Today was the day the Astral Plaza opened, the plaza south of the Central Court spreading like a stone lake catching starlight, no secret to anyone.

Months ago, Ouyang and Xi roamed across worlds; passing the plaza, Xi insisted it mattered to finish it early, like shoring a dam before the rains. When their little world-of-two ended, Ouyang completed the Astral Plaza in two days, swift as clouds chased by wind.

The Second Space did a similar job, but it never matched the Astral Plaza’s World Gates for sheer ease, like a path through fog versus a doorway into clear sun. In the plaza, you took one step toward a World Gate and, in the next heartbeat, you were there. In the Second Space, you walked and walked, stopping at many waystations, like trudging a long road under drifting dust.

Put simply, the Second Space was a highway—cars, stops, refuel, a horizon crawling by like a tired snake. The World Gate was a plane—one whoosh and you arrived, distance folding like paper under a steady hand.

Ouyang had already guessed the rhythm to come: the Second Space would become the mainstream tool between worlds, a river everyone used. The World Gates would be the nobles’ tool, a lantern few could afford to keep lit. One step was all it took to reach another world, but keeping that step open burned resources like a bonfire devours logs, and low-civilization worlds simply couldn’t feed that blaze.

Even now, an ordinary deity hoping to use a World Gate faced a toll like a mountain of coin; for most, it was their entire life’s savings turned to ash.

And World Gates weren’t a cure-all; not every world registered by the Panworld Alliance could be reached by gate, like stars you couldn’t pluck though they glittered overhead. To establish a gate, you needed the strength of a Realm God. To build one to the Eternal Sleep Continent, you had to apply, and the fees were astronomical—rumor said you could buy a low-civilization world with the sum, like trading fog for fields.

Bottom line—low-civ worlds couldn’t play that game; the board was marble, and their hands were wood.

For now, the Astral Plaza had only twenty to thirty World Gates, blue arches like stacked moons. Of those worlds, only a handful could pay to apply for a gate. But as Alliance elders, a few earned perks, wind at their backs—at least they didn’t have to bleed funds to own a gate to the Eternal Sleep Continent.

For this Astral Festival, most who’d left the Eternal Sleep Continent had hurried home, like migratory birds following a bright line in the sky. A few still drifted elsewhere, tethered by tasks heavy as anchors.

A tide of people packed the Astral Plaza: mortals from the Central Court and gods from Miracle City, a quilt of faces under a glittering vault. Dragons shrank their bodies to walk with elves in the crowd, scales like river pebbles; angels passed overhead like white sails, and a rain of light fell in blessing, soft as petals in spring.

The presiding priest was a high bishop of the Void Church. He gripped his prepared speech like a talisman and faced the multitude, heart knocking like a drum in a windstorm.

“Everyone, today… Astral Era, Year 22…”

He didn’t finish. A discordant voice cut across the square, sharp as a thrown pebble on calm water. “Spare us the fluff and announce the start already. You want the Demon Kings to sit through your polite rambling?”

“Yeah. Drop the act. Back when I was a mortal, every academy event dragged on for hours with leaders blowing hot air.”

“Ha. I accepted a surrender once—few words would’ve done it. The idiot in charge stretched it for hours. I finally killed him, couldn’t stand one more breath.”

The words echoed like a flock of crows around the bishop’s ears. Cold sweat ran down his back like melted ice, and he suddenly knew he’d blundered. Shaking, he declared, voice trembling like a reed, “I announce… the Astral Festival begins!”

With his words, the World Gates on the Astral Plaza burst into blue light, each arch a glowing river mouth. From those gates, beings stepped forth in ordered streams. Every delegation wore uniform battle robes, banners like painted clouds; as the plaza kept filling, you could pick out which faces belonged to which sky.

“Ahem… everyone, from here on, I—Dufei K. McVeil—will be your commentator.”

That voice…

In the crowd, Ouyang squeezed Xi’s hand and smiled wryly, a ripple across still water. He followed the sound to the sky, where a massive airship floated like a whale of iron. The original commentator lay sprawled on its deck, out cold, and a stick lay nearby like a fallen branch; Dufei had the mic and the role, wearing it like a borrowed coat.

One look at that stick, and Ouyang understood. If he guessed right, Dufei had clubbed the commentator while no one watched, then took the job with a grin like a fox in a henhouse.

Was that necessary? Brother, you’re one of the ten Demon Kings. You could’ve asked and they’d have yielded the spot like grass bending to wind. Ouyang bowed three seconds of silence for the unlucky commentator, a candle in a quiet room.

“In the crowd at the Astral Plaza, each world’s delegates wear unified robes. They stride through the gates, bold as banners on a storm wall. At the front, the ones in blue, with an ice-sword on the chest—that’s the ‘Ling’ world’s delegation. Leading them is the world’s sovereign, the Ancient God Lingwen. As one of the Panworld Alliance’s founding worlds, ‘Ling’ is an elder among elders, a pillar among pillars.”

At the mention of ‘Ling,’ their delegates raised banners high, color like frost-fire against the sky. In the Alliance, ‘Ling’ sat in the top three, with countless pantheons among mid and high civilizations—yet their steady rank owed inseparably to Lingwen, iron and snow woven into one name.

Across long war years, Lingwen walked through nine deaths and one life to seize the power of an Ancient God. Recently, a god in her world broke through to Realm God, like a star cracking its shell; the news spread to every neighboring world, cementing ‘top three’ like a seal pressed in clay.

“Next, those in earth-yellow robes, printed with mountains and rivers—they’re friends from the ‘Aupu’ world. Leading them is their sovereign, the Ancient God Aupu. Likewise, ‘Aupu’ is a founding world, the fiercest rival to ‘Ling’ since the Alliance’s dawn.”

The ‘Aupu’ delegates hoisted their banners en masse, making sure the crowd saw them, like oaks raising their crowns in a clearing.

“Look at those two groups—war-ember in their eyes. Since the Panworld Alliance formed, they’ve been locked in a friendly duel, day and night like twin tides. Even in the hardest war years, their contest never stopped. Today, ‘Aupu’ wipes out two enemy worlds; tomorrow, ‘Ling’ will crush three, stamping the earth to prove who’s stronger.”

Aupu had been a third-echelon Realm God even before the war years began. To survive that grindstone and come out breathing meant a sharper edge; that kind of growth was only natural, iron tempered by fire.

In the newest Panworld Alliance rankings, ‘Aupu’ and ‘Ling’ keep trading second and third, like sparrows swapping branches every century. The list reshuffles every hundred years, and those two exchange places with the ease of seasons. Second or third, it’s their duet; this century, ‘Aupu’ is second, and next century, it may be third.

Only one ranking never moves: first belongs to the ‘Source’ world—now the Eternal Sleep Continent. Most prefer to call the new world Eternal Slumber, a name like cool shade under noon sun.

Second-place and third-place worlds throw grand feasts when a new Realm God appears, inviting guests from far horizons. But on Eternal Slumber, Realm Gods don’t fetch a high price; they’re stars in a sky so crowded the constellations blur.

In Miracle City, out of ten passersby, at least five are deities, four are Realm Gods, and one is an Ancient God. Sure, it’s a metaphor, a sketch not a photograph, but it tells you everything—here, Realm God isn’t rare; it’s rain in monsoon.

So first place? Old Alliance members don’t expect that to change. If it did, the wind would smell wrong; the compass would spin.

Dufei, from the airship, kept up his commentary, casting light on every world stepping through a gate, like a lantern sweeping a parade. Each named world raised its banner, pride flaring like sparks.

“After seventy thousand years apart, we finally gather again. This day deserves a marker carved in stone. Astral Era, Year 22—the first Astral Festival—we meet anew.”

With Dufei’s words, cheers soared from delegates and onlookers alike, a surf of sound breaking against the plaza’s walls.

It had been tens of thousands of years. Somewhere among those worlds, you might find someone who once fought beside a citizen of Miracle City, blood brothers under a red dawn. But when the war reached its critical phase, the Second Space was blown apart, and all worlds lost their lines, like a web cut clean.

“We stood shoulder to shoulder back then. Maybe beside you today stands a comrade from another world; maybe on Miracle City’s streets waits an old friend you bled with. Partners—cheer in this Astral Festival. Seek comrades long lost, greet familiar faces, and carry one cheer for those who never returned.”

Ouyang had expected chaos the moment that unreliable oaf took the mic. Turns out he worried too much; the deadweight could be solid when it counted, a rock under rushing water. Thank the heavens—if he’d pulled a stunt today, the jokes would have multiplied like weeds.

In the Alliance, our world is the big brother. A big brother needs to keep his gravitas, a thundercloud held in check.

“Lastly, please enjoy the grand feast provided by the Culinary Management Association!”

“What?” At that final line, Ouyang snapped alert, a spark into dry grass. Culinary Management Association? “Food provided by the Culinary Management Association? No way. I’ve gotta stop this!”

No need to explain—the Association had Dufei as its boss, and that meant one thing: dark cuisine, dishes like shadows that bit back. He wouldn’t poison every delegate, but eat it and then puke it out? That was guaranteed, a riot in your gut and a rebellion on your tongue.

“What’s that clown thinking? This is a solemn rite—can’t he clown around after it ends?”

Ouyang nearly saw himself tossing Dufei into a vat of oil, bubbles rising like furious beads. Xi watched him and smiled gently, a crescent moon behind clouds. This kind of mess was for watching, not joining. “In that case, I’ll head to the Stellar Courtyard and bring back Glorious Moon and your precious daughter… Well, Glorious Moon’s tricky. I doubt the Star Spirit will allow it.”

“You’re going to the Stellar Courtyard? Eh, no rush. Let me fix this food fiasco, then we’ll go together. It’s been over a month since we reached out. I’ll call that redhead too—let’s make it fun.”

With that, Ouyang plunged into the crowd like a spear into reeds. He had to find Nabelia fast. Food for the Astral Festival was under her management, so before anyone touched Dufei’s dark cuisine, he needed Nabelia to swap the dishes. As head maid, Nabelia’s cooking was no joke; she could replace Dufei’s nightmares with a feast worthy of daylight.