted, joy should bloom—but unease crept like fog.
Her sword shook in her grip, a tuning fork quivering; all her life she’d aimed at the legend—the First Sword of the Nine Hells, a peak like an ice crown.
But that peak towered like a mountain under stars; in that place, her dream became a joke, because the First was a horizon people said could never be reached.
That person—call them the First of the Nine Hells or the First under the stars—cast a shadow like an eclipse, and no one dared say “I’ll surpass them.”
To everyone, it was iron law, a wall without doors; Amelie kept asking why hearts had grown so small they feared even the sky in their minds.
Nothing is beyond surpassing; imagine it like seedlings in spring, and then dare like summer storms—work, and one day the horizon becomes a road beneath your feet.
Disappointed in that place of small dreams, she left; among those who wouldn’t even try, she claimed Second Sword for herself, a badge like a scar burned into leather.
As for First—yes, that was her north star—but the distance felt like winter night between campfire and dawn, a long road stitched with frost.
