When the dark peeled back and the first thread of dawn spilled gold over the imperial mage tower’s peak, the Church of the Divine’s grand plaza was already packed with a black tide of bodies.

Magic lamps hovered midair like quiet fireflies, shedding pinpoints of starlight that kept sight alive without stabbing the hush.

“The bell will toll—”

“When it tolls—”

“It heralds—the eve—of darkness—”

A tall woman with waist-length blue hair and white gauze like mist knelt at the center of a square altar, floating three stories above the stone like a quiet cloud.

Her striking face held solemn sincerity; her voice fell like a soft stream, and the sound smoothed anxious hearts like rain on dust.

Below, people stood in tight rings that spread outward like ripples; the crowd rose like a tide and clasped the altar in living waves.

They weren’t all believers, yet every face bathed in the altar’s milky glow carried the same fervor, like candles lit from one flame.

And the same scene was unfolding across the entire [World], like mirrored lakes catching the same sky.

Because this was the [Celebration], the moment when ritual and rumor braided into one.

The [Celebration] marked the eve of the [Demon King]’s appearance, a drumbeat before the storm.

Countless years had rolled by, and the [Celebration] had turned through the [Cycle] again and again like seasons on a wheel.

Every time, the pattern held: when the [Celebration] began, the [Demon King] appeared; when the [Celebration] ended, the [Demon King] fell like a felled tree.

People had grown used to that [Cycle], like farmers to rain and drought, and they did not ask why; even if someone dared, others hushed them like wind snuffing a spark.

Because of [Fear], people loathed change in themselves, and feared it even more in others, like wolves wary of a limping packmate.

Humans are quick to scent the alien and push it out like a splinter.

But this [Celebration] was different.

First, the timing: by the old rumor, the [Demon King] had been born only five days ago; by tradition, the [Celebration] should start on the sixth, like a clock striking habit.

Second, the herald: the [Pope] always opened the rite, yet this time the Central Empire’s fool of an emperor presided—no, one could no longer call him a fool; one glimpse of his bearing would bend spines, and those who still mocked him would reveal their own folly.

Third, the cascade of events: an early [Demon King], the death of the [Purple Blossom] chieftain, the [Hero King]’s manor left in ruins, and the current [Hero King]—Aerin—still missing like a star blown out.

Too many breaks, too many incidents outside the daily drum, too many “coincidences” tugged at the chain of the [Cycle], and hairline cracks bred threads of doubt like frost lines on glass.

“All of it is like rows of domino bones stood upright. Those bones prop up a grand [Cycle]. A [Cycle] that looks unbreakable, yet a light touch can shatter it, and throw up fireworks.” The emperor gazed at a silver pocket watch, and in its magic photo a woman’s smile bloomed like a flower—magic had caught the brightest breath of that bloom.

“And those fireworks—” His tone was tender, his smile was tender, yet his eyes held clean resolve like steel under velvet. “They bloom only for you.”

“One person’s doubt isn’t scary; a crowd’s doubt is.” He turned and looked down like a hawk over fields.

Below, a tide of people surged and stilled.

“And the [Celebration] is the best way to gather a crowd,” the blue-haired woman murmured, her words drifting like smoke.

“I don’t fully trust you,” the emperor said, his voice cool as moonlight.

“It’s fine,” she said, soft as rain. “It isn’t the point.”

“But I still have to thank you for stalling Xiuze.”

“The [Pope]—has his own road.” Her lids lowered like swan wings; waves flickered in her sapphire eyes.

“Pope?” The emperor gave a cold, thin smile. “You truly take him as the [Deity]’s mouthpiece—the [Pope].”

She heard it and smiled, a flash of mischief like a girl’s spark in a woman’s poise, a smile that struck hearts like a bell. “I am the Church of the Divine’s [Sky Saintess], after all. Devotion is my first duty.”

The emperor started, a leaf caught on a breeze.

Her rare levity vanished like a ripple smoothed by wind. She stood, white gauze streaming like pale water.

“Let me do it. As the Saintess, I may not match the [Pope], but I’ll draw more trust than you, Your Majesty.”

Standing, her long lines revealed themselves; beside the tall emperor, she lost nothing in height, like two pines sharing the same cliff.

She lifted her hand, pale fingers closing on air like a shell; the buzz below thinned and faded, then fell away to silence, and every eye lifted to the Saintess like sunflowers.

The emperor’s lips curled in a cool smile. This was the Church’s reach—this was the power of [Atmosphere], the weather that herded hearts.

“This [Celebration]—” the Saintess began, her voice carried wide by amplification magic like wind through chimes, and water-mirror magic cast the scene to every branch hall like streams feeding a river.

“Is slightly different,” the Saintess said, like a pebble dropped in a calm lake.

—Slightly different?

—Why different?

—Is the track bending off its rails?

—Why so many changes this time?

Her words fell like stone into water; rings of reaction spread across the crowd like widening ripples.

With the bell for the [Celebration], almost the whole [World] had flowed into their local Church of the Divine plazas, and joined the opening directly or by echo; hearts began to stir like reeds in a fresh wind.

Under the altar, the once-quiet crowd began to fuzz and whisper; countless scraps of murmur stitched together like gnats swarming, the early taste of [Atmosphere] turning sour.

But the Church’s millennial weight still stood like a mountain; people felt the Saintess hadn’t finished, and though worry prowled and nerves pricked, they held and listened like sailors bracing for weather.

Facing the rising noise, the Saintess’s face stayed calm as still water. “This time we’ll use water-mirror magic to broadcast the [Sacred War] live.”

The [Sacred War]—the battle where the [Hero King] and his [Companions] face the [Demon King]—the clash of crown and abyss.

Her words landed like a thunderclap; the shock rolled across the [World] like stormheads breaking.

Streaming the [Sacred War] had no precedent; it was a door never opened.

In past [Celebrations], people didn’t know the fight’s path; they prayed like hands pressed together, and at the end they received one message—the [Demon King] was slain by the [Hero King]. One result, enough like bread and salt.

“Why show us the [Sacred War]?” A voice rose from the clamor like a spear; a great noble had a proxy shout.

The Saintess saw it all, and didn’t care; in this fight, commoner and noble become the same—a human, a maker of [Atmosphere]—and both must join the struggle like stones in a wall.

“You mean, ‘Why should you know the [Sacred War]’s process?’” she said, her tone even as a flat sea. “You can choose not to know—each of you can choose not to know. You can turn and go home now.”

“But—and this won’t change the result. Whether you watch or not won’t touch the outcome of the [Sacred War]. Yet if you choose not to join the [Celebration], something changes—what changes is you. The you who doesn’t join, who doesn’t know the [Sacred War]’s course, becomes the [Special], the [Different] one.”

The emperor, who’d been resting with closed eyes, opened them like blades, and glanced at the Saintess with a flicker of surprise.

She repeated the line, and quietly shifted the subject to a single you. “You can choose not to know. You can turn and go home now. But what about the people beside you?”

She paused, letting the silence breathe like cool night, then said, “I think everyone understands me.”

Did “everyone” understand?

The answer stood obvious as noon; after a jolt of noise, the crowd calmed like waves settling.

No one wanted to be the “other” among so many, so in shared glances they chose inaction, like deer freezing in brush. Even those set on retreat found it already too late, like a door closing on hands.

“Cunning Saintess,” the emperor said behind her, his words dry as winter leaves.

She didn’t deny it; inside, she breathed a quiet sigh like wind through pines. The truly cunning one wasn’t her, but the black [Demon King].

Memory flickered: that night’s questions and answers with the black-haired boy, like fireflies over water.

The black [Demon King] had said, “If someone asks you, ‘Why broadcast the [Sacred War] live,’ how will you answer?”

“I’d say—” the blue-haired woman began, and he cut in like a blade.

“Wrong.”

“I hadn’t finished.” She fixed this [Demon King] with a deep, level look, anger cooling like iron.

“No matter what you say, it’s wrong,” the black-haired youth said, unhurried as lazy rain. “The right move is to answer with a question. Hand the choice back. Remember, humans are animals at bottom. Survival instinct drives them to save effort. When asked, ‘Advance or stay,’ most choose not to choose. Not choosing means standing still.”

“So simple?” Her brows knit like crossed branches.

“Not that simple,” he said, with the patience of shade. “Instinct hides; you must wake it. The best tool is [Atmosphere].”

“[Atmosphere]?”

“Make them feel they stand against others,” he said, like a chill in a crowded room.

“How?”

“Language is enough. Split them from the crowd. Peel them out like bark. Let their hearts birth unrest, suspicion, doubt, anxiety, even—[Fear].” The [Demon King] spoke lightly, then drifted elsewhere, like a sudden current. “Do you know why jealousy bites hardest at friends beside you?”

“No,” she said; his smile soured her mood like lemon on milk.

“Because you sense a threat,” he said, with a smile that showed no warmth. “‘That person is too excellent, enough to steal my resources, to lower my odds of survival’—thoughts like these gnaw. Distant excellence sits outside your daily circle, so it pressures less than a brilliant friend. Jealousy is that sting when you feel invaded, and humans always compete, like roots tangling under soil.”

“You…” she stared, a cold line like a drawn bow.

“What?”

“You are indeed—the [Demon King].”

The black-haired youth smiled, bowed with elegant grace like a dancer, and said, “Thanks for the praise.”

He asked, “Beyond that, do you know why I said any answer of yours is wrong?”

She held her tongue but her face showed small ire, a cloud’s shadow sliding. Was this [Demon King] always this cutting?

Ye Weibai saw her impatience, and smiled, then spoke on his own like a stream finding its slope. “What I said was fluff. What you say doesn’t matter. The big tone is set. This [Celebration], this [World], these turning [Cycles] were all built by [Atmosphere]. Early impurities stung it; [Atmosphere] is already changing like a sky before rain.

“Humans are sensitive animals; they feel shifts around them like tremors through a web. When the [Atmosphere] they live in changes, they sense a threat to survival. Once survival is on the table, even if you say nothing, they’ll choose to watch—instinct will push them to gather more information, to raise their odds like stacking firewood.”

She stayed silent a long time, letting those words sink like ink through paper; then she looked at him and began, “Then why did you still—”

“Because I felt good?” Ye Weibai smiled and cut her off again, like a playful gust.

Her deep ocean-blue eyes narrowed; her proud chest lifted with a small storm of breath. The [Sky Saintess] could no longer recall the last time she’d wanted to hit someone—until now, when her palms itched like thunder under silk.

Frustration pricked like a thorn. Hidden in her sleeve, her fist tightened like a coiled seed. To dodge a rash humiliation—knowing she'd never beat this ridiculously strong Demon King—she wore a smile that didn't reach her eyes, rose, and turned away.

Only Ye Weibai remained, leg hooked over knee, perched on the chair like a lone crow on a rail.

A flicker of doubt crossed his eyes. He watched the blue‑haired woman recede, while the rooftop wind lifted the Demon King's hair like reeds in a stream.

The question gnawed like a thin blade. How could he, on a first meeting with this Sky Saint, trade sharp banter as if with an old friend?

As if their shadows had overlapped for years along the same road.

He shook his head, reeled his thoughts back like a kite string. His gaze climbed to the far sky, to a domain veiled by the dust of purple lightning. Inside, two Demon Kings from different Cycles were tearing at each other. Then who was the one sitting here?

His face cooled into a stone mask.

The players had stepped onstage with paint and powder; one step remained—one more actor yet to don the mask.

My... Aerin.

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