With his sights pinned to the north like a needle to a lodestone, Ouyang pushed on, worry humming in his chest like bees in a jar. He kept his eyes glued to the compass, afraid his quarry would drift past like a shadow and he’d miss them in the rain.
His fear never landed; he slipped smoothly into a city, as quiet as a leaf on water. This was the place the old man Kula and his son Kado had chosen for their “grand art.” So Ouyang lingered a few days, watching, his thoughts pacing like a caged tiger.
The city was called Banyan City, true to its name, a shrine of green. Banyan trees stood everywhere—some small enough for a clay pot, some huge enough to cast sky-wide shade for a hundred, a thousand years.
Here, the banyan was a totem, worshiped like a mountain spirit. Because of that worship, the city’s greening had gone mad—ivy for walls, moss for skin, vines for veins.
“Boss, give me your most luxurious room.” Ouyang flicked the owner a rain of gold coins. He’d earned them the hard way—one midnight, he’d roasted meat by a campfire. Bandits popped out like dogs from brush. Ouyang robbed the robbers and left them in their skivvies, then pawned their clothes for coin.
He paid, took the key, and climbed the wooden stairs. Each step groaned like an old ship, the boards complaining as if a breath more would snap them in two.
Out of reverence for the banyan, the inns were all timber and smell of sap. Whether wood or stone, every house outside was cinched with vines, so that from a distance the whole town looked like a flooded field of green.
It was madness, Ouyang thought, this green gone feral. Was the city trying to walk backward into the primeval forest?
He had to accept a wooden room anyway. He opened the door and went still—vines braided across the ceiling like snakes. He’d known the exterior was wrapped, but he hadn’t expected the inside. Even the quilt was woven from glossy leaves, and cicadas rasped under the bed in broken threads of sound.
Right then, he wanted to put a torch to the place. Ten gold for a bed that buzzed like midsummer scrub? Ten gold! A common family lived a month on one. He’d just burned a year of a family’s life on a shack that squeaked and sang at him. What, did they take him for a fat sheep?
Whoosh—he formed a small fireball in his palm.
Drip, drip…
Water fell from the roof like beads and snuffed it cold. The inn was a circus—cicadas shrieking, a board-hard bed, a leaf quilt—and now a leaking sky.
He gathered himself to make a bigger flame. Thunder rolled outside like boulders across a riverbed. A few seconds later the rain came down in sheets, the leak thickening into a relentless drum.
“Damn it, what kind of rat-hole is this, leaking like a sieve?” An angry voice floated up from below, sharp as a cleaver. Ouyang noticed the drops hit the floor, then vanish. He looked closer—the boards had thin seams; the water slid through and fell to the rooms beneath, a quiet stream under the noise.
He went all in—pried open the ceiling with a crack and let the rain pour in like a waterfall. The flood found the seams and cascaded downstairs. Complaints rose through the boards like steam.
“Eika, look at the dump you picked. How is this different from hiding under a banyan in a storm? We scraped and saved three gold to sleep in this?” The girl’s voice had the snap of a bowstring, clear even to Ouyang on the second floor.
Eika? He frowned. He’d heard that name somewhere, and the girl’s voice felt familiar like an old tune. But he hadn’t spent much time with those two from Herikot; the thread wouldn’t catch.
He thought for a moment, then let it go like a leaf in a stream. He raised both hands, shaped two large globes of water, and slammed them down on the floor. A river burst through the seams, and downstairs turned into a monsoon. The grumbling below flipped from drizzle to downpour.
“Boss, get out here! What kind of dump is this? I’m lodging a complaint!” The girl had had enough. A door banged open; she ran for the counter. Ouyang sat on the bed’s edge, watching rain knife through the room while the cicadas kept sawing their song.
He peered through the hole in the ceiling at the world outside. Something in the view made his brow knot, like a fisherman sensing a snag he couldn’t see.
Noise spilled into the hall—several voices. From their tone, people were done with quiet and wanted blood. One by one they went to argue with the owner.
But…
“This is weird. Where’s the boss today? We searched every floor and he’s gone.” A man’s voice carried down the hall, frayed like rope.
Ouyang’s frown dug deeper, carving a trench. He extended a hand and cradled a flame. Minutes ticked like rain on bamboo. Relief touched his face at last, but his gaze never left the small fireball, his expression tight as a drawn bow.
He’d found a terrifying truth. No matter how he tried, the flame never grew—his power was nailed down to a feeble ember. Not just magic. His Secret Arts sat locked. Even his supreme divine sense couldn’t sweep the room below; it faltered against a single plank like mist against stone.
He replayed each scene and still couldn’t find the hinge where it turned wrong. When had the trap sprung? Every thread led into fog. The root was hidden, and the owner had seemed plain at first glance. But given the guests couldn’t find him at all, the owner reeked of trouble.
No way out. It all felt like a knot that wouldn’t give. When he’d peered through the torn ceiling, he already knew—you couldn’t walk out. The space outside was twisting like a snake. The inn’s pocket had slipped off the track of normal time and world. He’d been played.
“Night Clan operatives? Or the hands behind the Cataclysm?” If it was the Night Clan, anyone strong enough to do this wouldn’t waste hours on games. To break sealed world channels took an Ancient God’s strength. If such a master had come, then Divine Sword and that Stone Man would never sit on their hands.
Unless Cole’s intel had lied. But the Night Clan didn’t have that kind of nerve. The older you live, the tighter you hold your life. In this world shaped by the ancient species of the Other Shore, any Ancient God who knew the deep secrets wouldn’t dare. Only fools like Lagu, charging straight into an enemy’s nest without a clue, were that rare.
He was still thinking when knuckles tapped the door. The hall boiled with voices; the guests had realized the truth—no one could leave the inn.
He opened the door. A girl with long, leaf-green hair and a green dress stood on the threshold, fresh as spring. Beside her, a short-haired boy, the same green shade, shouldered a pack like a traveler.
“D—” Nabelia almost blurted Demon King, then caught herself with civilians around. “Lord Ouyang, what a wonder to meet you here. The favor of the Supreme Law, surely.”
The peerless girl lifted her skirt and bowed with an old rite, one Herikot had kept since before the End.
Ouyang didn’t waste words. He nodded to Nabelia, a quiet drop in a restless pond.
Counting Ouyang and the sibling pair, there were thirteen in the hall. Faces carried panic like frost. Just now, a merchant claiming Terracafe had tried the front door. No matter how he pushed, the door wouldn’t yield.
The others didn’t believe him; they went, and found the same. The wooden door looked like a single kick could splinter it, but it sat like a cliff—motionless, unmoved.
“Haven’t you thought about jumping out the window?” People huddled in the corridor, Ouyang’s small fireball their lone lantern. Nabelia asked it crisp as wind through reeds. A plump woman shook her head. “We haven’t, but…” Fear pulled a shadow over her face.
“The world outside isn’t the one we know,” Ouyang said, his voice low as thunder under earth. “If I’m right, there were more than thirteen. The others jumped and turned to mince the instant they crossed the window.”
Silence fell like ash. Faces went bone-white. Ouyang was no liar. The space around them kept twisting like a ribbon in a storm. Even with his divine body, he wouldn’t risk it. What chance did mortals have?
As the air tightened into something colder, the pitch-black corridor flashed awake. Lamps on both sides bloomed eerie blue, casting waves of ghostlight. People jumped like fish, then steadied. When they looked down the corridor, their hearts dropped—it ran on without an end, a river into night.
Thump, thump…
Footsteps echoed along the boards, and a shape drifted closer, as if it were walking out of the farthest, vanishing point.
When the figure neared, Ouyang’s pupils pinched like needles. The newcomer wore a black mage’s hat. A robe of dark red braided with black stirred without wind. In his hand, a staff—nothing like the continent’s wands—just a black stick, lacquered in shadow.
“That rotten breath… death made eternal.”
