"Uncle... did you just agree to that?"
Nangong Wu's voice cracked like glass under tension. Her eyes were wide, disbelief clouding her usual calm.
She had played out a dozen ways this might go—offers rejected, negotiations drawn, even bribes. But Wang Xian had accepted. Just like that. No demands. No hesitation.
Worse—he seemed amused.
Wang Xian tilted his head. "You look like I just proposed to you."
"You... just said yes without asking for anything," she said, stunned. "Do you even know what you're agreeing to?"
"Joining your guild. You asked, I answered. What's the problem?"
Nangong Wu blinked. "But... but you—"
"You want to say I'm too valuable to give away that easily?"
He smiled, and she hated how smug it was. "Well, you're not wrong."
"You bastard," she muttered, but there was no heat in it. Only confusion.
"I get it," Wang Xian said casually, lifting a teacup. "I'm a limited-edition legendary drop, and you're afraid someone else would get to me first."
Su Jin leaned over from across the table. "Legendary? Please. You're a common mob who drops ego on death."
The room cracked with laughter.
Even Nangong Wu's lips twitched.
"Don't forget," Cheng Yao added with a grin, "Uncle once declared himself the most beautiful man on Blue Star."
"I stand by it," Wang Xian replied without shame. "One day, you'll all regret doubting my handsomeness."
"You're delusional," Yue Rushuang muttered, deadpan.
Wang Xian just grinned, picking up his chopsticks. "You'll all see. Soon I'll be too radiant to look directly at."
"God help us," someone murmured.
But under the banter, under the warmth of shared food and laughter, a tension lingered. The sky beyond the restaurant window had turned bruised-purple. A storm of ghosts loomed just beyond the veil.
And time was running out.
Later, after the table had been cleared and the light from the restaurant dimmed, Nangong Wu asked again—quieter this time.
"Why not build your own guild?"
Wang Xian sipped tea that had long since gone cold. "Because I hate paperwork."
Nangong Wu raised a brow.
"Think about it," he said. "Politics. Alliances. Traders demanding better commissions. Children crying about loot rolls. No thanks."
"But you could lead," she said.
"I don't want to lead. I want to change the game without becoming part of its machinery."
He looked at her then—really looked—and his voice softened. "You've got the head and spine for it. I'll lend you my shadow when you need it. That's more than enough."
Nangong Wu felt her heart jolt. Just a little. She covered it with a scoff.
"You mean I get the world's strongest AFK player?"
"Exactly."
Midnight.
The world shifted.
A yellow-gold river unfurled through the sky—cutting through cities, forests, and ruins. It flowed slow and dreamlike, curling and winding through the heavens.
Its waters shimmered with starlight and something older—something sad.
Wherever you were in the Dragon Kingdom, you could see it.
You could feel it.
"The Soul River lighting event has begun. Duration: ten minutes."
The system prompt rang in the ears of every player.
In the silence that followed, no one spoke.
This was not just a festival event.
This was a ritual.
Wang Xian stood at the window, watching the slow drift of that impossible river. His reflection hovered in the glass, faint and flickering.
Then he turned back to his interface, opened the event shop, and purchased a 100-point river lantern.
It appeared in his inventory: a small ancient-style Lou Chuan lantern—shaped like a houseboat, only the size of his palm.
He held it delicately.
Inside the miniature windows, tiny painted figures waited in frozen stillness.
He knelt beside the translucent river, opened his hand, and released it.
The lantern floated upward, shimmering, and settled into the Soul River like it belonged there. A soft blue glow lit up within the cabin, and the tiny figures stirred.
They stood. Bowed toward Wang Xian.
Then turned.
And vanished downstream.
Behind him, the others did the same.
Nangong Wu, Yue Rushuang, Feng Luoli... each offered their lanterns to the river.
Cheng Yao whispered a prayer over hers.
Only Su Jin broke the silence.
Of course.
She released a 1,000-point lantern—an elaborate lotus the size of a serving tray, glowing gold from within.
"Subtle," Wang Xian muttered.
"I'm honoring my ancestors," Su Jin replied. "You're just being cheap."
"Your ancestors would want you to save that for mana potions."
Su Jin flipped him off. But quietly.
As the lanterns floated away—one by one—a hush fell over the world.
In that moment, no one fought.
No one leveled.
No one chased titles or points or glory.
They just watched the lanterns drift into the beyond, like tiny souls returning home.
And in the distance—so faint it barely registered—a mournful flute began to play.
Somewhere, the Ghost King stirred.
And the dead remembered the living.