“Those people—did the Crow slip them in?” Ouyang’s voice cut like cold rain; he meant the First Cult members hiding in the traitors’ circle, shadows nesting under a broken banner.

“Look at Cervantes cozying up to those traitors,” he sighed, bitterness like rust on iron. “Is that how a proper turncoat even acts?”

Back then, when he begged Ouyang to draft his reports, he slid through trouble like oil on ice, smooth and shameless.

“No… it was arranged by Her Eminence Erika Francis.” Cataclysm’s reply fell like a pebble into still water, ripples touching places Ouyang didn’t expect.

He’d assumed the Crow—or the Crow’s master—pulled the strings. The notion shattered like frost glass; another hand had written this script.

A pause, a breath, then sense settled like dust on shelves. The Crow couldn’t command the First Cult; even the First Imperial Princess wouldn’t buy it, cold eyes like moonlight on steel.

Erika Francis—once one of the Three Swords—was faith carved into bone for the First Cult. She could move them with a word, like wind moving prayer flags. Beyond their high council, only the Three Swords could steer that tide; others pushed and got nothing, waves refusing the shore.

“There’s one thing I still don’t get,” Ouyang said, the question heavy as a stone in the chest. “Why did she order you back then?” He aimed the words at Cataclysm, while Sword Demon stared blank as white sand. He could piece each word like tiles, but the mosaic made no picture.

Cataclysm didn’t answer the hook. He only murmured, voice cool as night water, “You should already know, shouldn’t you? Why ask…”

It was true, and truth stung like winter wind. Ouyang had long understood, yet he wanted the knot tied by Cataclysm’s hand.

Those Demon Kings hadn’t rebelled only because he fanned the flames; the traitors planted tinder everywhere like briars. A nudge from Cataclysm, and the Kings mistook it for orders from above—don’t lie low, rise like thunder. And so their “rebellion” bloomed, a wild fire under a painted sky.

All told, Ouyang had been too young back then, a blade still tempering, heat without weight.

“As for the ones who turned,” Cataclysm said, voice drifting like smoke, “Her Majesty Jiling handled them herself.” Sword Demon’s palms went cold as river stones; lucky he’d stuck with Cataclysm, or he’d have died like a moth against a lantern.

Ouyang kept his gaze on the edge of the starfield, silence stretching like dusk. Quietly, she had done so much for him, her care like dew, unseen yet there. As a child, an orphan, a stranger in the Starry Citadel—she was a presence that wouldn’t fade, a name engraved where heartbeat meets memory.

He’d saved plastic bottles for a month, sold them, clutched coins under neon and midnight, didn’t return to the orphanage. She found him first, her shadow soft as a shawl. In the Starry Citadel, he drifted like a leaf in city currents; she was a lighthouse in the dark, steady beam cutting the fog, showing him a road.

“Feels like I owe her too much,” he murmured, the taste bitter as unripe fruit.

With a wry smile, Ouyang stepped—and rain-smell rose like a veil—as he returned to Falling Rain City.

Gods and mortals alike couldn’t forget that light at heaven’s rim. The silver vortex bloomed and exploded like a frostflower, and the world turned white, bones of sky showing through. Was the Creator God judging all? Did she mean to end everything with a raised hand?

Even gods, proud as mountains, felt small under that blaze, color robbed from all things like paint washed in flood.

Is it over?

Would the world be annihilated under that radiance, dust to dust? Would the Creator God craft a new cosmos from the quiet left behind?

When the blaze ebbed, star-rain drifted down like silk. The night sky pulsed alive; constellations blinked like eyes waking. If you listened, the wind sang hymns in a low chorus. Flowers danced on their stems; branches swayed like worshippers.

“A great presence has descended…” The thought sprouted in every mind like spring grass. How great must it be to make all beings bow inward? None knew—only that it was beyond their horizon.

Suddenly, knowledge unfolded inside everyone, a scroll unfurling. It spoke of Second Space, of the Eternal Sleep Continent, of the Ling world. The gifted—those with power beyond the common—could sense Second Space like a bell’s note, clear and exact. If not for that great presence standing like a mountain, they would’ve stepped through immediately, hand on the threshold.

But entering now would be disrespect, a child barging into a temple while the idol still glowed.

After a breath held in the chest, the world erupted in celebration, laughter like firecrackers beneath a new moon.

“Second Space… linking all realms?” A mage whispered to the stars, eyes wet as morning frost. He could finally leave this world, wander realm to realm, chase truth like a hunter chasing dawn.

“It’s open. The sealed path is open again.” A god wept, tears like rain on old stone. High above or not, he was a traveler close to home. Ten thousand years slid by like clouds; seas had turned to fields. Now he could go home, whispering, “My homeland, are you well?”

Star-rain kept falling, mingled with crimson divine flowers, petals drifting like embers from a holy fire.

Suoru Bayat—fifth cohort of special admits from the Source World—had completed S‑rank missions across years and classes with upperclassmen who moved like seasoned blades. During one summer task, he “saved” Liuli, the Void’s Mystic Priestess, earning a seat on the student council.

Later he rose to council president, a comet in that era’s sky, bright enough to cast shadows.

“Suoru Bayat, right? Back then your name was the one everyone chewed on,” Ouyang said, hands clasped behind him, calm like stone at a riverbend. Just as he’d guessed, the Codex of the Void was brought to this world by Suoru Bayat. Suoru was one of the rare standouts; Ouyang had rewarded him with a second‑edition codex as a keepsake.

Suoru had waited in the dark for years, patience like roots under soil. He waited, and the fruit finally ripened.

“Teacher, it’s really you!” Suoru ran up, joy popping like sparklers. “Feels like you’re stronger than before… Where’s my senior? Augustine didn’t come?”

Augustine and Suoru were night and day. Augustine, the senior, was steady like an anchor; in front of their teacher he carried himself like a clean blade. Suoru was a storm of energy, a puppy at the heels, no filters.

As for thinking Ouyang looked stronger—that was an illusion, a mirage over a desert. At this height, after long wars, Ouyang hadn’t moved an inch; steel can’t get more steel.

Seeing his second student alive put warmth in Ouyang’s chest, a small sun rising.

“Kid, don’t celebrate too fast,” Ouyang said, voice gentle as a hand on the shoulder. “When you go back, many familiar faces won’t be there. Like your dean from school days—Irina…”

“Irina…” Suoru’s memories stirred like leaves. Those reckless seniors meant a lot to him; Irina meant just as much. Chloe dragged him across entire vacations like a butterfly chasing lanterns; if not for the reliable heartthrob Xia Zuo, with Chloe and Juste together, Suoru wouldn’t have lived long. Even then, danger came in waves; every time, Dean Irina cleaned up the mess like rain washing streets. After each rescue, they’d still get scolded, thunder then sunshine.

Head bowed, Suoru clenched his fist until knuckles shone, stone under moss.

Ouyang ruffled his hair, a sigh slipping out like mist. “If she were still here, as dean she wouldn’t want you like this. Live carrying their dreams, not their graves.”

Teacher and student stared at the night, quiet as a lake. No one intruded. They stayed till the sun climbed, gold spilling like honey.

“Little Bayat, leave some instructions, then we’re off,” Ouyang said, mood settling like dusk. “In this age of pioneering, we’ve got too much to do. My vacation ends here.”

Seeing his gloom, Xi walked over and took his hand, palm warm as summer. “Ouyang, it’s all past now. They wouldn’t want us trapped in sorrow because they died.”

“Yes, yes, ma’am,” Ouyang grinned, carefree as a boy. Seeing him smile, Loyin ran over, tugging his hem like a kitten.

“Brother, hug!”

She melted into his arms and refused to budge, a koala under soft rain.

About this world, Ouyang only gave a few notes to his convenient godson, telling him to grow the church well.

“Don’t worry, Dad,” the godson announced, swagger loud as drums. “I’ll hustle up a huge flock of believers for you!” The Saintess nearby could only cover her face, exasperation like a fan in summer.

Their god’s brains were… concerning, a knife that sometimes cut the wrong way. But she wasn’t worried; his backing was ironwood. He’d muddled his way into a monstrous godfather; even if he was dumb as a brick, few dared scheme against him.

When they returned to Second Space, three more walked with them: Cataclysm, Sword Demon, and Suoru Bayat. As for Lingwen, she needed to set her world in order, then she’d report to the Eternal Sleep Continent.

The prismatic corridor twisted like a river of glass; the space warped like heat above sand. Familiar as an old song—though for Suoru Bayat, it had been tens of thousands of years.

People, stories, all got shelved in history like books dusted over. Maybe one day, someone would pull that volume down and sigh, realizing those faces had lived inside his memory.

“Welcome back, Your Majesty!”

The instant they stepped into Miracle City, Liuli was waiting, papers stacked like bricks in her arms. “Your Majesty, Lord Collin has forwarded their collected intel. Please review the newly discovered worlds.”

The stack was thick as a mountain of tablets. Ouyang looked at it and wondered if he should slip away like a shadow at noon.