A month...

Jade Rabbit told Ouyang he’d slept an entire month, like a stone sunk in a deep lake. He’d felt only that half-dream road, blooming with red spider lilies, stretching like dusk without end.

He yawned, rubbed his eyes, then eyed the Divine Sword in his hand, cold as moonlight on ice. Legend said it could sever even the Supreme Law, yet in his grip it was a broken thunderbolt.

Looks like only the blood of gods and demons can wake it, he thought, his mood a tight knot as his fingers stroked the cracked blade like running a hand over dry riverbed. He wasn’t a swordsman, but he could swing a stick of winter.

He tested it with a lazy swing, a whoosh like wind through bamboo. Just then, a bat glided in through the door like a shadow on water.

Devila watched a strand of his own forelock fall, sliced clean as silk under frost. Cold sweat burst out like rain; the cracked blade had flashed like a guillotine of night. Since rising as an ancestor of the Blood Kin, he hadn’t felt death breathe this close.

What… what is that thing? You swing something that dangerous indoors like a drunk storm? Trying to kill me? His voice shook like a bell in a gale. The sword looked ready to shatter if smashed on the floor, yet for one heartbeat it felt like a reaper’s scythe.

Danger? Everyone drifted over like leaves to a whirlpool. Devila’s panic was a lit torch; but aside from White Cat, the others only wore fog for faces. With his strength, could a near-broken sword really cut him?

This… Ouyang slid two fingers along the blade, calm as a brush over paper. It’s a treasure. Back in the Eighth Epoch, it cut portions of the Supreme Law clean off. How’s that for sharp? His words fell like stones into a still pond.

Huh? Those who didn’t get it blinked like owls at noon; those who did felt their backs frost over like glass.

White Cat sprawled on Augustine’s head like a snowball on a hill, eyes round as moons, tail and ears standing like spears. Devila stood frozen as a statue in hail, shock carved into his face. Everyone else stared at Ouyang with drifting-boat confusion.

You’ve got to be kidding. How could that thing land in your hands? White Cat had stayed in the Other Shore, so his voice carried wind from far coasts. He doubted on the tongue, but half-believed in the heart.

Kidding? With you? This is the God Emperor’s own blade. Ouyang’s words rang like iron on stone.

White Cat froze, then sprang at Ouyang like a comet with whiskers. Meow, big boss, I’m clinging to you for life—let me hitch a ride on your thigh! Dignity and pride flew like startled sparrows; he’d seen this sword’s blueprint on the Other Shore. Scrape away the cracks, and it matched his memory like mirror to mirror.

Thud. Ouyang sidestepped; White Cat crashed into the table like a small avalanche. He shook it off, then latched onto Ouyang’s leg like ivy to a pine.

Meow—Ouyang, don’t burn the bridge after crossing. We’ve been through thick and thin like rain and mist. You’re rich now; don’t forget the crew. His plea clung like wet fur.

Shared hardship? Ouyang tried to remember when he’d suffered with this cat; the image slipped like fish. He’d thought White Cat was aloof as a winter moon; who knew he dropped shame faster than rain from eaves.

He didn’t refuse.

Little cat, want to be a citizen of the Other Shore? Perks like stars in a net: portals, world-channels, use them at will. The cities there are littered with books like autumn leaves; read what you want. Find an artifact, and you get first dibs to borrow. Most important, I can let you into the Library of Truth in the Epoch Corridor. His smile was a sugar plum on a hook, bright and suspicious as a rainbow after rain.

Everyone saw the lollipop except Bai, who stood like a clear spring. White Cat saw it too, but the bait glittered like starlight over black water. The Library of Truth. Devila’s grasp of the Other Shore was fog at dawn; White Cat, a seasoned stray of that coast, understood the scent of treasure.

The Library of Truth with the Sage of Truth as curator? I can go in and read freely? White Cat’s voice trembled like a string touched by wind.

Saliva slipped from his lip like a clear bead and fell to the floor. His eyes locked on Ouyang like twin lanterns, and he didn’t notice the drip at all.

Freely… cough, not freely. The ninth layer is off-limits, but below the ninth, I can decide. Ouyang’s words landed like measured stones on a path.

White Cat’s tail shot up again like a banner. The ninth layer meant little; knowledge there was deep as the sea in winter. Even with millions of years, he might not grasp a drop.

Meow—can Master Cat become a citizen of the Other Shore right now? Quick, I can’t hold it back like a spring flood.

Watching the overexcited puffball, Ouyang could only soothe like patting a restless horse. No rush, no rush…

He then gathered what changed in that month, piecing it like shells along a shore. Number Seven really blasted a hole in the world’s wall, like a cannon cracking ice. Days ago, churches across the world claimed divine oracles, like banners rising in a storm. In the Land of Light’s capital, at the Light Church’s headquarters, angels were said to appear like dawn through stained glass.

Rumor swirled like crows: for the Karosen Kingdom’s deeds, the Divine Realm would send a Seraph to punish. Panic spread through the kingdom like fire through dry grass. In a handful of days, uprisings flared like brushfires. They shouted for the rulers to march to the Church and beg pardon, called the rulers dull as fog, and swore they’d drag the kingdom into the abyss.

All told, Empress Sheila carried pressure like a mountain on her shoulders. If she didn’t hold absolute power like an iron pillar, the kingdom would’ve shattered like clay before the Light Church even moved.

A Seraph? Six wings should be upper god-tier, Ouyang said, casual as wind over reeds. Vice-captain, you almost stepped into the apex god-tier. That Seraph is yours. Teach them manners like a tutor with a switch. In his eyes, god-level was chaff in the wind; unless it was the Creator God, he couldn’t be bothered to look up.

Oh, right. Vice-captain, try to let those angels clash with the Twelve Divine Demon Artifacts. Then sit back and watch the play like sipping tea in the rain. Trading blows is cheap; keep the robes clean.

And that’s that. Augustine, you’ll handle the Twelve Divine Demon Artifacts, Ouyang added, his tone even as a metronome. And Caro, playtime’s done. Head back to the City of the Dead. Jue has a way to make you stronger. Back then you lacked seasoning like soup without salt. He wanted you to wander first, then help you grow—better that way.

Hearing it, Augustine felt the breeze of parting touch his heart, cool as twilight.

Collin, don’t go head-to-head with the Light Church, Ouyang continued, words neat as stacked tiles. Find ways to put them against the Twelve Divine Demon Artifacts. Let the Twelve take the blame like lightning rods.

Caro’s face tightened like drawn bowstring; she’d always held a decent view of the Goddess of Light and the Light Church. Yet when she cooled like tea left out, she had to admit: Light Church and Void Church were oil and water, doomed to hiss when they met. Ouyang’s advice to Collin was a hard but straight road.

Hold up, Teacher Ouyang. Why is Collin the Pope of the Church, yet he needs your guidance? Augustine frowned like a cloud snagged on a peak. Ouyang had been dropping heavy words like stones, and Pope Collin nodded like a well-behaved student under Ouyang and Devila’s scolding.

That question… ask Jue when you can; he’ll give you an answer. Little cat, we’re taking a trip to Astral Plaza. Bai, what about you? Ouyang’s gaze was soft as lantern light.

Bai stood there like a birch in wind, a little lost, a little tangled. After a moment, she tugged her white robe, her silver hair tousled by a breeze like starlight through reeds. Ouyang, are we… friends?

Friends?

After these days together, Ouyang felt the old resentment drift off like smoke. The past could ride the wind away. Friends… that could be the word, like a cup set gently on a table.

Friends, yes. Friends who weathered the storm together. His answer was steady as a hearth flame.

At that, Bai stepped up and gripped his coat like a child holding a kite string. Her pretty face held a stubborn light, bright as a winter sun. Friends… friends don’t leave or forsake. So I’ll go with my friend.

Every word she spoke rang with innocence like clear bells. In that moment, the girl felt like an angel to Ouyang, all bright snow and open sky.

Angel…

He murmured, the word floating like a white feather. Some thought unfurled like a scroll behind his eyes.

Could she walk with me to the end of time? he wondered, his heart a distant tide. In such a short span, who’d be foolish enough to perform that ritual with him? Would she? Even with Bai’s clean simplicity, his certainty was a bird that wouldn’t land.

In old tales, angels weren’t symbols of pure sweetness; they were lighthouses of guardianship, steady as mountains. Not good, not evil, not bound to justice or sin. Only after the ancient angels vanished did people drape them in meanings like silk on a statue.

Maybe… you’re a fine choice. A smile, hard to name, curved his lips like the first crescent moon. His hand ruffled her silver hair, fingers combing light like wind through wheat.

No one present understood his stray words; they fell like snowflakes that didn’t melt. Maybe Bai sensed a thread in the air; she smiled too, simple as a spring, smiling like a promise blinking in the sun.