“I really don’t get it—where does your trust in me even come from?”

…

As Little Ash had laughed and told [Nightfall]—her voice like silver bells scattering in moonlight:

“We met this boy two years ago~”

Ye Weibai and Little Ash crossed paths two years ago.

Two years ago, in the city where Ye Weibai lived.

Back then, Ye Fei hadn’t lost her brother or father. Her home glowed like a warm lamp behind paper windows. She still hated school, loved sleeping through class, and came home to squabble with her brother like sparrows in spring brush.

She wasn’t [Void] yet. Her life still breathed color, like wind-chimes stirring in a painted courtyard.

Back then, Xue Yutong was shy and quiet, a reed in still water. She hadn’t met “betrayal” yet, hadn’t locked herself inside books like a coffin. She clung to books with a riddle’s devotion—but she also liked people, like sunlight on a library floor.

She wasn’t [Full] yet. She didn’t need one single straw to be her only raft, the kind that snaps and drowns you.

Back then, Ruan Lin’s mother hadn’t died. She lay in a hospital bed, thinning like mist at dawn, but she hid her pain like a swallow hides a broken wing. Little Lin didn’t feel the Reaper’s shadow. She was still that dopey, earnest child, bouncing to the hospital after school, chattering to her favorite mother about small joys like autumn leaves in a jar.

She wasn’t [Flash] yet. No “rule” had locked her in amber. She hadn’t chosen to flee, to look neither back nor forward.

Back then, the three girls hadn’t sensed the black haze already drifting their way like stormfront.

However—

Back then, Ye Weibai was already as he would be two years later: alone.

No parents, no siblings. Alone, he sat on the river railing at two in the morning. Above him, the Milky Way spilled like crushed salt. Below his dangling feet, the river heaved, a dark beast breathing. Beside him, a cold streetlamp pooled wan light, and it lodged like a shadow in his eyes.

A cool wind combed his black hair and tugged his white shirt like tide on linen. Ye Weibai stared, blank as a winter pond, at the blurred city lights across the water. Then a voice brushed his ear—cool, faint, with a lazy, mocking curl to it:

“Hey, you planning to jump?

If you are, but don’t dare…

I can help you—one little push~”

—Splash.

That was how Ye Weibai first met Miss [Misfortune].

…

“I really don’t get it—where does your trust in me even come from?”

Ye Weibai still sat on the gray-white sofa. Minutes ago, the enigmatic [Time], who had brought news of Little Ash’s death, vanished in a flare of blue like frost burning off.

On the wooden tea table before him lay a “bed.” Little Ash—entrusted to him by [Time]—slept upon it like a petal fallen on silk.

The “bed” wasn’t real, of course. Ye Weibai had slipped into Little Ash’s room, rummaged through drawers, and found the Barbie furniture set. By some sly fate, the size fit her doll-like body exactly.

On the pink-flowered bedspread, Little Ash slept quietly. Her head rested on a soft pillow, her gray hair spilled like ash-gray waterweed. Her small body curled on her side, a seashell in moon tide. Ye Weibai had carefully removed her white canvas shoes, revealing delicate bare feet like porcelain plum buds.

Don’t ask how he got shoes off a girl reduced to a doll. It wasn’t easy. Good thing Ye Weibai’s hands were clever as a locksmith’s.

More important: in touching her, Ye Weibai confirmed one fact—the girl was truly dead.

He felt for breath at her nose—nothing but still air. He pressed two fingers to the slight rise of her chest—no pulse, no drum, only silence like snow.

As for the feel? Even through the school uniform, she was like any tender young girl—soft, warm, springy—yet without a trace of life.

Like touching a body that hadn’t lost its warmth, a candle whose flame is gone.

He reached out and drew the same pink sheet over her with a gentle hand, then watched her sleep like a fallen star.

“I really don’t get it—where does your trust in me even come from? Handing your body to me. Do you think I wouldn’t be tempted by a high school girl shrunk small and delicate? You’re underestimating the blood heat of a college boy. Don’t judge by my face; I’m curious about a girl’s body, you know…”

He smiled as he said it. The smile thinned, cooled, and went still, like tea gone cold.

At last he looked at Little Ash without expression. He let out a long breath, like wind leaving a flute. “Hah. I truly don’t know where your confidence comes from—thinking I’d avenge you, thinking I could. The thing that killed you? I can’t even hear it. Though… I can guess what it is. But in the end, I’m only human… and a human wants to challenge that thing?”

“But that—on the contrary—”

His mouth bent into a small, peculiar smile, like a blade catching dusk. “—is interesting. To challenge a [Deity] with a human body. If I lose, what happens? I bet it’s worse than death. That… is very interesting.”

“Anyway. Since you left it to me, then—”

“Leave it to me, Little Ash.”

…

“Then I’ll give the final brief.”

“Go ahead.”

“First. The [Surface World] is random. Random descent, random target. Once locked, it cannot be reversed.”

“Got it.”

“Second. Because of my divine art, you have X chances to [rewind time]. Your death rewinds to the instant you arrive in the world. Likewise, if the mission target dies, the same effect triggers.

Be warned: worlds are turbulent, so X is unknown in each one. When X runs out, you fail completely—or truly die.”

“Mm.”

“Third. The [Surface World] rejects all [Deities]—me most of all. Sometimes I can’t even speak. So I may not be able to tell you the value of X. Keep that in mind.”

“Understood—meaning I might not know how many rewinds I get.”

“Exactly. Lastly, something I can’t confirm, but I feel it in the dark. Because you took on [Misfortune]’s body, your fate will tangle with ‘misfortune.’”

“You mean…?”

“I don’t know the cause. The result is plain.”

“…”

“You will sink into misfortune.”

“As in… extra unlucky?” Ye Weibai blinked, like a cat in rain.

“Yes, but not only that. It touches the law of causality. You’ll feel it once you enter the [Surface World].”

“Any more questions? I’ll grant one last.”

“One.” Ye Weibai was quiet a moment. “Will I meet a [rival]?”

By [rival], he meant agents of other [Deities]. Even other [Deities] themselves.

Like [Nightfall], that black-haired, black-dressed, black-eyed girl who swore to kill him.

From scraps of talk between the [Deities], Ye Weibai knew these titles: [Misfortune], [Time], [Nightfall], [War Deity], [Trade], [Void], [Doll], [Sword]… He had reason to believe that was only the tip of the iceberg. There were far more [Deities] than he’d heard.

This game between [Deities] kept them from direct slaughter that would ruin worlds, but it didn’t forbid their agents from killing each other. Which meant Ye Weibai wasn’t playing single-player. He was stepping into a live, offline survival match—the butcher’s game where either you die or I do.

After all, killing a rival is easier than topping a leaderboard.

“Because the [Surface Worlds] are vast, the chance is small,” [Time] answered at once.

“Small means not impossible.” Ye Weibai nodded. “No more questions.”

“Certain?”

“Certain.”

“Then—depart—”

“Wait.” At the last instant, Ye Weibai cut in.

The silver clock floated in silence, the way frost halts a leaf, and waited.

Ye Weibai smiled. “No good-luck wish for me, Wei?”

“…” After a long hush, [Time] spoke, slow and strange, like a bell under water. “Time does not believe in fate.”

“But I still hope you come back alive—”

[Time] paused, then added briskly, like a coin flicked on a table. “After all—I paid a high price to buy you. If you die, I take the loss.”

Ye Weibai choked on a laugh, then nodded, easy as spring rain.

“See you next time, Wei.”

“…See you.”

—Whoosh!

…

End of Volume.