Inside the Void Castle, Augustine reported the tremors of recent years, his words dropping like pebbles into a deep well.

“Teacher, lately countless worlds in the Panworld Alliance have been hit by disasters. Aid files stack like snowdrifts, ten times more than a century ago.”

Over three centuries, the Alliance swelled like a flood-swollen river. As more worlds joined, it ranked them: low, middle, high—tiers like steps cut into a cliff.

A low world meant two things. One: no god had ever risen there, like a sky without stars. Two: no human power could strike with a god’s force, no thunder in mortal hands. If mortals learned god-tier destruction, that world walked out of the fog of “low.”

A middle world meant gods stood upon its soil, like pillars in a temple. Or a civilization could match a god with alchemy and arrays—forge and sigil against halo and hymn. In short, divine-level combat power marked the middle tier.

A high civilization meant a world crowned by a Creator God, a sun blazing at its center.

Recently, the storm lashed mostly the low worlds. When you sift the wreckage, you find one thing—man-made calamity, smoke of arson rather than lightning’s bite.

“Annoying,” Ouyang said, flipping through pages that rustled like wings. “Little Fia’s intel says the Divine Realm, the Demon World, and the Underworld formed an alliance. These messes smell of their smoke.” He skimmed the reports: some worlds birthed monsters like shadows under a moon, some suffered plagues like gray rain, some saw strange groups twist order like hands stirring muddy water.

The “Source” World oversaw countless subordinate worlds, like a tree with roots in every soil. Those three high worlds had little brothers too—lackeys under banners. This felt like bosses sending their crews to throw the first punches before the real war.

“Do we send the Panworld Peacekeeping Corps to assist?”

Unease tightened Augustine’s chest like an iron band. He was a god, yet this touched three high worlds; he dared not decide. If those worlds hid traps, a single misstep would spiral like a landslide.

Ouyang set the files aside. Wind from the window combed his short gray hair like reed fingers. His face had shed its youth over two hundred years, weathered like stone under rain.

“No rush. The Peacekeeping Corps handles god-level events. These low-world disasters, to us, are gnats on a summer night. If we send them, a sudden flare-up could make recall messy.”

“And those low worlds hold no strategic ore. A single Demigod could play Demon King and end a world, like a scythe through tall grass. If the enemy truly wanted to strike, a god’s finger could erase a continent. What we see now is them tying up our hands with twine, while they sharpen blades for a larger war. If we dispatch gods to mop up, they’ll fix us like bugs in amber.”

Augustine listened, the logic settling like cool rain. It felt right.

“So… we send Demigods?”

“No. A large muster is a beacon in the night.” Ouyang shut his eyes, thought folding like a fan. “The Demon King Academy crowd… they’re idle. Give them a summer assignment. Fieldwork. Students traveling worlds on break looks natural, like birds migrating.”

In July, Year 372 of the Demon King era, the Demon King Academy was already on break, the sun a bronze gong over the campus.

“Freshman, over here!”

Inside the Academy, Chloe waved from afar, her smile bright as dawn, her golden hair floating like wheat in wind. Several clueless boys felt their hearts thump like drums.

Bayat covered his face, dread rising like cold mist. A year with her had earned her a nickname in his mind: Jinx Goddess.

Every time Chloe found him, trouble sprouted like mushrooms after rain. Even good turned bad, like milk souring in heat. And after a year, shouldn’t she have graduated? Why was she still here, lingering like a late shadow? Was she here to say goodbye?

“Freshman… help… ugh, I might not graduate.”

Chloe grabbed Bayat and cried, tears and snot streaking like twin rivulets.

The Demon King Academy ran on credits. At graduation, even Sky Level strength meant nothing if your credits fell short, like a sword with no sheath. Chloe was short on credits.

“You don’t know how awful the teachers are. I just ate a little in class—bam, they docked me. And, freshman, listen—there’s this bizarre professor, honestly. That chubby one caught me snacking and told me to share with him. A professor stealing a student’s food—what a joke. I refused. He docked me again. How can a professor be that weird?”

Bayat listened, shock clanging in his skull like a struck bell. How insane was her snacking? Enough to make teachers slash credits? And that bizarre professor…

“Freshman, you have to help me!”

Chloe wanted help because of the Academy’s summer assignment. This year was still fieldwork, but the rules had shifted, like a path bent by rain.

This year’s practice let you form teams, then draw tasks from the mission hall, like lots from a jar. Whatever you drew, that became your assignment. Finish it, earn credits—clean and simple.

Tasks came in tiers of difficulty, scaled to a team’s average strength. If your average ran low, you wouldn’t draw anything insane, like toddlers handed war hammers.

“I heard our graduating class—the so-called big shots from the rank lists—strutted off to form a team. Do you know what they drew? Support on a god battlefield. That’s the front line of wars between gods. I nearly died laughing—those idiots.”

Her plan was simple as a fox’s grin: take Bayat the noob, drag the team’s rating down, then go seal-clubbing.

Truth was, Bayat knew Chloe hadn’t come to negotiate; she’d come to inform. She had probably already written his name onto her team form and filed it, like a stamp pressed on wax.

“Senior… I… I’m going home this year…”

Bayat was only Star Ring Level. Chloe, a senior, had to be Sky Level. That meant enemies could be Sun Ring Level, suns burning hot. In theory, with a Sky Level on hand, a Star Ring weakling like Bayat could coast like driftwood.

Theory stayed theory. Bayat knew Chloe too well. Faced with anything shiny, she’d chase it like a cat after light and forget him in a heartbeat. They’d gone exploring once. Chloe left him in a deep pit for a full day and night, only remembering him when her excitement cooled, like embers going gray.

“Freshman, don’t do this. If you leave, where do I find a newbie for the team?”

“But… senior, my mother’s bedridden, and my father fell while chopping wood. His foot’s swollen like a steamed bun…”

“Kid, I already submitted your name.”

Bayat’s excuses died like candles in rain. The list was in—he knew this senior never asked first; she always chopped then apologized.

Helpless, Bayat swallowed the reality, like a bitter pill.

“Hey, don’t mope. Listen, this time our team has three Sky Levels. Four people total, only you’re Star Ring Level. You’ll be fine.” Chloe’s smile bloomed like a sunflower, her hand tapping Bayat’s shoulder like a drumbeat.

Safe?

The word hit Bayat like ice water. He suddenly wanted to desert. Three Sky Levels! With three suns overhead, the difficulty for a lone Star Ring felt like hell’s gate swinging open.

Seeing him relent, Chloe pulled out a crystal. She ducked into a corner, spoke into it like whispering to a seashell, then came back and patted his shoulder.

“Freshman, two seniors are coming to check on you. They’ll protect you.”

Bayat stared at Chloe, eyes dry as paper. If they protect him, what about her? She was clearly recruiting him, then vanishing like mist—classic Chloe.

While Bayat was roasting her in his heart, two upperclassmen walked over, their steps easy as cats.

“Freshman, meet Shazo,” Chloe said, pointing at a strikingly handsome guy. At first glance, Bayat’s mind flashed one word: campus prince.

“This is Jaster.”

Jaster looked plain, but he gave off the drained vibe of overindulgence, eyes like lamps running low.

After some quick chatter, Bayat learned the truth. Green-haired heartthrob Shazo, languid loser Jaster—both, like Chloe, were short on credits. Birds of a feather flock together, mud to mud, water to water. But then—Bayat was a model student. How did he end up with this flock?

In Bayat’s mind, Shazo was the idol of countless girls, a poster-boy perfect as marble. How could he be short on credits?

Chloe’s debt came from eating in class, teachers slicing her score like paper. Shazo’s issue was vanity—he loved mirrors too much, always checking his reflection in class like a peacock at a pond. The Disciplinary Committee didn’t warn him; they silently kept a ledger, page after page like a growing brick. At graduation, they slammed the thick book down. Shazo got sunk.

As for perpetually drowsy Jaster, he’d skipped too many classes—absences piling like fallen leaves.

Chloe clutched snacks like treasure, Shazo angled a mirror like a blade catching light, Jaster looked ready to nap standing up. Bayat stared and felt his hope shrivel like a leaf in frost. Could they really keep him alive? From any angle, this crew screamed unreliable.