Beneath the jeweled night over the Starry Citadel, Ouyang and Mapleleaf locked eyes like two blades catching starlight.

There was a reason, thin as smoke in a lantern: Mapleleaf asked about the First Epoch, and Ouyang asked about the Eleventh.

Neither offered truth; their gazes butted like rams on a cliff.

“If I’ve guessed right, you reached this time because of the hundredth floor of the Tower of Truth,” Ouyang said, voice steady as a plucked string.

Mapleleaf smiled and didn’t answer; his shrug fluttered like a feather in a windless room.

By the telling of that enigmatic creature called Mapleleaf, he’d meant to return to the very first dawn and verify a few things, yet a misstep dropped him here like driftwood in a rapid.

He had no intention of going back; he’d stay a while, since the road had brought him here, like a traveler warming his hands at a stranger’s fire.

Whether Mapleleaf believed his own story was fog on a lake; Ouyang didn’t, not for a heartbeat.

Crossing the river of time demanded a price like walking through knives; Ouyang had never seen anyone dare it.

And Mapleleaf paid all that blood and coin just to stroll around, like someone pacing a bank at midnight claiming he’s window-shopping?

Calming his thoughts, Ouyang sifted Mapleleaf’s words like sand through fingers; too many riddles, too many holes.

“Forget it. Since you’re sightseeing, I do have something you can help with,” Ouyang began, his tone cool as moonlight.

Before he could outline the intruders swarming other regions of the Other Shore, Mapleleaf shook his head so hard it blurred like a rattle in a child’s hand.

“What? Help? No way—no way,” Mapleleaf said, voice hopping like a startled sparrow. “I’m a visitor from another timeline. If I meddle, history bends like wet bamboo.”

Ouyang hadn’t even said what favor he wanted; Mapleleaf had already slammed the door like a gust.

“But our turf’s crawling with stray dogs and alley cats,” Ouyang said, anger a low ember. “You really won’t care?”

He laid out what Number Seven had told him and what he’d seen himself, each detail a nail in the board.

He didn’t expect Mapleleaf to lift a hand; he just hoped the man’s presence might cast a long shadow.

When Ouyang finished, Mapleleaf flared like dry tinder.

“Mother— a pack of mutts and alley cats treating the Other Shore like some lost plane to explore?” he barked, words snapping like flags in wind. “Say no more. If I don’t beat those punks back to their own worlds, I’ll write ‘Mapleleaf’ backward.”

A moment ago he’d sworn not to meddle; now he slapped his own face with thunder.

“Handsome Mapleleaf, did you forget what you just said?” Ouyang asked, eyes narrowed like slits in armor.

Mapleleaf scratched his head, gaze skittering left and right like minnows. Then he pointed skyward. “Look, a shooting star!”

“In Starry Citadel, a meteor’s a rarity?” Ouyang snorted, breath white as frost. “That excuse is lame. Tell me true—are you really from the future?”

Under the question, Mapleleaf tilted his face up at a forty-five-degree angle, as if the stars could lend him answers.

No answers came. Ouyang left the Starry Citadel for Astral Plaza like a tide pulling back to sea.

He stepped through the giant hexagram gate; a hive of portals crowded his view like a forest of mirrors.

Back on the plaza, a long table sat in the open like a ship’s deck, and a knot of people murmured around it like bees.

A huge map sprawled on the table, the ink still wet and shining like oil on water.

Red X’s stabbed the parchment like drops of blood.

From Xi’s calm explanation, Ouyang learned those marks pinned the intruders’ den-sites.

“Let’s assign your cleanup zones,” Xi said, voice even as rain on stone. “With Number Seven’s intel, strengths vary by area, and I’ll match you by weight.”

“Most zones hold mortals, grass in the wind. A few hold gods. The most dangerous is Portal Thirty-Three—there’s a creation-tier presence there.”

By “creation-tier,” Xi meant a Realm God; names differ like dialects—some call it Creator God, some call it creation-class.

“Creation-tier? Sis-in-law, leave that one to me and Ouyang!” Mapleleaf piped up, grin bright as a spark.

For some reason, once he followed Ouyang onto Astral Plaza, Mapleleaf’s presence thinned like fog in sun; besides a single glance from Xi, no one seemed to notice him at all.

That invisibility was strange, like a veil hung over a drumbeat.

Xi smiled at the “sis-in-law,” her eyes soft as dusk. “Then it’s yours. Ouyang, be careful. Don’t get hurt.”

While Ouyang was still blinking like someone splashed with cold water, Mapleleaf tugged him toward the path to Portal Thirty-Three.

“Hey, brother, I’m not even rushing,” Ouyang protested, heels skidding like a man dragged through sand.

He’d been chewing on why others couldn’t seem to see Mapleleaf; by the time his thoughts surfaced, Mapleleaf had already hauled him halfway there.

Portal Thirty-Three opened to a vassal clan’s roost under the Other Shore, a slice of land like a bead on a vast rosary.

So many such regions existed that Ouyang had no memory of this one; it was another ripple on a wide lake.

They opened a small wooden door, and a boundless grassland spilled out like a green ocean.

Emerald blades ran to the horizon, a quilt stitched by wind.

They stood atop a giant tree, the door nested in the crown like a birdhouse cupped by leaves.

The height was uncertain—perhaps a few hundred meters—an ancient trunk spearing the open plain.

Memories stirred in Ouyang’s mind like fish rising to dawn light.

A sly smile curled Mapleleaf’s lips. “The Malegebi Grasslands!”

Yes—he named it plain as thunder. The Malegebi Grasslands, where the clan once earned the special title of Grass Mud Horse.

“I miss the days when Grass Mud Horses thundered across these fields,” Mapleleaf sighed, breath trailing like smoke.

Those who lived on the Malegebi plain were horse-like, yet unlike ordinary steeds; they were famed divine beasts of the Other Shore, bearing that unmatched title: Grass Mud Horse.

“What a pity we can’t see them run anymore,” Ouyang said, a traveler’s ache in his voice. “Back then, Grass Mud Horses were world-walkers beyond compare.”

They were called the world’s travelers; their innate gift let them slip between worlds like otters through reeds.

If the starry void is a desert, then a Grass Mud Horse is the camel that carries you through.

Own one, and world travel becomes easy as stepping stones across a brook.

No need to pay big powers for world gates, and no need to build your own with sweat and blood.

Whether you’re hunting rare materials, chasing views, or handling business, a divine Grass Mud Horse is the best bargain under heaven.

“Come on, Mapleleaf. Let’s see if any divine eggs remain,” Ouyang said, eyes blazing like coals. “If we get one Grass Mud Horse, I can world-hop like a smuggler in spring.”

You’d think they were live-bearers, but in practice they laid eggs, white ovals like moons tucked in grass.

In the Eighth Epoch, a single Grass Mud Horse fetched hundreds of thousands of starcoins, a number bright as gold dust.

Some gods would even trade away a world for one; whether that deal ever closed, Ouyang didn’t know.

The rumor alone showed the beast’s worth like a banner on a high wall.

“Grass Mud Horse? Good stuff,” Mapleleaf said, interest sparking like flint. “Let’s scour these Malegebi fields and find an egg.”

These beasts were curious wonders: their eggs never hatched on their own, only after soaking in a Rebirth Pool, water dark as memory.

Until then, time couldn’t kill them; years piled up like snow, and the egg stayed sound.

For most eggs, long neglect means a dead shell; for these, it meant nothing at all.

So long as it’s an egg, give it the pool, and it will hatch like dawn.

The duo sprinted across the Malegebi Grasslands, two streaks on green silk, hunting the legendary eggs.

“Grass Mud Horse, any live ones out here?” Ouyang shouted, voice rolling over the plain like a drum. “Grass Mud Horse, show yourself!”

Mapleleaf could only wipe at nonexistent sweat, a silent “good grief” written on his face.

“Grass Mud Horse, I only need one!” Ouyang bawled, tone halfway between prayer and barter. “Even if you’re an egg, say something, and I’ll carry you to the Rebirth Pool!”

He’d already forgotten why he and Mapleleaf came to these fields, memory like a kite cut loose.

Truth be told, Mapleleaf had forgotten too; the pair were six of one and half a dozen of the other, two ducks chasing the same ripple.