No one stays truly nameless; even a shadow throws a ripple in the pond.

Besides, if She can label you and slot you into the Cycle, that alone speaks of strength. You stand a head above other humans in the World.

A notch above, and then it climbs beyond the horizon.

He—the archer in tight black garb with a moon-white longbow—was a legend in his age, a raven with a sliver of moon in his hand.

Every survivor of the Cycle hides their exact identity. Hero King, Demon King, or which companion—an unspoken rule seals those lips like winter ice.

Few stamp their names into stone and press history flat like Augustine.

Few knew who the archer was, or what mask he wore, but all trusted his power, a drawn bow humming.

So, when he couldn’t finish a sentence and Ye Weibai swept him into air like ash on a gust, everyone fell silent.

Granted, the Demon King stands above the era’s Hero King. But these ones survived the Cycle, storing strength for silent ages like buried roots; their force isn’t what it was back then.

How could a kill be no harder than pinching an ant, and leave no trace at all, like wind wiping sand clean?

Restless hearts cooled. They eased half-drawn blades back and slipped into the dark like a tide retreating.

Sure, among survivors, that archer wasn’t top-tier; in true battle, more than a few could kill him, wolves among wolves.

Maybe he lacked faith he’d live through the board She had already set. After long weighing, he chose to be the early bird, bent the bow, eager to stake his stance.

Then he died without a sound, like mist at dawn.

Life runs on a single thread. These roles scraped through the Cycle, and they’ve lived long, old trees under harsh wind.

The longer one lives and watches deaths pile like leaves, the more one flinches from death’s blade.

They chose to watch a little longer, owls in dusk.

But.

They didn’t know: once they chose to enter the board, the choice to strike would slip from their hands, strings caught by unseen fingers.

…

…

World Layer Z.

She kept her eyes on Ye Weibai—the black Demon King—pouring almost all her focus there, so the gaze on Aerin thinned like a pale veil.

To her, the whole World is her eyes. At will, she can seize a moment’s data from every shore. But gathering is one thing; processing and analysis are another.

The World is chaotic. Importance exists only for a someone. To the World, signals sit equal—a raindrop kissing a lake, a Demon King being born—both mark coordinates.

Data floods her archive at every heartbeat. The larger and fiercer the torrent, the muddier it becomes. The burden on her analysis only grows.

So when she studies one knot, she dims other noise, like shuttering windows against storm.

Now, she meets a first, a splinter of doubt: the one Ye Weibai killed—

The trail is gone, footprints after rain.

As said, she can feel every trace in this World, be it birth or death; under her hand, threads always show, spider silk shining.

But the one killed by Ye Weibai—gone.

Physically, mentally, spiritually, bodily, causally—in every sense—gone, like a flame swallowed by night.

Not a dust-mote of trace remains; no ash rides the wind.

Counting the Demon King’s first birth, this is the second time. And both times—

“Both tied to you.”

Her eyes locked on the black-haired youth on the border between World Layers X and Y, a hawk perched on a ridge.

High above, within streaming cloud, Ye Weibai’s ragged hair flew. His black eyes held water; his robe billowed. He drew back the black beam, and a black flame danced at his fingertips.

Across all of World Layer Y, she watched him and studied him. She sought whatever strange, un-World thing hides in his Demon King shell, a fish under dark water.

Suddenly, as if sensing her, the youth lifted his head. He found something amusing. His lips eased into a soft, light smile, and his gaze met hers, moonlight crossing a river.

That gaze pierced three World borders, an arrow through silk veils.

It struck her pupils, a pebble breaking a still pond.

Impossible.

Cold unease rose first; then her brow knit, frost etching a line.

Across two Worlds, he shouldn’t see her, walls of glass and stone between them.

But his gentle eyes were certain, a warm ember that made her skin crawl.

Insufficient data. For the first time, she tasted that lack, like dry lips under desert sun.

And it’s happening around this black Demon King, the storm’s eye.

Insufficient means she needs—

“More samples and cases.”

She spoke, her voice like steel on stone.

…

…

A cramped stone hut could barely hold one body curled small.

Yet it contained a man nearly two meters tall, a mountain wedged into a crevice.

He wore thin spiked hair. A dark iron mask sealed his face. His muscular torso was bare, gray burlap shorts on, thick calves exposed, a furnace clad in rough cloth.

Even unseen, his brutal build and mountain-still bearing would make any first glance call him a pillar of a man.

Now he squatted there, forced by the low roof to bend and fold, limbs cramped, spine denied, a caged beast pressing bars.

Worse, the posture had lasted not days, but years, perhaps centuries, a boulder pressed under ice.

Imprisoned in such a tight space, in such a humiliating pose, most who endured would have gone mad, minds fraying like rotted rope.

But this man said nothing, silence coiled like a serpent in his throat.

Behind the mask, his red eyes were congealed fire, a volcano banked; yet they were calm, cold as an iceberg.

What shocked most was—

In such cramped ground, in such shaming posture,

This man was—

forging iron, hammer-thunder trapped in a tiny cave.