The “Source” World, District One, inside the Void region.

Three figures walked arm-in-arm, like street crows drifting through empty dusk.

On the left clacked a skeleton black as soot. In the middle waddled a big-bellied man. On the right strode a youth in black and white, ash-gray hair like winter reeds.

They were Glenza, Dufei, and Ouyang.

Each had a broom and a shovel slung on a shoulder, tools like pennants in a windless day.

They swept the lanes near a small village, dust rising like pale fish scales. It was a tiny place, so trash was scarce. They cleaned fast, then marched on in a straight line, a little parade of penance, sweeping everything in their path.

“Big guy, see? I’m sticking with you,” Ouyang said, brushing wrappers as if plucking leaves from a stream.

Dufei clicked his tongue and turned away, cat-cold and unimpressed.

Truth was, Dufei sweeping trash was largely Ouyang’s masterpiece. Ouyang had reported the “suns in heat” incident, and every Demon King blew up like storm surf. Especially Yulan—she’d been sunbathing amid a sea of flowers, and a stampede of suns roasted her bloom-field to a crisp.

Yulan had a thousand ways to restore a garden, but still, her temper sparked like dry pine.

Then there was Devila, the vampire, lounging with his many beauties by the shore—fruit juice in hand, waves whispering, a merry chase on wet sand.

A swarm of suns scorched the coastline into cracked porcelain.

Most of all, Wutong—the administrator of a mountain of departments—had her office flooded by complaints, a tide hitting the levee. Once Ouyang filed the “suns in heat” report, they learned the culprit was the big guy himself.

So the big guy suffered. Judged by a flock of Demon Kings, Dufei got sentenced to sweep trash, broom like a pen writing regret.

Next came Glenza. The skeleton had fallen for anatomy and alchemy like a moth to blue flame. In his home, you could find the skins of rare protected creatures, furs folded like old prayers.

“Rare” meant near-extinct in the Panworld Alliance. Unicorns. Dragonflies. Pegasi. Names like starlight fading at dawn.

No one noticed at first. Until one day, Ouyang dropped by unannounced, breeze at his heels.

Glenza was mid-alchemy, potions humming like bees. Ouyang barged in, and the experiment went sideways. One blast turned a forest into desert, green to gold in a heartbeat. Ouyang only shrugged and said, “Explosion is art.”

The next day, Wutong arrived to investigate, lantern-light on lab dust, and found those rare skins rolled like scrolls.

Glenza got sent to sweep trash too, bones clacking like wind chimes.

Ouyang came along out of guilt and cunning. He’d trapped both Dufei and Glenza once already, so he should shoulder some of the work. More importantly, the Mystic Priestess had a mountain of paperwork like a glacier pressing down. Ouyang feared she’d toss the avalanche onto his desk. Better to look busy with a broom—if she saw him hustling, she wouldn’t bury him under files.

Thus, three Demon Kings sweeping trash, penance under a pale sky.

“Jinx, keep your distance,” Glenza said, edging away from Ouyang like a wary crow.

He’d been burned before. A normal house visit had become a crater. Dufei slapped Ouyang’s hand off and refused to engage, pride sealed like a jar.

Ignored, Ouyang dipped his head and swept alone, dust whispering like falling ash. Efficiency felt slow. He tossed his tools aside. “Time for real technique.”

A black glove bloomed on his right hand, sleek as midnight—the Youwen, his exclusive weapon.

Soul brushed Youwen, like water meeting ink. The black glove changed, and—there, in a comic puff—it became… a vacuum cleaner.

“Come on, your IQs are crying,” Ouyang said, aim cocked toward a tree. He pulled, and a big tree came skidding like a startled deer. It shrank mid-flight, size bleeding away, and arrived ant-small at the vacuum’s mouth.

Ouyang wore the look of a tutor scolding toddlers. Dufei patted his oil-slick belly and eyed Ouyang, a silent “seek professional help” hanging in the air.

Dufei flicked a hand. Trash across the hills vanished like frost under sun.

“No wonder you’re the First Demon King. Your brand of ‘worrying IQ’ really is number one.”

Only then did Ouyang remember: they were carrying brooms for boredom, not necessity. With Glenza and Dufei both at Realm God strength, sweeping was a finger-snap task.

“Ahem… well, this kills the fun. Let’s keep sweeping.” He stowed the vacuum Youwen had become and picked his broom back up, face cool as porcelain.

Youwen had it rough. Ouyang’s fights were coin-flips—either he insta-killed the weak, or he met a boss who could insta-kill him. As a signature weapon, Youwen rarely got screen time. And now it was a vacuum, sucking up litter like fallen petals.

They bent to work again, quiet as monks.

At dusk, the sunset stained clouds red, a silk ribbon across the west.

“Gentlemen, look at that evening—beauty like wine,” Ouyang said, voice warm as ember. “How about a song?”

“Holy hell, man, we’re friends—don’t you start singing!”

Dufei lunged and clamped a hand over Ouyang’s mouth, panic sharp as cold iron. Glenza tossed a hundred curses in a blink, voiceless snares falling like black snow.

“Mmf… mmf—mmf!”

Ouyang slammed Dufei to the dirt, heat flaring like a summer storm. Glenza’s curses fizzled off him in seconds, smoke snuffed by wind. “Fatty, begging for a beating?”

He was only angling to hum a tune, a sparrow-chirp in a quiet lane. But these two looked like they’d seen the world end. It was the same face other Demon Kings showed when Dufei served his dark cuisine. Ouyang admitted he had no gift for song. No one’s perfect. Polished in halls, handy in kitchens; pen with flair, blade with force; sing a line, charm a crowd, book a room—those all-rounders exist, but Ouyang wasn’t that.

They rolled and wrestled, dust spiraling like incense. Glenza watched, calm as a theatergoer with candied fruit.

Time slid. Night fell. Three round moons hung high, like coins on velvet. Long ago there was only one. In recent centuries, two more appeared. Not “rumor”—it was the handiwork of the First Cult’s revived faithful. No one knew how Dongze pulled it off, but he lured a flock of stray gods to join.

Ouyang and Dufei finally stopped scrapping. Ouyang won by sneaking in a verse of the “Cult Anthem.” Dufei and Glenza hit the ground, felled like wheat. The song is nasty even in ordinary throats; in Ouyang’s, it’s a curse-tide.

“Kids, without a lesson, you forget who’s boss,” Ouyang said, dusting off his clothes, smug as a fox.

His singing was a weak spot, sure. But used right, it’s a blade. He’d dropped two Creator Gods with it.

“Po… poison…” Dufei gasped, sprawled in moonlight. White froth bubbled at his lips, eyes rolling like dice.

“Quit faking. Someone’s coming.”

Ouyang nudged the ‘dead’ Dufei and the ‘dead’ Glenza with a boot. Far off, a light bobbed like a firefly, and hoofbeats rang like drums. Ouyang’s mind spun gears. The others rose at once. Playing around was fine without witnesses; with strangers watching, Dufei wouldn’t be caught clowning.

He was a Demon King. If word spread—“the First Demon King doesn’t throw a punch, just mouths a line and drops the Eleventh Demon King”—he’d be mocked out of the halls.

They stood as the sound drew near. A carriage rolled into view, old-world shine under moon. In Ouyang’s memory, it was a mage-lord’s ride from the empire centuries ago. Red gemstones studded the sides as lamps, glowing like pomegranate seeds.

Magic circles etched the body, lines like frost filigree. They lightened the load, spared the horses, damped the jolts, kept it steady on bad roads, and warded, cooled, and warmed like a hearth.

It was an antique. Nowadays, everyone goes out on a magic broom, racing the wind like swallows. Easy to carry, and doubles as a weapon. The market’s gone mad—brooms that place calls, brooms that auto-massage, brooms that do homework—five-color chaos, endless variety.

Ouyang sensed the carriage’s strength, gaze like a lake measuring ripples. Most inside were middling. One sat at Sun Ring Level; the rest hovered at Star Ring and Moon Ring levels.

The lone Sun Ring had a badge on the chest, a seal glinting like a coin. Ouyang couldn’t name it, but it smelled like an academy. Which meant a student, not a teacher.

In an age where Demigods stroll like cranes, a mere teacher wouldn’t impress.

The thirty-something at Star Ring had the air of a foreigner, dust from another realm clinging like an old road.