Inside Ouyang’s Void Castle, the hall remained unchanged, like a stone monolith under a hushed sky.

“First item today: the new world’s name. Offer your thoughts, like lanterns lifted at dusk.”

Ouyang tapped the table, asking for quiet, his gaze swept Dufei and Glenza like a cold wind over reeds. “You two, no speaking.” He could already see their weird names sprouting like mushrooms after rain.

Wutong, bent on becoming a great sage, raised both hands in support, like twin banners in a steady breeze. Even Jue, face stern as frost on iron, gave a small nod.

For the clueless onlookers, the move felt strange, like mist rolling in without a storm. After a long war, Ouyang’s side had gathered talent like stars seeded across night, and the newly tempered all had earned a seat at the table.

Across those years, Dufei and Glenza hadn’t clowned around; to the newbies, both Demon Kings felt solid, like mountain pillars in a gale. So why muzzle them now, like bells tied in cloth?

“Why gag us? Lord Dufei’s speaking,” Dufei snapped, palm slamming the table like a thunderclap through timber.

“In my view, this world was rebuilt after a long war, like cutting a path through night to glimpse dawn’s light.”

Ouyang watched Dufei speak straight for once, surprise flaring like a spark on wet tinder.

“So let’s call it ‘Dawn Pig-Slaughter.’ Dawn needs no gloss; we bled through darkness for this quiet, like sunrise after storms. The pigs are our fallen enemies—easy.”

“Dawn Pig-Slaughter…” Ouyang covered his face, the impulse to be moved evaporating like dew in a desert. He’d known nothing good would spring from their mouths, and here was proof like a broken gourd.

The onlookers had felt a swell at the start—grand without fully grasping, like drums behind a curtain. Then “pig-slaughter” dropped like a muddy boot in temple water.

“Silence. Caro, your turn.” Ouyang waved, and Dufei’s voice hit an unseen wall, muffled like bells under snow. Glenza, the other half of the Black‑and‑White Twin Scourges, got muted too, gagged before any sound could fly.

He called on Caro because the girl had raised her hand, fingers steady like willow leaves. Ouyang knew her well now: once part of Augustine’s Twelve Divine Demon Artifacts strike team. Back then, she was a girl with dead legs, like roots trapped under stone; after the war’s bath of fire, she’d risen as a deity, clear as moonlight on deep water.

Caro stood and bowed to Ouyang, her motion graceful as a crane at the lake’s edge. “For the new world’s name, I have a thought. Like Senior Dufei said, we rebuilt after long war, like weaving daylight out of torn night. In Miracle City’s cemetery, too many comrades lie, mostly in empty graves, like markers for winds that never return. This world’s matter is made from shards of the god, demon, and underworld realms, its birth stacked upon divine and demonic corpses, like soil over ancient bones. It’s a place of long sleep for gods and demons. I propose Eternal Sleep Continent.”

Eternal Sleep Continent—where gods and demons rest forever, like stars drowned in quiet seas.

“What does everyone think?” Ouyang asked, his voice soft as ash settling.

The hall fell silent, grief rising like a cold tide through the room, tugging at old scars.

“No objections? Then it’s set. The new world is Eternal Sleep Continent.”

By habit, you’d call it a mere continent, like a map’s flat shape under lamplight. But Eternal Sleep Continent names the whole world—sky and ocean included, a single vast land like a continent grafted to the horizon. The land itself was raised from divine and demonic skeletons, a true continent of sleep, like cliffs built from pale bones.

“Second item: construction of the new world. Suggestions?”

Ouyang had drafted a rough model, like a charcoal sketch of mountains and rivers. Details needed carving—every ridge, every forest, every snowfield, like embroidering frost onto silk. The war had just laid down its swords, and chores piled like paperwork under rain; he couldn’t sit and chisel in peace.

Everyone present was at least a Realm God, born with the basics to build worlds, like carpenters of firmament and sea. They should have solid ideas, sharp as chisels.

In the hush, Angsester raised his hand, steady as a banner in daylight—a knight commander from the Karosen Kingdom in the imperial era, one of the old guard, like an oak weathered by centuries.

“I think we shouldn’t rush. First, we must find the worlds once under our command, and refine this world’s laws, like tightening warp and weft in a loom. Second, we all live atop Miracle City; the ground holds no living things, so there’s no fire at our heels. Let’s wait for new residents from other worlds, then build to their needs, like tailoring a cloak after measuring the shoulders.”

A tiny sprite bristled at once, annoyance flashing like sparks. “No way. Moer and Little Night love playing in beautiful places; if we don’t build, what about them?” To Moer, Miracle City felt cramped, like a cage without sky. She wanted a sea of flowers, broad as spring clouds, to roam freely like butterflies.

Hearing Moer, Xian, with a touch of neat‑freak rigor, raised her hand, crisp as a quill stroke.

“Alright, you three will handle the initial construction,” Ouyang said, voice warm like sunlight across steps. “Later, when we’re staffed, we’ll move in for large‑scale work.” He turned to Xian. “Kid, it’s yours. Stay close to your sister.”

Xian had to care for her sister, so she wouldn’t leave the Eternal Sleep Continent, like a moon tethered to its tide. While she was there, they could “doodle,” carrying the Creator God’s brush with Xi, sketching landscapes like ink flowing over silk.

Third item: the transport hub and intelligence gathering. “Moqi will reopen Second Space. If you want to advance in spatial craft, you can tag along and lend a hand.” Before Ouyang finished, a forest of hands shot up like wheat in wind.

“Be clear—you’re clearing Second Space, not joyriding through other worlds. World‑hopping comes later.” His words fell like pebbles into water; half the hands lowered at once.

Of the remaining half, most felt Moqi’s meaningful gaze, like a blade flashed from its sheath, and slowly raised their hands back up. Few truly aimed to learn space, the rest only chasing clouds, like stargazers without charts.

“Transport’s set. Next, intelligence. This task is broad.” Ouyang’s tone steadied like a compass. “First, Intelligence will search for living worlds along Second Space, pinning markers like flags on sand. Then Moqi’s team will link those worlds to Second Space, weaving routes like threads through night. Finally, you’ll enter and gather intel, like fishermen casting nets in quiet bays.”

Second Space works like aviation. From a world, you enter Second Space, like rising from ground to open sky. You move there to the target world’s position, like flying across a sea of clouds. Then you exit, and you’ve arrived, like wheels kissing the runway at dusk.

Compared to ground routes, Second Space is faster by countless folds, like lightning against ox‑carts.

“Who’s taking intelligence?”

Swish, swish, swish—arms flew up like reeds in a river wind. Everyone wanted to wander other worlds, like travelers sniffing spice markets. On the Eternal Sleep Continent, it was gods everywhere—no bragging rights. In lesser worlds, they could lift their confidence like banners.

“Your Majesty, let me,” Collin said, his tone smooth as polished stone. “Intelligence work takes craft. As the first Pope of the Void Church, I learned much at your side, like copying strokes from a master. Later years let me test and refine that theory, like hammering steel to temper.”

Ouyang lifted a hand—enough. The choice was settled like ink on parchment. “Alright. Intelligence goes to Collin. White Cat, be his deputy.”

To keep the team safe, he tossed White Cat along, a guardian like a silent mountain beside a stream. If trouble stirred, a great one at their back meant thick armor against storms.

“Lastly, starry sky decoration. We can bring plenty of divine‑level juniors for Second Space and intel, like swallows flocking in spring. But decorating the sky needs Realm Gods and above. Half of the Realm Gods stay to light the stars.”

The sky was too empty, black as a dry well at midnight, without even a single gleaming star. Only Realm Gods—beings called Creator Gods—could craft such stars, pearls flung onto velvet. Even then, relighting this night would take ages, like carving mountains grain by grain.

If Tiered Beings did it, it’d be swift, like thunder splitting a tree. But Ouyang wanted the others tempered, not carried; if the giants did everything, the story would lose flavor, like soup without spice.

“High‑end work—Eunice, you’re in charge.” The water goddess was meticulous, thoughts fine as rain threads. Give it to Glenza or Dufei, and they’d likely hang a heap of round balls, bluffing like gourds strung on twine.

“This is a huge project,” Ouyang added, calm as a steady tide. “Feel free to stroll other starfields. If you find one with artistry, transplant it whole, like moving a garden under a new moon.”