To be blunt, those Demon Kings were just bored, like caged predators pacing in stale light.

Ouyang had learned from Fia that the Divine Realm was stirring like a storm beyond the horizon, but they wouldn’t act soon; they were hunting for an opening.

Thus those pranksters grew very bored, like cats restless before rain.

In the past, they rampaged without restraint, like storms over wild plains.

Now they rule this world, and nearby worlds rest under the World Alliance’s ward, like villages ringed by stone walls.

They can’t hassle their underlings for no reason, like hawks forbidden to dive.

Ouyang’s current situation was a crack in the ice, a door ajar into a world they could ruin.

If their true bodies descended, that world would shatter like thin glass.

So Jue decreed Ouyang and the rest could only send projections, shadows instead of mountains.

Even then, projection carried many limits; step beyond the mortal tier, and you were out, like crossing a chalk line in dust.

Ouyang figured none of the Demon Kings would cross it; mischief finds gaps like smoke, and their clowning wasn’t tied to force.

Maybe because he learned from Ouyang of a sliver of hope to unwind his curse, Jue’s mood brightened like spring sun thawing frost.

Normally, Jue watched the jokers pose in silence, stone under moss and eyes like night.

After rounds of wrangling, they laid down rules; break them, and the gong would strike you out.

First, within seven nights, lure a mortal in that world’s dreams into “signing a contract” and joining the Demon Kings’ game, like moonlit bait in a river of sleep.

Second, don’t reveal anything about the “Origin” World, the Demon Kings, or related matters; let your tongue slip like a knife, and you’re out.

Third, use a power that reaches god-tier, and you’re out, like touching the sun and getting burned.

Fourth, summon your underlings to fight, and you’re out; no armies may rise like grave-mist.

Fifth, reveal the truth of the game, and you’re out; no one lifts a lantern over this stage.

These five came after a full day and night of bickering, voices grinding like millstones over grain.

That “no underlings” rule cut deep for Glenza the Lich, bones clacking like cold beads in a bowl.

As a Lich, his showiest move was a grand sweep, ten thousand corpses surging like a tide of skulls to mob the enemy.

With that rule, how could he show off, a theater without drums and banners in ash wind?

In the end, they gave Glenza one privilege; he could summon underlings, a thin reed in a storm.

For fairness, they invited Dongze and Agas as judges; break a rule, and thunder would gavel you out.

In secret, they warned the judges: if Glenza’s summons reached god-tier, he must be out, a kite cut loose.

If his underlings spilled forbidden news, he must be out, tripwires hidden under fallen leaves.

So before the game even began, the Demon Kings schemed against Glenza, knives wrapped in silk.

This so-called game was mutual sabotage, pitfalls covered by autumn leaves.

You trap me, I trap you, until everyone’s out but you, last lantern burning at dawn.

As for magic crystal shards, mortals care; they glitter like frost and promise a wish.

To the Demon Kings, those low-grade divinity shards were worthless, sand beside the sea.

The key was to shove rivals off the board like stones sliding from a Go grid.

Ouyang scanned that world, eyes like a hawk over green fields and roofs.

When night fell and people slipped into dreams, moon poured down and the city breathed softer; the game began.

For his pick, Ouyang wasn’t aimless like the others, arrow straight to a mark under starlight.

He had a believer, a lamp already lit on his altar in the wind.

Good fortune stays in the family; he’d start with his own devotee, irrigating his own garden like spring water.

Deep night, in a big house, Ouyang’s phantom form drifted in like smoke through carved lattice.

He glided to a room, passed through the door like mist, hovered by a bed, then dove headfirst and vanished like a fish slipping under ice.

It was a world of kaleidoscope oddities, colors spilled like paint across a sky of glass.

A river flowed through the sky, pentagrams gleamed as they ran over the earth, and countless flowers hovered like lanterns.

In Ouyang’s words, it was a world without logic, a dream stitched from feather and fog.

Even so, a dream persists like dew clinging till sunrise on bamboo leaves.

“My dear believer…” Unease pricked him like thorns before he moved; he looked around an empty garden of soundless bells.

Where was she, the dream’s heroine, his believer, not a living soul under these painted clouds?

He flew for who knows how long, to the frayed edge of the dream where color bled into black.

Beyond lay a pitch-black world, an ink pool with no stars.

“Where is she?” His voice dropped like a stone into still water.

He searched heaven and earth, burrowing three feet like a fox under earth and sky, and still no one.

“Did I log in wrong?” Doubt crept like ants over his skin.

While he puzzled, his foot sank into something soft, plush like moss under rain.

He looked down, petals parting like lips to reveal pale skin in the flower sea.

In the sea of flowers he found a body, white amid scarlet like moonlight on peonies.

No—not a corpse; when he stepped, the other woke, eyes opening like dawn behind thin clouds.

“Young girl, will you sign a contract and become a magical girl?” His words floated like ribbon under the moon.

Ouyang hovered in the air, and the girl startled, a sparrow’s heart fluttering in a bamboo cage.

Her surprise passed; she floated too, lifted as if by a hidden breeze through pines.

“I can do that too,” she said, rubbing her eyes, sleep clinging like mist to lashes.

This dream was woven by the girl; in theory she could do anything, a loom with stars for thread.

Frustration cooled in Ouyang’s chest like embers under ash; his plan to awe her into devotion cracked.

In a dream, no matter how wondrous his power, she’d take it for granted, like rain expected in monsoon.

“Ahem… girl, do you know there are seven Dragon Balls—no.” He pivoted like a dancer under a paper lantern. “There’s something called a magic crystal.”

We say if you gather scattered shards and piece a full crystal, you can make a wish, like building a moon from broken mirrors.

The girl’s black hair was tied into two bundles with ribbons, twin streams falling over her shoulders.

She twirled a strand and stared at Ouyang with foggy eyes, a pond with no ripples.

“Do you have a wish you want fulfilled?” His voice held a star behind clouds.

“Yes. I want to meet the legendary Void Messenger,” she said, eyes shining like fox-light at dusk.

Ouyang: …

“Ahem. Anyway, girl, let’s work together,” he said, hands offered like shadows clasping under lantern light.

We gather the magic crystal, then you make a wish; that crystal grants wishes, like a comet cupped in your palms.

The girl kept staring, still lost, eyes like wells with quiet water.

“Little one, are you an idiot?” he snapped, a thorn through silk.

“Eh… how did you know? Everyone says I’m an idiot,” she chimed, laughter like off-key bells.

Anger flared like sparks in dry grass; Ouyang almost wanted to kill the brat, knife kept sheathed beneath silk because of faith.

If she weren’t his zealot, he’d have acted, a tiger finally showing fangs.

“Sign a contract with me. After we complete the magic crystal, you’ll have boundless wealth,” he promised, vaults like mountains.

“You’ll become queen,” he said, crowns like gold sunrise. “You’ll—”

“We already have lots of money,” she said, words tumbling like coins. “Lots and lots; my father says we’re the richest in the world.”

“And he’s a king. He has great power,” she added, scepter like a thunderbolt.

Hearing that, Ouyang felt like singing to a stone, sound falling like rain on granite.

“You lack neither money nor power, but the magic crystal grants wishes,” he pressed, a shooting star cupped in his hands.

“Eternal life, plucking stars from the sky… don’t you want that?” he asked, night trembling like silk.

The girl’s black eyes rolled, a sly glint flickering like fox-fire. “Then can I meet the legendary Void Messenger?”

“Y—yes… yes,” he said, hesitation rippling like water lines.

“Oh… but I still don’t want to sign a contract,” she sighed, clouds drifting over a pale moon.

Goddammit. Anger hissed like steam; Ouyang almost snapped, a blade itching in its scabbard.

If not for her zeal, he’d have acted; restraint coiled like a rope around his wrists.

“Fine. When you die and your soul rises to the Origin World’s Hall of Devotion, I’ll make you pay,” he muttered, words like smoke dissolving in air.

The Hall of Devotion is like heaven, a bright field where devout souls ascend like swans.

“Kid, whether you sign or not, you will sign!” Resolve hardened like iron; a black fireball bloomed in his hand, ink-flame licking the dark.

The pitch-black flames looked wicked, night flowers with teeth and a cold glow.

Bat wings unfurled behind him, a spiked demon tail swayed like a metronome, horns sprouted, and a trident gleamed like wet obsidian.

The girl saw his crimson eyes and retreated, frost running over her skin and feet skimming petals.

Ouyang advanced; the girl stepped back, shadow chasing light across a wall.

At last, she gave in, a leaf yielding to wind on a quiet pond.

“In short, there are fifteen pairs like us, with fourteen rival teams,” Ouyang explained, pieces laid on a board under lamplight.

He told the rules to the girl named Jiu Wenxin, but felt her interest drift like smoke.

Ouyang pondered, thoughts rustling like bamboo in wind; with her status—richest family, father a king—it was natural she didn’t care.

With such conditions, who would chase a vague magic crystal, a mirage beyond a desert of silk?

“Little one, think about this,” he said, a wolf’s shadow at the palace gates. “If the final winner is bad, what wish will they make?”

“Maybe the throne changes hands; maybe the whole world sits under one hand,” he warned, a net thrown over the sky.

“That’s the best case. If it’s a madman, he’ll wish for strength and slaughter people,” he said, blades storming across fields.

“Do you think it won’t touch you? Because you didn’t care, you let tragedy bloom,” he pressed, blood-red blossoms opening in the streets.

After he spoke, Jiu Wenxin lay in the sea of flowers in long silence, petals closing like eyelids over thought.

She thought it through, mind lighting grain by grain like lanterns along a river.

“Do you want your father’s long-tended kingdom to become someone else’s?” he asked, a garden he pruned traded to strangers.

Relief warmed Ouyang like tea after frost; he smiled like a victor under banners.

Though she’d signed earlier, she might have slacked; with this, she’d likely take it seriously, bowstring drawn taut.

As expected, when Jiu Wenxin stood from the flowers, her aura changed, mist hardening into glass and edges bright.

Gone was the muddled look; her face was solemn, brows like swords under a clear sky.

“Can the crystal’s wish really reach that far?” she asked, eyes searching stars like sailors.

“Of course,” he said, plucking a star from heaven with a scoff. “A mere mortal kingdom is nothing.”

“Even eternal life, even raising the dead, can be done,” he said, snapping twigs underfoot with contempt.

It pressed Jiu Wenxin subtly, a tide pulling a boat toward open sea, to go all in on the Demon Kings’ game.

“Then, kid, let’s work well together,” she said, two shadows shaking hands under the moon.