While Ouyang was in a meeting, by the eerie lake in the Sealed Land, a crow, a sword, and a stone man huddled under an ash-colored sky.

The sword swayed, its tip aimed at the crow, whose pitch-black feathers and ember-red eyes chilled like coals in snow. “Yo, last time you were a monkey—now a crow? Pick a better vessel.”

At the taunt, the crow spread courtly wings, its proud head lifted to the death-still heavens. “You know nothing. The crow is my true form.” It climbed the air like black flame, wheeled, then settled atop the stone man’s head.

“Francis, speak. What’s your situation?”

The stone man sank into thought like a cliff in fog. The crow hopped on his head like a pecking storm until the “sleeping” boulder woke.

“How are things on Aurora’s side?” The crow nudged him awake and asked again, voice like a feather cutting ice.

“She said, get lost. Stop ruining her romance.” His words fell like a slammed door, and the sword and crow went quiet as wind caught in reeds.

“As expected, a woman in love is an unreasonable creature.” The stone man nodded like a pillar, and even the sword’s hilt wobbled in reluctant agreement.

“We meant to hold a meeting. Ayang’s memories only reach before the Third Epoch, and he knows nothing after. We’d brief him, but with Aurora’s mood, we delay.” The sword drifted for a while, then delivered the verdict like a blade tapped on stone.

The crow spread its wings and glided from the stone head onto the sword, a spill of ink over steel.

“What now? Under Captain me, we punch through the gate?” Its voice strutted like a rooster at dawn.

“Captain? Be reasonable. I’m the captain type.” The sword’s tone rang like tempered metal.

Watching feather and steel argue, the stone man couldn’t help but join, his voice slow as earth. “How about rock–paper–scissors? Winner leads.”

The crow eyed wings, then claws, then the stone man’s human-like palm, then the sword with no hands. Before the crow spoke, the sword flared. “Brat, you bullying me for not having hands?” Two hands bloomed from either side of the blade like smoke from a brazier.

“Stop fighting. Be sensible. I’m the one who survived the Sea of Aether and came back. I’m captain.” The crow stood on the sword, wings spread like black sails, owning the sky.

The sword had enough. It shivered, and the crow tumbled, a scrap of night falling. Mid-drop, feathers flared, and it rose at the last heartbeat.

Seeing that “I rule the world” posture, the sword snorted like steel on slate. “Stop bragging. Pull your projection out of the planet’s core if you’re tough. You’re the only one who brought a projection over, yet the Supreme Law chained you at the core. You shame us.”

Caw. The crow froze, then dropped straight from the sky like a cut feather.

...

“Next, city planning. Quiet.” Ouyang tapped the table, and the noisy hall fell like dust after thunder. “This Demon King’s City has inner and outer zones. We live inside; the outer is for mortal-rank beings. Build a wall between, or you’ll accidentally kill them like flies in a storm.”

Ouyang didn’t know: outside, because he had tossed a single flower, that flower had stirred a tempest. He had cast a ward like frost to keep the meeting calm, so none of them knew the Man-eating Flower was battling a multi-race coalition.

“Boss Ouyang, do we need to keep those weak ones?” The Titan grinned, an apex predator whose breath carried mountain cold. “They’re so weak, not even worth eating.”

Kooson, dragged from a black hole by Ouyang, pointed at the Titan, his finger a spear of wind. “Big guy, without those weaklings, can you craft fine houses? Cook good food? Tend these gardens?”

Nervous first, the rabbit felt the air curdle between two giants. It hopped behind Ouyang like a shadow seeking a tree, found a sliver of safety, then its courage bloomed. “Lord Kooson is right. You can destroy worlds in a breath, but creation is hard. They’re weak, but they can make the Demon King’s City more beautiful.”

“For once, that punchable rabbit said something useful.” Amelie hugged her sword, voice cold as winter glass, still bristling at being yanked through the void by unseen hands.

Jue slowly opened both eyes, ancient wells glinting. “Good idea. We don’t have the time to manage this city.”

Seeing most of them agree, Ouyang tapped the table and rolled into the next notice like a drumbeat.

“Next, an announcement. Devila, Bartley, Valiant, Eunice—stand.” The four traded looks like deer in mist, unsure, then rose.

“After some observation, these four performed well. I’m bringing them into our group. I’m reordering the seats of the Demon King Council.”

First seat, Void Messenger—Ouyang, a shadow at the heart.

The former second and third seats betrayed us, so now: second seat, the Undying—Jue, an ember that never goes out.

Third seat, Wish-born Fiend—Yulan, a lone stalk under the stars.

Fourth seat, Abyss of the Sword—Amelie, a blade humming like deep water.

Fifth seat, Lich—Glenza, frost on old bone.

Sixth seat, Alchemist Master—Wutong, glass and gold in steady hands.

Seventh seat, Kiss of Night—Feges, moon-silk over shadow.

Eighth seat, Blood Noble—Devila, velvet and thorns.

Ninth seat, Two-faced Walker—Kooson, a coin flipping in the wind.

Tenth seat, Heart of Space—Moqi, a burrowing line through sky and stone.

Eleventh seat, Glutton—cough—Gourmet—Dufei, a table groaning under stars.

Twelfth seat, God of Might—Tangela, thunder stitched to muscle.

Thirteenth seat, Roaring Lion—Valiant, a mane blazing like sunset.

Fourteenth seat, Dance of Water—Eunice, ripples braided with light.

Fifteenth seat, Artisan’s Heart—Bartley, a chisel singing on granite.

“That’s all the Demon Kings present. The rest were turned by Cataclysm and the Sword Demon.” His words fluttered like torn banners in a high wind.

No one was surprised. Wutong bit her lip, then raised her hand, a sprig against storm. “Objection. Why is that flower sprite ranked ahead of me?”

She meant the plant sprite—Yulan, the Wish-born Fiend in third.

“Objection overruled.”

Ouyang didn’t entertain it. Wutong was remarkable, a mortal who had lived countless years, yet she wasn’t Yulan. Yulan’s true body was prayer-grass, a divine thing. If she died, prayer-grass would go extinct. She is the only one under the starry vault.

Kiss of Night, Feges, means a dark elf. Heart of Space, Moqi, is that burrowing snake. Gourmet, Dufei, is that damn fatso. God of Might, Tangela—obviously the Titan. The names rustled like leaves in a ledger.

“Next, about duties...” Ouyang hadn’t finished when people began walking out, birds scattering into blue. For them, titles are smoke; only the free sky is home.

“Come back.”

...

Inside Ouyang’s castle, his desk was buried under papers like a snowdrift against a wall. “City Lord, you need to approve these.” Wutong smiled oddly; the stacks rose to the ceiling, and Ouyang’s hands trembled like reeds.

“Chief Executive, isn’t this your job? You handle it.” His voice tossed the burden like a rope over water.

Damn—self-inflicted karma tasted bitter as over-steeped tea. Why had he carved duties so cleanly?

He sprawled across the desk like a felled tree and wouldn’t rise, no matter how Wutong called.

“Forget it. I knew you wouldn’t handle this. To gather vast wish-power, you need a working institution. The Eternal Emperor relied on the Eternal Empire to collect that flood. Doing it alone is impossible.” Her words flowed like rivers into a sea.

Wutong waved, letting the matter drift away like a kite cut loose.

“You know I’m collecting wish-power?” Shock first—Ouyang felt a chill; Wutong knew too much, like seeing through a curtain.

“What’s hard about that? Someone told me.” Her tone was a pebble skipped across a pond.

“Who?”

“Not telling. Sit and stew.” She smiled like a closed fan.

Ouyang pushed up, then flopped back onto the desk. “Scheming witch.” The mutter was a cloud under his breath.

Thud. Wutong shoved the mountain of files. A heap crashed onto Ouyang’s head like loose bricks.

“Fine, I’m not mad.” She sat and breathed deep, taming a storm inside her ribs.

Not mad? You just dumped a mountain on me, and you’re not mad? The thought sputtered like a candle under rain.

“Ouyang, what’s next? Destroy the Divine Realm?”

“You’re overthinking.” He rolled his eyes, a tired tide. “The Divine Realm, the Demon World, the Abyss—they’re hard to erase. Even at the Other Shore’s peak, it was hard.”

No matter how Wutong pressed, Ouyang wouldn’t give the why. He knew: in the Divine Realm, Abyss, and Demon World dwell ancient beings who have lived an epoch. From the Void Watcher’s memories, he learned their “epoch” means a cosmic epoch, not an Other Shore epoch. The truth sat heavy like old stone.

That’s why, when the Night Clan fled into the Demon World, that realm wasn’t destroyed. Jue’s soul-rotted state hints at several cosmic epochs lived, though he never said it; Ouyang could guess. And Yulan—prayer-grass shouldn’t even exist in this cosmic epoch, a green flame against the grain of time.