For Morris and Belle, the so-called meeting was a painted screen; the real core sat with the Demon Kings like dark peaks around a table.

“Then, child, are you asking for aid as an individual,” Eunice, Goddess of Water, asked in an old, lacquered tone, “or speaking for your world’s people drowning in misery?”

Her voice rippled like an aged stream through a youthful vessel; if she shed that childlike body, her words would weigh like stone.

Jiangxue didn’t answer at once; silence pooled around her. Morris and Belle didn’t dare whisper to her—gods watched like hawks over snow.

Morris heard the deeper current beneath Eunice’s calm surface, a choice like a forked river.

If Jiangxue spoke only for herself, the gods would remain unmoved, their immortal heights cold as cliffs above a single ant.

If she carried her world’s plea, the tide might turn; one mortal is a spark, a multitude becomes a beacon.

Pick wrong, and it’s drawing water with a bamboo basket—nothing held, nothing saved.

Born to families of divine descendants, Morris and Belle knew the stakes; they could only watch, breath tight as bowstrings.

Eyes closed, Jiangxue weighed her heart like a scale in mist.

“Great gods,” she said, letting her fear fall like rain, “I speak for the mortals of my world, ravaged by church and Heretic God. I beg you to defeat the Heretic God, to give our people a sky where they can live.”

She dropped to both knees before the assembly; stone kissed skin like cold dawn. This was a last rope over a chasm.

“Good. Mortal, your stance pleases me.” The Fifteenth Demon King, Bartley, stroked his ram’s-horn goatee, dwarf hands heavy as anvils.

A god-tier smith among dwarves, he had god-tier works like stars in a forge. He pulled a longsword, then flicked it; the blade bit the floor before Jiangxue.

“Mortal, take this Sword of the Warrior. Your courage before gods earns it; your bearing satisfies us.”

Jiangxue looked at the sword planted like a young tree. She gripped it with her left hand and laid her right over her heart, steady as a drum.

“Great lords, I’m small, but I’ll use this blade to cut down enemies on the field. I won’t stain the honor of your weapon.”

From her sure steps to her steady voice, she wore experience like armor; this wasn’t the fluster of a common home.

Without vision and schooling, a mortal rarely navigates such storms. Jiangxue did, head high against rain.

“Mm. Then we’ll send forces. Next comes the split,” someone said, like a merchant closing a ledger.

The Eleventh Demon King, Dufei, patted his oiled belly; talk of spoils made his eyes shine like coins. The Tenth, Moqi, leaned in like a cat to cream.

“C’mon, man, behave. We’ve outsiders watching,” Feges, the dark elf, covered her face, shame spreading like blush.

Her gesture stirred a thorn. A wish-fiend snorted, frost on glass. “Elf bitch, why’re you acting all pure?”

“What did you say, you damned flower fiend? I’ll kill you, try me!”

Feges’s temper flashed like flint; she planted a boot on the table, heel a challenge.

Before their sparks became wildfire, the Ninth Demon King, Kooson, tapped the back of her head with a spiked mace. The dull thud was a nightstick in fog; Feges went quiet.

“Smart,” the Fourth Demon King, Amelie, hugged her sword and raised a thumb, praise like a candle.

The Fifth, Lich Glenza, touched his bare skull, voice low as a tomb. “When she wakes, what’s your plan?”

Kooson shook his head like a bear shrugging snow. “No plan… I’ll just freeload at the boss’s castle till she forgets.”

Hearing that, Ouyang’s calm cracked like ice.

“Don’t. Kooson, don’t. Everyone, hear me—let’s pretend we saw nothing. If she can’t find the culprit, she’ll vent for a couple days and cool.”

He wasn’t saving Kooson; he was saving his own roof from chatter. If Kooson got a legitimate excuse to mooch, and his motor-mouth persona kicked in, Ouyang’s peace would be dust in wind.

In short, don’t hand Kooson a ticket to dinner. If Feges can’t name the hitter, Kooson loses his reason to squat.

The gods glanced around, reading faces like weather. Since the First Demon King had spoken, they gave him face and nodded together.

Watching this theater, Morris felt his idea of Demon Kings crack like a mask. Were these the legendary figures—strong, mysterious, cold?

Fine. Many things are better as expectation. Pierce the paper screen, and reality is a draft that stings.

“Ahem,” Ouyang said, voice a bell in a hall. “Given that, I’ll alter this year’s rules for the Divine-Demon Pilgrimage. We’ll hold something unlike past years.”

“Thirty-two worlds are represented here. One god will lead each world, and guide their beings into the Heretic God World.”

“In that world, the top three in renown will co-govern the Heretic God World.” His words fell like seals pressed into wax.

A world with no supernatural mortals holds little military value—unless gods dwell there. That alone makes the Heretic God World strategic.

To Ouyang, one more world is one more river in an ocean. During the Pilgrimage, it becomes a festival turned campaign.

Whether Jiangxue’s mortals protest outside governance isn’t his concern; they hold no bargaining chips, hands empty as sky.

“Of course, our Origin World won’t compete in the ranking. You can fight freely. Top three—faith, strategic resources, fame—you share them. Our Demon Kings will witness.”

He added that like a hand to steady a carriage, and the other gods exhaled, shoulders lower as clouds part.

For Origin World, that world is tasteless, yet too precious to toss. For smaller worlds, it’s honey in a jar.

Faith-gods and man-gods are different systems, two engines, two paths. Yet at the source, two rivers meet one sea.

In the Heretic God World, they might find relics of fallen gods, or notes of insight. A breakthrough could glimmer like dawn.

That world isn’t a meal a one-god realm can swallow. Even in co-rule, a stronger neighbor may eat them clean.

With Origin World’s Demon Kings as arbiters and overseers, even a two-god world can eat its slice without choking.

In the Alliance of Thirty-Two Worlds, the top three have Creator Gods. Origin World stands first without debate.

Second, Aup World, holds the Divine Realm. Over long ages, Creator God Aupu birthed gods like stars spun from night.

Third, Ling World. Creator God Lingwen didn’t rise from chaos already crowned; she broke from high god to the threshold of Realm God.

She’s weaker among Creator Gods, but her world houses many gods, a forest of pillars.

Those three have gods like forests; the Heretic God World tempts them little, a fruit they don’t need.

Beyond them, twenty-nine worlds are managed by single-digit gods. The thirty-second has only one god, crowned in recent years.

“Since Lord Ouyang said so, we of Aup World won’t compete. We’ll leave the chance to others,” Aupu waved, generosity laid like silk.

A world-forging Creator God doesn’t crave new land; he can forge a realm like a smith draws a blade from fire.

With Ouyang and Aupu both stepping back, Lingwen had her thoughts, but couldn’t snatch candy from children when two elders abstained.

So Lingwen also chose not to compete, her pride folded like a fan.

“Given the Heretic God is badly wounded, I have one demand: finish it within five days. We’ll open a grand gate in the plaza.”

“Bring your people to Miracle City. Enter together through the channel we open.” Ouyang’s plan unfurled like a banner in wind.

He wanted five days because once the Heretic God falls, mortals without power are wheat before a scythe. It’d be a one-sided slaughter.

The Pilgrimage lasts seven days; five remain. End that one-sided war within the festival’s drumbeat.

“I’ll add,” the Sixth Demon King, Wutong, spoke, voice calm as shade. “Each world must wear a unified uniform so we can tell you apart.”

“The three non-competing worlds will supervise and assist, to make evaluation fair.” His words stood like boundary stones.

“Go. You have less than a day to prepare,” Lingwen reminded, a slight edge like steel under silk. “Given the gap in power, bring elites. Numbers aren’t an advantage.”

She felt unwillingness like grit in tea. As a Creator God, her foundation lagged behind Ouyang and Aupu; still, she chose not to compete.

A single meeting pressed its seal and set a world’s fate, like a decree falling into history’s river.