The Lord of Light’s mount, the Sky-Day Dragon Flaisdoyavi—too many syllables, so most just call it Flais. Its strength was ironclad, a mountain under noon sun, for it served one of the Other Shore’s three supreme overlords. Yet its temper ran crooked, like a cold crosswind slicing reeds; rumor said its youth was soaked in cruelty.

Because Flais loved to muscle deals like a street storm, folks on the path called it the Little Tyrant. In the White Cat’s memory, Flais’s life was a string of blazing tales, sparks snapping in a dark sky. To the White Cat, legend meant breaking into the First Imperial Princess’s palace, stealing alchemy gear from the Sage of Truth, and wolfing down free meals on city streets.

Thinking of those bright misdeeds, the White Cat perched on a rooftop, tail swaying like a willow switch, chin tilted to the sky. “Ah, those fierce old days…”

Smack! Ouyang sent a brick up like a hawk, knocking the White Cat off the roof.

Dawn had lifted, pale as milk, and because the Little Tyrant—the Sky-Day Dragon—was involved, Ouyang told Xian to head home. If this truly tied to Flais, it was thunder on the horizon, a big storm. The Sky-Day Dragon was a Tiered Being, like a certain crow with winter in its eyes; he wouldn’t drag Xian into that deep water.

A clean new Night Rite—how did it twist into the Little Tyrant again?

It all curled back to last night’s rite.

When Xian found Ouyang, the White Cat slipped away, polite as mist, leaving space for two hearts. Wandering like a breeze through alleys, the White Cat sensed a shaky patch in the air, thin as soap film; one tap of its paw, and the space popped open with a dark hole.

Bored as a cat in rain, it slipped into that spatial corridor. The paths crossed like roots under earth, crooked and rank; it followed the one carrying a slow breath of life, like warm wind from a cave.

At the end of that passage, the White Cat found the culprit: a snake that loved drilling like an earthworm in spring soil, ramming space like loam. That snake was the Tenth Demon King, the Heart of Space—Moqi.

Drilling was Moqi’s delight, especially carving tunnels through the velvet of space. Many “natural spatial corridors” in the Source World came from that burrowing, though clueless mortals swore they were born from nature’s tide. Gods, pretenders just below gods, and Demigods barely spared those “natural corridors” a glance, like rain rolling off stone. Yet in the mortal world, those channels kicked up waves; big factions planted flags over one or two corridors.

Once occupied, a corridor charged tolls like hail; anyone else had to pay a mountain of coin to pass. For the urgent—hands burning with time—it was a river-road that saved lives.

The White Cat lost interest the moment the veil lifted and the trick was ash in daylight. Coming back through the honeycomb, it got spun dizzy by the maze, like vines twisting a kitten.

So it picked a corridor at random and went down fish-smooth. Sliding out, it found itself at the edge of a place that felt wrong, like frost biting through fur. It stood only on the rim, but it knew the name: the Sealed Land. Old myths on the continent said the Sealed Land held something terrible, a shadow chained under mountains. And at that edge, the White Cat caught the scent of the Little Tyrant—the Sky-Day Dragon’s breath, hot as noon steel. As a kit, it had run with that tyrant; the scent was an old flag it knew by heart.

The instant its paws touched the Sealed Land, every hair bristled like needles; something unseen watched, cold as midwinter. The White Cat didn’t dare trace the tyrant’s trail alone in that haunted place, not with the wind tasting of teeth.

It turned back to find Ouyang.

That was the whole path of it.

In continental lore, the Sealed Land bound ancient Demon Kings, names buried like bones. But in Ouyang’s mind, it sealed the Golden Constant Gate, that brass-bright door to the First Universe.

He couldn’t square it; the Golden Constant Gate was sealed by the Supreme Law, a stern sky above law. The Other Shore had no reason to guard the Sealed Land. Yet the place was knife-dangerous; strange, terrible things drifted through it like wolves circling a fire, as if they were guarding that span of land.

It made no sense. History said the gods of the Other Shore had left pieces on the board to drive those things to assault the Golden Constant Gate, a tide beating against a locked reef. Why were they standing guard instead, like sentries under a broken moon?

Ouyang didn’t know the Sealed Land’s birth. It had existed back in that older era, a world gone missing like a swallowed star. On the continent’s maps, its area looked small, a smudge at the edge. In truth, even a god could fly and fly within it, like a gull over endless sea, and never reach an end.

Mystery—that was the Sealed Land’s first taste on Ouyang’s tongue.

In the sky above, a sword slipped from a torn seam of space, gleaming like ice.

Litian came too, curious as a kite, and hovered without rushing into the Sealed Land.

“Litian, do you know why the Sealed Land exists?” Ouyang’s voice carried a fog of doubt first, then steps; he had never asked this in his heart. Not until today did he respect that silent land.

By common logic, if the Sealed Land bound the Golden Constant Gate, then it should have been born from the Supreme Law’s hand. Yet in truth, it was wrought by the Other Shore, forged in years far away like stars across black water.

Hearing the drift in Ouyang’s tone, Litian wavered in the air, blade humming like a low wind.

“The Sealed Land’s meaning?” Litian’s voice came heavy as iron rain. “First ask what is truly sealed there. To be honest, I don’t know the Sealed Land’s purpose either.”

Sealed—what, exactly?

Ouyang looked over the charred ground, mountains broken like old teeth, and he shook his head. He stepped into the Sealed Land, boots soft on ash. “How would I know… I used to think it sealed the Golden Constant Gate, but now I hesitate.”

Charred earth and shattered ranges gave him déjà vu, like walking back onto the First Land under a gray dawn. “Did this world, like the First Land, take an outside blow and end in ruin?”

Litian didn’t answer. Silence settled like snow. After a long drift, a heavy voice fell: “You could say so. The Sealed Land is another First Land—one from before the Other Shore’s era began.”

The First Land before the Other Shore’s calendar?

Ouyang’s thoughts went foggy, then lined up like stones in a stream. Another First Land didn’t mean a second copy carved literal; Litian meant a mirror by nature.

“A very long time ago—how long, only that old tortoise calling itself the oldest being might know—there was a world like the First Land. It sat where two universes met, a seam where two seas kiss.”

Contact between universes didn’t start with the Other Shore’s first era. Before the gods of the Other Shore rose, in years far off like starlight, beings from the First Universe crossed into the Second.

That descent, like the first era, happened when the two universes overlapped in part, timespace layered like paper lanterns. Through that overlap, beings from the First Universe walked into the Second. The place of their arrival was the “overlapping timespace.” In the first era, Ouyang’s First Land was also such an overlap. But the Night King’s advent, and the sacrifice of the Boundless Sea, tore that overlap like a net.

When the Boundless Sea was broken, the overlapping timespace vanished, cutting the bridge home. They couldn’t return to the First Universe. Only when the overlap fell did the survivors learn they hadn’t entered a mere otherworld, but a whole strange universe.

Picture two circles, each a universe. On a cycle, they drift close, and a slice overlaps like a crescent. That overlap becomes a small circle, distinct from the two big ones. It belongs to neither the First nor the Second Universe, a place folk call the “gap.” While the small circle holds, those inside don’t know the outside; they’re held apart, like fish in a walled pond.

Sacrificing the Boundless Sea broke that small circle, punched a hole through paper. Creatures inside looked out, then stepped through the rip into the second big circle—the Second Universe, blue and cold.

In the Other Shore’s reckoning, some said the first era should be called the zero era. Because in that “first,” the world belonged to neither universe; it rested in overlap. Only when the Boundless Sea was sacrificed, when ancient breeds felt space grow thin and could catch coordinates to a foreign sky, did they truly arrive in the Second Universe. By true measure, the “second era” should be the first.

And the Sealed Land was a product of an overlap from endless years ago, a seam like the First Land, a place where two universes touched.

By rights, if the Night King had never come, if the Boundless Sea had not been sacrificed, the First Land’s overlap would have faded like morning mist. Ouyang and the others would have drifted back to the First Universe, while the First Land would blur into dream.

What Litian said was still a guess; the Sealed Land’s events had slipped past any ledger. We only know this: after that overlapping timespace rose there, the continent was annihilated, clean as a swept plate. Those who came from the First Universe to the Sealed Land seemed not to have survived.

“Thinking it through now—if the Boundless Sea hadn’t been sacrificed, under the Night King’s attack maybe a few could have slipped back to Earth through that sea. But most would have died, like reeds under frost. And when the overlap vanished, life for those who lived would feel like a dream—a strange tale carved into only a few hearts.”

Ouyang sighed, breath a thin cloud. Long ago, the beings on the Sealed Land might have been from the First Universe—an unknown civilization, names eaten by time. The years marched on like desert wind; everything may have vanished, beaten by the slow hand of age.

It’s just as Ouyang said: without that sacrifice of the Boundless Sea, even if everyone fled back to Earth, it would turn to dream. At most, a handful would never wake from that “dream,” drifting forever in its pale light.