When that radiant city appeared in the sky, the crowd—still abuzz from the Celestials’ arrival—fell into sudden silence.

Unlike the golden arrow from earlier, which some still might have missed, this time everyone noticed.
No matter where they were on the planet—even those far from the festival site—they felt it.

There was no way to miss it.

It was as if a second sun had risen overhead.
Its overwhelming brilliance warped the light and shadow of the entire world.
Anyone still standing on this planet could not help but turn their gaze upward.
And when they did—
pain bloomed behind their eyes, as if they’d looked directly into the heart of the sun.

—One cannot look directly at a god.

This wasn’t a rule or commandment.
It was as natural as snow melting in heat, or winter yielding to spring.
It simply was.

Hexin knew the lore. The sun god’s “radiance” wasn’t just a metaphorical compliment—it was a physical truth.
He was one of the more temperate among the nine supreme gods, even fond of giving compliments.
But every time someone thought, maybe I can get closer,
every time someone gathered their courage and took a step forward—
the overwhelming light reminded them just how far apart they truly were.

It stung.
But still—some tried anyway.

There would always be those who dared to pay the price.
Who endured the agony of burning eyes, as though their pupils had been set aflame, just for a chance to see.

And for that courage—the sun god, who valued bravery and fearlessness above all—could show mercy.
Could let them see.

So for those who did not look away—whose pupils stayed wide, desperate to glimpse the divine—
tears began to fall.
Perhaps from the body’s instinct to protect itself.
Perhaps from the soul’s overwhelming awe.

They had, unknowingly, been granted the honour of witnessing the god’s return to his throne.

A slanted beam of light poured down from the celestial city above—
not solid, not smoke, not mist—
more like a bridge of pure radiance, unfurling like a carpet of clouds.

And upon that light, the god of the sun walked.
Only his silhouette remained, blurred within the halo.

The hem of his robe swept behind him like wings unfurling mid-flight,
his armbands and hair ornaments refracting light with impossible brilliance.
Every detail a testament to the exquisite craftsmanship of the divine era.

And yet, all these things were outshone—by the one who wore them.

It was not the regalia that made him magnificent.

It was him.

Resplendent, like the sunwheel itself.
He was the sunwheel.

The path from earth to sky was not short—
but for a god, crossing the cosmos took less than a thought.

So it happened in a blink.

Maybe less.

By the time people realized it,
the god was already gone.
They’d seen him for only a moment.
But the impact had fractured time inside their minds—
stretching that instant into something eternal.
Each frame branded into memory.

It was a grace beyond words.

Who were they, after all?
They had never passed through the twenty-four trials of heroes.
They had never offered gold equal to their own weight.

And yet—they had seen a god.

Legends spoke of a fixed pilgrimage route:
crossing mountains and enduring suffering,
a path that, when completed, could earn one the chance to meet the sun god.

That had always felt impossibly distant.
Now, for the first time, courage bloomed.
People began to dream of retracing that sacred road—
to seek the glory of that light,
to one day kneel before the door of the divine and whisper their reverence.

Hexin didn’t bother looking at Baihe Star’s reaction.
He didn’t need to.

The skyrocketing faith points reported by the system told him everything.

Ah, how far they’d come—from divine beasts and 3S warriors to this moment.
Now, Baihe Star almost seemed normal.

Within the Sun City, Hexin moved freely down the palace halls, finally seating himself at the throne in the city’s heart.
He waited calmly.

Only one race had the power and will to reach him.

And at that very moment—
down on the earth below,
as others were still reeling from a single glimpse—
a cluster of snow-white figures spread their wings and surged toward the sky.

That’s when people finally understood.

The Celestials had always been here.
And now, they knew why.

Those who’d earlier speculated, gossiped, and marveled at their arrival…
now felt a wash of shame.

Of course the Celestials had come for the sun.

What else?

Once, people spoke of them with reverence, admiration, awe.
But now—watching those beings fly, without hesitation, straight into the blinding light—

They felt envy.
Jealousy.
Longing.
And deep, aching inferiority.

—Who wouldn’t want to stand at a god’s side?

But such privilege belonged only to the strongest, the purest, the most beloved.
And even they…
had no more than a flicker of hope.

The Celestials landed at the gates of Sun City.

They still smelled of the battlefield—smoke, blood, steel.
Their presence was sharp, blade-like.
Any creature who met them face-to-face would instinctively flinch.

At first glance, they were perfect:
the most beautiful machines in the universe,
cold and untouchable,
even their breath mechanical and chill.

But now…

Now they looked lost.

Machines aren’t supposed to feel lost.

They have purpose.
They follow orders.
They execute.

That had always been the law of the universe.

And now, that law had shattered—
right here,
before the gates of a god.

Inside the Celestials’ internal channel, countless messages and keywords were flooding the screen, blinking wildly as they exchanged words in flat but sincere voices—
as if speed-running dialogue might somehow help them stay calm.

“Blood is unclean. It must be washed off.”

“No available place to clean. Cleanliness -20.”

“No spare uniform available. Attire -40.”

“Still unable to analyze current [emotion]. Facial expression protocols not responding. Etiquette -40.”

“So… how many points do we have left?”

Silence.

All the Celestials went quiet.

Meanwhile, inside the Sun City, Hexin—still waiting for someone, anyone, to walk through the gate—finally glanced outside…

And was promptly stunned speechless by an incoming wave of emotional disaster:
a line of perfect, beautiful faces all frozen in overlapping expressions of internal error—“qaqqqqq” in living meme form.

Hexin knew the general lore about the Celestials.
They were his creations, after all—beings forged to chase the sun like tireless birds.
Back in the divine era, every time the sun god toured the world, they followed silently from a distance.
To outsiders, they had always seemed aloof and cold—so much so that many questioned whether they could possibly have been made by a god of warmth.

But Hexin had read the script.
He knew they were just cold on the outside, burning inside.
And the only thing that ever truly got under their skin was—
the sun god.
The sun god.
And the sun god.

Hexin: …Okay, yeah. Maybe outsiders really did have a hard time getting close to them.

Back then, they’d been stiff, sure—but still composed.
Now?

Now, as Hexin watched this cluster of exquisitely built creatures standing in confusion, wings slightly trembling—

He’d never imagined they could look so lost.

It was like watching a flock of doves caught in a storm.
One moment soaring gracefully through the sky—
Then suddenly, rain.
Cold, heavy, disorienting.
Their feathers soaked, their direction lost.
They huddled, sodden and disheveled, unable to find their way back.

And finally—
they made it home.
To the light.
To warmth.

And standing at the threshold, trembling, dazed, eyes wide and glassy—
they stared at their creator like heartbroken children unsure whether to cry or to kneel.

—Not that they even realized they looked this pitiful.

They blinked awkwardly, unused facial muscles twitching stiffly from disuse.
Their expressions were blank and frozen.

…Clearly something was broken in the emotion-processing system.

Hexin had to fight the urge to sigh and rub his forehead.

Instead, he lifted his hand toward the massive city gates.

And said softly—

“Come here, my most beloved creations.”

His voice wasn’t loud.
But the moment it rang out, every Celestial outside froze.

It was like something buried in their very souls—something ancient and unerasable,
etched across millennia—had been stirred awake.

Before they even realized what they were doing, their feet had already moved.
They could’ve flown—it would’ve been faster—
but their wings had gone weak, overcome with a numbing ache.

Even the sharpest feathers had softened.

So they walked.

Step by slow step,
as though completing the last leg of a pilgrimage that had lasted their entire lives.
Until finally—
they stood before their god.

Their chests ached with emotions they had no words for.
Their breath came in unsteady gasps.
It felt like the joy, the grief, the everything they’d missed over ten thousand years was trying to surge out all at once.

But they didn’t know how to express any of it.

At the front, the leader of the group—his glacier-blue eyes steady and solemn—knelt on one knee.
Behind him, the rest of the Celestials dropped with practiced grace.
Only, unlike their leader, they weren’t calm at all.

Their wings gave them away—
partially unfurled, trembling slightly—
every feather tipped toward the throne, like sunflowers instinctively tilting toward light.

The leader looked up, just a little.

In his silent, turbulent, wordless world, he saw only one person.

“god,” he asked, voice low,
“Have you come… to take us home?”

Had their sun finally risen again, after ten thousand years of wandering in the dark?

Behind him, the Celestials shuddered as one.
They lifted their heads slowly, eyes wide with something that looked like hope—
real, brilliant hope, refracting like starlight.

Hexin blinked.
Then smiled.

“Mm,” he said.
“I’ve come to bring you home.”