When Aerin dropped as if into the clouds.

Ye Weibai was truly drifting through mist, a lone shadow in a sea of vapor.

High in the freezing night, a black‑clad, black‑haired youth kept his hands behind his back and stepped across the Void like walking on water.

Thin clouds slid past him like streamwater meeting a reef, parting to both sides, wary to touch his skin.

There was no wind, yet his hems and hair rose like banners; his eyes, black as poured ink, shone pure like flawless jade.

The high air bit like winter steel, but for the [Demon King], that chill was a trivial scratch.

What truly cooled his skin was the moon ahead—vast and companionless, a silver plate hung over emptiness.

By rights, even if the sky ran deep, with the [Demon King]’s speed he should’ve hit the end.

People here didn’t know, but Ye Weibai, born of a tech [World], knew the sky’s edge was the atmosphere, a glass dome over blue.

He kept climbing and met no barrier; the sky felt bottomless, like a well that swallowed ladders.

Yet the scene around him didn’t stay fixed; the moon and its dim ring of stars kept swelling and shrinking, like tides in a mirror.

As he rose, the moon grew until it filled his sight, then snapped small again to its size from minutes ago—then began to swell once more.

Like—

“A [Cycle].” The black [Demon King] halted, resting level in the Void like a blade on still water.

He lifted his gaze; moonlight sank cold as needles toward bone.

Ye Weibai understood: that was [Its] gaze, a chill spotlight cast from above.

“Pointless,” a faint voice drifted from far off, clear as a bell inside his ear.

He looked across the haze and saw a slim figure, face and gender blurred like a water‑shadow, sitting cross‑legged within cloud a few kilometers away.

They wore wide, round frames that caught stray light like moons; head bowed, they flipped a heavy book so fast the pages broke into a white wave.

The paper seemed endless, a river without a delta; despite all that turning, the book’s thickness didn’t thin at all.

They didn’t lift their head; their words fell like loose leaves.

“The road spanning X‑Y‑Z is blocked.”

Their voice, like their outline, was veiled in fog—now a green young sprout, now a cracked old bark—slipping, shifting, hard to pin.

It sounded like a mask worn over another face.

Calm first, then motion—Ye Weibai’s mood didn’t ripple; he merely raised a brow like lifting a fan.

They had read his aim at a glance. He was hunting the road that, by [Rules], should stitch three [World] layers into one path.

By raw strength, Ye Weibai could breach the [Y] layer without that road, like scaling a cliff barehanded.

But climbing from [Y] to [Z] was a step beyond his reach, a rung missing on a ladder.

To touch [It], he had to stand on the [Z] [World] layer; if he couldn’t even lay a hand on [It], forget killing or beating it.

The only way was that road that pierced all three layers like a spear through silk.

[It] knew this, and had blocked that way long ago, the gate bricked up like a walled city—hundreds of millennia behind.

Or maybe… not sealed.

“[It] only laid a [Time‑Void Corridor] here,” the figure said, eyes still on the river of pages. “The corridor’s end is its start. That’s the [Cycle].”

“Like a ring. No matter how fast you run, you’re only running inside the ring. The ascent’s doorway sits outside the ring,” Ye Weibai said, voice steady as a drawn line.

“I like dealing with people who aren’t dumb.” Slender fingers touched the frame; the tone cooled. “Augustine was a fool.”

Augustine—the name stirred Ye Weibai’s thoughts like wind through reeds.

The white‑haired elder who fancied he died beyond the [Cycle], a star fallen outside the loop.

The strongest [Hero King], a crown that burned bright.

Ye Weibai narrowed his eyes; names could hide, but the silhouette was clear enough—someone who survived among the total 9,678 [Cycles].

Whether a [Hero King], a [Hero King]’s companion, or a [Demon King] ghosting between rings, that part was mist.

“You killed Augustine,” the figure said, sure as a stamp on wax.

“You want revenge?” Ye Weibai asked, a small smile like a sheathed knife.

“No interest. I wasn’t close.” They shook their head, the motion a ripple through cloud. “But he lived long. Live long enough, and even with a sour temper, you still collect friends. Fools end up with more friends than the clever.”

“They should see it’s [Its] board,” Ye Weibai said, voice dry as winter grass.

A half‑smile seemed to sketch itself across their veiled face; their page‑turning never slowed, the sound like rain on eaves. “Humans are shallow. Under emotion, they don’t look far. And—”

The rest hung, but Ye Weibai knew the unspoken line, a knife hidden behind a fan.

Some will see and pretend they don’t. They can’t beat [It], but they can try to kill him, hoping to curry favor with the sun behind the clouds.

It’s a question of banners and borders; [It] is already scything the field, and no impurity gets to stand neutral.

Those who come won’t only be Augustine’s old friends; some will chase a chance to swear fealty to [It], like moths to a bonfire.

It’s [Its] scheme, a daylight trap, a sunlit net—one Ye Weibai can’t sidestep.

The net already strangled the strongest of the [Hero King]s, Augustine; that end left the other bugs who scraped through the [Cycle] shivering, silent as frost.

But the curtain didn’t fall; that was only the first drumbeat.

Ye Weibai, the current [Demon King], sits inside the same weave; and those who’ll try to kill Ye Weibai—they don’t know—they’re threads in the net too.

No matter who wins or falls, viruses and impurities thin like chaff in wind—every outcome turns into [Its] victory.

It’s like raising gu in a clay jar; how many bugs live doesn’t matter to the keeper—dead ones save you the sweeping.

There’s no doubt: anyone who crawled out of a [Cycle] is sharp in mind and hard in fist, iron that refused to rust in rain.

Endure long enough, and power pools like dark water; their strength has layered upon layers.

Augustine might’ve been the tallest peak, wielding a hundred strange gifts, yet even he wouldn’t claim he could face so many [Hero King]s all alone.

Now, Ye Weibai held less force than when he fought Augustine; that surge was [Its] loan, given only to secure Augustine’s death.

Ye Weibai finished the task like a blade meeting its mark; the loan was reclaimed like a tide leaving sand.

The board was bad—very bad—one wrong step, and the cliff swallowed you.

“Mm. Is that so?”

Ye Weibai’s face showed no fear; a slow smile drew across it like dawn on stone.

“You don’t think you killed Augustine with your own strength, do you?” the figure asked, puzzled, voice cool as dew. “That was [Its] gift.”

“You don’t understand.” Smiling, Ye Weibai let out a line that puzzled them more, a pebble into still water.

“In the last [Detective] [World], someone also thought themselves clever and lent me power for a while.”