From Morris’s retelling, Ouyang caught the shape of that world, his thoughts rippling like moonlit water. It was a world with gods, and from the way Morris spoke, he guessed those gods drew power from faith.

After a god-war centuries ago, the benevolent gods were beaten down, like flowers trampled after spring rain. The evil gods devoured them, and the world fell under a dark regime. Under ironclad theocracy, the church still stood, but its hands were red. In that world, apart from gods, no humans or races wielded true supernatural power. At most, a few mortals with swordcraft sharp as frost edged through their days.

So the church, able to talk to gods, held an untouchable throne, a peak shrouded in storm cloud. Bullying men and women was their daily drizzle. Each time they held a wicked rite, they paved the altar with a baby’s fresh blood, as if painting the night with scarlet rain. Some members even rendered infant fat into oil, using it as skin balm, or for daily cooking—smoke rising like graveyard mist.

In that world, ordinary lives had no shelter, like candles left in a gale. Life or death hinged on the church’s moods, as fickle as spring and thunder, and the casual Cataclysm tossed out by some evil god could sweep away a town like a black tide.

Hearing that, Ouyang clicked his tongue, a dry sound like a pebble hitting a well. In his gut, those gods were eight parts mad, minds cracked like winter ice. A faith god’s strength ties to the crowd like roots to soil; such carnage was killing the hen for a single egg. No sane faith god would do that. Yet on second thought, Ouyang let it go like fog in sunlight. Evil gods break things—that’s their job, storms meant to tear roofs. The real pity was the benevolent gods who could’ve stopped them. They went down in a total wipe, and left a pack of evil gods to haunt the world, lonely as wolves at dusk.

Jiangxue was from that world, a snowflake blown off course. She had appeared in the Source World without reason—Morris said she fell asleep, then woke to a strange room, like opening her eyes under a different sky.

Jiangxue had never heard of humans wielding supernatural force; to her, Morris was a god, a lantern in night fog. His face was bright as the sun and his manner gentle as soft rain, so she took him for a kind god. She begged Morris for help, asked him to defeat the evil gods and free the mortals, like cutting chains from a crowd on a storm-beaten pier.

Morris pitied Jiangxue’s world, and Belle bristled at the church’s cruelty, like a cat seeing fire. But the hard fact stood like a mountain. They weren’t just unfit to fight gods; even a Demigod could crush them like dry leaves. Their family called themselves descendants of gods, yet they couldn’t reach them, their prayers scattered like birds. So far, only the Source World could speak to gods directly. Especially during the Divine-Demonic Pilgrimage, when gods walked the mortal streets like constellations stepping down.

Of course, god wars won’t turn for one mortal’s plea, a lone reed in a flood. The only leverage was the world itself. Let the Source World take the field, and the price was that world joining the Source World’s map, ink sealing to ink. That rule was the quiet pact, cold as night dew.

Once Morris finished, Loyin tugged Ouyang’s sleeve, her eyes bright as pond stars. “Brother, brother, I want to bully those little kids…” Her gaze pinned him like a bird to a branch. Bai didn’t even know what Loyin meant, yet she tugged too, a timid kitten curling at Ouyang’s arm.

“Bullying little kids?” Morris glanced around, confusion drifting like fog. He saw children passing by, but none lingered near, a river of feet flowing on.

Watching Morris’s baffled face, Ouyang sighed, a warm breeze over a lake. “Morris, don’t bother looking. My sister means she wants to bully the evil-god little kids…”

Evil-god little kids?

“Ah, that kid’s name is funny… Evil God,” Morris said, honestly thinking Loyin meant a boy named Evil God, his smile blinking like sunlight through leaves.

Ouyang didn’t bother to explain, dropping the matter like a pebble into reeds. Loyin wouldn’t explain either. Bai, shy as snowfall, clung to Ouyang’s arm, a cautious cat in a wide room.

“Morris, I get the gist,” Ouyang said, confidence flashing like a sword-edge. “It’s easy to fix. Leave it to me.” He could boot those faith gods with one kick, like sweeping dust off a step. But with the Pilgrimage rare as comet fire, he wanted this year’s to be different, a drumbeat that turned heads.

The Divine-Demonic Pilgrimage gathered gods and people from many worlds, a market of thunder. It had shifted from the Source World flexing alone to a contest among worlds. The Source World’s power needed no drum—others didn’t dare hope for first. So they fought for second and third, flags snapping in the wind. The alliance led by the Source World kept growing like ivy on stone. Better to nail down rank while the alliance was small. When it became an Alliance of Myriad Worlds, the scramble would be a storm.

Seeing Ouyang’s steady grin, Morris couldn’t help a sigh, a leaf falling from a high branch. Both had families guarded by gods, yet Ouyang could talk to gods face to face, like neighbors over a fence. Morris’s clan needed rituals layered like winter robes and a council’s many votes. How could the gap be so wide, a cliff between paths?

With something fun on the horizon, Ouyang and Loyin lost interest in shopping, their steps turning like wind. Ouyang wanted a meeting, to plan the fight like laying stones. Loyin just wanted to pound little kids, fists eager as drums.

“Here’s the deal, Morris. Take that girl to the embassy in Miracle City,” Ouyang said, voice smooth as poured tea. “Her plea counts as asking the Source World for aid, so this is between worlds. Tell the embassy chief the outline, and let them arrange rooms. It’s easier to summon you when the bell rings.”

He finished, and a seven-colored passage bloomed before them, a rainbow tunnel bending through air. “I’m off to the meeting. Move quick. Oh, and the girl might face gods from several worlds. Buy her clothes fit for a stage before you take her in. I don’t need to spell it out; just don’t forget.”

With that, Ouyang, Loyin, and Bai stepped into the shimmering path, their silhouettes slipping like swallows into light.

Morris still wondered about Ouyang’s strength, a question hanging like mist, but he had no time to chase it. Speed mattered, like running before rain. Jiangxue would face a crowd of gods from different worlds. If they kept gods waiting, trouble would be a thunderhead over their heads. He grabbed Belle, and they rushed toward Jiangxue’s place, feet drumming like rain on stone.

They met Jiangxue and settled her in a large hotel, a safe harbor under city lamps. Morris only hoped she’d stay put, quiet as a moon in a window. If the gods asked for her and he’d lost her, he was finished, a boat with a hole.

They jogged the whole way, breath white as steam. Even the pampered Belle swallowed her complaints, pride folding like a fan. In front of gods, her hauteur was nothing, dust under a boot. On that point, Belle was clear-eyed.

They hurried on, and when the hotel finally rose ahead, Morris exhaled, relief washing over him like cool rain. He and Belle took rooms there, and Jiangxue’s room was next door, a lantern beside a lantern. They rushed up to the third floor, and Morris knocked on Jiangxue’s door, knuckles ticking like a metronome.

“Jiangxue, are you there?”

Dozens of seconds passed, silence settling like fog. Morris knocked again, the hallway’s stillness a closed pond. Minutes slid by; panic knifed his chest. It looked like Jiangxue had gone out, a bird lifting from a branch.

“Heavens above, why did she go out alone?” He tapped at the door weakly, hope fluttering like a moth—that she was asleep or bathing and couldn’t open yet. That small hope shattered like thin ice when a staffer spoke.

As he knocked, a staffer drifted past—an elf, about one and a half meters tall, wearing hotel uniform, hovering like a leaf on a breeze. “Oh? Looking for that room’s guest? She just went out not long ago…”

The words hit Morris like a bucket of cold water, sluicing from crown to heel.

“Uh… Miss Elf, do you know when she left?” Morris kept his tone respectful, a bow in his voice. In his homeland, elves were mysterious and noble, starlight under trees. He wouldn’t belittle them just because, in this world, one worked a hotel desk.

The elf had a good feeling about Morris’s sunny, handsome face, warmth like a spring window, so she told him. Jiangxue left about five minutes ago, footsteps barely cooled.

“So she hasn’t gone far!” The thought snapped like a drawn bow. Morris grabbed Belle, and they hurried outside, feet quick as sparrows. But the bustling street hit him like a tide—lights, faces, voices, a river with no banks. He stood blank for a heartbeat, then decided to split up with Belle, to meet back at noon like shadows returning.

After they split, Morris scanned the tide of people, his eyes sweeping like gulls over waves. Anxiety beat in him first, a drum under ribs. He didn’t know when the gods would summon Jiangxue. The sooner he found her, the sooner they could reach Miracle City.

Half-running, he regretted not asking Jiangxue for something she’d used, the thought sour as old wine. Scrying magic needed a link, an item still warm with touch, like a thread through a needle. He had nothing of hers, so the spell stayed silent, a harp without strings.

Hunting one soul in a sea of faces, Morris finally tasted the weight of it, a grain of sand in a desert.

Maybe fate looked his way, a thin smile in cloud, because after half an hour he spotted Jiangxue on a lakeside bank, water gleaming like broken glass. Her snow-white hair and white robe flashed in the crowd, a moonbeam on dark water.

At the same time, Morris saw someone nearby and his heart dropped like a stone. Beside Jiangxue stood Neo. Morris knew him too well, a thorn lodged in an old scar. Their families had been at odds for generations, a feud like dry tinder. Morris didn’t know how Neo had found Jiangxue, but he knew one thing clear as ice: with Neo there, taking Jiangxue to Miracle City would meet resistance, a wall rising across the road.

Neo didn’t need to know Morris’s purpose at all. He only had to make Morris sick of it, to jam the gears. If he kept Morris from finishing the job, that was Neo’s win, a grin in the rain.