Laweiyasen was a vast metropolis, one of the largest in the Clark Kingdom, its rooftops spreading like a sea under a wide sky.

What made Laweiyasen famous was food—the city wore steam and spice like banners in the wind, hailed as the human world’s top gourmet capital. That crown sat because of one figure. From the shadows, the Duke Weihai pushed, and the city bloomed into a culinary name whispered across continents.

The Duke Weihai lived in Laweiyasen; his presence was like a guardian lantern by night, keeping the city’s food culture from being smothered by the system’s heavy sleeves. In a way, he was Laweiyasen’s protector, a wall against dull tides.

By the kingdom’s rules, marshals, dukes, and anyone with high rank had to plant their households in the Royal Capital, like trees in the palace court. Partly for care, mostly for watchfulness—if you dared revolt, the royal clan could grip your family like a hilt.

But Duke Weihai was the first to slip that leash. A high noble and commander of the Second Legion, he set his home in Laweiyasen, a banner raised far from the palace. If he ever rose in rebellion, Laweiyasen would be his stronghold, a mountain at his back.

The kingdom allowed it, strangely, not forcing his kin into the capital. No hostages, no chains—the crown let a wolf run without a collar, its shadow long across the plains.

Inside Duke Weihai’s manor. A dull ache pressed behind Yulithilis’s eyes. In the garden, a black cat rode a lizard’s back like a tiny general on a dragon, galloping through blossoms, while a gopher scrambled after them like a leaf in a stream.

Ever since the Forest of Misfortune, that black cat had sweet‑talked the dopey, adorable Flame Lizard Sarayka into following him. The cat named Ouyang had somehow decided to stick to her shadow. The thought of sharing space with two terrifying beasts made her tense like a taut bowstring—but for the kingdom’s order, she took Ouyang and Saya in. And Sarayka padded after her black‑cat big brother, tail swaying like a torch.

Better to keep those beasts where she could see them than let them wander the human world like fires in dry grass. In the manor, she could command every servant: don’t provoke them, just report. In Laweiyasen, a duke’s daughter’s word was a bell; people listened. If anything happened, she’d be there like rain on a spark.

She knew what these two really were. In another city, people wouldn’t. One careless insult, one kick at the wrong tail, and tragedy would bloom like nightshade.

“My lady, are we just letting those three trample the garden? This is your favorite garden…” The maid’s voice was a whisper, like a ribbon in wind. The order had been clear—no one was to stop the black cat or the lizard, only report to her—but everyone in the manor had treated it like indulgence, as if the young lady simply adored those animals.

Now they saw it wasn’t so simple. This garden was Yulithilis’s heart’s refuge. Born a duke’s daughter, she’d grown up with escorts like shadows; wherever she went, a flock followed. Only in this garden could her mind loosen, like a kite let out on a quiet day. Every flower here she had picked and planted, every layout and ornament was her handiwork, a tapestry of patience.

Now the black cat and the lizard rampaged among the beds, swathes of blooms folding like fallen waves. Even the maid felt a sting; for Yulithilis, whose bond with the garden ran deep, the ache was a blade.

She watched the three play, drew steady breaths like sips of cool water. “This is… still within acceptable bounds.” To trade her only sanctuary since childhood for peace, to keep two terrifying beasts from harming the human world—she lifted her gaze like a guardian of all, and found it worth the price.

Just as she grieved over the flowers, a little girl burst in carrying a tray, and another patch went down like wheat in a gust.

“Ayang, your favorite pumpkin cakes!” Saya, face bright with a rare sunlit smile, dashed into the garden with a plate piled high. At the word “pumpkin,” Ouyang’s cat ears perked like flags at dawn.

Pumpkin cakes were treasures. Back in the “Origin” world, Ouyang had never seen anyone make them; in this gourmet city, he’d found a flavor almost forgotten, like an old song heard again.

Knowing Ouyang loved them, Saya begged the manor’s chef to teach her. Without using any power, her pumpkin cakes came out golden and perfect, as if her hands carried a kitchen’s blessing.

Ouyang could cook too, but that guy—like the jokers in the First Cult—had put his talent points in all the wrong places. What he excelled at was dark cuisine, storms in a pot.

Mrrrow~ Saya fed him a cake with her own hands, a soft, careful gesture, and her smile was a quiet crescent moon. The sight tightened something in Ouyang’s chest; a small ache bloomed.

Saya—Azure Bird—had lived a life without freedom. She ran the Other Shore’s systems like a sentient AI, dwelling only in the nets, watching data like constellations. She constantly scanned the Other Shore’s borders for tears, and processed files from lower worlds like waves through a gate.

That was her entire life, clockwork days in an endless dusk.

If she were just a machine without feelings, it would be one thing. But to Ouyang, Saya was a person with a pulse. She hurt and she healed, she laughed and she smiled. Her only pastime was watching the daily lives within the Other Shore—other people crying, other people laughing—like rain on windows she couldn’t open.

Now, to make a plate of Ouyang’s favorite pumpkin cakes herself and watch him eat, bite by bite—that was her brightest joy, a small hearth lit in winter.

The texture, the taste—they were familiar notes. Ouyang remembered clearly: someone had once recommended them, and he had followed that guy into loving pumpkin cakes, like footsteps in snow.

He took a bite, chewed slowly, then looked up at the sky, mind drifting back to a distant era like smoke toward the stars.

Seeing him finish a whole cake, Saya offered a glass of juice, just as considerate—a cup of grape juice, his favorite, purple as twilight.

“Without noticing, I’ve been shaped deeply by someone. Same pumpkin cakes. Same grape juice. Same habit of clowning now and then…” Wearing a sunhat, Ouyang stared into the sky, words trailing like clouds.

He had decided: they would work hard over there, and he would strive here to help them soon. Yet sometimes the past rose like a tide, and people and moments returned.

If Cynthia were here, watching him drink juice with zero grace, the royal princess would’ve had to say something. As a member of Great Britain’s royal family, she couldn’t stand coarse manners. One glass of juice—she had dozens of ways to drink it, a forest of rules.

Dream Chaser always griped that Cynthia was a pain, meddling in everything; she could talk for hours even about how to walk, lectures marching like soldiers. Back then, Ouyang felt it was impressive even if he couldn’t tell why, a lofty world glittering like marble.

But after enough sermons, he finally understood Dream Chaser’s mood. Most members of Crimson Night Star, upon seeing Cynthia, would duck away as far as possible, like fish slipping into deeper water.

No one’s flawless; if you’re human, you carry quirks like leaves in your hair.

Now her scolding had turned into a warm memory. If he could, he’d ask Cynthia to teach him how to drink juice again, one sip at a time.

As for Dream Chaser, that clown wouldn’t say much. He’d just snatch Ouyang’s pumpkin cake, words postponed like chores.

That teammate‑trapper—if possible, Ouyang wanted him to keep pranking. The moment he appeared, Ouyang wouldn’t wait for theft; he’d offer the guy’s favorite pumpkin cake with both hands, like a tribute.

Qiye, the cold one, would keep a straight face and say something so nasty that Ouyang would want to spit his cake out. Second only to Luoye in looks among Crimson Night Star, Qiye was frost on stone. He didn’t like to talk, but inside there was a razor’s edge of snark, dark humor coiled like a snake. Unlike Dream Chaser, who disgusted you with deeds, Qiye weaponized words.

He seldom spoke, but every sentence he let slip was sharp and memorable, a quote honed like a blade.

And Granny Baixiao loved tying red strings, matching couples with cheerful chaos. If she were here, she’d be busy pairing Ouyang and Saya, eyes crinkled like lanterns. Childless herself, she treated the Crimson Night Star crowd as grandsons and granddaughters, worrying for them with a grandmother’s weathered hands.

Back then, Dream Chaser seemed to have a girlfriend, while his good bro Luoye was still single. Granny Baixiao fretted, then started matchmaking wildly, claiming Qingshi and Luoye were a heaven‑earth pair. Luoye replied he already had a fiancée—and the scene went awkward in an instant, silence hanging like damp cloth.

Thinking it over, those times feel bright and warm. Truly—this pride, kept for you; this glory, born for you.