The journey back to Shrek Academy took only one day.
Where the outward trip had required two days of steady marching, the return felt almost leisurely. The forest continued its strange courtesy: paths remained clear, streams offered fresh water at convenient crossings, and no aggressive beasts appeared even at the periphery. By nightfall on the first day out, the group had already reached the edge of the market town.
They camped just outside the forest gate under a vast, clear sky.
Fires crackled. Oscar's recovery sausages and Ma Hongjun's improvised barbecue filled the air with savoury scents. Everyone's new spirit rings glowed faintly as they tested skills—Dai Mubai's White Tiger Meteor Shower now carried faint echoes of dream-light, Zhu Zhuqing's shadow clones lingered longer with void-touched edges.
But the most noticeable changes belonged to three people.
Ma Hongjun soared twenty metres above the camp on phoenix wings that shimmered with star-like motes, laughing in disbelief.
Oscar's new mirrored-boost sausage created a temporary duplicate of Ning Rongrong's amplification field—something that should have required Title Douluo comprehension.
And Ning Rongrong herself sat a little apart, pagoda floating before her, experimenting.
"Seven Treasures turneth out with glass," she intoned softly.
Rainbow light blossomed—stronger, purer than before. The boost percentage now reached fifty across the board, and when she focused on a single ally, the passive Dream Harmony triggered: sixty percent, with almost no spirit power drain.
She glanced toward Aza, who sat quietly by the main fire.
The boost climbed to sixty-five.
Her cheeks warmed. She quickly dismissed the pagoda.
Zhao Wuji watched everything with folded arms, expression a mix of pride and unease.
"Whatever happened in there," he said gruffly, "you kids came out stronger than any team I've ever brought back. But word's gonna spread. Spirit Hall has eyes in that town. They'll hear about beasts kneeling, rings forming from the forest itself…"
Grandmaster nodded gravely. "We must prepare. Aza's existence is no longer ignorable."
Tang San, sharpening a hidden weapon by firelight, looked up. "They'll come asking questions. Or demanding recruitment."
Xiao Wu leaned against him. "Or worse."
Aza listened without comment, void eyes reflecting the flames like twin black mirrors.
Nyarlathotep lounged nearby, sipping from a wine glass that refilled itself. "Let them come. Mortals who covet the Sultan's dream rarely enjoy waking."
Yog-Sothoth gazed at the stars, gates in her eyes showing futures branching like infinite trees.
Shub-Niggurath sat cross-legged, her young playing quietly in the grass—black kids with too many eyes chasing fireflies that glowed in impossible colours.
Later, when the fires burned low and most of the group had retired to tents, two figures remained awake.
Ning Rongrong sat on a fallen log at the camp's edge, knees drawn up, staring at the forest treeline.
Soft footsteps approached.
Aza stopped beside her. Tonight only Yog-Sothoth accompanied him, standing a respectful distance away, serene guardian beneath the moon.
"May I sit?" he asked.
Rongrong nodded without looking. "It's a free log."
He settled beside her—close enough that their shoulders almost touched, far enough to preserve propriety.
Silence stretched, comfortable yet charged.
Finally, she spoke.
"My new ring… the butterfly. It showed me things. You, at the centre of everything. Endless darkness, but not scary darkness. Like… space full of music. And my pagoda was there, shining. Keeping the music from going wrong."
Aza turned to her.
"I saw you too," he said quietly. "In the ring the forest gave me. A tower of light, standing against the void. Singing back. The first voice to ever answer."
Rongrong's breath caught.
She looked at him fully.
Moonlight painted his pale features silver. His void eyes held no menace now—only wonder, and something deeper, softer.
"I've never felt anything like today," she admitted. "Watching those beasts bow to you. Feeling my pagoda change because of you. It's… overwhelming."
Aza's voice was layered, gentle.
"I have existed beyond time. Yet today, in that glade, when your light wove into the dream… I felt time. I felt beginning."
Rongrong's heart pounded.
She reached out hesitantly, fingers brushing his sleeve.
"Aza… why me? Why does my pagoda answer you?"
He considered, then answered with the simplicity of absolute truth.
"Because your soul is kind without calculation. Because you shine not to dominate, but to lift others. Because in all the infinite dream, your song is the only one that feels like… home."
Tears pricked her eyes.
She had been called beautiful, talented, precious heir. Never home.
"I'm scared," she whispered. "Of what you are. Of what this means. My clan, Spirit Hall, the whole continent… they won't understand."
Aza turned his hand palm-up on the log between them—an invitation, not a demand.
"I am more frightened," he said. "I, who have never known fear, now know it. The fear of harming what I… cherish."
Rongrong stared at his offered hand.
Then, slowly, she placed hers in it.
Their fingers intertwined again—rainbow crystal threads from her spirit power flowing gently into void black from his.
The contact sent warmth through both.
Yog-Sothoth, watching from the shadows, smiled softly. All gates reflected a single, bright future.
Rongrong leaned her head—just slightly—against his shoulder.
"Just… promise you'll stay," she murmured. "Even if the world tries to take you away."
Aza's grip tightened, careful, reverent.
"I am the centre that does not move," he said. "And now, you are the light that holds me willing to remain."
They sat like that until the moon began to set.
No kiss. Not yet.
But in the quiet space between them, something irrevocable had taken root.
Behind them, in the dying firelight, Nyarlathotep raised his glass in silent toast.
Shub-Niggurath's young curled together, dreaming dreams of rainbow voids.
And in the endless piping of Azathoth's court, the chime of seven treasures rang clearer than ever before—promising, one day, to become nine.
The dream had found its anchor.
And the anchor had found her chaos.