Above Qiuya City, the sky split open in a vast wound. Around the gash, thick stormclouds churned. Across the stars ran a golden cross, a river of light that drenched the heavens.

Blood-mist drifted like torn silk. The world fell into an eerie, breathless hush.

"Last frenzy... I didn’t expect those two alter-egos to stir up a storm like that." Mapleleaf’s mood was cold, and his thoughts moved after. "Ouyang doesn’t have the strength for that final form. If he forces that black-and-white twin-wing state, he’ll end up like those two."

Under the cloud-lidded sky, Mapleleaf held an iron chain. A crowd was leashed to it, every face slack, eyes shut, sleep heavy as frost.

"No. In the tales, a Void Messenger’s final form isn’t black-and-white wings. It’s void." His voice thinned like wind over ice. "What’s that ‘void’ in the end? Either way, I probably won’t see that last emptiness."

Mapleleaf stood in the air, white as fresh snow against the night. Blood rain veiled the sky like a red gauze, and something clicked in his mind. He palmed a bottle from nowhere and streaked toward the drifting mist.

"Heh. In the end, I’ll be the one to tear that false sky." His hand cut like a fan through water. The blood-mist flowed to his bottle, drawn like tide to moon. Then he called to two blurred silhouettes trying to fade away. "Yo, you two. Hard work. Excellent finishing blow. Shame that in the chronicles you’ll end up as void."

He greeted the nameless shadows, and a crooked smile turned his face uncanny.

"Four Heavenly Kings... the mysterious Fifth?!"

At the sight of Mapleleaf, the two figures finally understood. No wonder those idiots from the First Cult tossed Ouyang—the mission target—aside to chase Mapleleaf like dogs after a fox.

"The Withered Swordsman?!"

Shock pricked, and anger poured like boiling oil into their voices.

Truth was, those two held a long grudge against the First Cult. Wherever those idiots swarmed, they ate the world like locusts, leaving towns clattering like spooked hens and dogs. Alone, a few of them felt almost normal. The terror came when they gathered by the heap.

The pair who’d seized the chance to finish Ouyang had hated them since the first days. Back then, everyone was young, and the rule of undying wrapped them like a warm cloak. They lived careless as spring cats. The two had joined a simple guild, content and quiet, with no thirst to be first.

Then the Three Scoundrels raised the Dark Trinity Artifacts, and the world turned to smoke and grime. Luckily there were only three of them; for many factions it was disgust, not doom. Soon after, the leaders of the four evil cults gathered under the Withered Swordsman’s mediation. The First Cult rose to the top, and his bad counsel was stitched into that rise.

The First Cult took shape, and a chaos worse than the era of the Three Scoundrels rolled in like a sandstorm. In that turmoil, countless small guilds cracked and blew away.

Think it through. They hated the First Cult, yes. But without the Withered Swordsman jamming his blade into the gears, would the First Cult have been born?

Now the Withered Swordsman stood before them, and rage washed their minds clean of caution.

"Die, you bastard!"

"Trash, don’t you dare run!"

The two shadowed figures lunged at Mapleleaf like arrows loosed at dusk.

"Heh... you’re not there yet." Mapleleaf’s tone was flat as steel. "Even if your true bodies came down, it would only fatten the joke." He stowed the bottle, heavy with the blood-mist shed when Ouyang burst apart. He had a use ready.

He let the chain-hand fall loose. His breath chilled and sharpened. His hands found the twin swords strapped across his back.

The blades hadn’t yet sung, yet crimson petals drifted down as if a plum tree shed in winter. "If I can’t erase your true selves, I’ll cut the projection you sent. Interest first."

A brilliant arc ripped across the firmament, meteor-bright, leaving a trail of white fire.

"You—"

In that instant, the two knew they’d been baited. Had they known Mapleleaf carried power like this, they’d never have jumped out to show off. And they felt played. If he had that kind of bite, how had the First Cult idiots chased him like wolves? Bro, if you’re that high and mighty, why were you acting meek? You lured us on purpose?

The sword-scar furrowed the sky, and everything their projections held unraveled to dust. The thick clouds wore a thousand thin slashes, proof that in that heartbeat Mapleleaf swung more than once.

"I want to leave a trace of myself in this world too." His voice softened, like ash falling. "But the power of time will correct it all. In the end, it’s futile."

Faintly, hairline black cracks crawled across Mapleleaf’s body like dried riverbeds on clay.

He lifted his gaze into the starfield and let a bitter smile curl. "Damn that idiot. To stamp his existence on the sky, he broke the golden chains the Supreme Law lowered, then made a cross out of them... Harming others, harming himself. And now even I’ve caught the Supreme Law’s eye."

The golden cross still shone in the night like a cruciform galaxy, spilling light without end.

—

At the far west of the Western Empire, the world froze into ice and knives of wind. A red castle lay embedded in snow like a ruby in frost. Above it hung a phantom blood moon, thin as a veil.

A sword-scar cut the air, opening a passage in the icebound space. Mapleleaf walked out slow, the bottle of Ouyang’s blood riding cold in his hand.

Robes white as snow, Mapleleaf strode through winter. From a distance, you’d mistake him for a piece of the landscape.

He crunched over ice chips. Ahead, the red castle lay under a pale ward. Outside was winter’s bite; within the ward, lawn and meadow breathed green. Flowers swayed in five colors. Birds flickered among dense leaves.

It was a ward that could blunt gods, yet Mapleleaf drifted through like mist through bamboo. One heartbeat was winter; the next, the scent of blossoms flooded his lungs. Under the blood moon, every blade and petal wore a red veil, lovely and uncanny.

The ward couldn’t stop him. Nor could the gate. Mapleleaf moved like a ghost and passed through matter as if it were smoke.

"Who?"

In the hall, Yiyue Qianliu, long seated, opened her eyes. Ink-dark pupils seemed set to swallow the room.

"Ah—easy. I’m one of yours."

Mapleleaf sauntered forward with a grin, bottle easy in his grip. He looked as relaxed as a man on a spring stroll. "Be as vigilant as you like; it won’t help. If I came through your ward and your door, that says what I am. With a gap like this, no amount of caution matters."

As he boasted, a mew rang from the dome above. A White Cat dropped from the ceiling like snow falling off a branch.

"Woah, you damn kitty-beast!" Mapleleaf slipped aside, and the White Cat slammed into the dark red floor. Thud. The cat staggered up, wobbling like a drunk sailor.

"Hey, kitty-beast, wake up." Mapleleaf conjured a fat sphere of water and splashed it over the White Cat.

"Mew—"

The White Cat snapped awake in a shiver. "Mew—vile cultist! This cat will deal with you properly. Taste my crazy clawstorm!"

Mapleleaf caught its neck with one hand. Its hindlegs pawed at empty air, dangling like a fish on a line.

"Kitty-beast, you’ve got nerve." Mapleleaf’s anger hit first, words after. "Back then I raised you with sweat and grit, and look what you pulled? Damn idiot, you caused trouble and bolted. You didn’t even call me. Do you know how long I spent locked in the little dark room for that?"

He had the White Cat, and he tore into it with a storm of scolding.

Behind it lay a story, crooked and a little funny.

Back then, Mapleleaf had brought the White Cat from who-knew-where; it was just a cub. As it grew, it made friends: a crow named Nanyang; a ragged book called Shuyi—the Book of Epochs itself; and a giant dragon known as Xiao Bai.

A crow stands for ill-omen. That crow flew three days out of four, making trouble on purpose wherever it went. Its trail rivaled the havoc of the First Cult’s armies.

And Shuyi, that ragged book? People called it the Book of Epochs. It claimed to be a great collector. If the crow left hens and dogs panicked, the book left hens and dogs nowhere. It vowed to collect every epoch’s local specialities. That palace? Collect. That world? Collect. That black hole, nice and grand? Collect.

As for the giant dragon Xiao Bai, that guy was a little tyrant. He ate free meals, took free roads, hogged the best seat. He flirted with mother dragons for sport, mooched off restaurants, and punched anyone who annoyed him.

Those three were just the typical examples. Picture the White Cat’s childhood. Under that crowd’s influence, could it grow into Mapleleaf’s ideal cute cat?

The answer was no. On a moonless night—cough, actually a random afternoon—led by the little tyrant, the bigwigs of the Artifact-Beast Alliance wandered into the First Imperial Princess’s palace. The guards didn’t dare bar them. The alliance drifted through the halls for half a day and got bored.

On Shuyi’s suggestion, they set up a mahjong game right there on the lawn. Four played. The loser stepped off, a new one stepped in. The rest ringed them like a hedge.

They played on, and under the crow’s native plague aura, the little tyrant lost and lost again, bleeding out his luck. Right there, he soured. From a rainbow eucalyptus nearby came the song of a lark.

A lark’s song is sweet by nature. But in that moment, Xiao Bai had lost so badly he’d pawned even the shell of the egg he’d hatched from. That lark’s voice sounded like flat mockery. His temper surged like a summer storm. With a dragon sweep, he toppled the rainbow eucalyptus and grabbed the lark for roasting.

Back then, the White Cat didn’t understand why Xiao Bai, who never shared a bite with his pals, suddenly grew generous and split the lark’s little bit of meat with everyone.

Soon the secret blew open. The First Imperial Princess learned of it. The White Cat finally understood Xiao Bai’s generosity: everyone ate the lark, so when blame came, everyone shared the weight.

Dammit. We got played.

That little tyrant was the mount of the Supreme Sovereign. No way would the First Imperial Princess stew him. He’d get a scolding at most, and his master would pay a token compensation.

The crow? Say no more. It was a Tiered Being in its own right.

The ragged book? Deeply mysterious. Rumor said when it hid, even the First Imperial Princess couldn’t find its den.

A certain Oil Paper Umbrella? It had a powerhouse backing it, said to be owned by the foremost of the Five Emperors of the East. A certain angel? Only one pair of wings, but said to be a Guardian Angel to a Tiered Being.

See it? They had background, or they had bite. Then look at the White Cat...

Its first thought was to run, and run far. Come back after the storm blew over. As for Mapleleaf, its master—busy escaping—Master was forgotten like last season’s snow.

The matter wasn’t even that big. As an ancient born from the First Epoch, the First Imperial Princess wouldn’t really make Mapleleaf suffer. But blame the White Cat for bolting.

So Mapleleaf, bewildered as a man slapped awake, got tossed into a little dark room to reflect.

From then on, the White Cat lived as a stray, drifting through alleys like wind through bamboo.

Mapleleaf’s gut burned hot, like embers banked under ash.

Members of the First Cult scoured the world for that cat, spreading like crows before a storm.

That’s the past between Mapleleaf and the White Cat, sealed like ink on old paper.

That treacherous furball tricked its own master into a dark little cell, the door clanging shut like winter iron.