“Nope. That guy died on Pillar Mountain, like a thunderbolt that split the sky. What puzzles me is this: you Half Dragonkin with Dragon Deity blood, why think that freak fell here, like driftwood on this reef?”

Silence fell like snow over still water.

Silver Luan had no words, like a crane startled mid-flight, and the Phantom Dragon Xuan‑You spoke again, playful as moonlight on ripples.

“Didn’t expect Ah Yin’s old flaw to echo down the bloodline, like a reed’s shadow copied on a lake. Ha.”

“Senior, you knew the progenitor of our Silver Dragons, like an old pine knowing the mountain’s wind?”

The Half Dragonkin were born in the God Era, like new shoots from two ancient trunks—the Dragon Deity and the humans of that age.

They were kin to beastfolk in shape, yet not of beastfolk in blood, like a river that ran from a glacier rather than rain.

“I knew them, and we got along, like two clouds sharing the same blue. Otherwise I wouldn’t have felt Ah Yin’s blood and let you in, like opening a gate to kin.”

“Then why hit us with illusion arts, like fog thrown over the moon?”

Cerqin pried Silver Luan’s hand off her mouth, like a cat slipping free of a silk ribbon, and sighed.

“Senior, you didn’t mess with us on purpose… right? Like a fox tugging a traveler’s sleeve?”

She sensed no malice, like a warm current under cold waves, and her mood loosened. She wasn’t crushed by mental force or swayed by emotion, like a boulder in the rain. After that awkward scene, she just let it be, like a jar tipped and spilled.

“I didn’t expect both of you to carry divine abilities, like twin stars behind one veil. I thought I’d find a dragon‑blooded bearer for my legacy, like a seed seeking good soil.”

The Phantom Dragon Xuan‑You rubbed his brow, like a man facing a storm he’d summoned. He’d sensed his friend’s Dragon Deity blood and called the descendants in, like a bell calling monks to prayer.

Turned out he’d worked for nothing, like a net cast into an empty bay.

Cerqin and Silver Luan felt awkward, like fish out of shoal. The “Sea Dragon” was a Phantom Dragon, which meant the Sea Dragons’ hunt here was a dry well under the sun.

Maybe the Sea Dragons never felt their ancestor here, because that ancestor never lived here, like gulls circling a ship that never docked.

The Phantom Dragon’s remnant soul, Xuan‑You, held a near‑complete mind, like a lantern with most of its oil. He’d led high‑rank Silver Luan into illusion without her noticing, like dew hiding in grass.

“Why can’t holders of divine abilities take your legacy, Senior? Like a river refusing a tributary?”

“Senior—if you want an heir, want us to find one? Like sending swallows to scout spring?”

They learned for the first time that divine ability holders couldn’t accept such inheritances, like iron refusing to melt with jade.

Xuan‑You glanced at Silver Luan; the regret in his tone melted, like frost under sunrise.

“If you’ll help, all the better. I can’t pass my legacy to you, but we can find a Half Dragonkin with Silver Dragon blood to carry it, like a vessel carved from the right wood.”

Silver Luan brightened, like dawn on a silver ridge.

It was a free legacy for the Silver Dragon line, like rain on growing fields.

It could even birth a new Half Dragonkin branch from the Silver Dragons, like a fresh bough from an old trunk. No one had heard of a ‘Phantom Dragon’ Half Dragonkin, like a name missing from a stele.

So this Senior Xuan‑You likely never sired blood with humans, like a solitary crane on a peak. That was normal; only a rare few Dragon Deities left descendants, like sparks that caught in dry grass.

Xuan‑You’s gaze slid to Cerqin; his face blurred, shaded with displeasure, like a cloud crossing the moon. His tone cooled back to normal, like wind settling in pines.

“Divine ability is itself divine inheritance, like fire from a star. It’s blunt to say, but our Dragon Deity heritage can’t pass itself off as that, like clay painted as jade.”

“Senior, do you know where divine abilities come from, like a spring’s first drop?”

Cerqin’s eyes lit up, like lamps along a river.

“Then do you know the Four Pole Stars, like nails in the sky?”

“Uh…”

Xuan‑You’s blurred expression paused, like a kite snagging a branch. His fog‑body shivered, like reeds in a gust. He spoke, uncertain as dusk light.

“The hinge of changing eras… so that’s it, like a gate turning on an old pin.”

“Senior?”

“I shouldn’t explain. It’ll draw the gaze of gods, like moths to a candle. Hm…”

He measured the two again, like a hunter weighing wind.

“When it’s time, you’ll understand, like fruit ripening under its own sun.”

They nodded, helpless as leaves in rain. They mentioned mining the sea‑crystal vein in the cave; Xuan‑You waved it off, like a hand stirring mist.

“My remains—do as you wish, like driftwood given to the tide. Everything here can be yours, like shells on an empty beach.”

“Restarting my soul ate most of my strength, like a blaze devouring its fuel. I was going to gamble anyway, like a dice roll in a storm. Now this is fate. I leave the heir to you. When I fade, take the dragon core within the bones, and give it to a Half Dragonkin with Dragon Deity blood and decent talent, like fitting a key to a door.”

“Thank you, Senior.”

Silver Luan rose and bowed, like bamboo bending in wind. Cerqin copied her, like a shadow following a tree.

With business settled, the two and the remnant soul sat in that beautiful pavilion, like three birds on one rail, and chatted. The remnant asked about the age of now, and sighed at times, like waves kissing old rocks.

His temper was spry as a maiden’s, sometimes wistful, sometimes glad, like sun and shade trading places.

Cerqin and Silver Luan listened to rumors of the God Era, tales that clashed with records now, like twin maps with different rivers, and they clicked their tongues in wonder.

“The Dragon Deity clan even challenged gods, like eagles clawing thunder?”

“To be precise, we faced god‑backed races, like mountains pressing against mountains.”

The First God War happened deep in the God Era, like bones under old soil. Strangely, its records were clearer than the Second, like a lake less silted than a newer pond.

They said the first war saw all gods lead their races, like banners under storm, to vie for the One God’s throne, like predators fighting for a single sun.

It ended with that unique throne shattered, like a mirror broken to stars, and the three Supreme Creator Gods gone, like fires snuffed on a long night.

The gods above the sky now are second‑generation rule‑gods, like shoots from a broken root, formed from shards of that one throne, like pearls from a cracked shell.

“If you can, go to Pillar Mountain, like pilgrims to a sacred ridge. Time’s old, but you’ll find many relics from the God Era, like fossils in high stone.”

“Pillar Mountain sits at the continent’s heart, like a spine’s central vertebra. When we head there, we can detour and see it, like a hawk circling a peak.”

Silver Luan nodded. The legendary Pillar Mountain was already on their route, like a star marked on a chart.

Heading to the middle lands, they had to see that pillar of legend, like sailors seeking a lighthouse.

“They also say it’s a hidden land of the fae, like a glade sealed in mist. I’ve never seen a true fae.”

Cerqin chimed in, voice like a bell, but Xuan‑You’s reply drifted slow.

“Who says you haven’t, like a fish denying the sea?”

“Huh?”

“You’ve seen a dead one already, like a flower pressed in a book.”

“Huh?”

“The Dragon Deity clan is the fae, like moonlight hiding in a dragon’s scale.”

“Huuh??”

Cerqin wasn’t the only one stunned; Silver Luan’s eyes widened, like ponds after rain. She’d never heard this.

“Aren’t the Dragon Deities a branch of the yao, like beasts under a different moon?”

“Yao?”

The yao were said to be born from fae and the Demon Race intermingling, like two rivers fouling one mouth, offspring of source‑clans entwined, like vines knotted round a stone.

Hearing Silver Luan’s explanation, and learning today’s taxonomy, Xuan‑You’s tone turned indignant, like thunder grumbling over hills.

“Your lineage charts are crude now, like axes hacking jade.”

Halfway through, his mist‑body shuddered, like a candle guttering, and thinned fast, like fog under noon sun.

“Time’s almost up, like sand slipping an hourglass.”

“Senior?”

“Mm. Enough… This waking was pleasant, like spring after frost. I’m satisfied. When I’m gone, the barrier won’t last long, like ice on a warm stream.”

He paused, like a drumbeat held.

“My remains and the dragon core, I leave to you, like a trust set on a shrine.”

Before they could reply, his mist‑shape unraveled, like spidersilk in wind, vanishing quick.

Cerqin reached out on reflex, like a hand chasing fireflies. The lingering fog rushed to her palm, like smoke to a hollow, then sank into her body, like snowmelt into soil.

Cold bloomed through her, like frost painting glass. Silver Luan’s aura was the opposite—silver, hot, and alive—like sun on fresh leaves.

“Cerqin, you—?”

Silver Luan stared as Cerqin drew in Xuan‑You’s fading remnant, like a whirlpool tugging reeds, and muttered.

“Aren’t you afraid of a stomachache, like a child eating wild berries?”

“How can you talk about a Senior you just ‘ate’ like that, like calling ambrosia a snack?”

“You ‘ate’ something too, and you’re scolding me, like a fox blaming a weasel?”

“I wanted to see if I could use emotion transmutation and the Love God to keep a part of Senior’s remnant, like ice saved in a clay jar.”

Cerqin wilted a little, like a flower in noon glare. As they traded jabs, the platform’s world began to melt, like ink in rain.

Everything faded and twisted, returning to raw mana, like threads pulled back to skeins.

The distant membrane thinned, like skin over milk. As all soul‑traces of the Phantom Dragon Xuan‑You merged, a milky pearl rose before them, like a moon through mist.

Thick dragon aura rolled off it, like heat from a kiln.

“A dragon core… the Phantom Dragon’s legacy, like a star sealed in jade.”

Silver Luan cupped the pearl, dazed, like a pilgrim holding a relic. Ripples spread across the milk‑white, like rings in a pond. Cerqin drew breath to ask, but the scene shattered like glazed glass.

When she opened her eyes again, darkness wrapped her, like velvet under a new moon. A strange pressure lay on her body, like water on a diver.

She let her mind flow, and paused, like a deer hearing a twig snap.

A small round space, tight as a shell, held her in a hug, like the first cradle in the Sea within the Sea. It matched how she’d first awakened here, like a circle closing.

Only difference: as Cerqin’s eyes opened, Silver Luan woke too, like twin flames finding air.

Cerqin lifted her head; in that blackness their gazes met, like stars signaling across night.

The Dragon Deity’s Egg state was gone, like a cocoon split. Spirit sense swept out and found the familiar vast cavern, like a whale’s ribcage. Dragon remains lay there, and treasures and ores grew from them, like gemstones budding on bone.

Different now was the dense dragon aura flooding the cave, like incense in a temple.

“What in the world happened, like fog covering a path?”

They lit magic light for a few hundred meters, like lanterns along a pier. In this rich yet lonely space, only a few plants lived, like moss on stone.

No sign of large sea beasts, like footprints washed from sand. It was as if those slain beasts never existed, like dreams at dawn.

They stared at the dull milk‑white sphere in Silver Luan’s hands, palm‑sized and lightless, like a pearl asleep.

“Illusion, like a mirage.”

“Senior Xuan‑You’s prank, like a fox’s grin.”

Cerqin’s eye twitched, like a leaf in a draft. She wanted to speak, yet words failed, like a flute without breath.

She still felt the absorbed dragon remnant in her, like cold ink in warm water. Even with the Love God, it hadn’t fully merged, like oil and snow.

Like the past emotion‑power, it left dregs in her soul, like silt in a jar.

Maybe, someday, she’d hear Xuan‑You’s voice again, like wind across chimes.

So she shrugged and went all in, like a gambler tossing his last coin.

“Anyway, this haul’s huge, like nets full at dawn.”

Since this ruin wasn’t a Sea Dragon site but a Phantom Dragon one, they needn’t fear the Sea Dragon clan, like ships free of reefs.

The most precious dragon core—the legacy—sat in Silver Luan’s hands, like winter sun in a bowl. They only needed to find a worthy heir as promised, like matching seed to field.

Many in the Silver Dragon line would suit this legacy, like stars fit for a crown.

And in this vast Sea within the Sea, the mining pit held a massive sea‑crystal vein, like ice veins in a cliff. Top‑tier materials lay everywhere, in staggering amounts, like treasure strewn by a broken tide.

The value was beyond price, like rain in a desert.

This “expedition” had reached its goal cleanly, like an arrow in the center.

Though neither felt it was much of an expedition, like a stroll that found a mountain.

“Who knows how long we were out, like driftwood counting waves. Let’s head back. Aileaf must be worried, like a sparrow waiting on a branch.”

“Okay.”

Cerqin answered, then remembered something, like a fish flashing in mind.

“About that earlier awakening, Silver Luan, you—ow—”

She didn’t finish; Silver Luan whipped her with her tail, like a willow striking water. Silver Luan’s cheeks flushed, like peaches in sun. That illusion as real as life—

Did it happen or not, like footprints half in snow?

Even a Seventh Rank Silver Luan couldn’t tell, like a sage lost in fog.

“Say one more word and you’ll learn the hard way, like a reed meeting a blade.”

Silver Luan reshaped her tail in a blink, like clay spun on a wheel, and gave Cerqin a look that promised trouble, like lightning veiled by cloud.

Fear clenched Cerqin’s chest; she darted forward, carving a silver trail through the water.

Single file, they traced the scar-like fissure the mutated giant black shark had blown open on their way in, angling upward toward the light.