The morning sun was a little blinding, like liquid gold spilling over his lashes. Ouyang rubbed his eyes and stretched like a lazy cat.

His hand brushed something soft, warm, and springy, like a ripe peach. He turned, and Xi’s forehead was almost touching his, her wink sly as a fox.

“Yang, morning~”

He froze like a statue; Xi moved with calm ease, like a river. She slowly slipped into her clothes, her poise the mirror opposite of his stone-still daze.

“Idiot, come fasten my buttons.” Her fingers tapped his arm, light as a willow branch, tugging him back from his fog.

Heat flashed under his skin, embarrassment throbbing like a drum. As a god, would Xi really miss a button? The bigger problem—he wasn’t wearing anything.

White light bloomed over him like a clean veil; in a blink his clothes snapped into place. He let out a breath and marveled at the holy light mosaic—the universal fix. He’d always wondered why magical girls transformed under holy light censor bars; now he knew it was a vital artifact.

Xi watched the white shimmer fade and his clothes settle, then pouted and clicked her tongue, sharp as a pebble.

“Hey, what’s with that click? Sounds like you were expecting something.”

“It’s nothing… heh, I already saw what needed seeing…”

“Huh?!”

The words hit him like a splash of cold water. He blinked, mind blank.

“You stripped me bare before, didn’t you? Last night, while you slept, I saw you back.” She spoke behind a lifted hand, laughter muffled and bright as a silver bell. Ouyang glanced at the sheets, rippled like water, then at the isolation barrier in the room, thin as frost. The pieces slid together like sunrise breaking the dark, and he understood.

Miracle City, inner ward.

The plaza was a packed black tide. Gods stood at the front like mountain peaks; mortals crowded behind like restless waves. They were famished for action. For special reasons, the First Demon King strolled in close to noon, Xi’s hand in his, late like a drifting cloud. Grumbles prickled, but Xi’s eyes swept over them like a cold moon, and the crowd fell silent.

Aurora the Goddess of Aurora’s aura pressed down like winter snow; even Aupu and Lingwen lowered their heads, not daring a direct look.

Ouyang cleared his throat, humor rising like a small shield. “We forgot to tell you the exact departure time. We actually leave at noon. Sorry for the wait.” He felt pretty clever—one neat excuse to cover the lateness.

There were tiny murmurs like gnats, but most people nodded and let it go.

“Your Majesty the Void Messenger, no need to apologize. I’ve been waiting on the plaza since last night; a little time ain’t much!”

Ouyang knew that voice, old and familiar as a worn road. That was the god from the world ranked last in the Thirty-Two World Alliance. He’d come to the Source World years ago, before he sat a god’s throne. He wandered, returned, and under a sky full of stars he saw through dust and ascended.

Orut was his world’s first god ever—and the only one. With no trail to follow and rough hands, he knew nothing about managing a world.

So Orut asked for help every few days, and Orut World became the alliance’s biggest headache. The gods close to him had worried themselves thin.

“Then let’s cut the chatter. I announce: the World Alliance Rescue Operation starts now!”

Ouyang waved, and the vast black curtain over the world gate peeled away like night. On the far side, a wasteland opened, jagged rocks like dragon teeth.

The crowd surged like a tide. A jam loomed like a cliff. Wutong barked, voice ringing like a bronze bell: “Representatives of each world, move your people! Don’t let them block the gate!”

Warned, beams of light dropped like spears. Mortals vanished with a whoosh, landing on the other world’s side in a blink.

The plaza emptied like morning mist. The onlookers around the edge finally breathed, shoulders loosening; that black sea had been crushing. Ouyang had only said “leave tomorrow” without an hour, so many had rushed in the night and waited till dawn.

When each world’s god reclaimed their people, the next group rolled in—a coalition from the worlds of the three Creator Gods. The most striking were the black-cloaked ones, left hand a torch, right hand a chain, the FFF Brotherhood crest blazing on their coats.

“Seriously… why are those guys here?” Without Ouyang’s order, the ones he’d brought back from the First Continent shouldn’t be moving. The headcount was off too, with City of the Dead members mixed in.

He traced the line to its tip and found the source. A tall figure in a black greatcoat stood like a spear. Dongze.

“Right, he’s one of the First Cult’s Four Heavenly Kings.”

With that, everything clicked into place like tiles.

Dongze felt Ouyang’s stare, turned, and smiled like a sharp blade. “Yo, kid. I’m borrowing some of your people.”

He said it like it was air itself, entitlement draped on him like a cloak.

What could Ouyang say?

He covered his face and waved him off like shooing a crow. “Go. I don’t wanna see you.”

Dongze didn’t bother with politeness. His arm swept, and the black-clad surged into the other world like a storm front. When Aupu and Lingwen’s armies were nearly through, Jue and Glenza stepped to Ouyang’s side.

“How’s the City of the Dead?”

“Good. The system’s getting tighter. At this pace, in a million years it might evolve into another Underworld.” Jue’s voice was steady; he and Glenza had been tending the city for years.

Ouyang propped his chin, thoughts curling like smoke.

“Be careful. This clashes with Underworld interests. I guess some big names there will strike at your City of the Dead. If the city falls, it falls. What matters is you survive.”

In a hazy dream, he’d seen the City of the Dead in ruins, so the warning carried weight like rain.

“And the plan from before?” Jue’s tone held iron. The city had been built for a long aim; he wouldn’t drop it for a phantom threat.

Ouyang knew Jue wouldn’t let go. He sighed, breath thin as a reed. “Let it go. I was too naive. That plan doesn’t fit our environment. In a universe where order’s complete, it’s hard to build that system. Push it, and the rules and those prehistoric beings in the Underworld will snipe you.”

“That plan already found its home, but it’s not our tale…”

He sighed again. He’d wanted to carry it all, but the load was too heavy. Some things you set down. A world to cycle life and death—he couldn’t shoulder it now. To do it, he’d need the Other Shore at its peak, with absolute power. Failing that, he’d need a world with thin order and soft clay.

Sadly, he had neither.

“Idiot… sometimes learning to let go is its own growth.” Xi laced her fingers with his, a sweet smile blooming like spring.

She’d watched him quietly all along, a lantern in the dusk, letting him find the knot himself.

Ouyang didn’t argue. He squeezed her hand and gave her a sunny grin.

“Another world, here we come! Augustine, how long has it been since we teamed up?”

Pulis shouldered a war banner like a burning river. A prince of the Land of Time in the imperial era, he still moved with easy grace.

The dwarf Durak, they said, had trained under Bartley, the dwarven god, and his forging now burned at perfection.

“Durak, I heard you can forge semi-artifacts. If this world has the right materials, craft me a heavy hitter!” Lain wore robes like his mentor, the Lich Glenza. He craved a better bone staff. In the Source World, the leash had been tight—no wild hunts. Now, chances sparked.

Their captain, Augustine, watched them and smiled, steady as a clean wind.

Fei seemed infected by Amelie; wherever she went, she hugged a sword like a faithful pet.

Caro and Irina walked at the rear. Even knowing this world was weak, habit held; detection spells rippled from them like netted light.

The seven who once hunted the Twelve Divine Demon Artifacts stood together again at last.