Within the Eastern Empire, the empire’s brightest city, the capital.

Night pooled like ink. A masked figure in black moved through the alley’s shadow, a blank faceplate like fresh snow, like void. Around him, black mist drifted in coils, wraiths with a child’s mischief—sometimes rising like smoke, sometimes slipping along the stones like water.

The figure was Ouyang. The mist was wraiths born after Gluttony devoured—spirits that could take human shape, but at rest clung together as clouds of shadow.

Tonight, Ouyang’s target was the Chiba family. Call his two temporary selves the second persona and the third. The soft, broken Ouyang from before was the second; this cold blade was the third. The second had suffered because of Chiba. The third wouldn’t let that debt lie. From memories gathered by Gluttony, he knew the Chibas carried weight in the Eastern Empire.

Across a thousand years, the Chibas had ruled the empire five times. In recent centuries they lost to the Kavilas family, yet their roots still ran deep like old trees in stone.

“Former royals? I’ll stand against the whole world. A mere Chiba’s just another brick on the road.”

As the third persona, he hadn’t inherited every memory. He didn’t know why the true Ouyang meant to shatter this dream-world and wake the Azure Bird. But he would follow the true Ouyang’s plan—unyielding, even if it was wrong.

“When the true self wakes, we all vanish. So before dawn, let’s go mad. Leave claw marks on this world, on this star-lit sky.”

The wraiths wheeled like crows. High above, a red skull flickered like an eclipse—vast, phantom, hungry enough to swallow the city. No eyes below could see it.

He avoided the world’s gaze, walked slow through darkness, like a man strolling by a river at night.

A group came down the black alley, faces rough as gravel. Up front, a big man carried a swollen sack; something inside writhed, a trapped creature pounding like a frightened heart.

“Huh? What the hell?” They froze at his eerie getup. “Playing ghost, huh? Kid, I don’t like your face. Come here and get your beating.”

The man hauling the sack smirked and crooked a finger, arrogant as a dog guarding scraps. His boys fanned out, eager, like a spark jumping to dry grass.

“Stupid natives…”

His chill voice fell like frost, the scorn of nobility looking down on street dust. The wraiths stirred. Thin, jagged noises scraped the alley walls like knives on slate.

“What… what are those things?”

Before thought caught up, the wraiths slipped into their bodies like smoke through cracks. The men jerked and twitched, limbs stretching and locking, then collapsed, convulsing like fish on stone. They were wrestling for control. To strut this boldly at midnight, they weren’t ordinary thugs.

One or two wraiths couldn’t tip the balance. But Ouyang’s air was thick with them—black spheres charging like hail. If two couldn’t crush a soul, send three; if three failed, send four.

Under this sea-of-souls tactic, their spirits were swallowed clean. The extra wraiths withdrew, leaving one to ride each body. In a blink, the faces were the same, but the souls had been replaced by cold shadow.

On Ouyang’s signal, a wraith-guided hand tugged the sack open.

Moonlight fell like silver water. A teenager crawled out, thin frame shaking. Up close, his face was a map of bruises, purple blooms under the pale light.

“Youwen, brat?”

The ice in his voice cracked with surprise. He hadn’t imagined their next meeting here, like this. Youwen’s trembling stilled; that familiar voice froze him, even his fear locking up like winter sap.

“That voice… are you… Brother Ouyang?”

Youwen—first native Ouyang met in this world. To the third persona, the kid’s temperament echoed the second persona’s. He’d ended up in a sack, beaten, because of his cousin Chiba. Youwen resented him over Ouyang’s affair, and Chiba had long despised Youwen. A “gentleman” like Chiba wouldn’t allow sweet Youyun to have a brother like this. Long ago he’d wanted Youwen dead, so he alone could call himself her “brother.” Lately, Ouyang’s shadow pushed Chiba’s grudge into open flame.

“Brother Ouyang… my parents… they’re dead. They said it was a car accident. Officials claimed you escaped and came back to get revenge on us…”

He huddled in the corner, crying, small as a folded bird. His only family left was Youyun, and Chiba had kept her in the dark. With Master Switt nearby, Youwen didn’t fear for his sister. But his parents…

“That beast Chiba… that freak… he told me everything. To seize custody of Youyun, he staged the crash and killed Mom and Dad. And lately he thought I was in the way, so he ‘took care of me’ too.”

He cried, grief grinding his voice like broken glass. The true self or the second persona might’ve offered comfort. The third wouldn’t. In the hush, Ouyang only laid a light hand on Youwen’s shoulder, a touch like a winter leaf.

“Want revenge?”

“Yes. I want to rip that animal Chiba’s heart out.”

The seed of hate sank and drank deep, shooting up like a black tree toward a storm. The chill in his eyes was steel. Without Ouyang—if he’d escaped on his own—he’d likely become a bomb thrown back at the world.

“I can give you the power to avenge. But the price—can you bear it?”

“I… can.”

The Cursed Wings unfolded without a whisper, feathers of shadow. Black lightning crawled like serpents. Pitch-black flames licked the ground.

Whoosh. Black fire traced a circle, caging Youwen in its ring. Black lightning webbed the flaming border, a net of night.

“Mm—ugh—” He bit down on pain. His bruised face twisted like a storm-torn flag.

“Youwen, I curse you. Your life will no longer be bound by flesh. You’ll become void, take the shape of all things, life after life, never again human—unless the Void Messenger disappears at the root.”

The cold verdict fell. The ring of black fire tightened. Flames climbed Youwen’s skin like hungry vines. Black lightning flickered, a silent thunder.

Then everything thinned like smoke in rain. Finally, it was nothing.

“How do you feel?”

Ouyang spoke to the patch of emptiness. “Try turning into a weapon. As long as it isn’t alive, you can become it—in theory.”

In the air, black fire leaped. A black glove formed inside the flame, a hand born from night. Ouyang studied it, slid it onto his right hand. He reached toward the wall and brushed the brick like stroking fur. Whoosh—black fire seared the stone.

Black lightning kindled along the gloved fingers. He forged a javelin from the bolt and hurled it down the alley. It speared into a parked car, invisible and leaving no mark. Seconds later, that car drifted like a sleepwalker and smashed into a heavy truck.

With the glove’s blessing, black fire could burn anything and twist it into mutation. The wall boiled up a face, stone cheeks and a snarling mouth. A stray dog wandered past; a tongue slid from the wall and rolled the dog into the gaping teeth. Mutations were fickle; neither Ouyang nor Youwen could choose what power each change carried.

Black lightning was curse-born thunder, and its doom was just as uncertain. A strike might draw a car crash, spark a brain bleed, or stop a heart. Ordinary eyes couldn’t see black flame or black lightning—only those with special pupils could pierce that night.

After Ouyang’s curse, Youwen could become any dead thing: a railgun, a ship, a car—metal and shadow. Each form came with its own strange gift. Like this glove: both black flame and black lightning wore unique rules on its skin.

From this moment on, Youwen’s human self was dead. His meaning was now to be the Void Messenger’s exclusive weapon.