COZMART: Corner Shop of Visiting Gods

At another corner of the battlefield, fissure rip-clawed the low clouds; through it, Chewie dropped like a comet. She hit the earth hard enough to split it, landing precisely in the center of an ongoing skirmish between the Abyssal Legion's demon soldiers and the Ascendant Alliance's cultivators.

Her petite figure struck the scorched land, and a single pulse of her ancient war-aura followed, heavy as a falling city. Steel rang, guts froze, and the skirmish stopped mid-scream. The demon soldiers halted with dumbfounded looks, their weapons clattering to the ground as they fell to their knees in unified, primitive reverence.

"Our Ancient Warlord!" one choked, forehead grinding the ash. "You've come to lead us at last!"

Chewie looked around, then sighed, shoulders sagging as if someone had dumped millennia onto her spine. She retracted her spreading qi signature and surveyed the scene.

"Not this place." Her voice was smoke and boredom.

Across the land, cultivators of the Ascendant Alliance recoiled as if she were an airborne plague. A few brave souls lifted trembling swords; most just tried not to breathe.

Chewie ignored the kneeling demons and instead pivoted toward the cultivators.

"I'm searching for a lost mortal pet," she said, tone halfway between clerk and executioner. "Short, panicky, perpetually confused look. Seen him?"

The cultivators only recoiled further, their revulsion mistaken by Chewie as confusion. She scowled and added impatiently, "Black hair, unhealthy-looking eye bags, permanently stressed expression? Carries a round black and gold thing that pretends to be a scanner—or a flattened teapot, in this time and age. Ring any bells?"

Minutes passed, and a lone cultivator finally found his tongue. He nodded frantically—more eager to redirect the Ancient Warlord's attention than anything. "Actually—yes, Esteemed Warlord! We've heard of someone matching that description nearby. The mortals from the United Mortal Coalition took a strange figure prisoner, calling him some sort of divine healer."

Chewie paused, mentally verifying the described image.

"Divine healer," she contemplated the term, then nodded. "That is exactly the sort of nonsense he'd stumble into. Lead."

The cultivator scrambled to obey, practically falling over himself in the process. Chewie followed, not even sparing a glance at the demons still prostrating in the dirt.

"Three thousand years…" she muttered.

***

Meanwhile, Eathan found himself seated inside a canvas command tent that smelled of blood, ink, and boiled grain. Across a scarred tea table, General Shen Hai—broad-shouldered, eyes like flint chips—studied him as though Eathan were a half-tamed bomb. Captain Liang Yun hovered by the flap, one hand never far from his blade.

"You must understand, emissary," Shen Hai said, "this war has been ongoing for nearly two centuries. For generations, we've fought without end—my great-great-grandfather, my great-grandfather, my grandfather, my father, now myself. All fighting the same endless war that the gods still call a skirmish."

Outside, the wounded howled; inside, steam curled from chipped ceramic. Eathan tried not to fidget.

This is Mister White's nightmare, he reminded himself. Stay calm.

Eathan swallowed. The general's gaze softened at his anxiety. He glimpsed the fluttering tent entrance, taking in distant cries that seemed to echo all around them.

"When Demon Prince Cang first infiltrated this island, mortals foolishly believed we'd reclaim it quickly," Shen Hai said. "Yet, two hundred years later, we're still bleeding in the dirt. Cultivators, demons, immortals—what are mortals but fodder caught between their struggles?"

He paused, staring into his cup.

"Yet a year ago, when the Pale Judgement descended from the heavens, we dared to hope. Surely, we thought, the gods had finally seen the pointless slaughter, our desperation. But he… he merely arrived. He stood and watched. Nothing more."

Eathan's fingers tightened around his chipped ceramic teacup. This didn't sound like the Mister White he knew—the one who grumbled about dust on counters, got irrationally annoyed at coffee spills, and quietly lent his hand from the shadows.

"But surely," he ventured, "there might have been some mistake—maybe he misread the situation?"

Shen Hai raised his gaze slowly, piercing Eathan with eyes both sad and incredulous. "We sent many to plead our cause directly. None returned. The Pale Judgement does not misread, emissary. He passes sentence. And apparently, we were deemed unworthy even of acknowledgement."

Eathan opened his mouth to speak, when a sudden commotion erupted outside the tent. Shouts of alarm rose, weapons scraping as soldiers scrambled.

"Wait, you can't—!"

The tent entrance exploded inward, heavy fabric whipping aside as an ancient aura flooded the internal space. Eathan jolted upwards, teacup slipping from nerveless fingers. His eyes widened as a familiar small figure strode into the tent.

"Chewie?!" Relief cracked his voice in two. He'd never been so happy to see the grumpy gremlin in his entire life.

Chewie's qi signature surged briefly before subsiding, allowing the tent's occupants to gasp in relief. She surveyed the scene with narrowed eyes—Eathan stiffly seated atop a makeshift ceremonial table, surrounded by panicking mortal soldiers and two very tense mortal generals.

She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Leave you alone for one mission and you're already a cult mascot."

Eathan processed her presence, then lifted both hands. "I didn't exactly volunteer."

Ignoring his reaction, Chewie turned her dead-flat gaze toward the stunned general and captain. "Emissary, you say?" She jabbed a finger at Eathan. "He's barely qualified to reconcile receipts."

Shen Hai recovered first, voice firm despite obvious confusion. "Child, identify yourself."

Chewie gave him a long stare, clearly debating whether answering was even worth her breath. Eventually, she just shook her head.

"I miss my holopad."

An uneasy silence fell upon the tent. Mortal soldiers traded bewildered looks—first at the child, then at the ruined doorway she'd treated like paper. Shen Hai observed her carefully. He had seen enough in these cursed decades of warfare to recognize power, no matter how absurd its vessel appeared. He leaned toward Liang Yun but never looked away from Chewie.

"Be careful, Yun," Shen Hai murmured. "She may look young, but the aura belongs to no ordinary demon. General-ranked at least."

Liang Yun swallowed and stepped forward anyway, despite the visible nervous twitch at his jaw. "Forgive me, miss, but… who are you really?"

Chewie blinked slowly, casting the man a look usually reserved for particularly dense homework assignments.

"Chi You," she said finally.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Liang Yun inhaled. He was preparing to respond when Shen Hai seized his shoulder abruptly, forcing him into a bow so fast the captain nearly face-planted.

"Great Warlord Chi You," Shen Hai spoke reverently, head lowered deep. "We did not realise you, too, sought this emissary."

Eathan almost dislocated his jaw. He swerved toward the eleven-year-old. "Wait, you're actually—"

"Under normal circumstances," Chewie cut him off, eyes still on the general, "you could keep the bean sprout. Today, I still need him."

Shen Hai lifted his head, searching her face carefully for any hostility. "Then, Great Warlord, if this healer truly speaks for the Pale Judgement—"

"I didn't say that," Chewie said, eyebrows twitching. "He blurts whatever rattles inside that hollow skull."

Shen Hai ignored Eathan's weak protestations on the sidelines, visibly torn between dread and hope.

Beside him, Liang Yun stepped forth. "But without the emissary, are we left to forcibly wait once more? The War Council has long sought power at any cost—demons, immortals, cultivators—what are we mortals but disposable chess pieces in their games?"

Eathan fell silent, a knot tightening behind his ribs. He glanced at stretcher-beds by the entrance: men wrapped in ragged bandages, staring at nothing. The distance between human and divine yawned wide enough to swallow him.

"Lord Chi You," Shen Hai started cautiously. "If you can approach the Pale Judgement and ask him—"

"Clarification: I am not here on behalf of Bai Hu. And definitely not the stupid Demon Prince. Frankly, their politics are incredibly boring," she said. "In this era, I'm supposed to be busy crushing a demon clan on my own turf, so technically"—she flicked invisible lint—"I'm late for work."

Shen Hai stared at her, and Chewie stared back, lips curving in faint disdain. "You see, your war is ninety-nine percent skirmish, one percent productive bloodshed. Not my tea."

Beside the general, Liang Yun took a step backwards, turning to Eathan instead. "Then please, emissary—if the Pale Judgement sent you, we beg your aid. Help us end this centuries-long nightmare."

"Again—the White Tiger hasn't sent anyone," Chewie answered before Eathan could even inhale. "Right now, he's busy preparing to erase this entire island."

A thick silence filled the tent, as if the very air had frozen in time. Liang Yun went sheet-white. "Erase… the entire island?"

Eathan swerved toward her so abruptly he almost twisted a muscle. "Mister White is doing what?"

Chewie looked at him. "We're currently trapped in a memory roughly three thousand years ago," she said, voice patiently sarcastic. "The Southeastern Ridge Island. Ever seen it on a map?"

Eathan hesitated, then shook his head.

"Exactly. Because Bai Hu scrubbed it."

Liang Yun and Shen Hai exchanged horrified looks, the colour draining entirely from their faces.

Eathan swallowed. He stood from the tea table, heart hammering in his chest. "Then—we have to stop him! Or at least talk him out of it. He can't just…erase an entire island!"

"The same Pale Judgment who atomises provinces with a flick of a wrist?" Chewie asked, deadpan. "Optimistic."

Yet Shen Hai straightened, a spark of general's fire rekindling. "If there's even a chance, emissary—we'll aid you. But I fear mortal forces mean little here."

Eathan glanced at the man, feeling his heart twist at the mess of a situation at hand. Still, he nodded. "Either way, we have to try. There must be something we can do."

Chewie slumped her shoulders slightly but didn't protest further. Instead, she turned toward the two mortal leaders, all business once again. "I need my other strays: one half-shaved tank named Willow, a panicking talisman nerd with a cursed eye… and also an overly-decorated dragon who probably disappeared to do who-knows-what."

Liang Yun's brows pinched at the latter half of her sentence. "Dragon… you can't mean the Azure Dragon Qing Long?"

"Uh-huh."

Liang Yun's voice lowered to Shen Hai's side in caution. "General, scouts reported Qing Long over eastern peaks at dawn. His divine form had loomed over the battlefield for twenty-four seconds before establishing his own domain. Troops are rattled."

Eathan and Chewie traded the same weary look.

"Of course he did," they said in unison.

***

On another distant battlefield, the air erupted in a cascade of startled shouts as Willow materialized mid-air, plummeting into the heart of a mortal encampment. Her boots punched a shallow crater, and canvas tents folded in on themselves. Armour-clad infantry scattered with the discipline of startled pigeons.

"Apologies," she said—polite enough if you ignored the halo of pulverized earth. She dusted stone chips from her pauldron, then speared the nearest soldier with a measured stare.

"Now—could you kindly point me toward the rest of my team?"

The soldier swallowed, visibly torn between fleeing and fainting. Willow smiled encouragingly—or at least, her best approximation, which somehow made it worse.

Elsewhere, Finn had landed smack in the middle of a parley so tense the air already bled sparks. Two opposing generals froze; half-drawn blades hovered like accusations. Both sides stared incredulously, brows knitted in a dangerous confusion.

Finn, caught mid-step, raised his hands with a wobbly grin. "Diplomatic… uh, error?"

He didn't wait for an answer. The next moment, he darted, weaving chaotically through the baffled enemy lines. His sacred eye, usually just a stylistic inconvenience, flared instinctively. A gentle sheen of translucent energy coated his form, bending shadows around him just subtly enough that soldiers looked right through him, continuing whatever sabotage they were doing without so much as a glance his way.

Unaware of what had just happened, Finn stumbled to safety, leaning against the charred remains of a stone barricade. He crouched, coughing from the battlefield smoke.

"Damn," he wheezed. "Note to self—apologize to Yeeko about cardio jokes."

As he attempted to catch his breath, snippets of distant conversation drifted over, voices harsh yet excited.

"Did you hear? Warlord Chiyou herself was spotted near the mortal encampment!"

"Who hasn't?" Another voice sounded beside him. "And then there's the Pale Judgment's mortal emissary, they say…"

Finn froze, straightening instantly. "Hm?"

The next moment, his head popped up like a startled gopher between the two soldiers.

"Sorry, fellas—direction to that warlord sighting?"

And while all that was going on, Chewie was marching up the rugged mountain path, expression set to permanent displeasure. Behind the eleven-year-old trudged Eathan, mud-spattered UMC escorts, and armour that rattled like loose cookware.

Above them, the Game's countdown dangled like a fish-rod, its digits pulsing in the war haze.

[TIME REMAINING]:

65:10:40

One young soldier broke the uneasy silence. "So… the Azure Dragon deity, is he truly here to help? He appeared out of nowhere at dawn, carved out a whole section of the island as his own—and then just vanished."

He paused.

"Is that… normal?"

Another scoffed, shifting his spear to his other shoulder. "We all expected him to go wild. Legends say Qing Long is a living storm—madness and chaos wherever he treads. Storm today, sonnet tomorrow. Which day today falls under, you can't tell."

"His unpredictability worries me far more than his power." Captain Liang Yun marched closely, angling a wary glance at the girl. "Great Warlord, any insights into what he intends?"

Chewie dead-eyed him. "Predicting the Azure Dragon is like predicting the stock market three millennia from now—possible, sure, but why?"

"Do you even know where he is?" Eathan asked, jogging up from behind.

"Finding him shouldn't be hard—just wait for the theatrics."

"When you say theatrics," he said, laughing nervously. "Do you mean… actual explosions?"

Chewie gave him a stare.

"Those are literally the same thing."

They crested a slight rise, peering over the battlefield stretched below. Suddenly, a powerful presence washed over them. Eathan instinctively craned his neck, heart leaping as he spotted a familiar figure floating high in the smoke-filled skies.

Quine Long hovered above the devastation, teal-highlighted robes billowing around him. Unlike the morning's divine, serpentine spectacle, this time he had resumed his human form—looking utterly self-satisfied as he gazed down upon the warring factions.

The battlefield ground had come to a halt, soldiers on every side looking upward. Mortal Coalition forces visibly stiffened, eyes wide with wary. Demon legions paused mid-skirmish, weapons lowered hesitantly. Even distant cultivator groups halted their spell-casting, unsure if they were witnessing salvation or further chaos.

Quine Long basked in their collective attention, appearing unbothered as he waved a dismissive hand. "Do carry on," he said, his voice reverberating through the silence. "I'm merely here on… observational duties. Pay me no heed."

Eathan groaned inwardly but couldn't deny the spectacle. Quine Long's effortless control over the battlefield's focus was impressive. Immortals were immortals, after all—larger than life, and painfully aware of it.

As if sensing Eathan's thoughts, the dragon's gaze swivelled abruptly toward the mountainside. His lips curled upward—recognition sparked.

"Ah, there you all are," he drawled.

Before Eathan could so much as blink, a swirl of azure qi coiled around him and Chewie. In a blink, the two vanished from the ridge, leaving mortals gawping at thin air.

Liang Yun and his soldiers stumbled backward, raising their weapons instinctively—only to stare at vacant dirt.

"What just—?" He blinked.

The young soldier beside Liang Yun sighed. "As the legends say, sir—predicting immortals is easier left undone."

***

Far away, seated within the oppressive quiet of the War Council's central encampment, the White Tiger sat motionless. Shadows flickered against the war tent's walls, illuminated only by sparse torches. Maps of destruction sprawled across an unkempt stone table, small figurines knocked askew to mark bloody victories or catastrophic losses. A sense of tranquility enveloped him, the air encircling him a few degrees cooler than the rest.

A War Council attendant entered, stopping at a respectful distance. "Commander Bai Hu," he reported, "the Azure Dragon has appeared again, but he… seems passive?"

The White Tiger's eyes remained closed, barely acknowledging the intrusion. "That dragon only appears when bored or scheming," he replied, voice drained of interest. "Neither concerns me. Monitor him from afar."

The attendant bowed quickly, slipping back into the shadows.

Yet, as silence reclaimed the space, the White Tiger felt the shift of familiar energy once more—a presence unmistakably vibrant, annoyingly disruptive. His eyes opened slowly, irises darker than midnight.

A whisper drifted through the canvas like a knife through silk:

"Qing Long."