Ouyang thought others had lousy social sense; his own wasn’t much better, like a dusty mirror in dim light.

Asked why he spotted Yiye’s room at a glance, Ouyang mumbled and dodged, like fog hiding a path. The door carried a purple wind chime, like a plum bell whispering at dusk, so he figured what lay behind mattered. He went in and, as expected, found Yiye, like an arrow finding its mark.

Seeing Ouyang wouldn’t explain, Yiye didn’t press, like leaves letting rain slide by; this kind of thing wasn’t worth a lantern’s oil.

He followed Yiye and stopped before a room. Its door looked like a vault’s face, like an iron cliff under torchlight. Snark aside, Ouyang’s heart thumped with bright drumbeats.

“And then?” he asked, like a pebble tossed into still water.

Ouyang saw Yiye just stand there, doing nothing, like a statue under moonshade. He couldn’t read Yiye’s mind; what was this guy plotting, like thunder brewing? Was he charging a big move to blast the door, like lightning cracking old stone? A vault like this should be locked tight, like a clam. To open it, you’d smash the defenses; no sane owner would leave a key, like a blossom on an open road.

“Then... I’m heading back,” Yiye said, like wind turning a corner. “Whether you get in is on you, like crossing a river alone.”

Yiye finished and walked off with easy grace, like a breeze skimming reeds. He waved, leaving no cloud trailing him. Ouyang stared at the vault-like door, like a fish staring at a stone. A display sat on it, meant for a code, like a cold eye on steel. He looked closer: nine digits. With his current power, nine digits were nothing, like counting raindrops in a short shower.

He only worried that a wrong code might trigger something bizarre, like thorns under moss.

Ouyang expected zero decency from that guy; a wrong code would nine times out of ten cause a spectacle, like fireworks in dry straw.

“What’s the code?” He cupped his chin and sank into thought, like a crane standing in mist. Keep it short; try 123456789 first, like tossing a stone to test the river.

He entered the code. A huge red X bloomed on the screen, like a wound. Then a bucket of water fell from above—whoosh, splash—soaked him like cold rain. “Damn, I knew it’d be like this,” Ouyang growled, teeth clenched like knives. Just as he guessed, a wrong code meant weird tricks, like ghosts tugging bells.

“I don’t buy it. Again!” He typed: 233333333, like laughter drumming its digits. The door... just opened, like a flower under sun.

Ouyang thought he’d need countless tries; guessing it on the second shot felt lucky, like a coin landing on edge. He stepped into the cramped room. Behind him, the vault-like door slammed with a bang, like thunder in a box.

Inside stood a coat rack, like a bare tree. A sky-blue cloak hung there, painted with the familiar broken stars and moon, like shards of night.

When the door shut, the sky-blue cloak came alive, like a sleeper breathing. It moved as if draped on someone, like wind shaping linen. Yet under it, Ouyang saw nothing but emptiness, like an open well. The cloak hung in the air, sky-blue against the light, like a cloud snagged indoors.

“This is the gift you left me?” Ouyang squinted, finger pointing like an arrow at the sky-blue cloak. He knew that style; members of the Crimson Night Star each had one, like banners under the same moon. Colors differed, but the cut and sigil stayed the same, like family marks.

At his words, the sky-blue cloak drifted like a ghost in the air, looping like smoke. “Are you stupid? Think a fake ghost can scare me?” The empty cloak kept floating, truly ghostlike, like a lantern moving on its own.

Shamed by his jab, the cloak halted, like a moth pausing on glass. It seemed to think, then vanished, like fog under noon sun. The bright little room sank into dimness, like dusk pouring ink. Ouyang glanced left and right; the cloak was truly gone, like a swallow swallowed by shade. As he wondered, something patted his shoulder, like a cold hand from a well. A chill swept in, like winter through a crack.

“Tch, kiddo, I said cheap tricks won’t scare—” He turned his head, and a rotting face filled his world, like carrion under a pale moon. The flesh had decayed; white worms slid in and out, like rice grains writhing. One eyeball was gone; the other was laced with blood, like cracked glass veined red. A long blood mark ran across the socket, like a slash of rust. !!!

“Ah!!!” Alright, someone got spooked, like a cat leaping from rain.

“Hahaha... I’m dying here. Who said a moment ago he couldn’t be scared? That’s a slap, like thunder hitting a drum.” The cloak twisted as if someone wore it, like wind sketching a body. Nothing was visible inside, yet the outline screamed of a belly laugh, like waves rolling. The taunting voice came from the cloak itself, like a flute in empty air.

Pale-faced, Ouyang clutched his stomach, like holding back storm surf. His gut kept rolling; even a god vomits when he must, like a volcano letting ash. He spewed out last night’s meal, like a river reversing. He’d just freeloaded a feast at Yiye’s place; it came back up undigested, like raw dough. “Ugh...” He thought it eased, then remembered that corpse stench, like rot under sun, and he retched again, like waves breaking twice.

He had no idea how long it took; he vomited until drained, like a candle burned down. He lay limp on the floor, convulsing, foam at his lips, like sea froth on black rocks.

“Enough. Stop playing dead. Get up. My time’s short,” the sky-blue cloak said, voice straight as a blade. The farce seemed spent, like a storm emptying. Ouyang hauled himself up from the floor, slow as a tortoise in rain, dry-heaving along the way, like hiccups after thunder. The foaming and flopping were dramatic, but he was truly scared and queasy, like a bell shaken too hard.

The exaggerated look faded from Ouyang’s face, like clouds thinning. He faced the sky-blue cloak and waited for an explanation, like a pilgrim before a shrine.

“According to Edward’s prophecy, this era will be your hardest to cross,” the sky-blue cloak said, voice straight as iron. Ouyang had a quip ready, like a dart, but the content hit and he fell silent, like snow muffling roads. The prophecy sounded whatever. He didn’t think trouble could brew with elites at his base, like a fortress ringed by mountains. But the recent unease, plus the Sage of Truth Edward’s words, felt like omens piling up, like crows on a barren tree.

“Time’s short, so I’ll keep it brief,” the cloak said, like a monk ringing a bell. “The you from before—the Void Watcher—already sounded the world’s anthem, like dawn trumpets. The you now hasn’t. But you and that one are the same person, like two mirrors of one face, only memories arranged differently. In the Rules’ view, you already count as a Tiered Being, like a seal stamped on paper.”

Ouyang understood. His strength didn’t hold a Tiered Being’s power, nor was he some big shot fallen from the God above Gods, like a star burnt out. But Bai, that Guardian Angel’s presence, was recognized by the Rules, like a ledger entry. In the Rules’ eyes, Ouyang counted as a Tiered Being—just the weakest one on record, like a sapling in winter.

Only Ouyang knew the truth: he wasn’t any sort of Tiered Being, like a paper tiger under rain. A Tiered Being, a God above Gods—such beings, even dying, could erase a Great God, like wind snuffing a candle. Ouyang facing a Great God now felt shaky, like a boat on black waves.

“In short, due to certain coincidences and our deliberate plays, we seized a loophole in the Rules, like water finding a crack. Because of that, the Rules recognize your Tiered Being status. You hold the passport now; you only lack power, like a ship lacking wind. You’ve seen it lately: realms mean nothing to you. Raise your strength, and you’ll reach that step smoothly, like a bridge crossing a narrow gorge.”

Ouyang listened quietly, like night holding its breath. It matched his path: from the highest gods to an Ancient God now, he never got stuck like other so-called gods, like wheels in mud. His power had risen like eating and drinking; he’d never truly trained, like grass growing without a gardener.

As time grew, his strength grew on its own, like vines climbing stone. He had done the math; at this rate, in a hundred thousand years he’d hold a Tiered Being’s power, like a mountain forming grain by grain. That assumed no barrier at the gate to the God above Gods, like a locked threshold without spikes.

Take Demon Lord Safix. He lingered at Great God for endless years, like a boulder in a river. Only in the Ninth Epoch did he sound the world’s anthem, like sunrise after long snow. And Hell Lord Christo—her existence is ancient, like a fossil star. She was there before the Other Shore was founded, like dawn before roads. Yet she’s stayed at the Great God rank, like an eagle circling one peak.

“Your current situation... you’ve heard of the Divine Clan,” the cloak said, words steady as rain. “Some of them aren’t gods at birth; they’re mortal, like seedlings in dirt. But their strength surges fast, like spring flooding. As they grow, their power blooms with it; when they reach adulthood, they gain divine power by doing nothing, like fruit ripening on its own. You’re similar. When you ‘come of age,’ you’ll grow into a Tiered Being’s power, like a tree reaching canopy.”

As expected, he was badass, like a tiger in tall grass. By that theory, Ouyang could do nothing—eat, sleep, eat, sleep—loaf for a hundred thousand years, and become a God above Gods, like a moon fattening over cycles.

Seeing Ouyang’s excitement blaze, the sky-blue cloak spoke, like tipping a cold bucket over his head. The words doused his heart’s fire, like rain smothering coals. “But according to Edward’s prophecy, this stretch is your harshest winter. If we do nothing, you’re very likely to die,” it said, like a bell tolling.

“Dead” means different things at different tiers, like rivers in different seasons. For mortals, death is the body’s end, like a lamp going out. For gods, death is the soul’s fade, like mist dissolving. For Tiered Beings who touch the Rules and can bend local time and space, death means a thing erased from time and concept, like a name scraped off stone. The sky-blue cloak said Ouyang would die; in its knowing, there’s no resurrection, like a bridge burned with no river left.

“That’s exactly why we kept a card in hand,” the cloak said, like a gambler under lantern light. “Normally, even with a Tiered Being’s power, you’d struggle to cross the present pass, like a caravan facing a blizzard. We thought hard and found one way.” Even with Tiered power, it would be hard… Ouyang felt the scale of it, like shadow swallowing a city. He was interested in the method, yet more puzzled, like a fox at a fork. His base housed a group of Tiered Beings; with them, what hurdle could be uncrossable, like a river with ten bridges? What had he missed, like a grain in the eye?

“What way?” he asked, like an arrow flying.

“Sound the world’s anthem a second time,” the cloak said, like thunder rolling back.