Outside the atmosphere, Nanhe clutched his spear in trembling excitement. “Hey—hey—Dongyuan! Did you see that? Did you see him?! That guy, that one—!”

His words came out in a frantic, tangled mess, all the usual sardonic composure gone. The pitch of his voice had climbed nearly an octave. He sounded like a full-blown, hopelessly deranged fanboy.

Dongyuan took a moment to breathe. Normally, he’d have offered a stern reminder to maintain decorum. But this time, he wasn’t sure if he was speaking to Nanhe or himself when he muttered, “Calm down.”

“Calm? How is anyone supposed to stay calm right now? Ugh, fine, okay—wait a second, what if this video feed is fake? Some kind of trap? What if there’s a hidden motive behind this broadcast? But could tech even fabricate something this convincing? I don’t buy it. No… it has to be real, right?!”

Dongyuan: And there it is—back to his usual motor-mouth mode the moment he gets excited.

He knew there was only one surefire way to shut him up. It worked every time.

“You’re the war god’s number one believer. Didn’t you swear to always uphold his dignity? Never bring shame to your idol?”

Nanhe froze, visibly startled. Then he coughed into his fist, schooled his features into a proud, composed smirk, and casually gripped his spear like nothing had happened. He leaned toward Dongyuan and muttered under his breath, “Nobody saw that… right?”

Then his gaze caught something—and his whole body tensed.

That middle-aged man he’d intimidated earlier… when had he even crawled back to the control console?

With trembling fingers, the man slapped his hand down on a glowing button.

Wait—

Nanhe teleported to his side in an instant, yanked the man’s wrist back with enough force to make him scream.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” he roared.

Dongyuan arrived half a beat late. But one glance at the console display and his expression froze.

“…Attack command has been issued?” he read aloud, disbelief sinking deep into his chest. He turned to the man like he didn’t recognize him. “Why would you do that?”

He tried to cancel the command, but the system refused access. A five-minute countdown had already begun. Without hesitating, Dongyuan dropped into the seat and began typing furiously, keys clattering under his fingers like a storm of hammers.

The middle-aged man whimpered beneath Nanhe’s grip but couldn’t break free. “That planet is full of monsters now! If we strike while they’re weak and fighting each other, we can wipe them all out! This is our chance—our only chance! I’m saving the universe!”

He twisted his wrist again, as if expecting Nanhe to loosen his grip. “We’re on the same side now, aren’t we? If you just help me out, this’ll be a huge achievement for all of us—”

“Oh, shut it,” Nanhe spat. “All that righteous nonsense—you’re just scared. Afraid of dying. Afraid of being blamed. Afraid you’ll miss out on stealing credit.”

Stung, the man snapped back, “I haven’t done anything wrong! I’m reporting all of this—you’ll see!”

Nanhe laughed, but it was sharp, dark. “And do you think you’ll live long enough to make that report?”

He jabbed a finger toward the screen. “I warned you already. Those ‘monsters’—you think your weapons can wipe them out? All you’ll do is piss them off.”

“But they’re already dying.”

“Then look again. Really look.” Nanhe seethed. “See the one who’s tearing them apart? You know who that is?”

“He’s a monster too! He may be helping now, but he’s still a threat. If he wants to destroy those beasts, that puts him on our side. I’m helping him! I even recorded everything—I’ll submit it as evidence! If he dies, we’ll award him a posthumous medal! Same goes for the troops left behind!”

Nanhe and Dongyuan both went silent.

Not because they had nothing left to say, but because what had been said was so absurd they physically couldn’t respond.

After a long breath, Nanhe asked calmly—far too calmly, voice tight like steel wire—“You’re a field agent for the supreme theology council, right? That means you’ve passed the qualifying exam. Which includes the mandatory subject: ‘Divine Era History and Introduction to the First gods.’ Ring any bells? It has detailed entries on every divine role, power classification, and known form. Level-three deities and above are core content. You studied that, right?”

The man’s eyes darted nervously. “That stuff was forever ago. Who remembers that junk now?”

Dongyuan met Nanhe’s murderous glare. He sighed, stopped typing, and looked the man in the eye.

Three seconds passed.

Then he looked away and said, “He’s thinking: ‘I paid for my certificate. Who the hell memorized any of that?’”

The man blanched. “H-how did you—?!”

He stopped. Of course. Dongyuan was a divine-blessed follower.

“That’s a divine gift?! You used it on me?!”

Nanhe didn’t even blink. He just kicked the man away like garbage and snarled, “You absolute pig. That outfit. That silver spear. The way he casually demolished all those beasts. The way they bowed to him. You think there’s anyone else in divine history who fits that description?! There’s no one else! That is the war god. And you… you just fired a cannon at him.”

Nanhe’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“He didn’t even notice you existed. That was the greatest mercy a high god can show a bug. But now… you ruined that.”

Dongyuan’s fingers flew across the keyboard again, sweat beading on his brow. “One minute left. I still can’t cancel it. Is there any way to override the command?”

He was clearly asking the man.

But the agent just shuddered. “I-I can’t stop it… Once the system’s activated, it hands over all authority to council HQ. It’s our newest weapons platform—Alpha-Class K411 Stellar Light Cannon. Once the command is issued, it can’t be recalled from here!”

“Then contact HQ. Now!” Nanhe lifted his spear. “I’m heading down.”

Dongyuan opened his mouth—but Nanhe cut him off.

“I know what you’re about to say. A high god doesn’t show mercy to the gnats who anger him.”

His eyes stayed fixed on the screen, burning the war god’s silhouette into his memory. “We may not be able to stop the orbital bombardment, and we will face the consequences—anger from both the god and the beasts—but there are still people down there who haven’t been evacuated. I can’t abandon them.”

Dongyuan knew just how badly this was eating Nanhe alive. Not just disappointment. It was a soul-deep devastation.

This had started as a once-in-a-lifetime chance to witness his god in the flesh. And now? Now they were going to be hated. Labeled enemies. Maybe even forgotten—not worth remembering.

Or maybe… maybe the war god wouldn’t even care. Maybe it would be like swatting a fly. One slap and it’s over, no memory of it the next second.

Would that make it better?

No. Not really.

Dongyuan watched Nanhe leave the ship. Alone. He turned back to the screen and tried to reach theology council HQ.

Alone now, he let the mask crack.

He lifted a hand toward the frozen image. Just a screen. A thin layer of pixels.

And yet it felt like the war god stood on the other side of a rift too deep to cross.

He flinched and pulled his hand back.

His fingers clenched.

Earlier, he’d pretended to be calm.

Now? Now the fear was real.

Even a nine-star knight like him wasn’t immune. Anyone else in his rank probably wouldn’t have handled it any better.

Dongyuan exhaled.

The scriptures had always been vague when it came to the war god. Unlike the others, he hadn’t left behind many relics. No temples. No creation myths. Nothing to track.

Would he even want to speak to the intelligent species of this universe?

Did he see them as people? Or goldfish in a bowl?

Maybe the entire universe was just a sandbox built by beings like him.

They knew far too little.

And now? Now they were in deep, deep trouble.

•  

Hexin had sensed the change beyond the stars long before anyone else.

Maybe it was a star that flickered. Maybe a cloud that moved faster than it should.

Maybe it was just instinct. Or maybe it was the war god’s monstrous combat awareness.

Whatever it was, he knew immediately:

Something was coming.

And in the very next second, he also knew—

…it posed no threat to him.

At most, it might kick up some dust. Maybe ruffle the hem of his robe. Not even worth bothering with.

Then, in the very next second—everything went still.

Not silent, not truly. It was as if some formless, ultra-low frequency sound wave had swept across the land like a membrane, pressing down and smothering every other sound under its weight.

Among the distant military units, several soldiers with weaker mental fortitude suddenly clutched at their ears in pain. A sharp ringing pierced their eardrums, then came the heat, then the blood—thick and wet, streaming uncontrollably from their noses and ears as though they’d spontaneously combusted from the inside.

They hadn’t even figured out what was happening before a voice—reinforced with spiritual power—rang out from high above, rippling down across the earth in clear waves.

“Evacuate—now! Get underground! Away from the coast—go, GO!!”

Nanhe streaked through the sky like a fish diving into the sea, plummeting headfirst from ten thousand meters. The storm roared past him, shredding the clouds as it went. His robes flailed wildly around him, snapping like banners in the wind—if he were anyone else, he’d have been ripped to pieces by now.

But he forced his eyes open, screamed warnings down below, and then, mid-dive, twisted around and hurled his spear upward with everything he had.

The others followed his movement and finally saw it—what had been trailing behind him.

A colossal beam of light.

It descended like a galactic waterfall, particles glittering inside like drifting snow. Beautiful—utterly mesmerizing—and so powerful it made even the dullest minds scream in instinctive terror.

It encompassed the entire visible expanse of ocean and land—including them.

Even the slowest among them now understood.

“Run—run, retreat!!”

“Not to the four-pillar tower! Get farther—farther!!”

“Wasn’t there supposed to be backup? Where the hell did this beam come from?! Don’t they know we’re still on this planet?!”

“Third division commander requesting to stay behind! The rest of you move—go now!”

Amid the chaos, shouting overlapped with stampeding footsteps as the entire region erupted into desperate motion.

Nanhe’s spear vanished into the beam. For exactly 0.001 seconds, it halted the descent of the light.

No one noticed. Not even a ripple.

And yet, that spear had been forged from the rarest materials the galaxy could offer, combining modern science with ancient crafting methods long lost to time. Countless craftsmen, resources, and effort had gone into recreating the legendary weapon of the war god.

And yet—

Hexin looked down at the silver spear in his own hand.

A high, keening hum rose from it—piercing, sharp. Crimson etchings flared to life along its length, glowing with wild intensity.

The god tilted his head slightly, stroking the weapon as a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “You know,” he murmured, “it really did look a little like you, just now…”

The spear shuddered in indignation.

Hexin chuckled. “Don’t be mad. You’re obviously stronger. Right?”

The spear settled down—though its thirst for blood surged even higher.

It was no ordinary weapon. It shared his heartbeat. His battle hunger.

And Hexin, smiling faintly, knew—what he could shrug off as “nothing serious,” others couldn’t even begin to withstand. If this cannon hit the planet, it would probably reduce Skyfall Star to rubble.

Given the situation, there was only one real target: the primal beasts.

He swept a glance over the roiling ocean, at the seething horde of ancient monsters—now driven to madness. Their pupils were pinpricks, narrowed to slits. Not a single one was planning to flee.

They were going to attack. Kill.

Hexin didn’t even know who would win. In his war god strength-o-meter, both sides were basically garbage-tier, slap-fighting each other. Still, based on the script he’d studied, the primal beasts were likely to come out on top. And when they did, they’d retaliate hard—starting with the fleet that had dared to fire at them.

What kind of idiot calls down a divine-era beast invasion with a stunt like that?

Hexin lifted his weapon slowly.

Smirking, careless, unbothered, he tilted his head back—and in that instant, his eyes met a falling soldier mid-descent.

The soldier’s face was gray with panic.

Hexin raised an eyebrow, visibly unimpressed, and looked away.

Then, with a flick of his wrist, he hurled the silver spear upward.

It passed Nanhe by mere centimeters, the wind shear so sharp it slapped across his face like a whip.

Nanhe, falling helplessly, saw everything in perfect clarity—the divine radiance of his robes, the impossible grace of each gesture. Even the flutter of his hemline seemed like holy light.

Behind him, the beam collided with the spear. It shattered. Light erupted like a nova, illuminating the heavens and earth. The resulting shockwave blasted outward.

Too close.

Nanhe was thrown forward by the force, hurtling toward Hexin like a ragdoll—heart hammering, overwhelmed.

And then, suddenly, something yanked him back.

Below, Hexin stood still as ever.

Nanhe twisted midair to see what had grabbed him.

A massive black dragon had snagged the back of his collar. One claw hovered less than a hair’s breadth from slitting his throat.

A little farther off, a blue-toned primal beast was watching him with what could only be described as sympathy.

Farther still, a bear-like creature gave him a respectful nod—as if bidding farewell to a fellow martyr.

Dique: Farewell, brother. You died well.