Have you ever watched fireworks?

They bloom like riotous blossoms in Nightfall, petals of color exploding against ink-dark sky, dazzling enough to steal every last glance.

Rivers of light spill and gleam, splashing the dark into stained glass hues, a scene so beautiful it feels like breath held inside frost.

But what if the roles flipped? What if the sky wasn’t lit, but smeared black—what would you see then?

You’d witness something misshapen, ugly—so ugly it churns the stomach like rot stirred from a swamp.

—A storm of gray fireworks screamed upward, like the filthiest volcano the World ever birthed erupting, sluicing sludge, spattering the blue, burying sun, ash veiling the Vault, dragging long gray mire across the air, carving dizzying arcs, then crashing, heavy as stones, into the lone girl on the arena platform.

—That was what Ye Weibai saw when he opened his eyes.

Countless gray lights, each shivering with a chill that crawled under skin, tore free from every feral face in the stands, howled, and slashed the Void, cutting deep scars into blue noon.

They climbed to a peak, then flipped like fish breaking water, and plunged, spearing into the golden-haired girl.

All that gray was—

“[Misfortune],” Ye Weibai murmured, his pupils trembling like candles in wind.

He had never seen [Misfortune] this vast, this dense, this twisted— not even Philia and Mu Ling combined, times ten, times a hundred, could match this tide.

And that tide kept swelling, gray matter pouring into the girl’s body, a river that refused to run dry.

What stunned him wasn’t only the sheer amount, but the source—this ocean was forged from countless trickles, each thin as a hair, each almost nothing, but gathered, they changed to a different breed entirely.

Head lifted, Ye Weibai watched the sky and saw clearly.

They came not only from this arena crowd, but from the World like a meteor shower, fine and relentless, racing from everywhere toward a single point—the golden-haired girl, Aerin.

“I see,” Ye Weibai’s pupils reflected a gray rain only he could see. His gaze dropped to the girl frozen on the platform. “So this time the [Miss Misfortune] is you. And the source of this [Misfortune] is—without a doubt—the [World].”

“Reasons later. To stand against the [World] itself… your luck really is cruel, [Miss Misfortune].”

“Then… me. Who am I?”

In the last two [World]s, Ye Weibai only asked himself that near the final page.

He learned at the end he was a [Monstrosity], learned at the end he was split minds and broken mirrors—then triggered the last scene and unraveled every thread of [Misfortune].

But that felt too slow. If he could ask at the opening, maybe the plot would sprint.

Then he could meet Little Ash sooner. Have more time to stay at her side. That was his quiet wish.

So, before stepping into this [World], Ye Weibai kept reminding himself—ask early, ask true—“Who am I?”

He drew his gaze inward.

He asked—“Who am I?”

And he received an answer. He saw—an abyss.

—An abyss layered from [Misfortune].

Solidified, warped, viscous, bottomless [Misfortune].

It was also—his body.

In that instant, Ye Weibai understood completely.

His night-dark pupils swallowed light like oil on water. His lips tipped up, curving into a smile. Same arc, different flavor—no warmth, only a rare streak of wickedness.

Gray breath rippled in his eyes. His tone stayed calm. “The answer’s very simple.”

“I’m the [Demon King]. And also…”

Ye Weibai lifted his gaze to the golden-haired girl on the platform. “…the target the [Hero King] must kill.”

…

…

“Don’t show a shred of weakness.”

The golden-haired girl spoke to herself in silence, voice like a thin blade pressed to skin.

“Be strong. You’re the [Hero King]’s blood. One day you’ll be the [Hero King] too. When the [Demon King] descends to break the World, you’ll stand up, kill the [Demon King], save the World, and answer the hopes placed on you.”

Her eyes went red at the rims, sweeping across faces below, every one twisted like beasts about to bite.

Her pupils started to shake. Her hands started to shake.

“Even if they blame you, insult you, scream at you, even kick you when you’re down… this is what the [Hero King] must bear.”

She set her teeth to her lip. Lifted her chin. Stubborn, unblinking.

She feared that if she blinked now, a tear would fall.

—Unacceptable. Absolutely not allowed.

“But the light hurts,” she thought, staring up at the blue beyond the crystal dome.

Sunlight poured over her face like a blade drawn bright. “Today’s sun hurts. It stings so much the tears are about to fall.”

Thinking that, something clear and pristine welled up in her eyes.

“Hey, she’s—”

“No… it can’t be…”

Even from far away, the crowd that stared unblinking at Aerin saw the moment a tear gathered.

A golden-haired girl crying under the sun, face tipped to the sky—such a scene should be tender, almost breathtaking.

But to them it was the ugliest thing in the World, like swallowing a fly alive.

Their faces changed. Their bodies rippled, a dirty wave rolling.

“The [Hero King]… is going to…”

“…cry?”

“Are you kidding me—”

“How dare she cry…?”

“You’re going to face…”

That uproar carried a fear they couldn’t name. It twisted with their earlier frustration, fermented, spread, and turned into a roaring anger.

Anger that she betrayed their nightly hopes. Anger that she shattered their idea of the [Hero King]. Anger that the armor guarding their softest places started to crack.

The stands boiled over.

Eyes bulged. Mouths split wide to howl. Bodies stood, arms flailed, as if itching to leap down and smash a fist into her face—bam.

Glass hit stone floor. The sharp clink cut through the thunder of voices like a fuse, and everything blew.

Half bottles of water, bags swollen with trash, lunch boxes streaked with leftovers—they grabbed whatever their hands found and hurled it, hungry to see it splatter on the stage.

As if only weight and impact could express their rage. As if only throwing could smother the fear blooming inside.

Sharper than objects were the invisible things—

“Die…”

“Why don’t you die?!”

“Just die!”

“You don’t deserve the [Hero King]’s name…”

“Pathetic!”

“You call yourself Lord Ori’s descendant?”

“In the end, a female [Hero King] isn’t reliable…”

“What a—Misfortune!”

The granite stage, gray-white like old bone, turned rainbow in a heartbeat. In its center stood a girl in sunlight, head tipped back to the sky, a flower blooming from mud, unbearably conspicuous.

Her tears still fought stubbornly at the rim, not fallen yet, but close.

Her pale lips moved a little. Her voice was tiny. No one could hear what she said.

On the stands, Ye Weibai stayed silent, watching the scene unfold, and yet he heard Aerin’s voice clearly.

Only he “heard” her prayer.

He tilted his head. He smiled.

The smile looked clean, yet ink seeped through it, black so clear it felt transparent, a color that made the heart uneasy.

“As you wish.”

He set his foot on the railing and stepped from the ten-meter stands, cutting through the crowd, leaping into open air.

“Hey!”

“What are you doing!”

“Are you crazy?!”

“He—?!”

Heads jerked up, words snapped off.

“He’s… flying?!”

“A ma—Magus, sir?!”

—His toes found a path midair.

Wind whirled unseen beneath his feet, then knit into transparent steps. Ye Weibai’s black hair streamed in the gust. His black robe snapped, showing black clothes beneath.

Like a lord of elements, the gale bent to him, answered his will. He climbed, one airy step at a time, toward the girl frozen at the heart of the stage.

Debris still fell, a slow rain. But anything that neared within a meter of him shredded to powder in invisible wind, then scattered like chaff into distance.

Aerin’s pupils quivered. She stared at the black-haired, black-eyed boy descending from the sky, coming slow, then landing before her as lightly as a feather.

Ye Weibai looked down at the girl in her sixteenth spring. Her golden eyes were clear glass. Her lashes were long, trembling, jeweled with tears, refracting a thousand lights.

He stood close, close enough his shadow covered her completely, shielding every cruel glance.

He reached out. His hand found her soft hair with easy gentleness. His voice was low. “What did you just say?”

She let him soothe her, eyes on the black-haired boy. She had never seen him, yet a calm she’d never known washed her, like meeting someone from a distant past.

So when he asked, her mind emptied. The words spilled—the forbidden wish that should never be heard by anyone, and yet before him, saying it felt harmless—

“If only… the [Demon King] could arrive sooner, that would be nice.”

She said it with all her hurt and tiredness exposed, lips pressing in like a little girl, wronged, whispering complaints to her father.

Hearing it, the boy’s ink-filled smile overflowed, richer, darker.

“As you wish,” he said, and the girl blinked, confused.

His fingers brushed her cheek. He wiped a tear from her eye. Ye Weibai smiled, then turned, gaze falling on the stands.

By now the stands had erupted.

A Magus dropping from the sky had blocked their show, broken their revel.

At first they were stunned, a little frightened. But quickly, looking at each other, their hearts flared hot.

So what if he’s a Magus? With this many people, what can he do?

This is the Imperial Capital. Magi are noble, not rare.

Besides—the daughter of the supreme [Hero King], we still cursed her without shame. A mere Magus means nothing.

“Who are you?”

“Don’t block the view—”

“What are you to her?!”

“You—”

“Tch.” Facing them, the warmth he’d shown Aerin vanished. His eyes were ink, face blank. His words fell cold. “—Noisy.”

Noisy—be silent for me.

Whoom—!

A silent shock smashed outward.

Black robe billowed like storm sails.

Centered on Ye Weibai, a half-transparent wave surged like a wind-tide, sweeping the circular arena, flooding every seat in a heartbeat.

Crack-crack-crack-crack.

All the litter on the dueling dais shuddered, then withered into fine ash, like frost kissed by sun.

Up in the sky, the junk still falling like rain froze in midair. In the next heartbeat, as if brushed by an unseen gale, it sheared into shards and snapped back faster to where it came.

Even before that, every spectator felt a boom in their skulls, like a depth charge detonating in deep water inside the mind. They crossed their arms, clutching their heads as if sheltering from hail, and collapsed like cut wheat.

It was as if someone inside their skull was sawing through the nerves of pain.

In a blink, they were sobbing with their heads in their hands, snot and tears running like stormwater. They tried to scream, but it only made the knives bite deeper, so they clenched their mouths shut.

For a time, the whole arena was so quiet you could hear a needle drop into stone.

The girl hiding behind Ye Weibai wasn’t touched in the least. Her long hair flew like a dark banner as she stared, blank, at the black‑haired boy who’d turned back.

He smiled like a man untouched by weather, calm as a clear sky. As if this world‑shaking abuse of magic—enough to get you dragged before the tribunal of the Church of the Divine—had nothing to do with him.

Ye Weibai simply looked at the girl and asked, his voice soft, “Aerin, do you want to be the Hero King?”

She flinched. She looked at him, gold swirling in her wet eyes like sunlight on a river. Only after a long beat did she breathe, slowly, “I… do.”

“Good girl.”

The black‑haired youth’s smile was dazzling, and his hand rose to gently pat her head. “Then I’ll teach you.”

Thus the black Demon King smiled as he spoke to the descendant of the Hero King.

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