In old tales, three thousand city enforcers marched over the world like iron boots; now, three thousand brothers will end it like a wildfire.

At that line, the sword yelped, “Holy—” like a cat on a hot roof.

Mapleleaf and Ouyang didn’t hear it, the wind swallowing the cry like sand.

Even the figure nested within nine crescent moons flinched, like a heron spooked from reeds.

“This… works?!” Her voice chimed like wind bells, laced with dazed fog.

The sword snorted, smoke in its tone like a brazier.

“Please, the First Cult’s packed with talent. Their skill points just went crooked like spilled dice. By the book, they really could end the world.”

Western Empire, Qiuya City—its name hung like a dusty plaque.

Ouyang was shackled to Demigod strength, like a hawk flown with clipped wings.

He couldn’t sense where Kanofia or Yiyue Qianliu drifted, like kites cut loose.

The only one who knew, the White Cat, had ditched the second persona and vanished like morning mist.

“Three thousand wraiths? Not enough,” the thought thudded like an empty drum.

He needed more lives, like a furnace demanding coal.

If it could end the world, Ouyang was all in, like a gambler pushing all his chips.

But three thousand wraiths was a steep mountain; he couldn’t scale it in a day.

He considered a city slaughter, a storm over rooftops, then shelved it like a sheathed knife.

The Western Empire, by his intel, housed gods, like thunderheads over a plain.

Among beings called gods, the river splits in two: Faith Gods and Human‑gods, like twin currents.

Human‑gods are mortals who crown themselves under the stars with raw power, like iron forged in fire.

Faith Gods are born from belief, lighting divine fire on incense and prayers, like lamps in a temple.

That label “Human‑god” isn’t precise, like a blurred seal.

Some deities are innate, born as gods at dawn, like lotuses blossoming full‑formed.

So the term just sets them apart from Faith Gods, like two paths through a forest.

In Ouyang’s memory, Faith Gods were rare birds, wings kept close.

They and Human‑gods kept to separate wells, like neighbors who never nod.

Human‑gods ascend on their own fists, so they roam and invade, like wolves under cold stars.

They don’t squat in one world; they drift through the star‑sea like wandering boats.

Faith Gods mostly nest in their own world, living on belief like bees on nectar.

Their staying put ties to their system of godhood, like offices bound by duties.

Each has a seat: God of War, God of Harvest, God of Love—titles like plaques on a shrine.

Some are born from myth, belief condensing like dew until a Harvest God forms.

Some were once warlords, banners like storms; after death, centuries of faith tempered them into a War God.

In a Faith God’s world, each seat is singular, like the sun at noon.

Elsewhere, Zhang can dub himself War God, and Li can too, like roosters on separate yards.

Here, there’s no self‑styling; only what living beings acknowledge becomes your name, like a bell others ring.

If the people see only one War God, there won’t be a second, unless the first falls like a star.

And the seat binds them to duties; a Harvest God must pour rain and grain where belief burns bright, like a farmer in spring.

So Faith Gods rarely leave their worlds, their roots sunk like old trees.

By Ouyang’s information, the Western Empire’s gods are Faith Gods, like gods of old altars.

Their power stacks differently than Human‑gods, like stones laid in another pattern.

Human‑gods talk tiers—lower, middle, upper, peak—steps like a mountain path.

Faith Gods scale with believers, fame, and domain, like a fire fed by wood, wind, and design.

A Harvest seat won’t beat a War seat, like wheat against steel.

A village shrine can’t match a Sun God known to all, like a candle before daybreak.

Whatever the case, a god is still a god, lightning behind a silk screen.

Such beings can reach through real and unreal to wound Ouyang, like a hand through water.

Without certainty, he wouldn’t pick a fight with a Faith God, like a hunter avoiding a sleeping tiger.

Of course, if it’s an unknown Faith God, he wouldn’t be polite, like a knife to soft fruit.

Those no‑names might only hit Demigod levels, and the stronger ones equal the pseudo‑gods in Miracle City, like tin crowns on mannequins.

If he couldn’t butcher a city, he’d seek a battlefield—or a field of graves, like stones under moss.

Seeing Ouyang sunk in thought, Mapleleaf leaned in like a fox and asked how he could help.

Ouyang felt his own path too narrow, like a lane with high walls, so he laid out the situation.

“That’s easy,” Mapleleaf clapped, the sound crisp as bamboo.

“Ah‑Yang, that skull just needs corpses, right?

We open a crematorium on paper, yet let the skull eat the bodies, like a kiln with teeth.”

Ouyang’s eyes lit under the mask like coals.

“Right, let the skull eat the corpses, then we burn some odds and ends as fake ashes for the families, like paper offerings.”

The two scoundrels clicked together like gears.

They didn’t know this plan nipped the Death God’s portfolio, like a hand in another’s rice jar.

Even if they knew, they wouldn’t fear a lone Faith God, like crows taunting an eagle.

They only feared a flock of Faith Gods dogpiling them, like waves on a lone boat.

“No time to waste, I’ll go grease the city lord—wait, we’re broke,” Mapleleaf froze like a statue.

Ouyang shook his masked head, slow as a pendulum.

“Not a problem. We rob a few people, and we feed Gluttony some snacks, like tossing jerky to a beast.”

He’d planned a clean robbery, like a shadow lift.

Then he thought, if you’re doing evil, do it to the hilt, like ink to the edge.

Rob them and feed them to Gluttony as snacks—waste not, want not, like bones into broth.

Solve the money, solve Gluttony’s hunger, two birds with one stone, like a single arrow.

So Ouyang and Mapleleaf, two shameless rogues, marched out with the FFF Brotherhood, like a black stream of crows.

A hundred in black cloaks, torches raised like red flowers, flowed toward the city outskirts.

Why not work inside the city?

Mapleleaf insisted on bringing the little brothers, a flock too obvious under street lamps, like wolves in a market.

So they shifted the battlefield to the margins, like moving thunder beyond the walls.

Out in the wild fields, murder and arson are small fires in big grass.

Even if someone noticed, they’d blame the bandits, like dust under the rug.

The hundred‑odd weirdos made pedestrians peel away like reeds in wind.

In the Western Empire, with Faith Gods around, folks assumed black‑cloaked torchbearers were believers doing some odd rite, like moths circling a shrine.

They kept marching, a drumbeat of feet.

The gate guards, cowed by the spectacle, didn’t dare block them, letting them through like water through a broken weir.

“Damn, look at that posture, must be cultists of some evil god again,” one guard muttered, voice like a mosquito.

“Yeah, we can’t afford to cross those,” the other whispered, a chill like night dew.

There was precedent, a dark tale like mold on bread.

Once, guards barred weirdly dressed folk from entry.

That night, screams rose from those guards’ homes like owls.

A nasty case, a stain like ink that never fades.

Seeing how easily a hundred men passed, Ouyang and Mapleleaf chalked the guards up as sensible, like bamboo bending in wind.

If they’d blocked him, Ouyang would have taught them manners on the spot, like a stick across a drum.

Kill one or two, and he doubted a Faith God would pop out just to pick a fight, like thunder for a fly.

On the outskirts, the hundred formed ranks, torches held high like a forest of fire.

“Brothers, time to charge,” Mapleleaf roared, voice like a bell.

“See a straight couple, burn ’em,” like brushwood in dry season.

Ouyang’s brow ticked under the mask, doubt like a shadow.

Robbery, remember?

“If we burn them, what’s left to loot?”

Mapleleaf glanced back and grinned like a fox.

“Relax, gold and silver don’t burn.”

“Charge!”

A big wave of zombies incoming… the line scrolled in his head like a cheesy banner.

Yet after a long charge under cold stars, they saw no one, only wind like knives.

“Damn it, where are the straight couples?”

“No straights, I’ll take a yuri pair or some bros, anything,” Mapleleaf snapped, temper popping like oil.

He’d led a charge for nothing, and not a single silhouette, like snow on a blank field.

A wraith drifted up and saluted, its voice like frost.

“Report, Second Boss.

We spotted a stockade in the mountain, likely a bandit nest, like thorns on a ridge.

I suggest we rob the robbers.

Bandits hoard abducted women and loot.

We can plunder and burn the straight sinners, two roads meeting like rivers.”

Ouyang eyed the wraith, a familiar scent like old incense.

He recalled it from Sunshine Avenue, the one who hyped up melon‑eaters to batter the Qianye family’s wall, like sparrows pecking a lion.

A real talent, that one, like a drummer in a riot.

As for calling Mapleleaf Second Boss—

Wraiths called Ouyang Master by default, a leash like silk.

Mapleleaf heard it and felt itchy, like an ant under the skin.

He ordered them to switch to Boss.

So Ouyang became Big Boss, and Mapleleaf, Second Boss, titles like badges.

Ouyang’s white mask hid any reaction, a lake with no ripples.

Mapleleaf, though, felt a twinge in his eggs, a sting like cold water.

Second Boss sounded like “No. 2”—and “two” sounded dumb, like a slapstick drum.

It was his own snare, a cocoon he spun, like a silkworm sighing.

Thinking it over, Mapleleaf corrected the titles again, voice clearing like a throat bell.

“Ahem, gentlemen, update.

From now on, call the Big Boss the Chairman, and call me the General Manager, got it,” like a company stamp.

He swept a hand and, out of nowhere, produced sunglasses like a magician’s coin.

“Brothers, target that mountain stockade.

Burn the straight dogs,” he barked, a torch held high like a sun.