By the sea, Augustine and his junior brother Sorubayat stared at Morris, the so-called king of his harem, eyes like drawn blades in a salt-wet breeze.

Back in the Mythic Era, when Augustine and Morris returned to those storybook years, Morris’s strength was always at the bottom. If Rex and Clafias hadn’t carried the early days like pillars in a storm, the whole team would’ve been wiped. Later, under the star-choked sky, Augustine ascended and became one of the main forces.

Born to a top family of the Aup World, praised as a prodigy, Morris turned out to be all sizzle, no steak. Sure, he stuck with Augustine’s crew and, walking and stumbling, became a god. But for someone raised inside a chorus of compliments, that drop felt like a stone in the gut.

Now, Morris sits at the highest god-tier, while Augustine is an Ancient God. It sounds rough at first glance, like frost on iron, but Morris’s forebear—the Aup World’s War God—was merely upper god-tier. As a highest god-tier, Morris has surpassed his ancestor. In the Panworld Alliance there’s an old saying: compare all you want, just don’t compare yourself to the Alliance’s top boss.

For tens of thousands of years, Morris has held that highest god-tier, a single step from the Creator God; in other worlds that’s a legend carved in granite. If you don’t measure him against the Alliance’s head, it’s something to be proud of, bright as a banner in wind.

Knowing he could never match Augustine’s power, Morris let it go. He stopped keeping score and chose to live happy, like sunlight on open water.

Same as in the Mythic Era—he drifted along and ascended anyway. Then he picked joy, and unknowingly his harem swelled like summer vines. He looked back at Augustine—famous across the Alliance for chasing forbidden power like a moth courting flame—yet still a perpetual bachelor.

Under Augustine and Sorubayat’s burn-him-at-the-stake glare, Morris smirked, cold as moonlight on steel.

“Hmph. A pack of hopeless singles with no girls—what’s the difference from useless slackers?” He lounged with a woman on each arm, looking down on them like a hawk from a cliff. Power-wise, Augustine had always pressed him flat, and even Sorubayat, the junior, rose later and passed him. That had chafed like sand in a wound. But now, at last, he could turn the tide.

As Morris laughed, a certain Lord of Civilization in floral shorts strolled over, eyes narrowed like a cat at dusk. “Little Morris, you’ve got a point. If you don’t have a girl, how different are you from a salted fish…” Aupu’s tone was pure venomous honey. Only then did Morris remember: Aupu, their Aup World’s Lord of Civilization and Ancient God, was also single.

There were rumors about him and Lingwen, but rumors are smoke; in truth, he was still a lone wolf.

Seeing Morris from his own world crush Augustine’s momentum had felt cathartic to Aupu, like rain after drought. But the rest of Morris’s jab hit him while he was lying down. He was not pleased. Mock Augustine all you want—I won’t stop you; I’ll even cheer. But that idiot just flipped to group taunts. What do you mean “no girls equals salted fish”?

Noting the storm-cloud face gathering on Aupu, Morris bolted like a startled bird. You can’t dodge forever, but you can dodge for now—wait till Aupu’s temper cools.

From that practiced sprint, it was clear this wasn’t his first escape. Offending Aupu was something Morris did with veteran ease.

“Brat, stop right there!”

As Lord of Civilization, having someone from his own world deny him face—especially with Augustine, a fellow Ancient God, standing within earshot—stung like nettles. Yet on the Sunlit Coast, with so many rules, Aupu couldn’t chase him hard.

Shaking with anger, Aupu snorted for form, then left, head low like a storm moving out to sea.

The brothers Augustine and Sorubayat shook their heads, that lonely-master look in their eyes. They’d hoped Morris would give them a little pressure; instead the clown offended his own world’s lord. Courting death.

Setting Aupu and Morris aside, Augustine spotted Ouyang reclining in a chair. Emotion rose first, warm as a morning tide; then he ran over.

“Teacher… teacher…” He jogged in, shaking Ouyang’s chair like a kid under fireworks. “Teacher, Alice agreed to marry me. You have to officiate!”

“Alice?” Ouyang sifted his memories, as if turning pages in an old book. Augustine had adored a girl when he was little, the dean’s granddaughter from his academy. That city was turned into insects by Saya using the Twelve Divine Demon Artifacts. Urged by White Cat, Augustine began his quest to defeat those twelve, so Alice could become human again.

“That girl… such a distant memory,” Ouyang sighed, like wind through pines. “I’d love to officiate, but in a few days I’ve got things. Let White Cat do it.”

White Cat was one of the few who mattered in Augustine’s life. Without White Cat, there might not be an Augustine today. Watching him grow step by step, White Cat saw him like a son. So having White Cat officiate felt right, like lantern light in a quiet hall.

But Augustine didn’t see it that way. Regret first, then reason. “Eh, you’ve got things? I’ll tell Alice we’ll delay. When you’re free, you can officiate for us.”

He still looked hopeful, eyes like stars. Ouyang rarely taught him hand-to-hand; most power he self-studied, then asked other Demon Kings. Ouyang had taught him little—yet Ouyang always dropped life truths at the right time, guiding him like a lighthouse, keeping him from losing the road.

“Sorry…” Ouyang gave a bitter smile, thin as autumn light. He wanted to, but time wouldn’t allow it. That time was near, and he refused to rush. Lovers for so many years—the wedding should last days, set out banquets, let everyone celebrate, accept blessings from other worlds of the Alliance…

If he had to officiate, it would be a quick finish, like rain cut short.

“I’ll be gone quite a long while…”

For beings near eternal, “quite long” means ages, the kind that sandblasts mountains.

Heavy-hearted, Augustine left, worry clouding his face; he’d seen something strange in Ouyang’s eyes, like thunder behind hills.

Happy hours pass in a blink. Youlan bickered with Feges; Xian and Clafias clawed at each other like cats; three little terrors ran wild; Dufei tried his dark-cuisine plan and failed again and again, like sparks dying in wind.

Familiar faces gathered here. It was night now; a full moon hung high, round as a silver drum.

Usually Kanofia would swap the full moon to a blood moon to announce herself, but tonight she sat quiet, like frost on jade.

Moer and Little Night flew across the sky, leaving rainbows in their wake like brushstrokes. Bai sat beside Ouyang, smiling, carefree as a spring lake, as if nothing could trouble her.

“Lord Ouyang, the barbecue’s ready!” Jade Rabbit picked up a piece of grilled meat with chopsticks, and in a tenth of a second it vanished. Dufei burped, grin shameless as a stray dog. “Thanks for the meal!”

Jade Rabbit’s eyes reddened like embers. He’d grilled it with care, meant for Ouyang, and this scoundrel stole it.

“Lord Ouyang…” Jade Rabbit looked at Ouyang, aggrieved, hoping he’d rein in this lawless brat. But for some reason, Ouyang’s mood was mild as evening smoke; he watched the show and didn’t bother with Dufei.

Ouyang let it slide, but others couldn’t. Cataclysm and Sword Demon, brought by Jiling, saw Dufei’s smug grin and lost it like thunder off a cliff. Sensing danger, Dufei grabbed a black skull and used it as a shield. The innocent Glenza was not amused; he slapped Dufei on the head. Then Cataclysm, Sword Demon, and Glenza beat Dufei in a three-way pile-on.

Watching the merry fools, Ouyang shook his head, a helpless smile like rain on leaves. He glanced behind him. “Hey, stone-face—since everyone’s gathered, can you stop wearing that look like everyone owes you money?”

“Stone-face” meant the Sword God Wuhen. In Ouyang’s memory, whether the First Era or this Ninth, Wuhen wore the same sour look, like iron left in cold rain.

“Yeah, yeah, Ouyang’s right—this guy’s hopelessly off-beat!” Classmate Cervantes from the First Cult and a bunch of cult members piled on, voices like crows. Only they would dare rib two out-of-spec beings; anyone else—even Dufei, once a First Cult member and fear-nothing troublemaker—wouldn’t.

Dufei had been in the First Cult, but he wasn’t core. Core meant those like Ouyang, who came from another starry sky, the same homeland as them. Others, no matter how hard they worked, no matter their talent, couldn’t enter the core.

Because they shared a homeland, Cervantes and the rest dared tease Ouyang and berate Wuhen, like siblings poking a sleeping tiger.

Wuhen had had enough; he shut his eyes and ignored the First Cult’s problem children, a mountain unmoved by wind.

But they didn’t plan to stop. Especially the leader, Dongze—his persuasive tricks could rival any pyramid scheme—who dropped an ice cube down Wuhen’s shirt, mischief cold as winter creek-water.

Finally, a limit snapped. “Zhao Dongze, you looking for death!”

The stone-face turned, ready to teach the brats a lesson, but they scattered faster than sparks. It didn’t help. Wuhen reached into space like into a river, grabbed Dongze from afar, and hauled him out like a fish on a line.

“Face-bro, listen—I can explain. It wasn’t my idea. Ouyang made me do it…” Dangling by his collar, Dongze pushed blame like a man in a burning house.

Little Loyin stormed over and kicked Dongze a few times, cheeks puffed like a furious kitten. “Don’t slander my brother! He never told you to do that!”

Ouyang just went “Huh?” and looked blankly between Wuhen and Dongze, like a man hearing rain behind a closed door.

Wuhen didn’t buy it. He dragged Dongze toward the distance, steps like thunder. “Zhao Dongze, it’s time we had a talk about life.”

Facing Wuhen’s toneless voice, Dongze pulled a funeral face and stared at Ouyang, hoping his look of pure despair would move him. Ouyang ignored him, waving like a man saying goodbye at a dock.

“Walk by the river long enough, your shoes get wet. In this life, debts always come due…” Ouyang said, and Dongze, still wearing that life-is-over face, was dragged away into the night.

The night stretched long. Compared to last night, the Sunlit Coast flickered with firelight like fallen stars. The three little terrors set off fireworks with squeals. Dufei and Jade Rabbit grilled by the flames, smoke curling like calligraphy. Nabelia, Leticia, and Snow cleaned up trash, hands moving like swallows. Kanofia locked horns with the Moon Goddess again for no obvious reason—the moon turned red, then back, then red again, like a beating heart. Jelinka and the rest of Augustine’s team gathered to chat, voices low as tide.

After all, coming from that long winter of an era, Jelinka, Sheila, the old king, and the Ancestor have plenty to talk about with Augustine, Caro, and the others.

Jue and Ouyang stood at the edge of the sea, where waves kept swallowing the sand at their feet like a beast’s slow breath.

“Jue, the long age ahead will rest on you all; I should go meet the fate that’s waited like a shadow at my gate for far too long...”