Far away from the mortal realm, past the layers of heavy spiritual clouds and deep within a sanctuary that transcended time itself, a man stood silently in front of a pristine, shimmering pond.
If anyone from the lower realms were to catch a glimpse of this individual, they would have dropped to their knees in absolute terror and reverence.
He was a Creator. A being possessing power so vast, so absolute, that he was practically a God.
He was breathtakingly majestic, yet there was a soft, gentle, and profoundly gorgeous aura around him that could soothe a raging storm.
Right now, however, he was looking down at the pond's surface, a soft, incredibly sad smile gracing his lips. It was a smile so thoroughly drenched in deep, lingering pain and unspoken agony that anyone witnessing it would have felt their own heart break in sympathy.
Why would a literal God look so miserable?
A small, familiar, floating orb of digital light materialized out of the ether, hovering quietly right beside the Creator's shoulder.
It was System 888, temporarily disconnected from its mortal host.
"You look so much in pain, Boss," the little System piped up, its mechanical voice carrying a distinct, almost childish tone of worry.
"Why is that? Does the Host truly possess such a monumental meaning to your heart?"
The Creator didn't turn his head. He kept his sorrowful eyes fixed on the ripples of the water, where the chaotic, panicked image of Xiu Liang was currently reflected.
"System 888," the Creator murmured, his voice as soft as a falling feather, yet echoing with a weight that felt ten thousand years old.
"Do you know why I created you out of all the possible designs in the universe?"
The little digital orb wobbled mid-air, shaking itself from side to side in an innocent, clueless gesture. It simply looked up at its majestic, powerful, yet heartbreakingly tender creator, waiting for an explanation.
"I created you... strictly because of him."
The system's internal programming momentarily glitched. It couldn't utter a single digital word. Out of all the infinite souls traversing the multiverse, its entire existence had been engineered for the sole purpose of tracking one specific, highly dramatic fifty-year-old soul.
"I am counting on you, System 888," the Creator pleaded softly, his voice trembling with a vulnerability that defied his godlike status.
"Please... protect him for me. Don't let him fade away."
Hearing the profound, desperate plea of its beloved master, the little System felt a sudden surge of absolute, unyielding loyalty override its basic code.
It aggressively flashed its digital screens, promising with every ounce of its operational processing power that it would execute its duty perfectly and never, ever disappoint its creator.
"You have to go back now, System 888," the Creator whispered, gently waving a pale hand over the space.
"He is going to need you."
With a soft *pop*, the mechanical orb disappeared into thin air, hurtling back down through the dimensions to rejoin its host.
Left alone in the silent sanctuary, the tragic God looked back down at the shimmering pond, watching the chaotic survival journey of the man he loved from afar.
=====°°°°°
The Imperial Spa Treatment of Terror
Back in the mortal realm, specifically within a private, lavishly decorated wing of the Crown Prince's palace, our protagonist was currently experiencing a severe existential crisis.
I was currently submerged up to my collarbones in a massive, carved marble bathtub filled with steaming, crystal-clear water.
The surface of the water was heavily littered with fragrant, high-tier spiritual flower petals that probably cost more than the entire city of Ye City.
And my face? My face currently possessed the exact shade and temperature of a perfectly boiled summer tomato.
I was dying of sheer, unadulterated embarrassment.
*I am a fifty-year-old soul!*
I screamed internally, squeezing my eyes shut as a small army of highly professional palace maidservants efficiently scrubbed my shoulders with silk sponges.
*A middle-aged man! I used to pay a mortgage! I have sat through grueling quarterly corporate performance reviews! How did I end up getting bathed like a prized show-pony by a group of teenage imperial servants?! This is a violation of my dignity!*
I had tried to resist at first. The absolute second they led me into the steaming chamber and started unbuttoning my dusty, clearance-rack tunic, I had jumped back like a startled cat, clutching my clothes and stammering out a frantic string of protests.
*"No, no! Sisters, please! I can wash myself! I am an expert bather! I have decades of experience soaping my own back! You don't need to do this!"*
But the lead maidservant had simply bowed with a terrifying, unblinking discipline, her voice deadpan as she delivered the ultimate shutdown:
*"This is the explicit command of His Imperial Highness, the Crown Prince. If the guest refuses to be thoroughly cleansed and prepared, this servant will be forced to report our failure, resulting in the immediate removal of our tongues and execution by the palace guard."*
The absolute whiplash of casual palace violence completely paralyzed me.
*They're going to lose their tongues?! Because I won't get into a bathtub?!*
I had thought, my jaw dropping.
*What kind of psychotic workplace environment is this?!*
Naturally, because I am a decent human being who doesn't want innocent people getting dismantled over a bit of soap, I immediately stopped fighting.
I climbed into the marble tub with all the enthusiasm of a medieval prisoner walking toward a guillotine, keeping my arms rigidly crossed over my chest while the maids went to work.
Once the aggressive scrubbing session concluded, they ushered me out of the water and began dressing me. And this was where my internal alarm bells shifted from a quiet ring to a full-blown, ear-piercing air-raid siren.
The clothes they put on me weren't standard servant uniforms. They weren't even the premium garments given to high-ranking imperial officials.
It was a robe of pure, pristine white silk—a material so impossibly soft and heavy that it felt like wearing a cloud woven out of liquid money. But the real kicker?
Sprawled across the left shoulder and winding down toward the hem was an intricate, magnificent dragon embroidery. It was rendered in shimmering silver and pale blue threads, matching the exact aesthetic and high-quality craftsmanship of the robes worn by the Crown Prince himself.
I stood frozen in the middle of the dressing room, staring down at the dragon claws stitched near my ribcage, my complexion instantly draining back to a ghostly pale white.
*What is the meaning of this?!*
I panicked, my mind frantically spinning its gears.
*Why am I wearing a dragon? Isn't wearing imperial dragon motifs a literal capital offense for a commoner?! Is this a setup? Is the Crown Prince trying to frame me for treason so he can legally execute me in front of the court?! What is going on in that terrifying royal brain of his?!*
A wave of profound, heavy bad omen washed over my entire body. My modern civilian paranoia, combined with a lifetime of reading survival web novels, immediately synthesized a horrific, worst-case scenario.
*Oh god,* I thought, my fingers trembling as they brushed the luxurious silk.
*I know exactly what he's doing. He's going to use me as a premium, luxury meat-shield! Think about it! There are always rogue cultivators and highly trained assassins trying to infiltrate the inner palace to assassinate the Crown Prince, right? So he dresses me up in his personal aesthetic, forces me to stay by his side, and the moment a hail of poison darts or a flying spiritual sword comes flying through the window—boom! He uses his high-realm cultivation to pull me in front of him! I receive the fatal blow, he tracks down the assassin, his hands stay clean, and I end up dying a gruesome death! My tutorial mission will fail, and my soul will vanish into cosmic dust without leaving behind even a single speck of lint!*
I was so thoroughly invested in my own wild, tragic daydream—vividly imagining myself coughing up blood while dramatically holding a silver-embroidered sleeve—that I completely lost track of time.
*Creak...*
The sudden, sharp sound of a heavy wooden door swinging open cut through the silence of the private chamber like a knife.
My mind snapped back to reality with the force of a thunderclap. My heart literally stopped beating in my chest.
My breath hitched in my throat as I slowly, horizontally whipped my head toward the entrance of the dressing room.
Standing right there on the threshold, framed by the dim light of the corridor, was a towering, majestic figure.
The Crown Prince had arrived.