Niagara Falls devours the reflection of the crescent moon. On the dim shore, Eris trembles as he points at Sun Xue, "You're the ones who force him into a dead end!"
"If we don't become doctors or lawyers," Xue replies, "how do we survive in your world?"
The storm whips Eris's body like a scourge. He grabs a rope thick with mud, knots one end around the railing—and leaps into the abyss of the falls.
…
Orian awakens beside a porthole in the ship's cabin.
Outside, a dragon airship spirals upward, circling a Glass Divine Tree that pierces the clouds. He turns his head. A boy in a golden military uniform lounges against a crystal pillar. A slender crystal rod rests between the boy's lips as he exhales shimmering bubbles laced with magic. His blond hair falls neatly, half-veiling glimmers of golden scales beneath his skin. His blue eyes hold the weight of unfinished memories.
Orian blurts out, "Iris?!"
The boy spits the crystal rod onto the floor and crushes it under his boot. The crack echoes sharply. He strides forward, circles Orian once, then pries open his eyelids, studying the pupils buried in violet irises that burn like living constellations.
"Violet eyes. Impossible." He turns toward the upper deck, then glances back with icy disdain. "Muddoll. Don't follow me."
"I'm Yuyan!" Two automatons of ice and fire seal the stairway.
Orian turns—and slips.
Crystal beads scatter beneath his feet. Gravity takes hold. He plunges downward. Below him sleeps a colossal dragon, its body armored in blade-like spines.
In freefall, Orian looks up—and meets Iris's gaze as the boy looks down at him.
The Kunpeng ring on Iris's finger glimmers. Golden light surges. Wings of radiant gold burst from his back. He launches himself from the stair's edge, seizes Orian's arm, and snaps, "Muddoll—what do you eat to be this heavy?"
Before the words finish forming, Iris twists with the momentum and hurls Orian upward. Orian slams onto the second deck.
There, he sees the chosen mud children imprisoned in iron cages etched with runes. Spikes pierce their flesh. Blood streaks the floor. A fragile nursery rhyme trembles through the ship's hollow interior.
Following the song, Orian stops before one cage.
Inside, Belly kneels, singing softly, clutching Howie against her chest.
"Orian," she says, gripping his hand through the bars. Blood slips from her small fingers and stains his skin.
"Now… only you can save us."
She points toward the sleeping dragon at the center of the cages. A ring of keys hangs from one of its horns.
A mechanical dragonfly settles into her hair. She brushes it away. Orian, however, is caught by her eyes—each meeting feels like flowers quietly blooming in the dark.
He moves swiftly, precisely. He lifts the keys from the dragon's horn. The dragon's scales writhe. They unravel into countless slender purple centipedes, crawling toward him.
Orian dodges in panic and unlocks the cages. Belly's eyes flare with snowstorm light. Ice floods outward, freezing the centipedes mid-motion. Hundreds of children surge free, stumbling, shoving, spilling toward the portholes.
They crowd against the glass. Beyond the hull lies no longer the purple-mud world veiled by cyan branches, but a vast, radiant galaxy.
Orian looks up. On the upper railing stands the boy in the golden uniform, laughing lightly with James and Liam. Beneath his flawless face flickers arrogance—cold amusement, as though he watches a circus from a velvet seat.
A chill coils in Orian's chest. Is this boy truly the Iris who once stood beside him in childhood? Or does this world contain two identical shells housing utterly foreign souls?
In the glass, Iris's reflection watches him—aloof, distant. Belly follows Orian's gaze. Her eyes sharpen. "Those demigods have always despised us."
In an instant, skeletal electronic dragonflies pour from the shadows and the void, hovering beside every child.
A dragon ship attendant approaches with a crystal tray, head bowed. Red wine gleams. The young demigods accept gilded goblets, cast Orian a cursory glance, and draw the curtains shut.
One by one, the children squeeze through the portholes and tumble onto the deck, gasping at the towering, mysterious tree beyond.
In the shadows, a lone boy falls straight from the ship.
Belly rests her hand on Orian's shoulder, "At least Adam has the courage to jump."
The dragon airship drifts like a lost orphan, circling the Glass Divine Tree.
Orian stands transfixed by its immensity, wondering what kind of nourishment births something so radiant, so vast. A drifting leaf brushes his fingers—cool, crystalline, as though made of glass.
He turns back. Children scramble over scattered magic pastries. Mechanical dragonflies return. Hunger and curiosity pull him forward.
A glowing magic crystal egg rolls to his feet. He lifts it, studying the intricate runes trembling beneath moonlight.
He looks up and sees Iris seated by the window, fingers gliding across a glowing screen.
Understanding settles in his chest like ash. The face from his childhood belongs to a stranger from another world.
In his hands, the magic egg seems to look back at him, wearing a faint, mocking smile.
Above, children of divine blood toss down more magic treats. The mud children dive again into chaos.
Without warning, Wayne snatches the crystal egg from Orian's grasp. Iris laughs softly. A crimson curtain slides shut. He vanishes into the fading glass-lit glow.
Orian lies on the filthy deck, hands folded beneath his head, staring into the sea of stars—as if they illuminate a homeland buried deep within his soul.
Belly curls beside him, trembling, shrinking inward. She no longer resembles a girl, but a lark torn from thorns—wings shattered, yet unbowed.
Orian clasps her icy fingers, trying to pass on a fragment of warmth. She is fragile. She is unyielding. A plum blossom blooming alone in winter.
A blanket drifts down and wraps around them.
Orian looks up. Iris has already turned away. Only his voice remains: "Don't freeze to death before we even get there."