A second sounding of the hymn?

Confusion surged like fog in his chest as Ouyang stared at the sky‑blue cloak. He’d heard of sounding the world’s hymn. But a second time? Was that guy setting him up again?

He pushed the doubt down. In moments this solemn, none of them joked.

“Yes. A second sounding.”

“As I said, by the rules’ own reckoning, you’re a Tiered Being. You know your state. You’ve never sounded the hymn. The only one who did was the former Void Watcher…”

It made sense, yet a thorn of doubt pricked Ouyang. In his mind’s ledger, his power should grow with time, like a tree thickening ring by ring, until it matched a Tiered Being’s. The rules already called him one, so no hymn would be triggered. When he gained that power, it’d be a return, not a rise—a recovery of what was already his, power climbing back to its full tide.

By that logic, even if he stood at a Tiered Being’s height, no hymn would happen.

Count the hymn once sounded by the Void Watcher—then what of a second? Ouyang couldn’t sound the world’s hymn again, not as he was. Would that cloak’s method still work?

“Time’s short…”

The sky‑blue cloak spoke softly, then unraveled into blue motes, a mist of light. The cramped chamber opened like a breath, spilling into a vast starfield.

Starlight blazed. The crowd of stars was terrifying in number—dense lights, countless meteor showers, seven‑colored nebulae blooming like silk.

“This is… the sky above the Starry Citadel.”

Only one sky carried stars this thick in Ouyang’s memory. The eternal night over the Starry Citadel hung heavy with lights, meteor rain never once pausing.

In Ouyang’s eyes, those brilliant stars shed unnumbered blue particles that poured toward him. As moments slipped by, the motes grew dimmer, as if he were drinking down the star‑sea itself.

Thankfully, no Star Spirit had been born in those lights. Otherwise they’d be throwing themselves at him, claws bared.

Blue motes circled Ouyang, ring after ring. Hundreds of meters. Thousands. Tens of thousands. Beyond that, the motes ran on like an ocean without shore. Farther out, constellations dulled, then some stars collapsed outright into particles and vanished.

“In the eternal night above the Citadel, that sky of a million stars… is gone.”

He watched the dying lights and a flood of feeling rose. Starry Citadel—his first memory, a lantern in the dark. He sighed. He had questions stacked like stones, but the cloak offered no room to ask. It was only a lingering shard of the past, and after it invoked the Starry Benediction for him, the power stitched into its fabric bled away to nothing.

Gazing far off, Ouyang reached out. Distant starlight gathered into his palm like a river to the sea.

“Every Tiered Being has a companion angel. I was too weak once, and mine faded. So… now…”

His hands moved, and the starlight before him thickened. It clotted into an ovoid core. His fingers worked that core of light like clay—each hair, each nail, each bone, each organ—patiently, precisely. Under his touch, the light‑born mass took on a human silhouette.

Time poured like sand. Starfire streamed toward him in an endless surge. For several light‑years around, every star went out. This whole region became a vacuum, save for the ocean of light.

No one knew how long it took. A silver‑haired girl stepped out from the sea of light. Silver wings unfurled, feather by feather etched with ancient runes. The face was the same one he knew, but her green eyes were dull, empty. The body lacked a soul.

He stroked her head. The silver hair lay smooth, just like before. Back then, Bai would squint and melt into the touch. Now she sat like a doll, unmoving.

“My silly angel… wake up. Your master’s missed you, you know…”

In an instant, endless starlight compressed toward them, the flood tightening like a fist. The light spanning several light‑years clamped into a sphere tens of thousands of meters wide. It shrank and shrank. When the last starfire slipped into Ouyang’s body, the sky—stripped of every star—went pitch black.

Black and white wings unfurled, each glazed with a faint blue shine. He cradled the soulless girl. His lips pressed to hers.

His black‑and‑white wings were bought with Bai’s life. Put simply, the white wing was Bai’s power made manifest. As his companion angel, Bai sacrificed herself, and everything she was—the soul included—became that white wing.

The pure wing wrapped the hollow girl. Ouyang felt something sleeping inside him, a buried tide he’d never roused. Now it stirred. Through his body as a conduit, it flowed into the body that lacked a soul.

A companion angel’s birth is the instant the hymn sounds. When light returned to Bai’s dim green eyes and her pupils began to move, ancient notes rippled through heaven and earth. Those raw, arcane tones rang in the souls of countless beings. Many mortals didn’t know why, but some quiet voice told them—a great god had been born in this world.

It all came so naturally, without a single snag, like water finding its channel. As the world’s hymn rose, glass shattered in Ouyang’s mind.

The river of time that threads through ages. The corridor of fate that binds cause and effect. The Gate of Truth where all rules and orders take shape.

The world was still the world, yet to Ouyang it felt strange, like a familiar room lit by a foreign moon.

A faint rushing brushed his ear, like rapids in the dark. A long river glimmered across the stars. Lines appeared in the void, thread on thread, dense as woven silk. Along those lines, Ouyang could glimpse the near future of this star‑domain.

Different tiers see different worlds.

“Welcome back, silly angel.”

“Mm~” Bai blinked at Ouyang, still dazed, her memory snagged on that earlier time.

While she was lost, chains of order rose in the starry dark. At their far ends, a door showed faintly, half‑veiled.

Once, Ouyang wouldn’t have known its name. After sounding the hymn, he did. That door was the Gate of Truth—the embodiment of all rule and order. It bore another name as well: the Supreme Law.

As Ouyang wondered if the Supreme Law had noticed his case and meant to correct this “error,” a long staircase stretched from the Gate of Truth. Golden steps, bright as laid bricks, extended toward him in a gleaming road.

The stairs reached him and halted. Chains of order crisscrossed the surrounding space, like a mesh of light. He felt it clearly—it wasn’t protection so much as a screen. The rules were veiling this patch of space from other gazes.

“Well, if it’s a blessing, it’s a blessing. If it’s a curse, you don’t dodge it. Bai, let’s go. Maybe the Gate that holds every root will answer what I suspect.”

He stepped onto the golden risers, and the starfield shifted. The stairs ran through a corridor of pure gold. Countless golden beams streamed forward. When he turned back, the corridor had no rear. One‑way only—go on, never go back.

The road was long, like humanity’s endless chase of truth. Generations throw themselves upon it, one after another. No one ever reaches the great door.

Ouyang held Bai’s hand. They walked slowly along the straight golden steps. It felt like the road had no end, a path that only goes on.

No one knew how long they walked. A bronze door appeared before them, ancient and plain. It stood half‑open, not fully shut.

“Alright. Let’s peek at this so‑called truth.”

He stepped through. The door closed behind them, slow as a tide.

The space remained a blaze of gold. Thick chains ran everywhere, dense as roots. Ouyang and Bai stood atop one massive chain. He bent and ran his hand across its surface.

“Hey, A‑Yang, what is this?”

“These are rules. This chain under our feet stands for light and dark. If it’s broken, this world becomes either eternal night—every shining thing turns mute, every ray erased—or eternal day—no shadows anywhere, no silhouettes under the noon sun.”

“Every chain here stands for a single rule.”