Hexin had gotten the hang of things by now. He moved through the process of soothing—shearing—subduing the dazed Celestials with practiced ease. They were still in a stupor after the monumental shock, but he guided them like a master conductor, each step precise.

By the time Xia Zie went to check in again, the once intimidating kill squad—who not long ago radiated a cold, murderous aura—now looked like they’d just downed several vats of aged wine. Their snow-covered faces were tinged with a faint blush, wings tucked obediently behind them, trailing after Hexin like docile ducklings.

The most elite of the Celestials had been brought into a glorious, wholesome reunion. A beautiful story had reached its satisfying end. If someone were to add a final flourish—“And so the god and his birds took flight from the chaos of the world, to live happily ever after”—it would be the perfect fairy-tale ending.

But—

That didn’t happen.

Now gathered, the Celestials locked eyes with one another, and finally remembered someone. Someone who should’ve been central all along but had remained completely nameless and absent up to this point.

They remembered because anything related to the sun god now triggered an extreme sensitivity in them—and so, inevitably, they recalled the one Celestial who stood apart from them all.

Their king.

Minta broke the silence: “Did any of you report the god’s return to the king?”

“No.” ×4.

A neat little row of rejections. Minta’s tone instantly sharpened: “This is a major event. I can’t believe you all just…”

“But,” one of them pointed out with wide eyes, “the vanguard didn’t report it either.”

Minta: “…”

A stab straight to the heart.

They looked around at each other, faces pale. Ten years of this—ten whole years like ants marching—and not one of them had thought to report back. By now, their king was probably the last being in the entire universe to know the sun god had returned.

And they knew what kind of person their king was.

All of them, awakened by the return of the sun god, felt a collective chill run through their wings.

…Oh no. We’re screwed.

On the other side of things, Xia Zie was telling Hexin that Baihe Star had already submitted the report about the sun god’s appearance. In fact, he had checked with Hexin beforehand. Only after Hexin confirmed he didn’t mind, had Xia Zie allowed Baihe Star to proceed with the announcement.

Hexin had no objections. Faith points and notoriety weren’t the same thing, after all. But if people still thought of the sun god as “missing” or “asleep,” then even the most devout belief would be tinged with doubt and hesitation—that was not the kind of faith he wanted.

“Forgive my intrusion, but if I may ask…” Minta, having waited for Hexin to finish speaking, now stepped forward hesitantly. His lips were tight. “How long ago was it submitted?”

Xia Zie blinked, a little flattered. Everyone knew Celestials couldn’t be bothered with humans, let alone speak so politely. But then he noticed Hexin smiling approvingly, and the nervous, slightly proud expressions on the Celestials’ faces.

Ah.

This wasn’t just communication.

—They were doing it because it was what their god wanted.

Even if they weren’t used to it, they were trying.

Xia Zie was genuinely moved. “About an hour ago,” he answered sincerely.

The speed was thanks in part to Mid-tier Star’s panicked damage control. The moment they realized the Celestials had really descended upon Baihe Star, Mid-tier Star knew they’d seriously messed up. All their past skepticism came back to bite them. What regret, what self-loathing, what pounding of chests and gnashing of teeth—none of it could undo the shame.

The descent of the sun god was a thunderclap, a blinding light. In that moment, they saw a future where this barren starfield could rise anew. They wanted—no, needed—the whole universe to know the sun god had come here. Baihe Star itself wasn’t even half as excited as they were.

So Mid-tier Star did something drastic. They activated their emergency broadcast channel—something usually reserved for moments of planetary apocalypse. If even one person missed the news, they’d feel like they’d lost a billion credits in faith equity. Just the thought gave them palpitations.

They couldn’t let that happen.

And so, it spread. Like a virus.

From surrounding sectors to the border zone and then out toward the far reaches of the central starfield, the news took flight. Reactions varied. Some higher-tier planets, like Mid-tier Star before them, responded with skepticism. Others—especially those with volatile reactions to anything mysterious—went nuclear.

—“Last time someone claimed to have found the relic of the war god, I took my entire legion out there, almost died on the way, didn’t even complain! If it had really been a relic, even just a fragment, I’d have said it was worth it! But no—it was a cheap synthetic fake, just to scam a support policy!”

—“Sure, I’ll believe you if you say some B-tier god showed up. Hell, even a C-tier. But you’re telling me the supreme god has returned? You trying to get hunted down by one of the true faith cults that still follow the highest gods? They’ll tear you apart!”

—“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again—trying to legislate matters of divine mystery is completely unworkable. How many times has something like this happened? We need to revisit this at the next starfield council meeting. Either overhaul the laws or scrap them altogether!”

Now, Mid-tier Star finally understood how Baihe Star must’ve felt.

In the endless, vast expanse of space, someone like them—small, marginal, insignificant—had no say. They couldn’t influence the flow of discourse, power, or belief.

But right then, the troops returning from the alien warfront—those who had seen Hexin loose that arrow with their own eyes—arrived back home.

Naturally, they wasted no time. They skipped all formal reporting protocols and just ran to their commanders, shouting over one another, their words like cannon fire. The commanders were stunned, overwhelmed. And to prove they weren’t just delirious, the troops submitted battlefield footage recorded by their starships.

Yes, the video was shaky and grainy, but it didn’t matter. That flash of golden light—the sudden, divine arrow—was unmistakable. Whether it was halting the Open Heaven attack in a single strike, cutting down legions of alien beasts, or the Celestials chasing after it with all their might—it was all there, caught on film.

And so the starfield went quiet.

Then, moments later, it exploded.

“Quick, where’s the original report?! Which planet was the sun god said to descend upon? Did they list coordinates? Is that region under protection—what do you mean it got shredded?! Who told you to shred it?! …I told you to shred it?! I…!”

 “…So, is there still a digital copy?”
Please, I’m begging you, send it to me. Thank you.

By the time a rare dual-format (paper and electronic) declaration finally made it to an imperial-grade planet—having crawled its way there through all sorts of secretive backchannels—the price of spaceship tickets to Baihe Star had already been hiked up hundreds of times on the black market and completely sold out.

The king of the Celestials: #I really am the last one in the universe to find out#

Xia Zie pointed down the cliff. “They say a lot of people want to come and see the place where the divine miracle happened. I just got word from the academy—they’re scrambling to open more flight routes and are in contact with us now to coordinate everything.”

Hexin blinked. “I guess… this counts as a good thing?”

Xia Zie smiled, his gaze on the golden figure filled with a kind of awe one might reserve for a rising sun. “Of course it’s a good thing. You probably don’t know this, but until recently, public ships only passed by Baihe Star once a month. From now on, it might just become the transportation hub of this entire sector.”

Hexin’s expression must’ve betrayed some disbelief—this is a bit much—because Xia Zie chuckled even brighter.

“And that’s not even the craziest part. They’re seriously considering turning this place into a 5A-rated tourist site.”

Now Hexin was starting to understand. Still, to think that a single spur-of-the-moment appearance could cause this level of reaction—and that it might one day evolve into some wildly embellished tour guide tale… No. Stop. gods do not require shame!

Xia Zie added, “And this is all happening under one condition—nobody knows yet that you’re still on this planet.”

If people found out that the sun god hadn’t left, and that he was treating this world as something of a base of operations… then in a practical sense, it would be no different from those legendary planets under divine protection. Only this time, the protector was a supreme god.

Hard to even imagine the fallout if that secret got out. It wouldn’t just be Baihe Star—it’d be entire star systems losing their minds in every possible way.

Hexin considered this, then gave Xia Zie a subtle warning. “It’s going to get livelier around here soon.”

Xia Zie nodded cheerfully, throwing a glance at the Celestials nearby who looked like they had something to say but kept holding back. “Mm. Definitely!”

Hexin: …That’s not what I meant.

He wasn’t talking about the Celestials, or about all the other people who’d be arriving soon for various reasons. What he meant was—

He was about to unlock a new character card.

He hadn’t expected it to happen so fast. But just now, the system had notified him that his faith bar was nearly full again.

It was a long bar divided into segments. When Hexin first arrived in this universe, the first segment was already maxed out—that was the result of his performance as the sun god in god of gods before transmigrating. That single full bar had been enough to unlock the sun god role.

Now, the second segment was almost topped up too.

It only needed a final push. Truthfully, even if he did nothing, the steady faith income provided by the Celestials might be enough to max it out by tomorrow.

Xia Zie stared into the divine brightness of Hexin’s eyes and couldn’t help saying, “You look really happy.”

“Mm.” Hexin caught himself before saying more. Considering that each supreme god had their own complicated relationships, he wasn’t sure yet whether the character he was about to unlock would be a friend or rival of the sun god persona he currently wore.

So he chose a diplomatic explanation: “Because someone I know is coming.”

Xia Zie looked puzzled, but the Celestials, who’d been holding their breath for a while, all seemed to relax visibly.

“That’s great,” one of them said. “It means the god already knows.”

Hexin: “…?”

The Celestials flapped their wings once. “An hour should be more than enough for the king to receive the message and arrive.”

Given how far Baihe Star was from the central star region where the imperial-grade planets lay, their king would have had to use the most advanced form of interstellar travel to make it here in time. It would involve consuming massive amounts of energy, ignoring all physical strain, and jumping through at least ten—possibly more—wormholes in rapid succession.

By all accounts, it was reckless, irrational, and completely inadvisable.

…Unless it involved the sun god.

That exception alone was enough. So when it actually happened, the only ones left confused were Xia Zie (visibly) and Hexin (internally). Everyone else stood quietly, as if they had expected nothing less.

A sudden gale howled across the landscape. An overwhelming force surged through the atmosphere of the planet in an instant—undeniable, commanding, and impossible to resist.

Then a figure descended from the heavens.

His feet never quite touched the ground, yet the area beneath him buckled and cracked as if struck by an invisible hammer, the sheer force of his presence warping space.

He unfurled his wings—and in that moment, everyone saw the difference.

Six wings.

Not four like the others. Six, each one razor-sharp like a blade, each one trailing a wake of spatial rifts. The residual force they carried could chill bone and shatter stone.

There was no need for introductions.

Everyone knew—

He was the king of the Celestials.