In Nightfall Forest, the stretch Ouyang’s twin castle strikes had turned to desert breathed green again. Leaves stitched a living quilt over the earth; the old crater vanished like a healed scar.

At the forest’s heart, a small village rose like mushrooms after rain. More than ten houses stood in a ring, each a strange beast of wood and stone. The Titan’s house stole the eye—wide as a field, tall as a cliff.

Inside a black castle that sat like a lump of ink, Ouyang called another meeting. His voice moved like a cold wind. “There are still comrades scattered across the continent. Leave them be for now. Before the era ended, we stayed shut in our own palaces, islands of pride in a silent sea, and that birthed our failure. This time, we live together. If danger strikes, help will rush like a storm… Wutong, got thoughts?”

Wutong rose like a blade unsheathed. “Not just thoughts—big ones.”

“First, that skeleton runs dangerous experiments every sunrise and dusk. Few want to be his neighbor; no one wants their roof blooming into fire every other day. Second, the Titan rolls when he sleeps, like a boulder loose on a slope. His house collapses daily; when that mountain falls, the nearby huts won’t survive the landslide. And the fat one—his menu is a battlefield. He piles food that births weird smells, a fog that crawls under doors. I don’t want to be smoked awake at midnight.”

She poured her grievances like a river in flood, the Demon Kings’ quirks bobbing like driftwood. Ouyang held his temper like a lid on a boiling pot, listened, then fell silent—words turned to stones in his mouth.

“So I propose the Demon King’s City’s security be mine.” Her prelude had sharpened to a claim; the net cast, the fish named. Without someone to keep reins on this herd, the city would be a pile of splinters within days.

Faces turned to the window, as if the sky outside held a circus. Though Wutong’s status had climbed like dawn, to the Demon Kings she was still Ouyang’s strategist, a moon beside a sun.

“Are you even listening?” Wutong snapped her Oil Paper Umbrella shut; energy gathered at the tip like a bright drop about to fall. One look said, disagree and I’ll thunder.

Fear rippled through the room like grass in wind. No matter your level, you can’t beat a second‑gen god, the pay‑to‑win kind. One divine‑tier artifact, and your hard‑earned advantage melts like frost.

“I think it’s a good idea,” said the black skeleton, lies clicking like teeth—wait, he had no eyes and no shame. The fat one chuckled, a wet sound like dough. The air went crooked; nobody wanted a leash.

“Looks like we fight. Loser obeys,” Wutong declared, confidence flaring like a banner. Her gaze said, you’re all trash. Among the Demon Kings, a snake flicked its tongue—protest or approval, a silver thread in the hush.

In that quiet, the snake’s hiss rang like a flute. The dark elf hopped off the Titan’s shoulder, swift as a shadow, and snatched the snake. “It’s got opinions—duel already!”

He tossed the snake out, a belt of lightning. Wutong lifted the Oil Paper Umbrella; an energy cannon bloomed at the tip, a flower of light ready to bite.

The snake froze, stunned like a statue. It had only yawned, and the sly dark elf had framed it. Snake eyes pinned the elf—just you wait, cold as winter glass.

Then the umbrella barked. Whoom—an energy blast, and the snake sailed like a leaf in a gale.

“Wutong, you cursed bastard—my mobile castle! You shot a hole clean through it!” Terror hit Ouyang first, a knife under the ribs; tears followed like rain. That poor, beleaguered mobile castle had eaten supreme divine force and stayed whole. It had drifted in space‑time currents like a lone boat and never cracked. Now Wutong had skewered it.

A kitchen knife flashed into Ouyang’s hand like a thought turned steel. The Demon Kings saw reason snap like a twig and ghosted away like smoke. Even Wutong ran, heartbeat quick as drums. The meeting ended like a cut rope—no plan, no knot.

Joy burst through the Demon Kings once the hall emptied. They scattered across the continent like migratory birds, looting building materials to dress their houses in new skins. Morning at the far east, afternoon at the far west—distance meant little to feet that flew.

Ouyang lay on the castle floor, staring up at the hole, mind blank as fog. The wound in the roof glowed like a cold moon.

Time seeped past like water under a door. The hole began to knit itself, slow as vines twining.

“What the—this castle’s godlike. Self‑healing, just perfect.” Excitement sparked in him like fireflies. He realized he’d been a corpse so long his heart had regrown; the wound on his chest closed like a page.

Mood bright, he stepped outside. The emptiness hit first, a hollow drumbeat. “Whatever. They said they brought back stuff from the Dragon Nest. I’ll check. In the Demon King’s City, even the floors should be crystal.”

The Demon Kings were surely out causing their usual chaos, kicking dust like children. Valiant had promised the rabbit he’d find that human who bullied it and settle accounts. Bartley, by Wutong’s order, had gone to tell Kooson and Amelie everything that happened, words flying like arrows.

At a pen wrapped in high fencing like ribs, Ouyang found three drakelings. Drool slipped like a stream he couldn’t dam. “Calm. Calm. Later I’ll get a growth accelerant, make them shoot up like bamboo, then butcher.”

He walked on. A crude warehouse squatted ahead, bare as a shed in winter. He opened the door; inside, emptiness echoed like a cave.

“Don’t tell me…”

Memory rose like smoke. By habit, those fools hoarded their spoils, no concept of handing anything over. “If there’s nothing here, why build a warehouse? What’s it for—show?”

He kicked and the warehouse folded like wet paper. Anger drove him in circles, boots tracing rough plans on the dirt. He chewed on town design like a bone.

“Forget it. I’ll dress my castle first.”

Soon he learned the land held none of what he craved. He pictured cherry trees encircling the castle, petals drifting like snow to grace stone. A maple grove beyond, red leaves always dancing, a sunset that never ends.

“Robbery’s the fastest way to get rich. So don’t blame me. I’ll tour the cities, lift whatever pleases the eye, and after one lap I’ll have enough to adorn this place.” His grin curved like a sickle.

Ancient Memory Town—beauty woven into streets. Every visit felt dreamlike, mist and light painting the world. He had to admit the ancient race’s taste, fine as silk.

“Maybe… just move Ancient Memory Town’s things outright?” He barely muttered when the old White Soul grunted beside him, a pebble in still water. Then came his voice, dry as leaves: “What did you just say? I’ve got a bad feeling.”

“Haha, illusion. Definitely an illusion. Uh, yeah, I’ll stroll. No need to shadow me. I won’t get lost.” Cold sweat slid down his back like rain on slate. He’d forgotten the old White Soul at his side. Ancient Memory Town wasn’t simple; he’d been greedy. Under White Soul’s sharp gaze, Ouyang fled like a rabbit, guilt tugging like thorns.

Not long after Ouyang left, Shiriel—Xi’s father—appeared behind White Soul, his brow knotted like rope. Thought weighed him down like armor.

“Don’t bother,” White Soul said, leaning on his cane like a man ready to return to earth. “Whether it’s Xi or Ouyang, we can’t meddle.”

“But I’m a father. I’ve got cause to step in.” Shiriel’s face showed no give, iron set in flesh. White Soul sighed, breath a thin cloud, and didn’t press. He lifted his eyes to the sky and prayed, words soft as incense. “May the goddess’s glory be with you.”

“I don’t worship the goddess,” Shiriel said, voice like a closed door. “She’s too distant, fog without form. If I must have faith, I’d sooner trust the Goddess of Light—she shows miracles like torches. But the Aurora Goddess… beyond those four words, we know nothing.”

White Soul looked up, shook his head like a slow bell, and held his tongue.

In the town’s old myths, the Aurora Goddess tore dark like cloth and brought light to the people, dawn after endless night. No one knows when that belief first kindled; years rolled like rivers, and still it burned. The mayor kept teaching the goddess’s lore, pouring it like tea into waiting cups. As long as each mayor rose by the ancient rite, the Aurora Goddess’s presence would not fade.

Shiriel Gulachidor had guarded this town for many years, a sentinel carved from patience. He questioned the Aurora Goddess’s existence. Other gods, however absurd, had roots somewhere—seeds, stories, stones. But for this town’s Aurora Goddess, he found no source, not a whisper.

Her existence was a riddle, a goddess stitched from tales, a lantern without flame—maybe she never existed at all.