The Rift Wasteland lay under a sky stitched with countless cracks, black seams yawning like hungry mouths ready to swallow the world.

First-timers stepped here with ice under the heart, afraid they’d slip into those sky-fissures and drift forever in an unknown elsewhere.

Now the Wasteland was split into three swathes, like a tricolor banner in the wind—south for the Demon World, north for the Divine Realm, east for Miracle City.

“Guys, I mean… don’t you feel our side looks a bit shabby, like a lone reed in a storm? Look at the Divine Realm—those cannon-fodder angels are at least lower divine tier. Look at the Demon World—their grunts are lower divine too. Us? Glenza’s skeletons are a swarm like locusts, sure, but do we have a single divine-tier skull among them? And Yulan’s Man-eating Flowers—any of those god-tier blossoms?”

Though Ouyang and the rest weren’t afraid if blades met, a chill like damp fog still crept in—they felt they’d lost something on the face of it.

“Duh. They’ve got higher worlds behind them, like mountains at their back. We’re a handful of folks, like boats on a lake. How do you compare boats to mountains?” Quiet Yulan snapped at Ouyang, her voice a sharp pebble in the stream—clearly still salty about him doubting her flowers’ bite.

Wutong slapped the table like thunder over a plain. “Ouyang, please. Is this the time to fuss over face? Neither the Divine Realm nor the Demon World has had any Lord God descend. Doesn’t that smell off, like iron in rain?”

With that dropped like a stone, everyone’s thoughts rippled. What were those big shots in the two realms thinking? At a moment like this, did they believe a bunch topping out at upper divine could settle us, like using straw to dam a river?

We had several at the highest divine tier standing like peaks. Not to mention Ouyang, a Realm God-level storm unto himself. And Dongze and Agas—two unknown titans looming like shadows. Had the high councils of both realms boiled their brains, or were they weaving something under the fog?

“I guess… the Divine Realm and Demon World think we were sealed so long our strength fell like autumn leaves. So a wave of grunts is enough to sweep us, like brooms in a yard.” Kooson’s shiny bald head flashed like reflected moonlight—wisdom at first glance.

Devila sprayed him with words, a cold rain on hot stone. “Mortal wisdom. The Divine and Demon Worlds have stood through endless seasons like ancient cliffs. You think their high ranks are bump-head fools? Don’t drag their IQ down to yours like mud on silk.”

Devila had been fire-tempered lately, a vampire shedding elegance like a snake sheds skin. As Ouyang liked to say, for a vampire, there are always a few days each year… like red tides on the shore.

Truth was, Devila’s edge traced back to Kanofia. Kanofia had stayed in Miracle City for ages—Devila’s failure to spot the thorn was the real thorn. He’d told Ouyang ages ago about his sister, asking him to revive her, like trying to coax a spring from winter earth. Ouyang agreed, yet a year had slipped by like drift snow. Devila didn’t rush—after ten thousand years, a few more are dew on grass.

In Miracle City, Devila met Kanofia—same name, same face, like a mirror in mist—and he froze like a stag under torchlight. A noble vampire doesn’t blurt; he watches, a cat behind the curtain. Then came the word: Kanofia vanished in the Rift Wasteland, the news a thorn under the nail. His mood tangled like vines.

Ouyang’s heart wasn’t calm either, a drum under a night wind. He didn’t really know why the Diary brothers handed him this task, but he knew one future truth: Kanofia, progenitor of the Blood Moon, mattered like a keystone. Such a keystone gone missing on his turf? His pulse couldn’t not pound. Ouyang took the whole world as his turf like a lord with a map, so her vanishing in the Rift Wasteland felt like a stone stolen from his courtyard.

“What’s there to guess? They chickened out,” Feges, the dark elf, sprawled over the makeshift table like a lazy cat. Too weak—the enemy was grass under a scythe. As highest divine, she felt embarrassed to slaughter them, like thunder swatting flies.

Everyone tossed odd reasons like leaves into a stream. Valiant, the half-orc, offered one: “The Lord Gods in both realms must be holding a friendly match, so they’re busy.” He said it like sunshine on fog.

A friendly match? Divine Realm and Demon World shaking hands like old friends? Everyone gave him a “you’re joking” look, faces like masks, and Valiant lowered his head like a bull chastised—he didn’t know the wrong, but he smelled it like smoke.

Eunice—written as Water Goddess, read as eternal loli—went rough as a hailstorm. “No need to ask. The Divine and Demon Worlds started fighting again, and all their Lord Gods died!”

All died? Ouyang would sooner believe a sow climbs a tree like a bear than buy that.

Their weird reasons made Ouyang chuckle like pebbles tapping a window. In the end, Dongze and Agas handed out the real thread, like lanterns in dusk.

While the squabble rose like sparrows, Dongze finally cleared his throat, a cough like tapping wood. “Everyone, I think I can guess why both realms act so oddly.”

Silence fell like snow. Eyes turned to Dongze, faces almost wearing little “please explain” plaques like shop signs.

“It ties back to that crow,” Dongze said, and walked them through Seth City—Augustine’s hometown—when they fought Saya, a memory like smoke trailing a torch. “For a blink of an eye, the aura of a Tiered Being flashed like lightning, and both realms caught it like fishermen catching a glint. So for a while now, no real powerhouse will dare come, like deer avoiding a wolf’s den.

Most sent are cannon fodder, tossed like straw men onto a field. Their high councils are all on edge, each heart a hare. In this era, Tiered Beings can’t meet—if they do, something terrible will happen, like storms breeding storms.” Dongze glanced at the sky, a look like a secret folded in cloud. Only Ouyang and Agas understood; Jue might have guessed, like a hawk reading wind.

“And from what was caught, there were several Tiered Being auras—so they panicked, like birds under a hawk’s shadow. On one hand, they fear those Tiered Beings coming to settle scores. On the other, they dread a gathering triggering divine punishment, a storm that sweeps both realms like wildfire. So for a stretch ahead, both realms will steer clear of this dangerous world, like ships avoiding a reef.”

The truth—damned truth—fell like a hammer. Everyone clutched their heads, minds blown like hats in a gale. In the end, Feges had nailed it—those guys had chickened out.

“Senior Dongze, why can’t Tiered Beings meet?” Wutong raised a hand like a student, voice soft as a spring.

“This—”

“I got it,” Ouyang cut in, words sliding like a blade. “It ties to the Other Shore. In the Eighth Epoch, a flock of Tiered Beings gathered like storms merging. What did they do? They blasted the Barrier, tore it open, and opened the Gate like prying a tomb. That war wounded the Supreme Law, cut it deep—so deep it’s still not whole, healing slow like sap mending bark.

Lesson learned—pain writes rules. From then on, the Supreme Law forbade beings of that height from clustering, to keep them from reenacting the Eighth Epoch with thunder and fire.”

“Of course, every rule is a net with holes. Those traitors must’ve found gaps like foxes finding a fence-break.”

Ouyang’s words were a lantern; everyone’s knowledge rose like dawn.

“Ouyang boss, if that’s the case, why let these little grasshoppers hop on our turf like a summer plague?” Kooson smacked the table, stood like a spear—he wouldn’t rest until the Wasteland was swept clean like a courtyard after rain.

Ouyang leaned on the wooden table, palm under his chin, a thinker statue in candlelight. He mused long, mind a lake with ripples. At last he nodded, a decision like a blade drawn.

“If they’re spooked by Tiered Beings, I’ll make their hearts pound harder, like drums before battle.” He grinned, eyes bright. He didn’t have Tiered power, but he wore their traits like a cloak—say, a Guardian Angel’s shadow.

If he didn’t scare them proper, his time in the Starry Citadel would’ve been smoke on water.

“You all—watch from the side, don’t stop me from showing off, like fireworks at night. Uh… where is everyone?” Ouyang looked around—several seats were suddenly empty, gaps like teeth missing. Yulan gone, Jue gone, Amelie gone, Glenza gone…

“Ouyang boss, they ran off to teach the Divine Realm and Demon World how to behave—like schoolmasters with sticks,” Kooson said, the designated messenger, a bell ringing in a quiet hall.

“What the heck? I said I’d be the one showing off, like a solo on a stage. How can they just bolt? We agreed I’d hog the spotlight—how’d they steal my scene? Hey! You lot—wait up! Leave me a few heads, don’t eat the whole feast!”

Ouyang shouted, voice rolling out to blanket the Rift Wasteland like thunderclouds. Both camps pricked up like hedgehogs, wary as deer.

Their vigilance didn’t help, like umbrellas in a hurricane. Running into Kooson or Valiant at mid divine was manageable—some high hand could smack them down like swatting crows. Running into Devila at upper divine made hearts twist, like ropes under strain. Worse was meeting Jue, Amelie, Yulan—highest divine “dad-tier,” bosses like mountains.

A highest divine charging into an army was near unilateral slaughter, like a tiger loosed in a flock. With no highest divine Lord God daring to descend, what could possibly stop them—straw shields in a storm?