While Sen Yue and the others were still reeling from Lingwen’s reaction, voices rose again in the distance. No one there understood a word. Same problem: no shared tongue.

Soon, a group walked in. The one in front was wrapped in mist, a phantom crown hovering over his head, rainbow light spilling from it.

“Genesis Crown!” Lingwen’s surprise flashed; she hadn’t expected to stumble into other gods.

“Genesis Crown?” Ouyang only frowned, more bored than shocked, rattled by the guy’s overblown swagger. Every Realm God had one—Lingwen did, and so did he.

Yet neither Ouyang nor Lingwen wore theirs like a billboard. It’s like the rich: same money, different taste. Some dress plain; some drape themselves in gold chains and rings, terrified you won’t know they’re rich.

Exactly—this mist-wreathed showboat with a crown was terrified we might miss he was a Creator God.

Behind him trailed a mixed retinue—many races, many shapes—all clearly his followers.

“Mortals, what are you looking for?” The misted figure held his tongue. A blond lackey stepped up, voice lofty, speaking like a judge on high.

They knew the language gap, so they spoke by soul.

Annoyance flared first in Sen Yue, then helplessness. The misted one’s leaking aura pressed down like a mountain. She forced calm and tried to explain their purpose.

Ouyang and Mapleleaf spoke in unison: “Cao ni ma!”

The blond froze, then trembled with anger, handsome face twisting. “You foolish mortals—what did you say?”

“Cao ni ma!”

They answered again, perfectly in sync.

“Foolish mortals, how dare you profane the divine...” Indignant voices buzzed through the entourage, the curse cutting them to the quick.

Ouyang blinked innocently, eyes wide with mock purity. “Cao ni ma! You asked what we were looking for. We’re looking for the Grass Mud Horse.”

“Yeah. Are you all brain‑damaged? We answered you straight, and you go off like lunatics?” Mapleleaf chimed in, pitch‑perfect, serenely unbothered.

The blond stepped forward, chin high. “Mortals, I serve as the Strategist under the Creator God. The laws of the myriad worlds are penned by me. Kneel now.”

Sen Yue and the other three mortals were stunned. The misted one was strong—they’d felt that—but his status? Terrifying. This lost civilization churned out gods by the handful. Lingwen looked like a god. Mapleleaf, who had beaten Lingwen, had to be one. Now a whole band of gods stood here.

“Strategist?” Ouyang rubbed his chin, thoughtful. After a beat, he clapped. “Oh—got it.”

Got it? Sen Yue, Lingwen, even Mapleleaf fixed on Ouyang, wanting to know what he remembered. Did he know these people?

Seeing the reaction, the blond angled his neck proudly. “Mortals, I’m impressed you’ve heard our great name—”

Great name? Sen Yue and the others wanted to ask who, exactly, he was. He hadn’t even introduced himself, yet he assumed Ouyang knew his name.

Given the power gap, they held that question back.

Ouyang nodded, voice full of dawning wonder. “Right, right. ‘Zhijiang’—Strategist. Sounds just like ‘zhizhang’—idiot. That’s it. You’re a whole troop of idiots.”

“Pfft—”

Mapleleaf lost it, laughing on the spot. “Hahaha... I can’t—an entire squad of idiots... Hey, Ayang, look—there’s a flock of idiots!” He pointed at the group, one hand on his belly.

At last, Sen Yue and the other two cracked, laughter spilling out. Even Lingwen hid a smile behind her sleeve.

“Read as ‘Zhijiang,’ written as ‘zhizhang’?” The blond rolled Ouyang’s words around, slow on the uptake. His men tugged his cape and whispered in his ear. His face went crimson with rage.

“Good. Very good. Mortals, you’ve enraged the divine.”

Golden armor rippled across his body. A war‑sword flashed into his hand. “I, the War God Karis, will show you divine wrath. Receive judgment!”

Karis lifted his greatsword high, both hands firm. Endless light coiled around the blade like serpents.

“Hah. Drawing a blade in front of a grandmaster of the sword? You sure you’re not joking?” Mapleleaf smiled, like a weathered elder watching a ten‑year‑old brag.

“Starburst—Abandon Treatment Slash!”

In a blink, Mapleleaf stood among them—one man, two blades. His swords blurred and sang. Fast—too fast. His path was speed incarnate. Before gods could think, their bodies were already diced to meat.

As ever, the Divine Bloom withered. The instant his swords left the scabbard, petals fell. By the time their flesh turned to scraps, the petals hadn’t even reached the ground.

“So this is... the Withering Swordsman—Mapleleaf.”

Ouyang remembered Mapleleaf’s old epithet. Back then, he hadn’t grasped it. Now he did. What withers in the Withering Swordsman is the Divine Bloom. When the sword leaves its sheath, the Divine Bloom withers.

Karis, who called himself a War God, was no weakling. His prepared strike finally fell toward Mapleleaf. “Die!” Blinding white slammed into the earth. The ruined city split. The ground opened in a trench several meters deep.

A god’s full‑force blow. In ordinary worlds, it would cleave a continent. In the Other Shore, it left only meters of broken stone.

When the dust thinned, Mapleleaf was nowhere to be seen—only a rift: hundreds of meters long, one meter wide, four to five meters deep.

Where was Mapleleaf?

“Blondie, here’s a fact. The moment I got close, you were already minced.” The voice rose behind Karis. He turned, face pale, trying to see Mapleleaf. He did. He watched Mapleleaf sheathe his blades. Twin clicks as steel slid home.

Sheathing? Had he even drawn?

The answer came at once. Mapleleaf turned away without a glance. Karis saw snowy white robes, a carefree back. That was the last picture in his world.

In an instant, blood geysered. Karis’s body burst into countless pieces.

One battlefield fell silent. Ouyang watched the mist‑shrouded figure with a half‑smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Let’s be real. Your showboating? I usually let it slide. Flexing is a personal choice—I don’t police taste. Like clothing; I can’t beat up everyone wearing pink because I don’t like pink.”

“But you picked the wrong turf to flex on. This sacred ground belongs to our show. Outsiders who strut here are mocking us.”

He spoke with grand conviction, as if the misted one were a villain beyond forgiveness. At the root of it, it was still about showboating.

Black wings unfolded in silence. Black miasma coiled. Black lightning crawled across Ouyang’s body. Above his head, a crown surfaced—an illusory black Genesis Crown. No brilliance. It hung quiet, flickering, as if ready to vanish.

“A Genesis Crown. That thing you flash every second... Is it supposed to be rare?”

Ouyang didn’t draw the Heaven Departing Divine Sword. If he did, the enemy would die utterly, with no return. He kept the blade sheathed because he didn’t plan to kill; the man might be useful. That was also why Mapleleaf hadn’t one‑shotted Lingwen. Ouyang had a plan.

Whoosh—the misted figure vanished. Ouyang didn’t scan left or right. He lifted his gaze. Rainbow spears dropped from the sky, dense as a monsoon.

“Heh. Try to drown me in rainbows to pull my eyes away, then run?”

Crackle—

Black lightning spread. Every rainbow pillar that touched the black bolts winked out. The lightning kept crawling, draping the ruined city. Sky, earth, every pocket of space filled with black arcs.