Those beautiful beings probably didn’t even realize what they looked like now—
Not until they lifted a hand and touched their cheek, confused,
only to find something warm and wet that had never been there before.

…What is this?

It came from the most fragile part of the body—the eyes.
It was mostly water.
Technically, the fluid loss wouldn’t affect combat readiness.
But something about it sent a jolt through them.
Like being struck in the soul.
Like something inside them had cracked.

These Celestials were all part of the new generation—born after the beginning of the Star Epoch.
So they didn’t understand what this feeling meant.
Only that the heat rising inside them was unbearable.
And if they didn’t find a way to release it soon,
they might very well lose their minds.

Emotions surged.
And for a few long seconds, they were silent.

Then—wings flapped. Hesitant. Lost.

Expressionless, and still with tears streaking their faces, they spoke:

“Unidentified malfunction detected:
Heart rate exceeding tolerance threshold.
Abnormal respiration.
Loss of limb strength.
Thought processing system has forcibly shut down.
Combat unviable. Requesting treatment.”

The Celestials were powerful.
And astonishingly indifferent to survival.
A fact not widely known—or perhaps, too unbelievable to accept.

But it was true:
Unless given explicit orders, when injured beyond repair, they usually just… gave up.
“It’s fine. I’ll just die here.”
If no one came to retrieve them, they would quietly expire where they fell.

This was especially true for the new generation.
They were born lacking something—
an unfillable void in their souls.
Apathy. Disconnection. No desire to reach for others.

So this…
This was their first time asking for help.

And it all began with that golden arrow.

When it had streaked past them—its light annihilating the abyssal monsters—it had felt like it swallowed them too.
Something ancient stirred deep within their eternal cores.
An overwhelming desire.

To draw closer. To see clearly. To live—just long enough to reach it.

That awakening spread like wildfire through the entire species.

“Medical division has received the distress signal. Engaging response…”

Inside their internal comms, the battlefield remained eerily orderly.
Outwardly, everything seemed composed.

But then—

“Report—medical division experiencing same malfunction. Unable to maintain function. Requesting support from logistics.”

“Logistics has entered irregular emotional state. High fever, arrhythmia. Currently appealing to the recon division.”

“Recon has lost the ability to speak. Signal rerouted to vanguard.”

Vanguard: “…”

As the first to encounter the golden arrow, the vanguard team had already spiritually perished.
They said nothing. Their silence was eloquent.

And so the blame rolled through the network like a boulder,
finally landing on the team leader’s shoulders.

This leader was a young Celestial with glacial blue eyes—
an elite among the new generation, and one of the current king’s most trusted generals.

Those ice-blue eyes had once struck fear into entire factions that dared oppose the Celestials.
But now, surrounded by countless comrades waiting for a decision…

He knew he had to act.

He flew toward the arrow.

It still hovered over the battlefield, patrolling like a vigilant sentinel.
It showed no reaction to the approaching Celestial.
Of course it didn’t.
It was a divine weapon, made by a god—
It acknowledged only the sun god.

Even the Celestials, though born of the same creator, were nothing to it.

No, worse—
They were living beings.
And it was not.
It viewed them with even greater scrutiny, sharper edge.

As he drew nearer, the light surrounding the arrow flared.
The pressure was suffocating.

The Celestial let out a quiet, choked breath.
His eyes, usually colder than any glacial sea, now shimmered like a sky washed clean by rain.

And then, without hesitation—
he reached out and grabbed it.

Arrow: …?!

Arrow: I’VE BEEN DEFILED.

This… wasn’t how it was supposed to go!

Shouldn’t they be worshipping it, praising it, reverently avoiding even brushing against it?!
Shouldn’t they be treating it like some sacred relic?!

But of course not.

The Celestials had had enough.

The aura wrapped around the arrow gave them no peace—only torment.
It was like drinking poison just to survive one more hour.

Please.
Take us to him.

Those blue eyes—like a drowning man clutching at a weed growing at the water’s edge—
spoke their final, desperate prayer.

The arrow shone, blazing brighter than ever.
Its heat could have incinerated any mortal.

But the Celestial held fast, undeterred.

Far away, the god sighed.

“Fine. Bring them.”

Even from a distance, Hexin could sense everything through the arrow’s link.

It wasn’t surprising.
He’d predicted this might happen the moment he released it.

After all, according to the lore, god-forged races often had deep, intrinsic connections to their creators.
Some couldn’t even survive without them.

So the Celestials reacting this way?
Totally expected.

Besides, Hexin hadn’t forgotten his ultimate goal: collecting faith.

Through recent testing, he’d discovered that when the sun god interacted with his followers directly, the rate of belief intake increased by ten to a thousand times.

It was like the difference between admiring a celebrity through a screen…
and standing face to face, shaking their hand.
Adrenaline. Instant system jackpot.

And Celestials?

Their faith value was off the charts from the start.
Not to mention, saving a bunch of starship crews had already netted him a hefty windfall.

Frankly, if he weren’t in a rush, he probably wouldn’t need to do anything.
The faith points would roll in on their own.
All his character cards would unlock in time.

Hexin: Sigh… being unbeatable is so lonely.jpg.

That said, while Celestials were fast, they weren’t arrows.
And they weren’t Sun City.

Getting here would still take them about an hour.

Hexin decided to kill some time—and finish touring the festival.

Xia Ze volunteered as a guide, leading Hexin down from the cliff and into the city centre.

They wandered through alleys and crowded streets.
To avoid drawing too much attention again, Hexin bought a mask—
one of those abstract ceremonial styles used during worship rituals.

It was painted with the iconic sunwheel,
splashed in vivid, radiant colors—
perfectly fitting for someone dressed as the “sun god.”

Along the way, Hexin saw rows of food stalls.
According to Xia Ze, Baihe Star cuisine was usually mild.
But during the Primordial Festival, everything got bold—heavily spiced, richly flavoured.

The reason?

“They say the scent travels farther that way,” Xia Ze explained.
“Might catch the attention of a passing god.”

And weirdly enough, that belief had real roots.
In the mythic era, it wasn’t uncommon for gods to wander the mortal world.
Stranger things had happened.

Unfortunately for Hexin, the sun god didn’t fall under that category of divine beings—he was essentially a walking solar battery, a living power bank who could photosynthesize his way through eternity without ever feeling hungry.

As the festival continued, they watched the grand float parade roll by.
Each float represented a specific god and was arranged with meticulous care—every material, every design element, every ornament had historical meaning or mythic precedent.

Xia Ze helped shield him from the crowd while explaining warmly:

“Baihe Star, like most planets, bases its interpretations on A Cultural Overview of Divine-Era Ritual Practices—a 42-volume series. It’s the most comprehensive and authoritative text in the galaxy.
If you’re interested, the god academy would be happy to gift you a set.”

Hexin: “…No thanks.”
Truly, this brave warrior of Baihe Star was the type to gift his nephew an entire set of summer homework.

Among the long procession of floats, Hexin spotted the one representing the sun god immediately—
Of course.
Everyone knew how flashy he was.
It was hands-down the shiniest, most dazzling float in the parade.

Standing atop it was the same god stand-in from before, showering the crowd with petals from some unknown golden flower.
People surged forward like drought-stricken villagers greeting their first rainfall in years.

The sun god’s float inched closer, slowly approaching Hexin’s position through a tide of joyous chaos.

Right then, a street vendor took his chance and shouted,

“Amulets for sale—!”

The pitch was no different than any other seller in the business: blessed with divine light, imbued with mysterious power, guaranteed to keep you safe and lucky.

And when he mentioned that these amulets were blessed by the sun god himself, Xia Ze turned, expression flickering with something between horror and disbelief.

The vendor, noticing his attention, instantly honed in, determined to close the sale.

Xia Ze: “…”

The warrior glanced at the masked Hexin, unable to read his expression but terrified he might’ve been offended.
And yet, arguing with a civilian in the presence of a god felt unspeakably rude.

His soul practically twisted into knots.

But Hexin wasn’t angry—far from it.
In fact, he was starting to understand why the writers of god of gods loved making deities sneak into mortal society in disguise.
This realm was a goldmine—teeming with side quests and unexplored subplots.
Honestly, he was considering leaning into it and seeing how many new believers he could recruit.

The vendor, sharp-eyed, noticed Xia Ze’s concern and quickly guessed who the real “VIP” was.

“Buy one, get the second half off!”

Xia Ze: “…I’m dying.”

Seeing that his warrior was about to spontaneously combust, Hexin sighed lightly and said:

“I’ll take one.”

Xia Ze: “…?! Wait, you—”

Hexin sifted through the trinkets and selected one.
Under the vendor’s radiant smile, he asked casually,

“So, what’s the typical function of a sun god-blessed charm?”

The vendor didn’t even hesitate:

“The sun god represents warmth and light, so naturally, the best meaning is peace, joy, and a brilliant future!”

Hexin smiled. “Well said.”

He turned to Xia Ze.

“Hand.”

Stunned, the warrior instinctively held out his palm.

Hexin placed the charm into it and said slowly, his voice gentle, unwavering:

“Then may you have peace, joy, and a brilliant future.”

The charm lit up in his hand.

Originally, Xia Ze had been fated to live a bitter, obscure life—a loyal but unremarkable warrior.
One day, during a mission, he would die without a sound.

But now—
A god had altered the course of his fate.

In the unseen depths of the universe, threads of destiny twisted and tangled.
Among them, one that was once doomed to snap was now rewoven with light.
And at that moment, a tiny “sunflower” bloomed from the light—symbol of divine blessing—its delicate stem stretching toward the sun, carrying with it vitality, defiance, and radiant hope.

He couldn’t see it.
But he could feel it.

As a 3S-level warrior, Xia Ze’s mental sensitivity surpassed that of most people.
And now, it surged.

His body trembled as he stared at the man before him—
Mental energy spilled uncontrollably, for the first time in his life, in waves.

The vendor had just been marveling at the glowing charm.
He hadn’t even opened his mouth before Xia Ze’s explosive aura hit him—
an invisible pressure, suffocating and overwhelming.

His face flushed red.
Whatever he meant to say lodged in his throat.
Even the rising commotion in the crowd grew distant—

“Look! The Celestials! The Celestials actually came to Baihe Star—!!”

“Is it because today’s the Primordial Festival? But every planet has one! Even the Class-8 planets nearby host bigger ones! Why us?!”

“Who cares—this is amazing!”

And it was amazing.

Politically, the rulers of the starfield had just descended onto their world.
It might go down as a moment that forever changed Baihe Star’s history.

On a personal level…
These people couldn’t even afford a ticket to the Central Starzone,
and yet today, they were standing before beings that even the Central elite rarely laid eyes on—

The Celestials.
Creations of the gods.
Followers of the sun.
Living legends.

But Hexin paid them no mind.
He watched the sun god float roll right up to him.

It was on rails—an AI-guided route planned long before.
Even a divine disruption couldn’t reroute it instantly.
But by sheer coincidence, it stopped right in front of him.

Hexin smiled in satisfaction.

He looked up at the stand-in on the float—who looked like he was about to faint from panic—and asked, politely:

“Still tossing petals? I’d like one, if you don’t mind.”

The stand-in stared at him, dazed.

His mind was collapsing.

Everyone with half a brain knew who the Celestials’ creator was.

And while being a “stand-in” was a perfectly legitimate religious role meant to honour the gods—

Playing a god in front of the actual god’s creation?!
This was social death of the highest order.

Worse:
Why the hell were the Celestials flying directly toward him?!

Hexin studied the stand-in’s expression and, sensing the man had fully glitched, retracted his hand in disappointment.
Then he casually removed his mask.

This was, after all, the first real reunion with his creations.
He figured he ought to show a little respect.

But the moment the stand-in saw his face—he froze.

His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

No sound came out.

His cheeks twitched violently.

Hexin: …?
Weren’t the teens earlier totally chill when they saw him?

System: You sure about that?

Hexin would never know just how much a proper god stand-in was expected to understand about the deity they portrayed.

Of course, he wouldn’t really care, either.

His thoughts were simpler:

“Well, the Celestials are here now. There’s no point hiding.
Might as well go public, farm some faith points.
Besides, this whole incognito thing? That’s just for fun.
And I’ve had my fun.”

So—
Faced with two options:

[1] Tearfully reunite in the middle of the street, under everyone’s gaze
[2] Dramatically cut to the next scene

Hexin, without hesitation, chose option two.

He summoned his Sun City.