In front of the roast duck shop, smoke curled like lazy dragons as Xian heard what happened and, without hesitation, pulled out a spatial container, fingers flicking like minnows in a hidden lake.
In a blink, she drew a coin from the bracelet on her right hand, its edge glinting like cold moonlight on steel.
“Here. That’s a hundred thousand Demon King coins. Since my brother‑in‑law was wrong first, I’ll pay you back a hundredfold.” Her eyes didn’t even blink, calm as a drawn blade.
Demon King coins flowed among mortals and gods alike, a silver tide in every realm; that steady gaze shocked the crowd like thunder under clear skies—rich, and stunning.
Young men fussed with their hair, smoothing creases like peacocks preening in a rain-washed garden.
“And you, brother‑in‑law, no more random autographs,” she huffed, cheeks puffed like ripe peaches under lantern light.
Ouyang rolled his eyes at the sky, a blank parchment above; bored, never tried the New Night Festival, two problem kids in the castle, so he strolled out to fleece mortals like a fox at dusk—only to get caught by his little sister‑in‑law.
He covered his face, warmth rising like a hidden ember. In Xian’s heart, Ouyang was a kind big brother: mysterious yet easy to approach, tea-warm in memory.
As a child in his stone halls, Xian would cling to him like ivy; even when Loyin came, she wouldn’t let go until she’d had her fill of that comfort.
Xian’s grand gesture left people stunned, voices stilled like reeds in wind. The girl in the purple gown stood frozen, unsure, violet silk rippling like petals in a pond.
Taking the money meant a fortune for her family; but with Xian’s status, hesitation weighed on her like a mountain of coin.
A hundred thousand Demon King coins was enormous in these early years of its flow; the blade etched on that coin symbolized the Fourth Demon King, the Abyss of Swords—Amelie.
That single coin was nearly her family’s liquid wealth; all told, they held only two or three hundred thousand Demon King coins, numbers heavy as river stones.
Real estate and antiques didn’t count; even so, a hundred thousand was a wave that could drown a house.
“Miss, I… I can’t take this. I wasn’t trying to make that gentleman pay,” the purple‑haired girl whispered, voice thin as thread, hands trembling like leaves.
In looks and figure, Xian eclipsed her like sunrise; in money and rank, anyone who tossed out a hundred thousand without blinking stood on peaks she couldn’t imagine.
And Ouyang—greasy from duck, a trickster at heart—being called brother‑in‑law by that rich, pretty girl made the crowd spark with the urge to strangle him, anger bright as flint.
Seeing the girl still refuse, Xian set the sword‑etched coin on the table, a silver moon on lacquer. “I’ll leave it here.” Then she dragged Ouyang away, footsteps slicing through the hum like reeds.
Morris saw his big brother pulled off. He’d have held back if they were lovers, giving space like dusk to stars. But “brother‑in‑law” meant no date to spoil.
So he tugged Belle along and chased, alley wind at their heels; Ouyang was his only friend from another world.
“Brother Ouyang, wait up!” His shout tumbled down the street like rolling stones.
Morris chased a few blocks and finally caught them. “Brother Ouyang, your little sister‑in‑law’s loaded—never thought she’d toss a hundred thousand without blinking.”
By now, Xian had wiped the oil from Ouyang’s face and hands; his short sleeves sat crisp, the night breeze cool as spring water on clean skin.
Hearing Morris, Ouyang remembered the cheap little brother he’d forgotten, a memory flaring like a firefly in grass.
Facing them again, Belle’s disdain cooled like iron in snow. Even her family with Morris’s couldn’t casually pull out a hundred thousand.
She could tell Xian wasn’t a fool with money; that meant a mere hundred thousand was pocket change in her clan, coin like sand in a river.
Regardless of Ouyang’s family, one “brother‑in‑law” from Xian was a seal that made Belle take him seriously.
“That money… looks like the kid’s monthly allowance,” Ouyang said, easy as smoke. He wasn’t sure; he’d heard she visited Wutong every New Year and came back with armfuls of red envelopes, crimson leaves in a winter breeze.
So Xian had far more than that; he didn’t worry about her allowance, rain of coin pattering on a bamboo roof.
“A month’s… allowance?” Morris and Belle went stone-still, statues under moonlight, curiosity about Xian and Ouyang rising like a tide.
Demon King coins weren’t everything, but without them you sink; rumor said godheads were for sale in Miracle City, divine light trapped in crystal.
A lowest‑grade godhead cost a hundred million Demon King coins; the richer a force, the more godheads they could buy, and the higher their chance to birth a deity.
So Demon King coins blazed across other worlds like a comet; to buy a godhead, you paid only in Demon King coins.
“Your families must be famous in this world, right?” Even proud Belle softened her voice, velvet over steel.
Xian, lively as a sparrow by day, went quiet, mist closing over a lake; she seemed to reject Belle and Morris.
She muttered, steam‑soft and small, “Seriously, it’s rare my brother‑in‑law shops the New Night Festival with me, and two spoilers pop out.”
Morris and Belle heard nothing; Ouyang caught it clear as a bell. He patted Xian’s head, breeze-smooth, fingers combing silk into place.
“Alright, stop grumbling. They’re guests from another world. We’ll walk them around first, then I’ll stay with you till dawn.”
He knew what she blamed: three years gone like smoke; a year back, and that year’s New Night Festival already passed, dawn slipping through fingers.
She must resent those three winters without him beside her—at least, that’s what Ouyang thought, thoughts drifting like cloud.
Hearing him, her pout cleared; a smile rose like sun after rain, bright and shy on her face.
“It’s a promise. No ducking out on excuses.” She hugged his arm on instinct; his elbow brushed her chest, heartbeat drumming like a startled bird.
She switched to linking his arm, gentler, a bud turning to bloom. Ouyang stayed forever eighteen or nineteen, a river unchanged.
But Xian was no longer a tiny loli; poised now, she wore a tender smile touched with youth, spring on a porcelain grove.
Ouyang never noticed, words with Morris flowing like a long river. Time slid by, then color flared ahead like dawn breaking.
A park opened, and at its center a pool launched seven‑colored jets, silk rain unfurling in a dream.
The rainbow fountain draped the night in gauze; stars scattered many hues like gemstones, and the full moon glowed emerald over dark water.
Under that sky, the fountain’s glow made everyone feel they’d slipped into a dream, footsteps soft as mist on moss.
Xian tugged Ouyang aside, away from bromancing with Morris. “Brother‑in‑law, look—Uncle Anda’s family built that rainbow fountain. Isn’t it gorgeous?”
Her right hand held Ouyang’s left as she pointed, a white crane dipping toward ripples that winked like mirrors.
The town she meant? Ouyang knew she meant Ancient Memory Town whenever she didn’t specify, roots sinking back to the First Era like ancient pines.
From a certain angle, that land was a slice cut by great gods from the original continent, set into this world like jade in a crown.
With history so long, the town’s people carried hidden inheritances; to build a fountain like this, Anda’s clan had to hold an old lineage, ink dark on parchment.
“Mm. I see it. It’s beautiful.” As the rainbow water rose, a bittersweet smile curved Ouyang’s lips, wine-warm with a bitter note.
In the First Era, such a rainbow fountain had appeared too, pulling memory taut like a string on a qin.
That ancient fountain was prettier still; blue starlight drifted around it, and each jet sang with bells like falling snow.
When that clan finished it, the continent gasped—proud dragons with bronze-bright scales, secretive winged folk, elven royalty who rarely walked the world.
Legendary races gathered like constellations, all to see the fountain of legend shimmer in moon-dyed mist.
The fountain swayed more than legend; in those days the continent had a rogue “race,” the hundred races called them the Undying, a name cold as iron.
The Undying were immortal in truth; weak at first, shameless in their undying trait, stormclouds waiting to swell.
They held a terrifying gift: the stronger the being they killed, the stronger they grew, power stacking like thunderheads.
Once, an Undying led a few hundred—poisons, laxatives, blades, stench—leaning on immortal bodies, they bullied a dragon to death, a furnace gutted in the dark.
After the dragon fell, many natives noted the band grew stronger, limits cracking like river ice under spring hammer.
Sure, humans can break through by slaying a stronger foe; that’s normal, a spark catching tinder.
But have you seen a pure weakling turn master after felling a dragon? On that continent, the Undying were exactly that, a scarecrow becoming a storm.
