Origin of the World

At the dawn of the World, there was a lone island wrapped in mist, a pale shroud over stone.

Outside lay an endless ocean; the surf hid beneath ink-thick fog; no one on the island could see the outer World.

The island wasn’t large; in a century, its people combed it clean, like fingers raking sand until every grain showed.

So they turned their gaze outward, eyes like lanterns pressing against fog, hearts leaning past the shore.

Curiosity swelled on one side, a tide tugging at the reef; fear gnawed on the other, a cold eel in the gut.

They imagined great terrors out there, vast crises like storms with teeth waiting beyond the veil.

Desire and dread braided like smoke; the World’s air grew tight, restless as cicadas before noon.

One day. No one knew when or who, a proposal rose like a spark catching dry grass.

Draw lots. Choose one. Pour the whole World’s strength into raising that person’s power, like feeding a fire through winter.

Then send him beyond, a single torch in rain, to explore the World past the mist for everyone.

In respect, people gave him a name—Hero King.

Magic Time, eleven at night; the moon burned like a silver coin nailed high in the vault.

At the Hero King’s estate, in the courtyard, a towering tree held the wind like a green sail.

A black Demon King sat on a thick limb, back to a solid trunk; mottled shadows skimmed him and dared not settle.

He held black tea, steam curling like breath, and waited for someone to step out of the night.

After finishing his talk with Crimson Blossom and returning, he checked Aerin; the girl slept, breath light as feathers.

He checked Stardust; the child curled and slipped into dream, like a firefly drifting in a jar.

Lastly, he went to see Uncle John; their words carried hidden weight, like knives under silk, confirming identities.

In the end, Ye Weibai made a request; the night held its breath like a still pond.

The silver-haired uncle fell quiet, then smiled and agreed, wrinkles folding like waves under moonlight.

Uncle John’s last question was, “Do you have confidence?” His voice rasped like dry leaves.

“Mm. Not much.” The Demon King shook his head with a winter smile. “About one percent.”

“One percent?” His surprise flickered like a moth at a lamp.

“Yes. Not enough?” Ye’s tone was dry wind over stone.

“No—enough.” The answer set like a pebble dropped into calm water.

A breeze combed the leaves; shadows swayed; the sound went shhh through a moving forest.

Ye Weibai took a small sip of tea; fifteen minutes drifted by like smoke; the blond boy from last night still hadn’t appeared.

Would he not come tonight? The thought cooled, like ash settling.

“He won’t.” A voice rose from below, a ripple on the pond of silence.

Ye Weibai looked down. It was Uncle John, plain gray cloth on his back, posture bent like an old bow.

His silver hair shone like hoarfrost; he held a clear glass with red liquid trembling inside, a tiny sunset.

“Tea doesn’t fit a Demon King.” Uncle John watched Ye Weibai, eyes steady as stone.

“Oh? What should a Demon King drink?” Ye’s smile curved like a hidden blade.

“Wine, of course.” He drained the cup; he drank too fast; his face went crimson, coughs like sparks popping in a kiln.

“Ha, ha. Old—too old.” When the fit eased, Uncle John smiled, a leaf loosening in wind.

“Old, then leave it to me.” Ye’s voice fell like soft rain.

While speaking, Ye Weibai dropped from the tree; his feet hadn’t touched earth before his body dissolved like smoke.

He appeared before Uncle John the next instant, a shadow stitching itself to moonlight.

As he took shape, the old man extended another glass right into his hand, as if his eyes had traced Ye’s path like a swallow’s glide.

An ordinary, aged uncle could see a Demon King’s motion? A thing even Crimson Blossom couldn’t do came to him like breath.

Ye Weibai didn’t look surprised; he took the glass and emptied it, a quiet ripple on the night.

“You’re not afraid I poisoned it?” the old man asked, voice sanded by years and dust.

“What poison can kill a Demon King?” Ye shot back, words flat as winter stone.

“Besides, what good would my death do? If we don’t break the Cycle—the deadlock between Hero King and Demon King—the labels never leave.”

“They just switch owners. Kill me, and the next Demon King stands up, like night following dusk.”

“Because—it’s always here.” His gaze cooled like iron.

“It…” Uncle John murmured and tipped his chin to the sky, a willow bow toward the moon.

“Yes. It.” The Demon King looked up as well; the night held no cloud; the bright moon poured unsoft light, a pale fire covering them both.

They stared at that moon; they knew it was only Its eye; It was watching, cold as a god’s mirror.

Uncle John broke the hush. “We’re talking about It in moonlight. Is that fine? If It shows, we’d need hundreds of us to scratch It.”

“Even if It hears, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t dare come down.” Ye’s voice was a blade laid on ice.

“Once It descends, there’s no path back.” He paused, then flashed a taunt at the moon, a knife-thin smile cutting pale light.

“You don’t dare come down, do you?” The words rose like smoke that didn’t drift.

The World didn’t answer; the moon seemed to burn hotter, a white brand pressing the dark sky.

“So this is an open scheme,” Uncle John said, eyes like flint striking.

“That’s right.” Ye’s agreement fell like a seal on wax.

“But if It won’t descend, how do you catch It?” The question hung like a snare in brush.

“With something good.” Moonlight slicked Ye Weibai’s palm as he opened his hand.

A teardrop-shaped gray diamond gleamed there, a small storm frozen in crystal.

The old man shivered, as if he’d leaned over a cliff and the abyss breathed back cold.

In a thumb-sized crystal, twist and gloom felt as deep as the whole World, like nights piled in stone.

“Even a Demon King never gave me this,” he whispered; fear rang like thin glass. “What is it?”

“A girl’s tears. And also—Misfortune.” The black Demon King smiled, a dark petal unfolding in frost.

“Misfortune… how can Misfortune be this condensed?” The elder woke as if from fog, breath sharp as a reed.

“Appearing as a physical object, here, in reality—this is the first time I’ve seen Misfortune this thick.”

“You guessed right. This Misfortune isn’t born of this World.” Ye Weibai nodded, a pale star in cool night.

“Only a force that’s broken this World’s shackles can snare It, like iron netting the wind.”

“After all, we’re fighting the whole World.” His words fell heavy as an anchor. “Well? Easier in your heart?”

“Mm. A strand of confidence.” The old man laughed; his wrinkles glittered in moonlight like ripples on a lake.

“Even just a strand is enough.” Ye’s voice steadied like stone. “Isn’t it?”

“No—!” A scream tore the air, a girl’s voice packed with despair and grief, a finch dashed against glass.

Squelch— The right hand turned blade; it slid into a belly with a slick sound that turned the stomach.

Blood sprayed under the setting sun, a red fan on a thick trunk, rain on a black iron knight tall as a demon.

Drenched head to toe, he didn’t move; his right hand, sharpened to a knife, pierced the old man and pinned him to the tree.

John hung high; blood surged to his throat and burst out in a crimson arc, a cruel fountain under dusk.

“Wah… don’t—” His clouded eyes looked past the black iron knight at the blond girl sprinting like a loose arrow.

He rasped, raw as torn paper, “—don’t come!”

“N—no, no—don’t—!” Aerin’s eyes flared red; her face twisted; she charged like a lion breaking its cage.

She tore out her sword, leaped, and chopped for the knight’s neck, a stroke like lightning through dust.

Boom—! The tall, cold knight didn’t turn; his right fist slammed into Aerin’s belly, a hammer to a bell.

The girl “wah”—vomited a wide mouth of blood—and flew back faster, a leaf caught by gale and flung.

She hammered into the ground, carved a long track through courtyard grass, and rolled into the low wall of the flowerbeds.

She spat blood again and stopped, chest fluttering like a torn wing.

The rainbow flowerbeds burst like a swarm of butterflies; petals and earth fanned into the air, bright as scattered lanterns.

Aerin’s blood misted among them, a cruel bloom under sunset, like fireworks blooming then dying.

One punch, and Aerin couldn’t move; her limbs drowned in pain like ropes in cold water.

“For—!” Petals buried her; she lay wilting; she fought to rise, but bones rang like frozen bells; strength wouldn’t come.

She couldn’t even slam a fist into the dirt; tears flooded her face, words breaking into sobs, “For—why—am I this weak?!”

Master Bai—where are you? Save—save me—

At this moment. Demon King’s Descent, Day Three; the black Demon King was locked in his fiercest battle yet.

His opponent was also an old man, eyes old as rain-worn stone.

The current head of Purple Blossom—Ofaan Bonia, a name carried like a seal through autumn leaves.

The only human in this World who could commune with elves and receive word of the Demon King, like listening through trees.

And also—the Xth—Hero King, a title bright as a crown, heavy as iron.