In cobalt water, bands of starlight rose and sank like slow breath.

A needle of panic stung first. Am I dead?

He blinked awake. Ouyang hung in a sea with no shore, where dense pillars of light fell from the heavens and speared the abyss, and other pillars welled up from the depths and flew skyward like schools of glass fish.

The vast ocean held no life, only blue under starlight, unending radiance, and him, a lone drift of shadow on the glow.

It felt strange, like warm silk over skin. His god-body wouldn’t drown, yet here he breathed easy, like standing on dry land in a soft wind. What is this place?

Curiosity bubbled up first. He knew that half-dragon, half-human girl couldn’t truly kill him. He only had to wait for flesh to knit, for the scattered meat to gather, and then he’d “come back.”

That was all theory, a map never walked. This was his first “death,” a first winter. So before the body healed and the soul returned, what state was he in?

The scene answered like a tide. Before revival, his soul would sit here, quiet as a stone in a clear pond, until the body mended and drew him home.

The water felt—warm. So warm he wanted to shed thought, like leaves falling. No desire, no motion, just soaking in stillness, like an infant floating in womb-water under a mother’s heartbeat.

Quiet, then calmer quiet, then peace like snowfall.

This world held only stillness, a bell of silence over the sea.

At some point, a gentle force cradled him, lifting him like driftwood. Nearer, closer, he saw the seam where water kissed air, and he wondered what sky lay above that silver line.

Splash, splash.

Surf boomed against a shore he couldn’t see. Ouyang rose through the skin of the sea, lay back upon it, and faced a vault of stars like crushed diamonds on velvet. In a breath, meteors burned down in volleys, a rain of fire that refused to end.

It stunned him, and it soothed him. When the meteor-chimes ceased, auroras bloomed like silk curtains, and multicolored nebulae drifted like painted clouds.

For no clear reason, his thoughts tilted toward a goddess, the Aurora Goddess. Once, adrift in time-storms, he had used Xi’s pact as a lodestone and fixed the route to her domain, a dreamlike realm veiled in light.

A burr of doubt had long stuck in his heart. To most on the Other Shore, the Aurora Goddess was low-key, a lamplight behind a screen. She was an ancient race, yet lacked the God Emperor’s thunderous fame, held less public awe than the great rulers, and nowhere near the First Imperial Princess’s renown.

She was a goddess almost forgotten, a lamp left in daylight.

Low fame aside, he knew this much: as an ancient race, her strength in the Other Shore might not break the top ten, but at worst she stood as a Primordial Deity, the kind whose every word and gesture could crystalize into rules. He couldn’t fathom how he had broken that world’s walls back then.

Was his citadel just that busted, a fortress that cheated heaven?

Fine. Maybe those world-rules looked kindly on a fellow from the Other Shore visiting the Aurora Goddess, and let him in like a host opening a gate. But then what about Xi? How did Xi step into that place? A Primordial Deity’s domain isn’t a market street for random strays.

Had time gnawed holes in the fence, leaving gaps like moth bites?

When the splendor ebbed, the sky shed its meteor rain, its painted clouds, its ultimate aurora. The firmament went bare again, a plain blue plate.

Ouyang kept floating, the water holding him like a palm. He did not sink, he drifted.

Splash, splash.

The surf’s beat grew louder, like drums marching close. Did this sea finally have an edge?

He braced and rose, water streaming off him like ink. Ahead lay a beach without end, a pale ribbon drawn to infinity.

This… isn’t this the Boundless Sea? He stepped ashore and stared at the blue. The scene was familiar, like a dream he’d written before. Last time he’d come with Devila, and he’d been in bad shape, a chunk of memory missing like a page torn out.

What’s going on? Why did I pop into the Boundless Sea for no reason? He paced the sand, leaving and erasing his own footprints. He waited for his body to regenerate, yet his soul had run here. Is the Boundless Sea where our souls return?

He’d never “died” before, so he couldn’t tell if this was normal. And… he clenched a fist. A cluster of flame whooshed to life on his knuckles, black fire like the first chaos spark in a newborn cosmos.

I can feel it. Two more seals broke. There are nine seals in all. The first was assumed open when I was released. Then that idiot woman broke three at once to save Leticia. Add these two, that’s six undone. Even without the Other Shore’s secret arts and ultimate moves, I’m now at beneath-god-tier in a fight.

Joy surged first, hot as the flame. If I gain two seals every time I die, I could just keep dying on purpose. But another thought whispered—how overbearing is the Boundless Sea. Even Xi’s pact is fierce, yet this seawater corroded two layers of it like salt on iron.

Mm-hmm. At this rate, Ouyang the Great becoming a tyrant of the stars isn’t that far-fetched. He’d said, when he was younger and dumber, that he’d rule the starry sky and make ten thousand worlds come pay homage. Back then, Jiling only said two words—repay me—and it halted his grand speech like rain dousing coals.

He joked, but he knew that dream was smoke. Of all star overlords, he’d met only one in the flesh, Demon Lord Safix. Only a Tiered Being who could make a world sing its own hymn deserved the title.

And from Safix he’d learned this: the current overlords had it worse than in the Epoch Era. Back then, though the Other Shore pressed like mountains, they could still roam freely. As long as they didn’t provoke the Other Shore, they could strut sideways across the cosmos.

Now, in this age, those so-called gods of gods follow a rule written in silence. Two must never meet. If two Tiered Beings cross paths, one will die. That’s the best-case ending. Two dying together isn’t rare.

So this era isn’t a Ragnarök of open slaughter, but it’s still ugly. Tiered Beings hole up in lairs like volcanoes corked by fear, just to avoid bumping into another of their kind and forcing fate’s coin toss.

Maybe only that so-called oldest creature, the Ancient Turtle, dares to bounce around and sun himself on fate.

Ouyang stayed where he was, a lone stake in sand.

Strange. Why’s it been so long, and I’m still not revived? Anxiety rose like a cold tide. The elders’ theory said you revive fast—seconds if lucky, minutes at worst. Why was his soul still beached in the Boundless Sea?

Is my posture wrong? He raised both hands to the sky and held, waiting. Nothing happened. He lifted his middle finger at the heavens like a spear.

The stars winked out. A whirling black hole opened above like an iris.

Wait, what’s this? A cute, round voice rolled from the air like a bell, and he couldn’t place the source. Who the hell messed with the entrance key? What kind of trash taste is that, making it the middle finger?! Don’t let me find the bastard who did it!

A palm-sized, emerald-green sprite popped into being before him, like a leaf torn from light. Moer?

No. On second look, she wasn’t Moer, though the resemblance ran like shared blood.

Kid, looks like you’re the one who altered the entrance key. The sprite flitted closer. On her head hovered a black halo, her shoulders wore a black cloak, and a black ring circled her finger like a tiny eclipse.

For no good reason, raw fear shivered out of his soul the instant he saw those three pieces, a winter wind through bones.

Me? No way, I— He started to deny it, then remembered. Last time, he’d come to the Boundless Sea too. Unlike now, he’d blacked out for a stretch then. If someone changed the key, it had to be during that blank. The hollow Ouyang must’ve done it.

Sweat pricked his brow as he faced the frowning, odd little sprite. He shuffled back, guilty as a boy with ink on his hands. In his mind’s corner, he almost saw that hollow self clap his shoulder. Kid, I’m just you. Why draw lines? You carry the blame, and it’s still me carrying it.

Bull. That bastard makes a mess and I take the pot?

Hmph. Guilty much? Then taste the wrath of the Dark Trinity Artifacts. The sprite’s halo bled black light, and dread pooled in his gut like tar. He felt that beam could sap his IQ like a leech draining wit. Mist curled from her cloak, and he knew if it touched him, he’d choke on even a swallowed gulp and luck would rot like fruit.

Suddenly, shards of memory flashed like broken mirrors. Ouyang finally understood.

The Dark Trinity Artifacts… that cancer kit still exists? Sprite, listen to me—

She didn’t care to listen. Smoke and dark radiance lunged at him like hunting hounds. At that critical breath, his form twisted like heat-haze, and the black hole hooked his soul and reeled him away.

Whew. Dodged a disaster. Still, the Dark Trinity Artifacts—peak scumbag gear. I need to find a way to get my hands on that set.