“Uncle Ouyang,” Nightfall’s voice slid like wind over cold water, “you should know the old story. What Father-God did was defy the Supreme Law, like a torch in a storm. And the deepest wound he left was that sacrificed stretch of Imperial land, a map burned red like dusk.”

That gate between two starry skies could pass many, yet it was hell to open, like prying ice apart with bare hands. In this ancient sky, eons birthed third-tier Tiered Beings, old as mountains—like that turtle said to be the oldest life, a stone-backed elder drifting in black seas. No one knows how many out-of-spec third-tier beings float in the vast night, but besides those few on the Other Shore, there were surely hidden ones, lanterns behind veils.

And even they couldn’t force that door, a locked reef in a dark tide.

Part of it was ignorance of the other starry sky, a shore beyond the fog. Part was lack of strength, a bow with no string. In the Other Shore’s plan, the Eighth Epoch only pried that door because of seeds buried at the end of the Sixth Epoch, like fuse laid in dry grass.

Cracking the wall from one side was like rowing upstream in winter. But if both sides struck the barrier at once, the ice would web with cracks like frost on glass. So near the end of the Sixth Epoch, they ran trials, asking if there was any path home besides that door, like foxfire seeking a trail in night fields.

The trial said yes. They sacrificed vast stellar realms, worlds buried like fallen leaves in a black river. The sky dimmed; civilization broke like pottery. At last they blasted a fissure in the wall, just wide enough for one figure, a slit of dawn in slate clouds. Only a third-tier existence could bear that crossing’s pressure, a mountain shouldering thunder. One person slipped through and returned to the other sky. Others, second and third tier, were mauled and bleeding, comets with torn tails.

That’s why, after the late Sixth Epoch, old-line Tiered Beings almost never surfaced, old whales sinking to quiet trenches. With them silent, their departments fell hushed too. The Imperial Court, Eden, the Heavenly Palace—each faded like palaces under drifting sand.

Because they’d pierced the barrier, more people from the First Universe stumbled into the Second, like seeds on a crosswind. The number of newcomers swelled, starlight after rain, and they called it the Age of Myriad Stars.

Nightfall was the Empire’s First Emperor, a banner against night. The Empire was sacrificed to punch through the wall, a city offered like incense. The Supreme Law couldn’t do much to those third-tier culprits, mountains rooted in storm, so it chased him instead, a hawk diving on a lone hare.

Nightfall was on the Supreme Law’s blacklist, a name written in frost. If he showed beneath the stars, he’d get “special care,” like a bell rung at midnight. So he hid here, a place with no order and no law, a cave under crashing surf. Even when the Empire fell apart and the Nightfall Clan was nearly wiped out like a field after fire, he didn’t step out.

“So,” Ouyang said, words as blunt as a thrown stone, “you’re basically a stray dog, huh?” The line hit like sleet. Nightfall flushed, mouth opening and closing, a fish at the surface, but no words rose.

In the vast star sea, to get singled out by the Supreme Law—good or bad—was still a twisted honor, a scar that gleamed. Look at me, I’m so damn big the cosmos itself keeps an eye on me, like thunder watching a lone peak.

The Supreme Law barely glances at ordinary Tiered Beings, reeds in a wide marsh. Only out-of-spec, third-tier titans get marked, bonfires in fog.

By that measure, Nightfall sounded impressive, a blade catching moonlight.

But comparisons cut like wind. Those third-tier players from the end of the Sixth Epoch were mangled, yes, yet did the Supreme Law press them after? No. They healed in quiet caves, snow on slow pines. Nightfall, a first-tier in full health, was the soft target, a bright leaf on a black stream.

It’s the old line: a starved camel is still bigger than a horse, silhouettes against sunset. To the Supreme Law, those wounded third tiers were harder bones, stone in stew. So it let the hard rocks lie and bit the tender meat, bullying Nightfall like a skinny rooster in winter.

Set side by side, the “special care” looked less like glory and more like a joke, a paper lantern in rain.

Ouyang’s blunt truth left Nightfall scowling, thunder bottled behind his eyes. Awkward, he used his ultimate move—topic shift, a hand fan snapping shut. “Uncle Ouyang, Father-God left something for you in the palace. I’ll take you. It might help you a great deal.”

By Father-God, he meant his “father,” the name carrying incense smoke. Back then, the Nightfall Clan actually called themselves the Eternal God Race, a title like jade. After the Sixth Epoch fell, the Eternal God Race was almost wiped out, a forest after frost. The sky went dead, civilizations broke like cliffs, and countless ones vanished outright. People on the Other Shore had long called them the Nightfall Clan, so few under the stars even remembered the Eternal God Race, a name buried like a seed.

Ouyang rolled his eyes like a lazy wave and followed toward the so-called treasure vault, boots whispering like sand. A question itched like a gnat. “Hey, Nightfall, why are all your palace walls blue? The floor’s blue. The ceiling’s blue. Do you worship the color blue?”

“Blue?” Nightfall, dressed head to toe in blue like deep water, glanced around the sapphire walls. “Blue… Blue is the faith of the Eternal God Race, a sea we kneel to. Not just us. For the gods of the Heavenly Palace, blue is faith too, faith in eternity, like sky that never dims.”

Faith?

Ouyang remembered, and the memory rose like smoke. The Eternal Heavenly Palace once went by the Blue-Robed Church. He’d thought it a publicity stunt, a peacock’s fan. Only now did he see blue was their creed, a river they wore.

“By the way, Uncle Ouyang,” Nightfall asked, curiosity flickering like a moth, “how did you pinpoint my room at a glance?”

Inside, the broken palace was vast, halls like canyons. Ouyang was sure this palace dwarfed the Origin World, a whale swallowing a lake. He sensed many lives far away, embers behind stone. It seemed some Imperial royals had been sheltered here by Nightfall, birds under an eave.

How did he find it?

It tied back to his days in the Starry Citadel, lights like frost. He had two neighbors, left and right. One was his wife now—Aurora the Goddess of Aurora—a dawn in human skin. The other was someone who had returned from the First Universe to the Second, a salmon riding rivers.

Back in the Sixth Epoch, that guy went from the Second Universe through the barrier to the First, a gull crossing bays. By the Eighth Epoch, he’d set pieces in the First and then “rode the current” back to the Second, drifting downstream. Many took him for a newcomer, a fresh star in a crowded sky.

The First Universe is Ouyang’s hometown, a hearth fire. Going from First to Second is downstream and easy, like gliding with the current. Going back is hard, a climb through rain.

As neighbors, Ouyang—without his Void Watcher memories then—knew nothing, a mirror without image. He naturally took the guy as a newbie. Sure, having Aurora as the neighbor beauty was nice, like sun on water. But with a fellow “newcomer,” he shared more talk, sparks over tea. Dropping by became habit, a sparrow to the same branch.

He visited often not just for shared ground. The man’s courtyard felt easy, a hammock in summer. A small yard. In the pond, golden koi flicked like coins, and a giant Wutong tree rose over emerald grass, a green tide.

Ouyang loved to lean against the banyan, spine to roots like a cat in shade, lying on the grass. The breeze teased purple wind chimes into song, ding-ling like raindrops on glass. He’d watch blue sky and white cloud drift, mind unmoored like a kite. The Starry Citadel’s public sky was always stars, a jeweled curtain. But in private yards, you could set any sky you liked—each heart its own weather. With gods everywhere, changing your patch of sky was child’s play, a brushstroke.

He loved those purple chimes. They looked lovely and sounded sweeter than spring water when the wind stroked them. In that setting—sun warm, pond clear, banyan, grass—those notes lifted the soul, a lark over fields.

So he asked about them, curiosity a ripple. The chimes had a story, a thread of violet silk.

It was the first gift he’d received from a girl friend, a token like dawn. They were both in primary school, small boats in a big river.

One day, the girl and the boy set a park date for a weekend morning, a promise like chalk on slate. Next day, the boy slept till noon, sun already high like a drum. A fine drizzle fell, cat whiskers on the window. He stayed home and played games, a turtle by the stove. It was past the time anyway; he figured she’d go home, an empty swing in the rain.

The drizzle thickened into a storm, sheets of gray, rivers on glass.

The boy felt even more justified, a rock in mud. Who goes to a park in a downpour? Only a fool, he thought, thunder in his headphones.

On Monday, the girl didn’t come to class, an empty seat like a missing tooth. The teacher said she’d stood in the rain all afternoon for some reason, a small umbrella-less shadow. She went home burning with fever. At the hospital she almost didn’t make it, breath a candle. She was out of danger now, but needed a long stay, a winter in blankets.

After that, the girl never returned. They said she transferred, a bird flown over a ridge.

Until one day—his birthday. He hadn’t told classmates; he liked quiet, a pond without ripples. He planned to spend it with family, lantern light on rice. That night, the girl came uninvited, a violet echo at the door, and gave him a string of purple wind chimes as a birthday gift, a moon in his hands.

Then nothing. No epilogue, no letter, the thread cut like silk. They lost contact for good, two boats on different currents.

Thinking of it, Ouyang’s face went odd, clouds crossing sun. He certainly wouldn’t tell Nightfall that story, a stone he kept in his sleeve.

“Sigh, that EQ is something,” he muttered, a dry leaf turning. “If it were me, I’d have gone to the hospital the moment I heard. After all, he stood her up. She stood in the rain all afternoon and got sick.”

But they were kids, saplings in wind. Girls often grow earlier than boys, like spring running ahead, and that brewed the tragedy. More than that, someone’s emotional IQ was a cliff, not a bridge—no wonder he stayed single for ages, a lone shadow under a streetlamp.