Night at the shore. Ouyang lay on the sand, watching the surf churn like silver serpents under a dim lantern sky.

Then—a black cloud drifted onto the beach like a bruised sail, thunder rolled like drums, and seconds later a sheet of rain came down hard.

He lifted his head and slicked his hair back, water streaming like glass threads. Soaked to the bone, he was speechless. Curiosity pricked like needles—who would pull a stunt like this? In this world, any rain you drag down needs paperwork, a stamp on the sky, and official permission before a single drop falls.

This gale and deluge screamed man-made, the thunder like a marching band. A divinity-tier could do it, sure, but they wouldn’t have the iron guts. To break regs like this, you'd have to be Ancient God rank or worse, a storm wearing a crown.

Sure enough, the culprits showed themselves.

“Ouyang, classmate—long time no see…”

Figures rose out of the black cloud like shadows lifting from ink. The one in front, blackened like a lump of charcoal, was no stranger—Cervantes of the First Cult. He was the one sent to the Primordial Continent to watch Ouyang, then had Ouyang ghostwrite his reports.

Next to Cervantes stood a certain leader, the current top hand of the First Cult—the East Heavenly King, calm as a mountain under lightning.

Behind them, a string of familiar faces spread like a constellation. Those were First Cult members Ouyang had met back in the Starry Citadel. Newbies who joined this epoch—he didn’t know them, and their eyes shone like fresh blades.

“What are you even doing?”

He knew it was a useless question. With most folks, he’d weigh motives like stones on a scale. With the First Cult’s problem children, their reason for any act was simple—they had no reason, just wind and impulse.

“Ah-ha… doing what? Being bored.” A blonde girl answered, her wavy hair spilling like molten gold over her shoulders, boredom written across her face like dust on a mirror. Ouyang had heard of her. Back when he drifted through the Starry Citadel, that girl’s name carried a sharp edge. You keep tabs on dangerous people the way you watch dark alleys—because sometimes the passerby is a storm wearing a smile.

Also, he couldn’t pretend not to know—she had been in his class, a thorn blooming right beside him.

They say the Starry Citadel is the most chaotic city under the stars. Partly because it’s the First Cult’s home base, partly because it keeps spawning talents born to break things, sparks in a powder keg. The girl—Tong—had once made the Witch Ranking; rumor painted her as the likeliest to become one of the new Thirteen Witches, a moon with teeth.

Beside her stood a black-haired man Ouyang refused to even judge, a shadow with a smirk. He was the Starry Citadel Paparazzi Squad’s one-thousand-seven-hundredth chief, a title like a stain that tells you exactly why everyone avoids him.

In short, anyone Ouyang recognized wasn’t simple; every familiar face was a blade with history. As for the fresh recruits, never mind them. The ones standing up front were monsters and fiends, a parade of spooks under a storm lamp.

“Damn… so brazen.” He muttered, irritation buzzing like flies. He wasn’t a member of the First Cult, but he was, at the very least, a Crowned one, a name that should carry weight like iron. He was plotting payback, lightning bottled in his fist—when a round moon rose at the horizon like a silver coin, and the First Cult, led by Dongze, bolted like birds at a gunshot.

What the hell was that?

Emotion first—confusion swelled like a tide. Did those problem children fear the Moon Goddess, yet not fear him? On raw power, he outclassed the Moon Goddess; his shadow should have weighed heavier.

Forget it. The Star-Moon Temple has been feuding with the First Cult since the First Epoch, a grudge carved into stone. Maybe that war etched a scar so deep it still twitches under moonlight.

He refused to admit it was because he looked soft, a lamb drawn on rice paper, harmless enough to pet.

“Wind’s up, time to bail!” The instant the Moon Goddess appeared, Dongze—as leader—was the first to run, his retreat clean as a cut. If the leader runs, do the shrimp soldiers and crab generals have the guts to clash with a top dog? In other factions, maybe—heroes like boulders in a river. In the First Cult, a field of weather vanes, not a chance.

One second—only one heartbeat—those cocky punks scattered, each showing an escape art like smoke slipping through fingers. Even Ouyang, third echelon, felt humbled by their footwork, their bodies turning to wind.

If they poured their talent for escape into real work, they’d be super geniuses, stars bright enough to burn. Sadly, as the Other Shore likes to say, they put all their skill points in the wrong tree.

He watched, stunned, from the cloud’s sudden birth to the Moon Goddess’s appearance that sent them flying, then to the Moon Goddess’s neat exit, a shutter closing on a night stage.

“Not right… something’s off…”

He ran a hand through rain-soaked hair, water beading like pearls. He didn’t magic it dry; he squeezed it out like an ordinary man, drops pattering like seeds. After a few seconds, the missing piece clicked.

“You drenched me head to toe and just walked off safe and sound?” He finally pinpointed the itch. First Cult had pranked him, and he’d been loading a payback arrow on the string—then the Moon Goddess popped out of the wings.

Viewed from another angle, her arrival was a glowing lure, a bright coin tossed to draw his eyes, buying the First Cult their exit like a paid distraction.

“Right—why did it feel wrong? Dongze’s strength sits neck-and-neck with the Moon Goddess. Why would he run?” He growled, reasoning carving through fog. Since the Moon Goddess isn’t someone who can crush Dongze flat, why flee? Think sideways—who present could make him run, and who had he offended? That’s Ouyang, the storm he can’t predict.

Besides, the Moon Goddess didn’t clash with them at all; she let water through the net, giving them a path. The biggest tell was that little mouth twitch when she vanished, a smile she wanted to show but didn’t dare—like a cat hiding feathers.

“Lin Yue, get out here! You really teamed up with them to set me up?” Frustration flared like sparks. The Star-Moon Temple and the First Cult have been at each other’s throats since the First Epoch, blades drawn in every corridor—yet now they’re shoulder to shoulder? What happened to ‘irreconcilable,’ to ‘you die, I live’?

Annoyance simmered like a pot, and just as Ouyang was picturing how he’d teach them a lesson, a bat cut through the rain, wings slicing the air like red knives. Where the Moon Goddess shows up, a bat that can’t stand her scent isn’t far behind.

The bat folded into a girl in midair—black princess gown flowing like midnight, a pair of crimson bat wings flaring behind her like burning banners. Because of her, even the moon turned red, a blood coin hung in a velvet sky.

“Don’t cry, don’t cry…” Kanofia wasn’t as tall as Ouyang, so she floated to look down, patting his head like a patient adult soothing a child. “Even if the world abandons you, I’ll still stand right beside you.” Her vow landed warm as a cloak, and emotion surged—he felt tears tug like tides, like a lost soul meeting the one person who’d stand in his storm.

“Kanofia, you’re… such a good person.” Moved to the edge of tears, he gave her the dreaded line, the gentlest rejection wrapped like silk. For a heartbeat, Kanofia’s expression froze like icing, but her iron psyche held, smile steady as a drawn bow.

Click. A bright white flash split the rain like lightning, and Kanofia raised her camera, grinning as she drifted away, leaving Ouyang in the wind, thoughts scattered like leaves.

No—what exactly is wrong?

A few seconds after Kanofia vanished, the thought hit like a falling stone. What do you mean “abandoned by the world”? He’d only been pranked by the First Cult and the Moon Goddess. Kanofia’s words painted him as betrayed by the whole sky, guiding his feelings like a puppeteer’s strings.

Worse, he’d walked right into it, following her script, and actually believed—for a breath—that the world had tossed him aside. That devastated look? She captured it in a clean shot, a trophy on a red moon.

What is this mess? He stared up at the night, long-suffering, feeling the world’s deep malice like cold rain down the collar.

It felt like they’d planned this in whispers, all to trip him. It shattered his sense of how the board works. The First Cult and the Moon Goddess cooperating? Before today, he’d have laughed till dawn. And now the Moon Goddess and Kanofia—the Ancestor of Blood Night—hand in hand? What even is that pairing, a moon and a blade sharing a dance?

So they all want to screw him?

He brooded for a moment, then clenched his fists, knuckles pale as shells. “In my turf, where can you possibly hide? Naive.”