Miracle City. Ouyang sprawled on the grass, soaking up sun like warm wine poured over a green quilt.

He felt a thirst like dry reeds in wind. His hand swept the grass, found a plate, then a fruit. Crunch, crunch—he kept chewing, eyes shut like a cat napping in a sunbeam.

A year had passed since the Boundless Sea spat him back alive, and three since he left the Origin World. Add the revival year, and it made four—time like sand slipping through fingers.

From the Divine Sword, Ouyang had learned plenty, thunder under silk. The “Destroyer’s Gaze” back then had been his; in the Boundless Sea, he’d hurled a secret art across realms on the dying power of the Cursed Wings, like a last arrow shot into storm.

He knew Mapleleaf’s business too; the Divine Sword’s tale painted patterns in mist, and Ouyang already had guesses like stars lining up.

When he went back in time, he sealed memories in Xuan’s mind—future shards tucked like letters under a stone. One shard spoke of the Chaos Demon God, a shadow that ate horizons.

That phantom world had been an attempt to beat the Chaos Demon God, its flaws arranged like broken mirrors to catch one streak of inspiration in the dark.

So, truth be told, them beating the Chaos Demon God traced back to Ouyang’s information, a hidden hand beneath waves. From the First Epoch, they knew that future monster was coming; nine full epochs to prepare—credit like moonlight, seen but untouchable.

Ouyang smiled, eyes narrowed, a fox basking on a rock.

Job done, sleeves brushed clean; merit buried, name withheld. He bit his fruit, and Nabelia walked over in a maid outfit, steps neat as beads on a string.

“Lord Ouyang… the sun up there’s acting up again.”

The sun acting up?

He lifted his head, squinted into glare like polished bronze.

“Sir, it should be night right now, but the sun still won’t drop.”

The sun…

This mess went back to when Kanofia and the others returned to the Origin World, a gust that started the fire.

Kanofia, White Cat, Yiyue Qianliu—back again, with the Moon Goddess and Litian tagging along like comets. After Kanofia returned, a certain diary popped up like a fish leaping.

What they said, Ouyang didn’t know—book and girl were oil and flame. As the classic goes: few words at first, fists before talk, then deal with it later.

Thankfully Xi cut in fast, sharp as a blade. She didn’t care about past grudges; she tore into both of them with a storm of scolding.

Kanofia and the diary paused their brawl, but their earlier fight had smashed the sun to grit.

Ouyang had one thought: Damn, idiots.

To fix it, Kanofia snorted like a mare, then charged into the Divine Realm and dragged back a phoenix like a thunderhead caught in a net.

A Realm God-level would’ve done as a sun, but Kanofia felt that was beneath her. The First Ancestor wouldn’t lose face; so she grabbed an Ancient God-level phoenix to light the sky, a crown instead of a lamp.

They say when Kanofia burst into the Divine Realm, a flock of Primordial Deities ran faster than wildfire. She’d intended to snag a Primordial Deity beast as a lantern, but those ancient things were slicker than smoke.

As for a certain God King rumored to be alive—when Kanofia stormed the Divine Realm, he didn’t show, like a shadow that won’t step into torchlight.

The phoenix was forced to be the sun. It hated it. Under sheer power it bent, but inside it sulked like embers under ash.

To mimic sunrise and sunset, the phoenix had to circle the Origin World, a fiery bird tracing a loom. But sometimes it spun the same way the world did, on purpose, and nights came with the sun nailed high like a coin glued to the sky.

“That molting wild chicken dares throw a tantrum?”

On his own turf and it wouldn’t listen? Ouyang tossed his fruit into the trash with a clean arc, then took one step and slipped into the starfield, a diver into dark water.

Ahead, a massive sphere turned slow, a blue gem—the Origin World. Nearby, a glowing orb drifted, but up close the light resolved into a colossal bird, island-sized, feathers gone, curled tight like frost-bitten wings.

That was the phoenix, old as mountain bones. As for why it was bald…

That was on Loyin.

When Kanofia first dragged the phoenix back, Loyin couldn’t forget its feathers—eyes like a magpie’s. One moonless night, she plucked it clean, feather by feather, like stripping a willow.

An Ancient God phoenix can regrow plumage; next day, feathers sprouted neat as barley. Loyin saw it, smiled, and plucked it bald again, laughter ringing like silver bells.

But every morning the feathers grew back, undaunted. Finally Loyin lost her temper and cursed the bird so no feather would ever grow again. Tragic and absurd—the phoenix turned into a naked rooster under heaven. So Ouyang and the others called it the wild chicken, a joke set in stone.

“Hey, wild chicken, what are you doing? Do your job. Don’t think we’ll let you go. Slack off, and you’re the sun for a million years.”

The so-called wild chicken snorted, pride thin as smoke, then adjusted its course and slid back onto the right track, a river finding its bed.

It compromised again, but Ouyang’s temples throbbed like drums. They needed a proper sun, not this living stand-in with a temper.

He’d protested more than once to Kanofia and the others, but Kanofia and Xi both insisted the Origin World shouldn’t follow the crowd by hanging a star in the sky. It should use a living thing, a sun with breath.

Ouyang understood the headache. He finally felt the frustration behind the legend of Hou Yi shooting down suns—trouble layered like clouds.

He had one sun here, just one bird. In the old myth there were nine—nine suns blazing like nine unruly torches. One was enough to make him swear; nine would turn the world into squawking chaos.

Eunice, the Water Goddess, argued the wild chicken slacked because it was alone. Bring two or three, let them rotate shifts like ferrymen, and things would smooth out.

It sounded smart—a canal where a ditch had been. But the moment Ouyang pictured nine suns, he shook his head hard. Nine unruly brats in the sky were nightmare fuel.

He stepped back into his castle. Night had finally fallen, velvet spread. A full moon hung high like polished jade.

Then something felt off. The sky was thick with bats, ink flecks streaming toward the moon.

When the sun got shattered, the moon, being too close to the Origin World, was spared. Kanofia and Diary Bro instinctively kept distance, like wolves skirting a village. Since then, the Moon Goddess claimed that round moon, a garden fenced by light.

There’s a scab you need to know. Between the Moon Goddess and Kanofia there’s an old grudge, from the First Epoch, buried but still bleeding.

If the diary hadn’t soaked up the aggro then, the fight might’ve been Kanofia versus Moon Goddess, not Kanofia versus diary. With the Moon Goddess monopolizing the moon, every night when it rose, Kanofia felt the goddess standing above her head like a crown she didn’t wear.

The more she thought about it, the more she burned. She’d tried to storm the moon more than once, but Xi blocked her like a dam. Recently Xi headed to the Other Shore, and Kanofia wanted to seize the window and go up.

“Devila! Your damn sister’s about to make trouble again—stop her!”

Ouyang shouted, voice ringing like a bell. Two seconds later, Devila popped up, flustered like a clerk caught napping.

Only two beings could force Kanofia to stop. One was Aurora, also called Xi—the Aurora Goddess. Once a Third Ladder existence. She wasn’t as hard-edged as the First Imperial Princess, but Kanofia still listened a bit, a wolf respecting another wolf.

The second was the Divine Sword Litian, weapon of the undefeated God Emperor—a title sharp as steel.

Beyond those two, Ouyang and the rest could only persuade, rain on a stone. Devila and Irina could nudge Kanofia’s temper, if barely.

Long ago, Kanofia’s reincarnated body had been Devila’s little sister, a thread that tied two lives. Now, in this cycle, her reincarnated body was Irina’s sister. Relationships tangled like vines on a ruined wall.

It gave Ouyang a headache, a hive of bees in his skull.

When Kanofia recovered her past memories, she remembered Devila as her brother and remembered being the First Ancestor. For some reason, she didn’t purge those memories like smoke; she kept them, close as charms.

She accepted Irina and Devila as sister and brother, which meant the moment Devila and Irina met, they sniped at each other like sparrows over crumbs.

“Little Dev, go.”

Ouyang pointed at the bat-swarm blackening the night, then kicked Devila’s backside and launched him skyward like a startled goose.

After a while, Kanofia came back with Devila to Miracle City, face sour as unripe fruit.

Her wine-red pupils carried a crescent sigil, shimmering like dew. Ouyang was certain—Kanofia’s eyes were the most beautiful he’d ever seen. No contest.

She saw Ouyang, rushed over, grabbed his hand, and dragged him off like a river dragging a leaf. Devila stayed put, staring, then sighed deep, a bell tolling.

Kanofia holding Ouyang’s hand never meant anything good. In a quiet corner, the girl who looked thirteen or fourteen bared the vampire’s fangs, moonlight catching on ivory.

“Hmph. You despicable human—you must’ve tipped them off.”

Kanofia stepped closer. Her pink tongue flicked across her lips, and her wine-red eyes flickered like embers.

“Wait, I’m just doing my job…”

Emotion first—panic like ice in his veins. Ouyang jolted back. Before heading to the Other Shore, Xi had told him to watch Kanofia and the Moon Goddess, keep them from tearing into each other.

Only Ouyang had the weight to watch them—once Second Ladder beings, thunderous even now.

They wouldn’t return to their old peaks, but their current power was still terrifying, mountains moving in sleep. Besides Xi and Litian, maybe only Diary Bro and that silver-haired girl, Li, could rein them in.

Just as Xi predicted, when Ouyang handled Kanofia and the Moon Goddess, both gave him face, rain on a dry field. The Moon Goddess treated the moon as her private garden. She stayed off the continent, refused to bicker with Kanofia, like swearing never to share a road.

But Kanofia? She wasn’t the quiet type. She kept wanting to storm the moon, blade seeking sky.

“Hmph. Human, be ready.”

Ouyang bolted, fear a sprint in his muscle. “Come on, I’m not your blood bank!”

There was no slipping her net. Kanofia locked him in place, and her fangs pricked his skin like twin needles under a red moon.