A sharp crackling noise came from the other end of the communicator—like it had been dropped, then hastily picked up again. That was rare. The scholars at the Baihe Star Academy of Divinity were famously steady-handed—the type who could carry overfilled test tubes without spilling a drop. And yet here they were, fumbling like panicked interns.

“Are you seriously okay? Because your signal—look, our system says you’re on Baihe Star, but just a second ago…”

On the continuously updating terminal screen, the red dot representing Xia Ze now hovered neatly over Baihe Star.
Yet not even a second earlier, it had been flickering erratically in a completely different starfield, far beyond their reach.

“…!”

Never mind the existential confusion happening on the god academy’s end—for reasons likely tied to Hexin naming Xia Ze his “anchor,” Sun City hadn’t chosen a random landing point.

They had arrived in a snowfield.

Snowflakes drifted silently from above, swept away by frigid winds in erratic spirals.
And there, at the end of the icy plains, rose a colossal western-style city.
It stood against towering cliffs and snowcapped peaks, its spired rooftops reaching for the sky.

This was the Central City of Baihe Star.
Xia Ze’s home.
The god academy he had just contacted was located here. It was the planet’s largest and most vibrant city—though by interstellar standards, it was still modest.

Only after stepping into the city did the two realize—it was unusually lively today.

Hexin had briefly considered changing clothes. What he wore now was handsome, yes—but maybe not era-appropriate.
Then he saw the crowd and realized—he fit right in.
In fact, the local style looked a lot like what he was wearing. Beside him, Xia Ze, dressed in his interstellar battle gear, looked wildly out of place.

Xia Ze blinked, then muttered to himself, “So… it’s already today.”

Hexin shot him a questioning look, and Xia Ze explained:

“I’ve been away over five months, so it makes sense. Today is Baihe Star’s Primordial Festival—a celebration where we give thanks to the gods who once saved our ancestors and offer our unified prayers.
It’s as important to us as the day we joined the Starfield Alliance.”

In this universe, where gods and technology coexisted, most planets had a day like this. The specific dates differed, rooted in local myths and histories.

Hexin glanced down the snow-dusted streets.
Maybe it was Baihe Star’s remoteness that had preserved its past so completely.

People—beaming with joy—walked through the streets in garments that echoed the ancient god era.
They passed rows of shops, their half-open doors letting out steam scented with food and tea, warming the cold air.

Whatever emotional callousing Xia Ze had endured inside the Divine Domain, it was working—he could now maintain composure in front of Hexin.
He could even hold eye contact for three whole seconds!

So he asked, proactively:

“There’ll be performances later—stage plays, things like that.
Some people will dress up as the supreme gods.
Would you want to—”

He didn’t get to finish.

The crowd had begun to gather—someone had spotted them.
Or more accurately, someone had spotted Hexin.

In truth, the moment Hexin entered the city limits, the divine aura tied to the sun god had already drawn attention.
But now?
Now came silence.

For a few seconds, the entire city seemed to hold its breath.

People didn’t understand what was happening, but their bodies did—skin prickling, hair standing on end, every pore crying out in awe.
Then came hesitation—like witnessing a light so brilliant it both beckoned and burned.
You want to move closer. But you’re afraid you’re not worthy to even look.

And yet… moths always fly toward the flame.

After the first person stepped forward, another followed.
Soon, Hexin was surrounded.
But even then, they kept a careful distance—just over a meter away—as if afraid to offend the light itself.

When Hexin’s gaze landed on them, one young man flushed crimson and shot up his hand like a kid answering a teacher’s question.

“Um… hi! You—you don’t look like someone from Baihe Star.
Are you visiting from another planet for the Primordial Festival?”

For reasons they couldn’t explain, none of them felt embarrassed about Baihe Star’s smallness or obscurity anymore.
Just looking at this golden-haired youth filled them with a pride they hadn’t known they had—for their homeworld, for this moment.

People behind the speaker jostled, as if desperate to speak too.
But every time Hexin glanced over, they fell quiet—nervous, bashful.

Hexin chuckled and nodded.

“This is my first time here.
Didn’t expect to stumble in on a festival.
Seems like my luck’s pretty good.”

Even if no one else said anything, Hexin could read it in their expressions.
They reminded him of the audience reactions during god of gods back on Blue Star—the kinds of comments that had poor Ah Wei “dying” again and again in streaming bullet chat.

Xia Ze tried several times to step in, but he had the worst luck.
Every time, someone accidentally elbowed or edged him out of the circle.
And just like that, a full 3S-class warrior couldn’t even get a word in.

The gathered crowd was mostly young.
At first, they’d been overwhelmed.
But without knowing who Hexin was, their nerves began to settle—replaced by awe and enthusiasm.

“C-Can I take a photo with you?
I swear I won’t post it anywhere!”

“That outfit suits you so well.
I’ve never seen embroidery that detailed—it’s not of this world.”

“Are you… from the Celestials?
One of the sun god’s creations?”

In an age this open, these kids were actually being… restrained.
None of them had ever been this polite while flirting before—every word, every punctuation mark, felt deliberately chosen.
And yet they couldn’t help it.

They had to act this way.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” a girl said, clear-voiced.
Then she coughed awkwardly, dialing her tone down to something gentler.
“Your attire and markings… they carry the sunwheel motif.
So are you… maybe… a follower of the sun god?”

“—Mind your manners!” Xia Ze finally forced his way back in, stern and urgent.
He looked like he wanted to apologize, but couldn’t figure out how to phrase it with so many civilians around.
And he clearly didn’t know whether to reveal Hexin’s identity or not.

“It’s alright,” Hexin said with a smile. He thought a moment.
“Let’s just say… the sun god and I have a slightly closer relationship than follower and deity.”

“Huh?” the girl blinked in confusion, then earnestly said:
“You really would make the perfect embodiment of the sun god.
Truly—no one in the world could play the role better than you.”

“‘gods’ stand-ins are the performers who play the roles of the gods during the festival,” Xia Ze explained quietly, his expression turning oddly complicated. “I mentioned it briefly before.”

And really, the girl hadn’t said anything wrong. In fact, from a certain point of view, it made perfect sense—who could possibly portray the sun god better than the sun god himself? Being your own double… now that was unbeatable.

Hexin didn’t mind either way, but after being jostled and fawned over for quite a while, Xia Ze insisted on pulling him away from the crowd. Hexin figured if the festivalgoers hadn’t been so determined to maintain their composure in his presence, they probably would’ve launched into round two of the fan-on-warrior melee by now.

“If you’re interested in the ceremony, you can stand here,” Xia Ze said, guiding Hexin to a high cliff overlooking the city. “From this angle, you can see the whole thing clearly.”

The cliff extended out into open air, giving them a perfect vantage point directly above the festival stage. The view of the celebration below was unobstructed.

Hexin was, in fact, curious. He’d heard they would be performing myth-based stage plays—and he wanted to see how someone else would portray the sun god. What would their version look like? Did they spend hours on costume and makeup too?

While his thoughts drifted lazily, he asked offhandedly, “You seem to know a lot about all this. Have you been part of the festival before?”

“…I once auditioned to be a god stand-in.”

Hexin looked over. “Didn’t get the part?”

Xia Ze answered, voice dry. “I wasn’t good enough.”

Hexin raised a brow. A warrior capable of conquering the Divine Domain solo wasn’t “good enough”? If he wasn’t, then no one was. But considering the reverence for gods in this world, being a stand-in must’ve been an extremely competitive role. Probably politics or something underhanded got in the way.

Xia Ze looked embarrassed enough already. Hexin didn’t press further.

A cold wind from the snowfields swept across the cliff. Snowflakes spiraled down from the sky and melted into the city below. The flowing crowds filled the streets with warmth and noise, waking the quiet capital from its slumber and plunging it into an unprecedented revelry.

The play began.

It was clear the production team had gone all out—every detail, from the costumes to the makeup, had been painstakingly researched. Sure, it didn’t perfectly match the “real” thing as Hexin remembered it, but the essence was there. From the symbols and silhouettes, he could easily guess which actor was playing which god.

—The story was about a hero. One chosen by fate, who had to pass twenty-four harrowing trials before earning the right to meet the gods. Each trial demanded the defeat of a monstrous beast. During the final challenge, on the brink of death, the hero was saved—when the sun god descended from the heavens to help him slay the last creature.

They were at the final act now. The moment everyone had been waiting for.

The sun god appeared.

A youth in golden robes stepped onto the stage, a bow slung over his back and a sunwheel symbol etched across his forehead.

Just by standing there, the actor quieted the entire crowd. Moments earlier they had been cheering wildly for the hero’s struggles. Now, they fell into awed silence.

—This was their “supreme god,” come to earth.

The stand-in raised his bow. It was a prop, but a damn impressive one—meticulously crafted, regal in form. Under carefully positioned stage lights, the illusion took hold: this was the legendary shot said to “shatter stars” in the old myths. Anticipation burned in every pair of eyes.

Hexin nodded to himself. Yup. Interstellar era. Visual effects: 10/10. Music: 10/10. Atmosphere? Nailed it.

But just then, the communicator in Xia Ze’s pocket shrieked to life.

He fumbled to silence it, but the voice on the other end was already shouting in raw panic.

“Xia Ze, it’s bad—really bad!! The Celestials have run into a massive ambush by Abyssal creatures in the B7 sector! It’s ugly—our projections say they’ll activate Open Heaven in five minutes!!”

The sudden transmission clashed violently with the joyful festival atmosphere—like a blade tearing through silk.

“Red-level alert across the entire starfield! Any planet on a skill trajectory must evacuate immediately! As a 3S warrior, we need your assistance now to divert Baihe Star’s orbit!”

Open Heaven—an ultimate divine technique. A shot that could pierce entire planets. Even among god-made races, it was feared, revered—utterly unstoppable.

It was happening so fast.

In this age, planetary orbit redirection wasn’t rare technology. But for a poor planet like Baihe Star, it was still a heavy and risky move. One mistake, and they’d become collateral damage in a war between gods—another nameless casualty in a fight too big for them to matter.

Xia Ze shot to his feet, about to respond—

But a calm voice interrupted him.

“Give me the coordinates of the combat zone.”

He turned, stunned.

The golden figure raised one hand, as if gathering something unseen—no, he was gathering something.
He plucked a strand of sunlight from the air and wove it into a bow.

A bow unlike any other.

It shimmered with golden dust, flawless in shape, flawless in form. The limbs and string gleamed as if forged from pure light—no mortal hand could’ve crafted it. Before this bow, every other bow was just scrap wood.

Hexin turned toward Xia Ze again, repeating gently, “Give me the coordinates.”

Technically, the bow wasn’t the sun god’s usual weapon. Hexin had just seen the guy onstage using one and thought it looked cool.

But Xia Ze… couldn’t even hear the communicator anymore.

All he could see was him—the figure in gold.

The wind lifted his robes like fluttering golden wings. His hair streamed like fire, eyes narrowed in a spark of interest—like sunlight painted onto a still canvas. Perfection so divine, so untouchable, it didn’t feel real.

Something blazed in Xia Ze’s chest. A fire. A tidal wave of reverence, awe, and something dangerously close to worship.

Down below, the stage stand-in drew his bow, earning another round of deafening cheers from the crowd—none of them aware of the very real, very immediate crisis speeding toward them from across the stars.

And above them all, on the cliff—

The real sun god raised his bow.

And in a moment known only to one man—the lone warrior who understood what was truly happening—
they let go.
Together.