(notice: you are reincarnation of Yu Xiaogang)


The grand Rakshasa temple was silent, save for the low, rhythmic thrum of purple flames that cast dancing shadows across the obsidian floor. Bibi Dong sat upon the papal throne in her full Rakshasa God form, her presence a suffocating weight of divine malice. Four massive scythes hovered behind her, their blades humming with a hunger for blood, while her eyes—cold and calculating—fixed upon the intruder who had dared to breach her inner sanctum.

She didn't recognize him. Not at first. To her, he was merely a flicker of anomaly, a man who walked into the heart of her power with an irritating level of calm.

"You have a great deal of courage, little insect," she murmured, her voice a regal blade. "Or perhaps you are simply too foolish to know where you are."

The battle that followed was not a clash of elements, but a storm of violence. Bibi Dong unleashed the full terror of the Rakshasa God, her scythes carving through the air, tearing the temple pillars asunder. She fought with the ruthless efficiency of a woman who had forgotten how to be gentle, her attacks precise and lethal. Yet, the man moved like a ghost, slipping through her divine reach, his expression unbothered.

Then, the unthinkable happened.

Without a single spark of magic, without a weapon in his hand, the man closed the distance. He stepped inside the arc of her scythes with a speed that defied logic and slammed a fist squarely into her gut, knocking the wind from her divine lungs. Before she could recover, he pivoted, catching her wrist and sweeping her legs from beneath her with a brutal, efficient motion.

Bibi Dong hit the cold stone with a heavy thud, pinned beneath him. He didn't use a spell; he used his bare hands to lock her arms above her head, his weight pressing her firmly into the floor.

Then, he leaned in and flicked her forehead with a smirk, a playful, irritatingly familiar glint in his eyes.

"You've gotten arrogant in your old age, Dong-er. Your guard is wide open."

The world stopped. The malevolent purple mist vanished instantly. The scythes clattered to the floor, their hunger replaced by a sudden, jarring silence. Bibi Dong froze, her breath hitching in her throat. That specific tone—that precise way of teasing her at the exact moment of her defeat—belonged to only one man in all the cycles of existence.

"Xiao... Gang?" she whispered, her voice no longer a blade, but a fragile thread.

She surged upward, not to attack, but to wrap her arms around him with a strength that could crush mountains. She clung to him with a desperate, obsessive intensity, burying her face in his chest, her regal composure shattering into a million pieces. The Supreme Pontiff, the Rakshasa God, was gone; in her place was a woman who had spent lifetimes starving for a love she thought was lost to the void.

"You're here," she sobbed, her grip tightening, her eyes flashing with a fierce, possessive light. "You are finally here. And this time, I don't care what the heavens decree—no one, nothing, will ever take you from me again."

She pulled back just enough to look at him, her gaze searching his face, confirming the soul beneath the new skin. A dark, protective hunger settled in her heart. He was hers. He had always been hers. And as she looked at the man who had just beaten a god with his bare hands, she knew she would burn the entire world to ashes before she let anyone even look at him the wrong way.