[Time]—

The Deity who holds the Law of Time, a moonlit edge on the clock’s hand.

Her existence differs from every other Deity, like a river that runs under stone while others blaze like torches in the wind.

After the war of the gods, in this age of dwindled arts, profound magic can’t stand in the open World. The survivors keep their divinity in strange ways, like embers cupped in cold palms.

[Misfortune] Little Ash is inheritance. A timid-faced girl swallowed the world’s spite while still tender in years. At death’s lip, she accepted a shattered godhood. Gray motes, star-dust on black short hair, and the stammering child turned brazen, a swaggering [Misfortune] of the day, every sentence beginning with “we.”

[Nightfall] Little Black is reincarnation. She keeps dying, keeps waking, like dusk and dawn, turn after turn, never ending. Each return is black hair, black dress, black scythe. As she told Ye Weibai while playing “Little Black”—“Death is my setting.” It wasn’t just to witness Ye Weibai’s death. She herself is [Death]. Only death does not change.

The [War Deity] Scarlet is lawbreaking. First in slaughter, trusting no heaven or tool, she used only her fists. She is the one who weathered three calamities yet never truly died. Red hair, red eyes, the rest plain as a clay cup—yet after [Trade], who pursues pure fairness, she’s the purest Deity of them all.

The [Seer] once revealed this: in the gray, terrifying era, strong as [Trade] was, even he had to bargain with the [World] to survive. But the [War Deity] did nothing. She looked up at the collapsing sky, threw one useless punch like thunder into the void, then sat cross-legged on a peak. Her body faded to ash—but she did not die. The reason was simple. She wanted to meet a stronger foe, not choke to death with a ruined world. So she chose not to die. If she didn’t want to die, she wouldn’t. Such is will—iron as a nail in the heartwood.

Around them were a thousand other Deities, raking the dark for ways to live. They twisted their shapes, embraced evil methods, clung to existence like moss clings to wet stone. Between life and death yawns a black abyss, and once a Deity falls, they slide faster than any human, as natural as rain down a tiled roof.

Even in this kaleidoscope of wonders, [Time]—one of the few who command the laws of time and space—survives by a method that’s pure paradox, like a candle burning its own shadow.

She’s been fighting her [Past] and [Future] selves all along, blades crossed on the spiral stair.

Just like Ye Weibai in the World of the [Hero King], who begged strength from his [Future Self], shifting all pain of now to some later instant, in exchange for near-invincibility, a shield woven of tomorrows.

[Time] does the same.

She actually died long ago. But as her life withered, she stole a few heartbeats from her future self, a handful of sand from an hourglass not yet tipped. She masked the rot seeping from the core of her godhood, tricked [Life], tricked [Death], like a fox outpacing the hounds in fog.

Only [Time], who holds the power of the moment, can do this—stringing instants like beads on a taut thread.

The flaw is also constant—every instant. She can’t slack for even a blink. If one link snaps, her lifeline goes quiet as a cut kite.

So [Time] can’t rest, can’t loosen, can’t laugh, can’t grieve. Emotion ripples time like wind ripples a pond. To wrestle with “time” is no easy duel, even for [Time].

Every moment is a battlefield. She lives as a clock, precise to cruelty, a heart that ticks like frost.

As the [Seer] sneered: steal a few moments from the future, trade them for a ragged breath now.

Live like this—how is that different from being dead?

[Time] should have died already.

…

…

“I should’ve died already.”

Under rooftop sunlight bright as a blade, Zhaomingming said so.

“Yes.”

In the shadow of the elevator shaft, the girl facing her spoke. Her outline blurred, mirroring Zhaomingming. The same small frame under a long-sleeve school jacket. Only the lower half of her face showed—pale skin, flushed lips—like winter plum against night.

“For this [World],” the girl in shadow said.

“For this [World]…” Zhaomingming murmured. She lowered her eyes to her hands—slender, white, like bone china. Her palm held nothing, yet seemed to hide an entire world like a pearl. “What even is the [World]?”

“You—”

The girl stared at Zhaomingming, into those slightly lost eyes. After a silence, she spoke. “Role integrity error identified. Begin diagnostics—scan for Virus Standard No. 073: divergence at key memory checkpoints. Execute Level One anomaly handling.”

“Tell me what the [World] is.” As if she hadn’t heard, Zhaomingming raised her head, hunger in her voice like a dry well asking for rain.

“I’ll give you an answer. Only once. I will answer five questions. After that, I’ll decide your error code based on your queries.” Machine-cold words, clipped as gears. She paused. “The [World] is us.”

“I see. The [World] is us.” Zhaomingming blinked. “Then what are we?”

“Question two. We are the [World].”

“Then I—” Zhaomingming hesitated, then asked again, voice catching. “I—what am I?”

“Question three. You are this cycle’s [Save File] for the [World],” the girl said, red lips parting in the dark. Her tone was so cool it grazed cruelty. “You are Zhaomingming No. 07498.”

“What about her?” Zhaomingming pointed at the ground. A body lay there—slender girl in an oversized school jacket. The warmth had left long ago, like last night’s coal.

“Question four. She is us too. No. 01892,” the girl answered.

“And her? And her? And her?—Are they all?” With each point of Zhaomingming’s finger, another girl’s corpse surfaced, like lilies rising under black water.

A strange horror swelled slow as mist. The post-noon sun was so bright, yet a chill slipped in like a blade of ice.

Soon the rooftop’s edges were lined with bodies—slender girls in loose uniforms—surrounding the only two living beings like a ring of withered crowns.

“Stop!” The girl in shadow couldn’t take it. She flicked her right hand, like pressing the [delete] key. The corpses vanished in an instant, erased like chalk in rain.

“What’s the point? We can still see them, can’t we.” Zhaomingming lifted her face, eyes clear as glass under water.

“07498—what happened to you.” The girl couldn’t help asking, then realized she’d broken protocol. She shut her mouth at once, and light slid in her eyes like a blade turning. “If that’s your last question, I can answer—meaning.”

She said, “Our meaning is to keep the world moving ‘along its set route.’”

“But—what is the set route?”

“Who set it? Why is it set?”

“Can the set not be changed?”

“If it changes, must it be corrected?”

“And must it be corrected like this?!”

Zhaomingming spoke faster and faster. In her chest, something sprouted like spring grass, sap running into blood, filling her hollow limbs with green rise.

“Enough! Error code identified. Prepare—” the girl snapped, but Zhaomingming cut her off.

“I—” Mingming began softly.

The other girl wanted to go on, but she froze before that resolute bearing. What kind of expression was this? Like a withered branch blooming backward, petals flying back to the bud, returning to first bloom in a stolen instant. All those visible black cracks in Zhaomingming’s body filled with a substance unnamed, like gold mending a bowl.

Wind came from nowhere and everywhere, lifting Zhaomingming’s lightly curled ponytail. Under drifting bangs her eyes focused. The emotions in her, fine as falling sand, stopped scattering. An unseen force gathered them—emotion that rose by itself, not an outward script.

“I was praised.”

“Wha—!” The girl in shadow stood dumbstruck, a bell stilled mid-ring.

Two slender fingers twined a tilted, wavy tail of hair. The girl’s smile bloomed like early plum. “He said my hairstyle looks good today.”

…

“Hey. Wait up.” Yexiaobai hurried after her. He watched her ponytail sway like a metronome in the sun and said, a little surprised, “Huh. Mingming, you changed your hair again.”

“Again?”

“Yeah. I remember yesterday, the day before, and… the day before that—your hair was different each time, right?” Yexiaobai searched his memory, making small talk as lightly as leaves.

“…Mm.”

Her pause made Xiaobai blink. Only after a long beat did a barely audible hum come through her nose. He almost thought he’d hit a mine. He let out a tiny breath. He couldn’t see her face, didn’t know her expression. But he felt her body hitch, then her steps slow. She still didn’t turn, but her usually even voice wavered, trying to act casual.

“So… how is it?”

“How is it—I’m not good with girls’ hairstyles,” Xiaobai said, smiling like sunlight on water. “But if you like it, that’s what matters. And I think it looks pretty good.”

“I see.” Her voice brightened, a bird finding a branch. She tilted her head a little. In Xiaobai’s eyes, her profile turned, and the corner of her lips slowly lifted like a crescent moon.

…

“He praised me—me, her, and you. Not ‘us.’ An individual… Not Zhaomingming, but 07498.” The girl’s fist curled, nails biting into the soft center of her palm like thorns. She tried to shape words for that tangled feeling, failed, and a little dejection showed like a cloud across her face.

“You—!” The other girl’s voice jumped, edged with shock and a fear she couldn’t hide. “What are you doing!”

“Me? What am I doing?” Mingming raised a hand, dazed, and touched her cheek. There was a cool, clear wetness there.

Tears.

Mingming froze, then murmured, “So it’s this sad.”