Just as Pope Xiuze said: like a bell in mist, only [It] could choose for [Itself].

Tracing back like a river to its spring, the root was Ye Weibai, the [Hero King]; the fuse, a single smile, a spark under dry pine.

It was the swordsman’s smile that made [It] break its unwritten rule, stepping onto the [X] World layer like a first foot on thin ice.

What kind of smile was that, moonlight curved on steel?

Body and soul melted into the scabbard at his waist, and he thrust at the sky—the sharpest blade of his life, and of this World.

That strike was peerless, a craftsman’s miracle; he rose like a white meteor against the current, spearing through the barriers of [X] and [Y].

Yet when he neared the [Z] World layer, [It] pinched him to dust, light fingers grinding a star into ash.

[It] delayed the kill of his consciousness, like holding a candle before wind, just to watch his face at the edge of death.

A wish nursed for millennia, finally within reach, then snatched at the last gate—what hatred, what despair, what helpless storm would bloom?

[It] wanted that storm! And [It] wanted every impurity in the World to watch, like dragging them to a mirror of ruin.

But what [It] received was a smile, a crescent calm as night.

It was contentment, a smile clean of regret, like a traveler laying down a pack at dusk.

In the flash [It] saw it, [It] understood—this smile was for [It], a blade offered with lips.

The swordsman’s mouth curved, the arc of a blade leaving its sheath in one breath.

He was laughing at [It], laughing at [Its] yearning for his despair—foolish wish; he was happy, because he still struck [It] once.

He completed his heart’s vow; why would he despair, a lantern finally lit in snow?

In the next heartbeat, his soul scattered like sparks in wind.

But inside [It], a storm of fury rose, black thunder under a calm sea.

“Good.” Beneath that calm voice, continents cracked; “Then show me—your so-called justice, you trash,” words falling like stones from a cliff.

...

...

A purple ocean heaved, swallowing beams from every horizon; the spectacle played on every water screen across the World, like storms mirrored in glass.

The common folk didn’t know, but how could the Emperor and the Saintess not, curtains lifting on a stage of doom?

That was [It], a shadow sliding across noon.

[It] had descended, thunder taking mortal steps.

Anger and elation flooded his mind like mixed tides; the Emperor let out a laugh-cry, a broken horn in rain.

His aura surged like steam from a fissure; he was about to rush up like the other beams, but the Saintess barred him, a palm like a still lake.

“You can’t go yet,” she said, face as unruffled as moon on water. “You need to maintain the [Atmosphere], like incense before an altar.”

“Maintain what?” His voice went cold as rime. “Hasn’t the [Demon King]’s goal already been met, a trap closed like jaws?”

“No.” Her pupils rippled like a spring. “His exact words were—keep it until the blade returns to its sheath,” syllables falling like sheath against steel.

At “sheath,” the Emperor’s pupils widened in fog, then shrank to pinpoints as memory struck like lightning.

Then his body began to tremble, a reed in river wind.

“So that’s it... that’s how it is,” he muttered, palms masking a face, sinking back like a king on a ruined throne. “Terrifyingly brilliant.”

Confusion passed to the Saintess; she hadn’t lived as long, many secrets were mist to her, mountains hidden by cloud.

But she didn’t care; her gaze slid to the water screen, calm eyes carrying a heavy sky.

Within the wind-ruffled screen, above the old castle’s hollow air, the Lustrous lamp’s glow flowed like honeyed fire.

Ye Weibai’s swordtip had pierced Aerin’s throat, a white thorn through velvet.

As they crossed, the blade drew free; blood fountained like crimson rain; Ye landed steady, soles soft as a cat’s.

The girl drifted like a kite on a fading breeze; across the World, a cheer rose like shipwreck survivors seeing shore.

Countless things flew skyward, veiling the warming, thickening sun like tossed hats in a festival.

In the next beat, sound cut off—like a drake throttled mid-quack, silence clamped like iron fingers.

Motion to stillness; the turn was as sudden as thunder to hush, leaving hearts stumbling.

A violet beam slammed into Aerin’s body, a dusk spear into a fallen star.

The [Demon King] stood again, like night re-shouldering the sky.

...

...

“You know nothing about power,” she said, words cold as a tide rolling in.

When Ye, who had turned his back on the girl, turned around, Aerin’s perforated throat was whole again, skin like new porcelain.

Purple radiance spilled from the wound, flowing like water along her skin, streams winding around moonlit banks.

In a single breath, her black attire deepened into dark violet, night ink soaked in twilight.

She floated in midair, long hair dyed the same dark violet, streaming back like silk in wind.

Yet Ye felt she used no energy—no mana, no wind, no spell—something purer, the grain of the world: [Law].

She wished to fly, and she flew, the sky obeying her, because she herself was [Law], a rule carved into cloud.

As Ye pinned that feeling in his heart, he also fixed something vital—to him and to the whole [Game], like a marker stabbed into a map.

At the same time, the girl spoke, her voice like cold wind over old stone.

“You know nothing about power,” the violet-haired girl said, her words falling like ice.

Ye’s mouth curved; he was about to speak—

Boom!

The earth shattered; stones flew like startled birds.

An unseen force hurled him straight into the ground, a meteor punching through soil and bone.