One man, one cat, gnawing charcoal-scented skewers under street lanterns like little moons, plotting how to rake in more coin so tonight their bowls brim.

Time drifted like warm smoke. After demolishing dozens of skewers, they felt ready to burst. The White Cat patted its round belly with plush paws; the pads gleamed with grease like sunrise on wet stone.

Far off, the owner watched, heart in knots. Ouyang and the White Cat had pulled shady tricks, yet their love for his charcoal art rang true. By duty he should report them; by heart he couldn’t lift the blade against folks who cherished his food like winter fire.

The happiness on their faces couldn’t be faked; it bloomed like spring thaw. For the first time, he knew his fire-kissed skewers could carry that joy into another’s bones.

“Phew. I want more, but we’re short on time. This street’s a banquet, the night a river of stalls. Dead cat, keep sharp—we’re pulling a big score tonight.”

There were cleaner ways to make money, yet Ouyang and the White Cat loved the hustle like crows love shiny things. The cat needed no introduction: once it roamed with the Little Overlord’s crew, white on the outside, midnight in the heart. As for Ouyang, buddies from the First Cult marinated him in bad habits; without a girl beside him, his thoughts drifted like smoke toward tricks.

While man and cat scouted for “fat sheep,” a fragrance rolled down the snack street like a warm breeze.

“I smell roast duck…” Ouyang wiped a thread of drool, the White Cat crouched on his shoulder like a snowball. They followed the trail; not far off, a tide of people surged, drawn by that scent like moths to lanterns.

The crush of bodies made his temples throb like drumbeats. As a god, he could slip through like wind through reeds, but that would gut the fun. He came tonight to taste the New Night Festival as a regular soul; using power beyond mortals would bleed the lanterns of color.

He watched the crowd for a long breath; then a palm tapped his shoulder, thoughts rippling like a pebble in a pond.

“Bro, that smell pulled you over too? Same here. Shame the crowd’s packed like sardines.” A blond pretty-boy kept patting Ouyang’s shoulder—rude as knocking on a shrine. But his sunshine grin warmed like morning, and Ouyang let it slide.

Beside him stood a beauty, hair the same bright gold, but the contrast was a slap of cold water. His sunny smile was real, a hearth open to everyone. Hers was ice: she wrinkled at simple stalls and cast daggers at the milling crowd, a high-born lady in a backstreet, chin raised like a banner.

Ouyang shrugged with a helpless half-smile; the blond’s warm glow lodged like late sun on a wall.

“Bro, from your accent, you’re not native to this world, right?” His tongue matched the Source World almost like a mirror. Yet Ouyang caught notes not born here, tiny burrs that cling like sand—you don’t shed that in a day.

The blond laughed, a touch embarrassed. “I thought my continental tongue was decent—didn’t expect you to peg me in one listen. I’m Morris Armstrong; this is my fiancée, Belle. We’re from a world called Aupu…”

Armstrong!? The name hit Ouyang like distant thunder—no clear reason, just that heavy, impressive hum.

Truth was, the accent hadn’t sealed it. What clinched it was Belle’s reaction, sharp as a blade catching sun.

Belle wore the daughter-of-wealth mask, disdain dripping like cold rain. To her noble eyes, standing among a river of common folk seemed a stain on silk.

But locals of the Source World know this is Zone One—the densest nest of experts under heaven. The shoe-seller at a curb could be sky-tier, or a Demigod tasting life’s hundred flavors before sealing godhood under the stars.

In a place like this, who’d be dumb enough to perch high and haughty like a crane on a fence?

So the only answer was: out-world visitors blind to local currents.

As Morris spoke, Ouyang frowned in thought; “Aupu” rang familiar, like a bell half-heard. He rolled a few Demon King coins between his fingers, and after a long beat, the memory surfaced like a fish breaking water.

“Aupu… in your myths, is the Creator God also named Aupu?” The memory snapped into place. Back on the Maregobi Grasslands, he’d met two Creator Gods—Lingwen and Aupu. When the Azure Bird woke and the Other Shore’s defenses rebooted, those two Creator Gods he’d pressed into grunt work finally left. They went home happy to their own worlds.

Morris blinked, surprised. “Right. In old myth, the Creator God Aupu forged the First and Second Realms. After gods and demons arose, Aupu shaped the Third Realm—our human world. Bro, have you been to our world?”

Hearing that, Ouyang was almost certain, the puzzle settling like dust.

“No, haven’t been. Just heard stories,” Ouyang said, rolling the Demon King coins so they clicked like rain. Truth was, he’d done more than hear—he’d thumped that world’s Creator God. But a mere Realm God isn’t worth bragging about, and even if he said it, they wouldn’t believe.

Since Ouyang knew of their world, Morris’s favor rose like tide. If not for the fiancée, Ouyang would toss out a bar of soap to test the wind. If Morris swung that way, Ouyang would jog the other direction, fast.

“Morris, cozying up to a commoner—aren’t you afraid you’ll stain your family’s honor? You carry the War God’s blood left on earth, yet you walk with the weak?”

Belle’s proud face tightened at Ouyang and Morris shoulder-to-shoulder; a nameless fire rose like a grass blaze. In Aupu, both her family and Morris’s were no simple roots.

Morris’s Armstrongs were said to carry the War God’s blood. In the First Realm Aupu forged, that War God is a top-tier deity—backed, protected, big as a mountain. You can guess the Armstrongs’ standing. To marry into them, Belle’s clan isn’t small either; rumor says the Earth God’s blood runs in her veins.

Together they rule like local emperors on Aupu. Belle, a god’s descendant, grew with high chin, disdaining mortals. So watching her future husband buddy up with some unknown mortal grated like sand in her teeth.

Belle’s words left Morris awkward, like a fish flopping on sand. In a strange world he’d finally found a new friend, and this had to happen.

“Bro, don’t mind her,” Morris murmured at Ouyang’s ear, voice soft as a breeze. “Adults spoiled her like this since childhood, but she’s not bad inside. Just ignore her.” And they did—they kept shoulders hooked like old friends. Belle could only stamp in place, cheeks reddening like cherry blossoms, no real move to make.

Makes sense: pampered ladies without their lackeys can’t even pull off a “bad deed.” Without hands to lend, all they can do is glare like cats behind glass.

Ouyang and Morris, shoulder to shoulder, warmed into familiarity fast, like tea steeping.

“Brother Yang, that roast duck smells amazing, and the crowd’s thick. It’s gotta be good, shame it’s jammed.” Morris learned Ouyang’s name; not knowing his age, he took the claim and called him Brother Yang.

For this new little bro, Ouyang felt the kid knew how to treat people. He thumped his chest, confidence sparking like flint. “Relax. Big bro’s got experience with this.”

Then Ouyang suddenly tore open his voice and roared, “Run! There’s a Man-eating Flower crushed underfoot!”

Man-eating Flower? Panic flared like sparks in dry straw; no one even glanced down, they just bolted. The bystanders who didn’t get it ran anyway, swept along like leaves in a stream.

“Perfect—move!” As the crowd scattered like birds, the line before the duck shop thinned. Ouyang hauled his new little bro, Morris, and they dove in.

Why did “a crushed Man-eating Flower” send people into terror? In Source World lore, Man-eating Flowers mean a certain wish-fiend with nasty tastes. A nameless Demon King says that in Miracle City a particular wish-fiend cultivates vast beds of these flowers. Any creature who violates the Fifteen Demon Kings Codex and gets death is fed to those blooms, turned into fertilizer.

Worse, some Man-eating Flowers pop out of Miracle City into other corners of the continent. Blame a certain snake that loves burrowing holes through space.

Kill one, and next day the Flower King leads a bloom-army and chews the killer into scraps.

So when Ouyang shouted, the locals understood at once—the meaning hit like thunder. They fled for their lives. The out-worlders who didn’t get it were carried by the current, running with the herd.