A deal! In a moldy corner of the alley, a knot of people with black stockings over their heads traded in wicked wares, like rats whispering under damp bricks.

The gloom was thick as ink, so nobody noticed how Ouyang appeared; but if you show up in a place like this, you look like kin. Heat rose like steam as they welcomed a supposed colleague, and the guy with the stocking hood tugged Ouyang aside, voice low as a snake in grass. “Bro, my goods are no lie.” He patted a bulging backpack like a drum.

“Cecilia of Canopy City, Candice of Snowfall City, Besa of Shining City… every famed beauty on the continent, I’ve got their books.” His palm thumped his chest like a gong, eyes bright with confidence, flaunting a menagerie of supply like a peddler’s banner in wind.

Not only Ouyang went blank, the White Cat stared too, whiskers stiff like frozen reeds. Old hands weren’t new to the White Cat; most of the First Cult were seasoned drivers, the kind who cruise night roads like wolves.

Ouyang asked, voice thin as a thread. “Really? Then… do you have Sheila’s book?” The name fell like a jade bead into a well.

Sheila—elder sister to Jelinka in the imperial age, ruler of the Karosen Kingdom, a legend carved like bronze. Even in the Demon King era, in Zone One where masters swarm like stray dogs, the Rayedi family still stood like a mountain under her canopy.

In Zone One, two families were brightest stars: the Rayedi line of the former Karosen royals where Sheila resides, and the Rayes line where Irina and Kanofia dwell. They shared roots like twin pines; hundreds of years ago they were one trunk, later split into two groves.

The stocking-headed seller froze, then smiled wryly, like a mask cracking. “Bro, that business is hard. Clan Chief Sheila is close to a god; she’d sense it like lightning.”

“What? Not even that? Useless. I only want a book of the beauty Sheila.” Ouyang’s words dropped like stones; his mood was a stubby storm cloud.

He held fast to that line like a stubborn mule, so the seller glanced left and right like a thief at crossroads, then pulled Ouyang into a shadowed corner. His whisper rustled like dry leaves. “It’s doable, but the price bites. One hundred thousand Demon King coins, and I’ll draw it on the spot.”

Demon King coins—this change was a fresh tide. Currency got unified into black-lacquer coins. Wutong led that reform; in her view, a high world like the ‘Source’ World shouldn’t use junk metal like roadside trinkets. On the Demon King’s roster Ouyang called her the Alchemy Master for good reason; her craft was a furnace where stars melt. In Xi’s words, Wutong might become the second Sage of Truth.

She forged Demon King coins with a unique alchemy, a kiln-fire no one else could copy. On the surface they looked like gold or silver, but the coins were obsidian-dark, each bearing a different sigil like constellations stamped in night.

A million-value coin carried a pair of wings, the mark of the Void Messenger’s Cursed Wings, black feathers flicking like shadows.

One hundred thousand… honestly, Ouyang didn’t have a single coin; his pockets were empty as a winter pond. In the old imperial days, he could condense piles of gold like frost; but now Demon King coins came from Wutong’s private forge—Realm Gods couldn’t counterfeit a spark.

Plenty of gods swept through this world and waved out mountains of gold like autumn leaves; yet gold here was useless, a dead lantern in fog.

As Ouyang wrestled with the cold fact of no money, a beam sliced the dark like a sword. “City Patrol. Don’t move! Hiding here to trade, huh…” The voice was iron on stone.

Damn. The east window shattered; the patrol found the den. Ouyang didn’t hesitate; he told Youwen to become a parasol. He raised the Oil Paper Umbrella, its rain-hush falling like a veil, and everyone’s eyes slid off him like water off a lotus. The stocking-bro jerked, startled; he blinked and Ouyang vanished like smoke.

“Huh… where’d he go? Slipped that fast… he’s an old hand, not a green sprout.” The seller looked around like a hen for her chick, then yanked out a scroll and tore it. Black fog billowed like ink in stormwater, swallowing the alley.

“Still daring to cast black fog! Quick—who knows the Dust-Stirring Technique? Blow that murk away!” The shout cracked like thunder.

When the black fog thinned like morning mist, the shadow-traders had bolted like foxes. Judging by their nimble scatter, they were professionals, fast as thistles in wind.

Ouyang strolled out beneath the Oil Paper Umbrella, passing the City Patrol like a ghost under lantern light. The teleport was random, but he could tell this city sat in Zone One. In Zone One, even the lowest City Patrol officer was Moon Ring Level; squad leaders were Sun Ring Level; a chief being Sky Level wasn’t rare. Their badges gleamed like frost on steel.

Likewise, anyone who dared break the law in Zone One wasn’t weak; Sun Ring Level came by the string like beads.

He sauntered from the ink-black alley onto the main street; lanterns bloomed like chrysanthemums. He folded the Oil Paper Umbrella and let the night air wash over him; on this New Night Festival, he planned to wander and feast like a swallow over fields.

The street was a market of aromas; fame drew off-world visitors like moths to flame. In the snack row, Ouyang saw foods strange as coral, recipes likely brought from other realms or cooked by off-world hands with spice like foreign rain.

This world held gods, a whole pantheon like stars on a river, and Demigods were cheap as pebbles. So the ‘Source’ World’s currency carried authority like a seal on silk. Because masters here were many, weapons that took a thousand years to find elsewhere were common as roadside stones. Yet this world rejected gold and silver; trade used Demon King coins only, making those coins rare as phoenix feathers in other realms. In many worlds, a ten-coin piece of Demon King currency sold for prices worth hundreds or thousands, sweat dripping like dew for a single black coin.

Here in the ‘Source’ World, off-worlders traded in Demon King coins as well; with a choir of gods anchoring the sky, that currency system wouldn’t snap like a reed.

“Mmm, everything looks good,” Ouyang said, eyes on a grill where fat sizzled like summer insects. “White Cat, we’ve got no money. Want me to pawn you…” The aroma hooked his hunger like a fish on a line.

The shopkeeper was a middle-aged uncle, with a middle-aged aunt helping at his elbow; they moved together like old trees. Judging by their clothes, they weren’t natives; they were migrants, roots freshly transplanted into this soil.

Noticing Ouyang’s greedy glance like a boy at candy, the uncle asked, voice warm but halting like a wagon on gravel. “Young man, want a skewer? In my homeland, Xidar, this is the continent’s most famed roast.”

He spoke the Other Shore tongue with stiff syllables, like a flute in cold. He hadn’t been here long; the common speech still sat on his tongue like an unfamiliar spice.

“Uh… forget it. I’ve got no money.” Ouyang’s mood was a low cloud; he wouldn’t use illegal tricks in a domain under his watch.

“No money… no problem. This one’s free.” The uncle’s kindness shone like a lantern; he handed over a skewer with smoke curling like ribbons.

“Ah… thanks!” Ouyang grabbed it and finished in two or three bites, like a wolf in snow. “Good stuff, boss. Your roast is truly Jue.” Praise poured like spring water. He glanced at the sign: Xidar Roast House, letters bright as lacquer.

Xidar was the owner’s homeland; naming the shop for it was a tether like a red thread. It meant few folks from his homeland came to this world. It also meant he loved that homeland like a blue mountain in memory.

As Ouyang savored the meat, a sour note cut the street like a rusty blade. “You, pauper over there. My young lady wants your White Cat. Here’s a thousand Demon King coins. Take it and shove off.” The voice belonged to an old man in a black butler suit, crisp as a crow feather.

Four people stood with him, all orbiting the girl in a purple evening gown like stars around a moon. Two burly men guarded her left and right like iron pillars, and a maid about her age waited with hands folded like a lotus bud.

“This dead cat? A thousand…” Ouyang muttered; the White Cat’s ears fell like wilted leaves because it knew the script. If something happened, Ouyang sold it first, fast as a pickpocket’s hand. “Well then, big spender, the cat’s yours.”

Ouyang’s snatch was lightning; he plucked a thousand-denomination coin from the butler like a kingfisher from a stream. The thousand coin bore a flower sigil—emblem of the Third Demon King, the Wish Fiend—petals etched like frost. Before the butler could blink, Ouyang had wrapped the White Cat tight, tail binding paws like twine, and set the bundle in the butler’s hands. His speed was a clean blade; while the butler stood stunned like a statue, Ouyang rushed back to Xidar Roast House and ordered more than ten skewers in one breath, like a gust through bamboo.

“Meow~” The White Cat protested, its cute chirp shot like an arrow; it charmed the young lady so fast her eyes turned into stars. The group carried the fluffy thing away like nobles with a lapdog, and Ouyang slyly flicked a middle finger toward the cat, a shadowed gesture under lantern glow.

Minutes later, to the owner’s wide-eyed amazement, the White Cat came back; it leapt to the table like a snowball and fought Ouyang for meat, claws quick as chopsticks.

“Meow, you scoundrel. We said fifty-fifty. You’ve been munching forever; stop stealing mine!” The White Cat parked its butt on the table, stripped meat from a skewer with tidy paws, and tossed it into its mouth like a tiny lord at feast.

Fifty-fifty? The owner watched and seemed to understand, realization opening like a fan.

“Meow your mother. Just a thousand to buy Cat Lord? Daydreaming. Cat Lord isn’t measured by coins.” The White Cat gnawed, angry as a storm, yet savoring every bite like a gourmand.

Ouyang stopped competing and chewed at ease, calm as a lake at dusk. “Relax. Tonight’s New Night Festival is rich with good food, like stalls blooming after rain. Our coin is far from enough. We need more rich fools with soft heads. Hit a few more marks, and we’ll eat till dawn, full as drums.”