“Next—I'll take over.”
One line. Seven words.
The first syllable drifted from the horizon, thin as mist. The last grazed the ears of Ye Weibai and that black‑clad Page‑Turner, close as a whisper.
With that slightly aged voice came a roar.
Bzzzz—!
Like ten thousand wasps lifting at once. Like a storm of blades scything down from the sky.
The Page‑Turner’s pupils pinched tight; Ye Weibai’s face set like cold iron. Breath ripples ringed them both, as if they braced against an unseen tide.
Space around them shuddered. Clouds jolted, then slid back onto their paths, playing innocent.
But Ye Weibai saw it clearly. Those clouds only looked whole, still roaming. In truth, that howling edge had sliced them to tatters—too sharp, too fast—for the ruin to show yet.
Like this: if the blade’s fast enough, a man can be beheaded, and for a breath—while the head still clings—he keeps living.
Ye Weibai had no interest in losing his neck that way.
The black [Demon King] narrowed his eyes. A sable radiance thickened around him, rippling out, devouring that omnipresent cutting force.
In the distance.
“Sorry,” the aged voice said.
Clang—!
The sound of a blade snapping into its sheath detonated.
A tremendous pull bloomed inside cloud and mist. A hurricane surged. The mangled clouds couldn’t hold form. They blew apart, shredded into a thousand ribbons, howling as gravity dragged them toward the fog.
Something there ate clouds and breathed mist. In moments, every wisp within a mile was swallowed bare.
By the scabbard in that middle‑aged man’s hand.
Ye Weibai looked at him.
A face you’d lose in a crowd. Coarse homespun. Scuffed white shoes. A square jaw with a dusting of beard. Short black hair, black eyes. Not brawny, not lean.
He carried no feature that stood out. Toss him into a sea of people, and he’d vanish like a drop in the ocean.
Yet that very ordinary man floated in Nightfall. In his dusk‑dark hands, he held a scabbard. Empty—no sword within.
No one present dared underestimate him.
Eyes couldn’t leave him. It wasn’t the grand entrance. It was the man himself, the cut of his aura.
A streak of white in the night. An ink dot on blank paper. A needle buried in a sponge—no matter your angle, he didn’t fit. Or better: he was sharp.
Sharp enough to pierce the [World].
“Sorry.” A kilometer away, he met the [Demon King] and the Page‑Turner’s gazes, sincere. “Been a long time. My control’s rusty.”
A long time?
Before the Page‑Turner could explain, the man went on, smiling. “I’m—Lius, the 8,999th [Demon King].”
Ye Weibai’s pupils tightened. “The 8,999th [Demon King]?! Doesn’t that mean—”
“Right. The [Demon King] who reigned when Augustine was [Hero King].” The Page‑Turner spoke like a hiss of cold air. “I didn’t think It would really let him out.”
Ye Weibai’s smile thinned. If it’s truly the 8,999th [Demon King], that’s… not good.
He remembered Augustine’s dying words—
“You know?! The [Demon King]—was my master! He was—several times stronger than me!! He should’ve been the [Hero King]! But because of the label It slapped on us, I became [Hero King], and he became [Demon King]!
‘Strongest [Hero King]’? ‘Cut down the [Demon King] with ease’? If Master hadn’t let me— I wouldn’t even have touched his body!”
The Augustine who crushed every [Hero King] for millennia… had admitted he couldn’t match his own master. That [Demon King]—that man—
—Was it him?
But if Augustine was right, he’d already cut his master’s head off. The [Demon King] should’ve died within the [Cycle].
Then who is this Lius?
Did he fake his death and slip the [Cycle]? Or did It revive him to aim straight at Ye Weibai?
The 9,679th [Demon King] looked at the 8,999th.
“You here to avenge Augustine?”
“No.” He shook his head, calm as still water. “If I wanted revenge, I’d go after It. Besides, the one seeking vengeance wouldn’t be—me.”
Ye Weibai caught the emphasis on “me,” a weight tucked inside that tone.
“It’s an ability,” the Page‑Turner said, off to the side. “Lius can store a segment of his own years.”
—Store years?
Ye Weibai startled, just a little.
The moment he said it, the Page‑Turner seemed to recall something. He snapped his mouth shut. A flash cut through his mind—something tied to Ye Weibai’s own power—and he fell into thought.
His thoughts were broken at once.
“Who are you?” Lius looked his way. “Not many know my ability. I can count them on one hand. Book… are you—”
“Enough!” The Page‑Turner cut him off, voice raised. His body drifted back, silent, like a page turning itself. In moments he’d retreated several kilometers. His voice floated, dim. “Your matter’s yours. I only record; I won’t interfere. Lius, don’t say too much. It likely doesn’t want to hear.”
“Oh?” The middle‑aged man smiled, mouth slanting like a blade. “Didn’t expect you to get so timid after so long.”
“But you got one thing wrong.” Lius stopped looking at him and turned to Ye Weibai. “It didn’t let me out. I came out on my own will—I don’t care what It thinks.”
“Then allow me to introduce myself again.” Lius met Ye Weibai’s eyes, solemn as a night tide. “I’m the peak‑state ‘me’ of Lius, the 8,999th [Demon King].”
“Simply put, I’m Lius’s past self. The real Lius is dead. I’m the ‘past me’ he stored with his ability before he died. The timestamp is his forty‑third year—the moment he judged himself strongest—me.” Lius spoke slowly, like a blade sliding free. “If that’s hard to parse, call me his avatar.”
“No. I get it,” Ye Weibai said, even as still water. “I just don’t know why you’re telling me all this.”
“Why?” Lius laughed, white teeth bright as moonlight on steel. “Because you might hesitate. The past me never met Augustine, has zero memory of him. All the peak‑state me carries is one heart—a heart set on being [World Number One].”
“Back then—thousands of years ago—I already took the title of [World Number One]. And you—” Lius fixed Ye Weibai without blinking. “—you’re the [World Number One] now, thousands of years later, right? You interest me. I hope you feel no burden.”
“I see.” Ye Weibai paused, then a smile touched his mouth like a drawn bow. “I’m not particularly interested in you. But… come on, then.”
…
…
