To live—this urge is human nature.

No, it’s every creature’s nature, like grass clawing for sun and rain.

Animals spend every drop of muscle just to keep breath in their bodies. Only humans have the spare fire to chase other kinds of “living,” like mountains beyond bread.

That truth holds even among humans.

Only those with a full hearth can chase a full heart. The poor don’t think first of freedom or dignity; they think of living, like a candle guttering in wind.

Live first—and then you might chase freedom and dignity.

Xiuze felt that in his bones, like winter biting through cloth.

His junior believed the reverse: seek freedom and dignity first—then live, like a banner raised against storm.

Different roads don’t meet.

Clear as a split in rock, they parted, simple and final, like two streams leaving a fork.

From that day, the two brothers walked past each other as strangers.

That day, Qi chose to resist. He snapped the Void like brittle ice, slipped into the rifts of the [World], dodged [Its] gaze, and walked his own Dao like a lone star.

Xiuze chose moonlight. He stood beneath its blaze, became [Its] hound, became the [Pope], a crown like frost settling on his shadow.

The [Pope] who helped the [Hero King] and his [companions] slay the [Demon King].

And the headsman who keeps the [Cycle] running, the blade that trims chaos like dead branches.

But no matter what—

“Dog or man or headsman—if I can live, that’s enough.”

He paced a long corridor like a river of stone. At the end, he stopped, staring at the great portrait on the wall like an altar.

The man in the painting was in his prime, lounging in a wooden chair, hands cradling his head, legs crossed, lazy as drifting cloud. Black hair like night; eyes like deeper night; a smile as light as mist, lost in the clouds beyond the window.

“Master, I can’t do it,” he murmured, lids low, wrinkled hand brushing the paint like bark.

“I still want to live.”

His fingers curled, slow as a tightening noose, then clenched. Knuckles popped, crack-crack, like ice breaking on a river. His gaze hardened, white light glinting; the crown’s shadow fell across his face like storm, veiling his eyes.

“Begin.”

He turned, robes flaring like a dark wave.

“[Demon King], it’s time to take the stage.”

…

He had been an [Apocalypse Knight] too long.

Long had worn the title until it fit like iron. He sat in the cold sanctum, still as stone, obeyed doctrine like winter law, and waited for orders like thunder.

When orders came, he took up spear and saddle, and killed those the [Church of the Divine] named rebels, clean as frost.

He never asked for reasons, never weighed sins. He killed calmly, bleakly, the ones even the Templar Order couldn’t bind, like a blade that cuts what fetters cannot.

The world believed he and his three companions—the terrifying Four [Apocalypse Knights]—held a faith second only to the [Pope], devotion to the [Deity] like fire in a temple.

It was true enough. Long never doubted whether the slain were truly wicked.

But his focus wasn’t faith. It was the knowing, cold and clear as night water: those he killed had flaws, yes, but they weren’t devils. Most were just “outlaws” in [Its] eye.

Impurities that scratch the smooth face of the [Cycle], like grit in a gear.

He knew. So what.

Justice without power is—

“More sinful than cowardice.”

Seated on a black throne like a cliff, the black knight spoke flatly, voice like iron in ash.

Clack—

His right hand, swallowed by black metal, drew the long black spear from the tall black dais beside the throne like pulling thunder from stone.

The spear was as tall as a man. He held it reversed, point down, like a nail for the world.

Metal boots hit stone. Clang. The tall knight rose, and stepped into the Void like a shadow crossing water.

One instant, he sat in a hall of night. The next, the world pitched; the view shifted like clouds torn by wind.

River wind breathed on his face. Leaves shivered. A shoreline of towering trees rolled toward him, a black wall of bark and shade.

With one stride, Long crossed the Void, cleared miles, and landed on the bank of the [Witchwood Forest], like a hawk dropping from a high sky.

So strong—no wonder he bears the name [Apocalypse Knight].

Where he landed, seventeen corpses lay already cold, faces fixed in disbelief like masks left in storm.

Seventeen men. Seventeen wounds. Each stroke fatal, no excess, clean as a winter cut.

Those wounds alone chilled the onlooker, enough to conjure the killer’s strength like iron snow.

But—

“Not enough.”

He shook his head. Long felt nothing for dead [Church] men; his head moved a fraction, and words fell from a throat that had swallowed cinders.

“As is, still can’t match the [Demon King].”

“Must be even—” He lifted his eyes toward the dark forest. Shadows whipped like [Monstrosities], a dance to unthread a normal mind.

To a headsman used to blood, it was child’s play, a paper storm.

“Must be even stronger.”

…

When Ryus appeared, with a single form he sheathed his blade, and scraped the clouds and mist off the sky like a hand across glass, leaving three figures high above naked to moonlight and the world’s gaze.

Yin was dreaming.

For her, a dream was rare wine, a luxury. Whether sweet or bitter, it hardly came.

So when the little girl shook her awake, she sprang like a trapped cat, blade half-drawn, almost cutting straight down.

She stopped in time, breath cold.

Her forehead throbbed for no reason. She pressed it, frowning; the stone at her back was cold as river rock, easing the ache.

She tried to fish the dream from the dark, but like everyone else, she found only ragged fragments, torn like leaves in rain.

Before she could piece them together, the girl called her.

Stardust had nearly lost her head moments ago, yet her face stayed a mask. Only when she lifted a finger toward the far sky did silver motes rise and fall in those star-bright eyes, unrest rippling like a shaken pool.

That surprised Yin. Even after time together, she had never seen that look crack the surface.

She followed Stardust’s hand and looked up.

Clouds drifted like slow herds; only one belt was clear, clean as a river cut through fog.

Her sight leapt a thousand meters, into the vault, to a black speck under the bright moon like ink on porcelain.

She saw the black [Demon King] she had been hunting in her heart, like a thorn she couldn’t pull.

Under her slanted silver bangs, her pupils snapped tight. She gripped the short blade not yet sheathed and rose in one breath.

“It—” She bared her teeth, a cold smile, words not yet formed—then her face changed, storm-quick.

“Move!”

She snatched the girl who still stared at the sky and hurled her away like tossing a star to safety.

She spun, drew, and slashed upward, sudden as lightning from ground to cloud.

Clang—!

“Oh.” A voice cool as water flowed down. “Decent reflex. Pity—”

Splurt—!

Sparks spat like fireflies; blood burst like a cut wineskin.

“Your strength falls short.”

Yin sprayed a mouthful of blood to the sky and tumbled away, rolling like a leaf in hard wind.