As for what happened in the previous [World].
Ye Weibai meant this: back then, Baiye, to hurry him into “discovering” that the killer was Mu Ling, blew away the fog coiled in his skull, like wind stripping mist off a lake, and his judgment, logic, and observation returned, clear as glass.
It unfolded exactly as Baiye had predicted; Ye Weibai did “discover” Mu Ling—yet the river didn’t stop at one bend.
The fog fled in a single heartbeat, but in that heartbeat, all clues and threads spun like falling leaves in a whirl, notch to notch, tooth to gear, clicking and locking, a jigsaw snapping into the final piece, the last [Truth].
Baiye underestimated Ye Weibai, like a hunter mistaking a cub for a shadow.
Just as [It] underestimated Ye Weibai, like thunder misjudging a mountain.
As this Cycle’s [Demon King], matched to this Cycle’s [Hero King], Aerin, Ye Weibai did hold an uncommon power, like a blade tempered in frost, but he could never be Augustine, who wielded hundreds of [Misfortune] talents, a storm of thorns, nor should Ye’s power have perfectly restrained Augustine, like water dousing oil-fire.
That, of course, was [It]’s handiwork, a chess move slipped under the table.
Only, [It] didn’t understand what it meant to hand that power to Ye, like sowing a seed in black loam and thinking it wouldn’t sprout.
Even though, to avoid birthing a second Augustine, [It] killed Augustine and ripped that force from Ye at once, swift as a hook through silk, those few magical beats of [Time] were enough for him, a candle’s worth of light in a cave.
Enough for him to parse, to weave, to finish many things, like a loom racing before dawn.
That single line he spoke carried a mountain’s worth of weight, clouds stacked on clouds, yet the figure hidden in the mist wouldn’t grasp it.
Ye Weibai had no wish to trade more words; his mood settled like still water, and he had already guessed why the other came.
As said before, [It] had set the board; this round of cleansing had begun; either be an onlooker, an ant crawling under a bootheel, bowed and silent, or step onto the board and show your banner in the wind.
And that figure in the cloud—
Ye looked their way; their robe hung wide and drifting, sleeves like waves, with a slim, long body hidden under the cloth; a blurred face wore huge round frames like twin moons, shoulder-length wavy short hair brushed the air, and their gender was a secret folded in fog.
They sat cross-legged in the mist, like a monk on a cloud peak; an absurdly thick tome sprawled across their lap, heavy as a tombstone, and their right hand turned pages, head bowed, reading with the steadiness of rain.
This is a contradiction, isn’t it? Ye thought, his breath as calm as a winter pond.
They clearly wanted to mask their identity—likely to dodge [It]’s gaze like a moth skirting a lamp—yet they came to him; he was this Cycle’s [Demon King], the thunderhead [It] watched, a beacon on a dark sea.
Moreover, the face was veiled, but the outfit was too signature, a mark carved in bark; across so many [Cycles], such branded mannerisms would be easy to track, like footprints in snow.
What drove them to act against themselves like this, a fish leaping ashore?
The reason was plain as daylight spilling through leaves.
“Everyone’s working hard,” the black [Demon King] said softly, voice like ash on the wind. “To survive.”
A line without preface, yet the hand that never stopped turning pages trembled, like a raindrop rippling a pond, and in the next breath, the turning resumed, smooth as a stream.
“Don’t talk like you’re above it.” Their voice was faint, yet heat throbbed in it, a coal under ash; the mist about them seethed like a boiling pot and began to rotate, a small cyclone born from breath. “You’re in the [Cycle] too. Or did this Cycle’s [Demon King]—you—give up already?”
“Of course not. It’s just—” He smiled, a knife-thin curve, and raised his eyes to the silver moon laid sideways before him like a polished plate. “I’m not chasing survival. I’m chasing [Life].”
…
…
Survival and life differ by a single word, yet the distance between them is sky and abyss, like frost and spring.
Yes, one must first survive to talk of living, like roots before flowers, but a ticking pulse does not prove one is alive, not any more than a lantern proves a festival.
The so-called walking dead—aside from the undead and the lich clans—also means those whose spirit and faith are smashed to shards, shells that haven’t yet rotted, like scarecrows standing in rain.
Those [Roles] who clawed their way out of the [Cycle] at a great price, who panted, who were ragged and mud-streaked, who had to crawl through their remaining years like strays under fences—are they truly living, or did they die already with their [companions] in the [Cycle], like candles guttering together?
In the clouds, Ye Weibai’s exchange with that cloud-bound figure wasn’t screened off; the words were let fly like birds over fields.
When the black [Demon King] broke free of gravity, step by step, again and again, sprinting for the far end of the sky like a swimmer against a midnight tide, hunting the road that had become untouchable, Ye did not hide his intent; every motion was a flare.
So across this vast [World], whether hunters sniffing for the [Demon King]’s tracks, or the patient who hid like seeds under snow, at that moment, anyone who looked up could see the [Demon King], a dark stroke under the moon.
They halted what they were doing, hands mid-air like leaves stilled in wind, lifted their heads, focused their eyes, and watched from every corner of the [World], like hills ringed around a lake, observing this Cycle’s [Demon King].
They were careful—so careful—burrowing under rock-hard earth, curling within blue ice, sinking in shadowy seas, blending into noisy crowds, hiding both body and stance, their breath pressed flat like paper.
They only wanted to watch, to stand on the riverbank and stay dry, eyes on the [Demon King] struggling in the stream, all caution, all patience, a fisherman waiting out rain.
They knew the road couldn’t truly be found; it had been trod and failed countless times, a dead end paved with bones; what they wanted to see was—how would [It] react, like thunder seeking a place to strike?
Best if [It] punished the [Demon King] outright, a hammer dropping; then they could try to trace [It]’s footprints, ashes on snow.
But to their disappointment, [It] did nothing to the [Demon King]’s defiance, a still sky over a restless sea, and yet that felt reasonable—did it mean the [Demon King] had stepped onto the board, that death had already been engraved like a name on stone, not worth [It]’s effort?
After all, the dead don’t need watching, like extinguished candles don’t need windshields.
So in the end, under the bright moon and within Nightfall, they saw only a black-clad youth, and they gained nothing—nothing but his line to the figure in the mist, a line that sounded like an oath to everyone watching.
“What I’m after is [Life].”
…
…
“Survival.”
—snap.
In the stillness, the sound of a petal leaving a stem was clear as dew dripping.
“Life.”
—snap.
Slender white fingers, polished like jade, curved out and pinched the soft tip of another petal; a gentle pressure, and the white petal let go of the branch, rode the breeze, and vanished into the dark forest’s shadow like snow swallowed by night.
“Survival.”
—snap.
A black iron cross, vast and cold, choked with dark-green vines, leaned askew in the heart of a wasteland like a spear forgotten by gods.
A girl with hair like a black waterfall and a dress like a white flower rested her back against the cross’s upright beam, lazily half-seated, half-reclined across its crossbar like a cat on a sun-warmed wall.
Her hem slipped, revealing smooth white calves with gentle arcs, moonlit porcelain above weeds.
“Life.”
…
…
