In the austere temple, ancient sigils rose like fireflies from stone. The air carried echoes of ancestral prayers, and the whisper of Star Spirits like wind in pine.
Ouyang’s fingers traced the air with reckless grace. Each stroke laid down a law; each line set a truth. Glyphs wheeled around him like constellations, then sank back into the temple’s bones.
It wasn’t over. His fingertips sketched again, and a long river shimmered in and out, like a silver ribbon beneath mist. In its corridors, cause and effect unfurled like tapestries. Truth stood an arm’s length away, cool and bright.
“Who… dares peer into the River of Time?”
In that instant, this world’s old gods lifted their gazes. Fear. Tremor. Dread. Their hearts thumped like drums before a storm.
On a lake veiled in fog, several figures walked on water. Ripples spread like scaled fans beneath their feet. They stared toward the sky’s far edge, wary. After a long breath, an ethereal voice slipped from a girl’s lips: “A True God writes rules with his fingertips. The river of time appears at the horizon. The corridor of fate threads through every cause and every consequence… The Void’s final movement will rise, and glory will carry on within the void.”
“I don’t buy it!”
The man beside her bristled, a storm trapped in armor. He glared at that slice of sky, face tight. “So what if it’s the Sage of Truth’s prophecy? I’ve never believed in fate. Whatever stands in our way, I smash.”
His words rang like iron on stone, hot with confidence. A king-of-the-world swagger surged up, like a tide eating the beach.
Just as his momentum crested, someone spoke.
If Ouyang were here, he would have recognized him. Cervantes. Back on that phantom First Continent, Cervantes had belonged to the traitor faction. He watched Ouyang there, then filed reports to the traitor high-ups.
Ouyang had kindly helped him write those reports. Every page was Ouyang’s own nonsense. Lines praising himself as the coolest, sharpest, most badass Void Messenger in the universe; the super-ultra heartthrob Ouyang; and on and on. Cervantes submitted it untouched to get the job done. The traitor top brass were so furious they nearly strangled him through the paper.
Unlucky for them, Cervantes was First Cult. Among traitors, First Cult had the most members. Even the high-ups had to think twice—kill him, and the First Cult might revolt. The cost would be catastrophic.
So the nonsense got handed in. Nothing happened. Not even a slap on the wrist.
The man here looked ready to become a protagonist—cleave eight directions with a sword, war across the stars, unite the cosmos. Cervantes muttered, just loud enough to sting: “Keep posturing. Careful a second Mapleleaf pops out…”
His voice was small, but who here lacked keen ears? The man heard. His rising aura collapsed like a balloon pricked by a needle. Then—pop.
“Mapleleaf…”
Every face soured. Back then, Mapleleaf’s single sword pierced their base camp. Countless hands raised walls, and they finally blocked it, but most were crippled. The traitors had to lie low for ages to heal. This stroll was their first breath of fresh air.
The man was proud, but at the mention of that riddle named Mapleleaf, he had no bottom line. Mapleleaf hadn’t even been in their time. Across ages, a mere projection had unleashed that supreme strike. It broke their understanding like ice under spring sun.
He went black-faced, brow creasing, then left with bitter silence.
“Finally gone. That guy clung to me like dogskin plaster; never shook off. Didn’t expect, Cervantes—one line and he sulked away. I just want to say, perfect.”
The girl in a white pleated dress sounded airy as wind through paper lanterns. She hopped a little, happy now that someone had left.
Not just her. Cervantes’s crew flashed him thumbs-ups. Everyone thought the big guy had nailed it.
“Heh-heh… Boss-lady, it’s nothing. Even an ‘honest’ guy like me can’t stand that idiot Merk.”
Anyone calling himself honest is an old hand. Behind Cervantes’s simple face, a thrill-driver’s heart revved. And his line hit his friends right where they lived.
“Exactly. What’s Merk, really? He just lucked into relics from the last cosmic epoch, then struck up the Anthem.”
“Back then Luo-shao bled the dusk red, using the lives of gods, demons, and Star Spirits as fuel. He forced open the True God’s throne. Even someone like Luo-shao didn’t strut like this clown.”
“He plays the Anthem, then acts like he’s the greatest under heaven. Thinks he’s ‘the Almighty Ao-tian.’ He even nitpicked our future grand plan. The First Cult’s strategy—back then even those third-tier big shots didn’t dare deny it. And mere Merk dares?”
“A mere Merk!”
“A mere Merk!”
“A mere Merk!”
On the side, the Sword Demon covered his head, helpless. What a pack of oddballs. He sighed at Cataclysm. Ouyang had always said First Cult were problem children. After time with them, the Sword Demon finally understood.
He had read their strategy. Truly, you couldn’t blame Merk. Any sane person could see, if they followed the First Cult’s plan, eight or nine times out of ten they’d faceplant. Those folks were famous for hurting others and themselves. Like spending a fortune to bulldoze the mountain in front of your house. Everyone thinks there’s some grand strategy.
Maybe a shopping district. Maybe a factory.
While they guessed at hidden motives, the truth came out, slow as tea poured: “Every morning I saw that mountain. It blocked my view.”
Merk wasn’t a fool. He would never follow the First Cult’s advice. Among the traitor high-ups, Merk’s faction was quietly suppressing the First Cult’s wing. If not for the First Cult’s sheer numbers, Merk’s hardliners would have kicked those troublemakers out long ago.
“With teammates this bizarre—if the Other Shore hadn’t already vanished into history—I’d suspect they were enemy plants…”
Of course, the Sword Demon’s mutter couldn’t slip past such sharp ears. A row of problem children turned in unison and stared at him. Pressure rose like a tide against cliffs.
The Sword Demon wanted to slap himself. Idiot. Some things you keep in your head. Saying them aloud begs for a beating.
Stare.
Stare.
Stare.
Old hands, every one. They didn’t speak. They just drilled him with their eyes. His mind buckled. If they had hit him or cursed him, it might have hurt less. This silent weight was worse.
Thankfully, Cataclysm—his good bro—saved him. Cataclysm bowed to the First Cult crowd. “Everyone, he doesn’t know anything yet. Forgive his ignorance. I’ll cram the rules into him later.”
He dragged the Sword Demon away.
The Sword Demon sucked air like a man post-shipwreck. Terrifying. Those people were all heavyweights.
“Cataclysm, did I say something wrong?” The Sword Demon chewed over his words, lost.
Back when he defected from Ouyang’s camp, Cataclysm had pushed him. With Ouyang’s background, the Sword Demon hadn’t dared at first. But Cataclysm said he had a Tiered Being behind him, and that being had issued an order to finish certain tasks. So the Sword Demon followed Cataclysm—and lured other Demon Kings to defect.
Cataclysm handed out benefits to those who agreed. The great Demon King camp shattered in an instant. Of more than a hundred, only a dozen stayed by Ouyang’s side.
But what gnawed at the Sword Demon was this: most of the defected Demon Kings went dark. Vanished strangely. Whenever he asked, Cataclysm said the Tiered Being took them.
Later, Cataclysm and the Sword Demon entered the chaotic domains and joined the traitors of the Other Shore.
The deeper they went, the more questions rose. Cataclysm hid much. One day, the Sword Demon learned the defected kings’ fate. Dead. All dead. Only a few who hadn’t been taken were alive, scattered like ash.
He knew he’d been caught in a vast whirlpool. Cataclysm knew the truth, but never gave him a crumb.
Cataclysm looked far off and smiled bitterly. “Problem? Huge. Some things can’t be tossed around. With one careless line, you brushed the truth. Better to speak less.”
The Sword Demon was shell-shocked.
Brushed the truth? Which line?
He tried to ask, but Cataclysm shook his head, raised a finger to his lips. Quiet.
“Some things—think them, and that’s enough.”
—
Back in the temple, when all had fallen still, Ouyang smiled.
“Interesting.” His gaze drifted toward where Cervantes and the others were. He shook his head. An LCD screen sat on the desk, and on it, Xi’s face appeared.
He turned to the vague figure beside him. Gaia, the God of Earth. Apart from those ancient gods born with the Creator God, no other god knew who Gaia truly was. Gaia was the world itself, the world’s will. Faced with foreign invasion, the Creator God and the world’s will stood first in the storm. They were hurt the worst.
“You’re saying the Creator God was wounded so deeply his soul got lost in reincarnation?” Ouyang watched the screen, a strange smile touching his mouth. “What a coincidence. This world is so small.”
