With Feixiao's unshakable will to Hunt, the Path itself answered.
A brilliant streak of blue fire blazed across the heavens, comet-tail trailing splendid light. It crashed to the ground, standing before her.
When the radiance dispersed, a colossal axe-halberd stood planted in the earth.
Feixiao's azure eyes shone brighter, gleaming like a gem in midnight.
"As clouds veil the sky, so shall I shield the Xianzhou."
She strode forward.
"I will uphold this oath, until my final breath."
"—I will, Hunt and Pursue!"
She gripped the weapon's shaft and tore it free, brandishing it at Phantylia.
In that instant, a centaur of violet and indigo appeared—but where horse legs should be, great chariot wheels turned.
Its form bent a mighty bow, divinity incarnate.
Its towering presence alone pressed like the weight of a starry sea.
Phantylia's eyes narrowed. Perhaps from Hoolay's memories, she muttered:
"Yao Bow…"
Meanwhile, Jing Yuan slammed the table. The general who had been sipping milk and cracking seeds like an old man shot upright.
In his golden eyes flickered awe, reverence burning at the sight of the Hunt Aeon.
"…Lan's Gaze," he whispered.
Beside him, Yunli and Yanqing chattered, young blood unafraid.
Yunli declared:
"Hmph! When I inherit Grandpa's title, with my skill, The Aeon of Hunt might look at me every day!"
Yanqing shook his head, glancing between the Aeon and Jing Yuan. Inwardly he vowed:
If I could earn Lan's gaze, then maybe General would believe I've grown. I could shoulder more for him…
To the Xianzhou, the Hunt Aeon was more than god—it was home's pride.
And Jing Yuan was no exception.
He even envied Feixiao, to embody the Hunt so fully, to summon Lan's Gaze.
For the Seven Generals, succession was not bloodline but merit. Any Xianzhou worthy might rise.
But not every general was blessed with the Aeon's notice. Only a rare few.
Even long-lived, centuries of service were nothing to an Aeon. A general was still just a general—without Lan's gaze, could they truly claim to be the Aeon's envoy?
Jing Yuan had never been chosen.
Had he been centuries younger, perhaps he'd have burned with hunger, obsessed to the point of madness. But now… he was calm.
A touch of reverence. A shadow of longing.
His golden eyes, for once unmasked, betrayed that flicker of regret. He sat back down.
And watched the Aeon's form fade—without once looking his way.
Then—
"TOM!!!"
Yevenko's roar shattered his composure.
Jing Yuan jerked upright again, just in time to see Tom in cowboy hat and scarf, twirling a lasso skyward.
The rope stretched endlessly—looped neatly around Lan's neck. The fading Aeon solidified at once.
THUNK—!
Jing Yuan's hand smacked the table again. He staggered to his feet, eyes trembling wide, reverence burning into raw shock.
Tom, what are you doing—?!
Moze and Jiaoqiu, still dazed by the Aeon's descent, had their minds obliterated by this sight.
Even Feixiao, weapon in hand, and Phantylia, ready to clash, froze in stunned silence.
The battle itself paused.
A deathly hush.
Feixiao's inner world stood still.
Jing Yuan, veteran of countless storms, still clung to reason.
"Tom—!" he shouted reflexively, meaning let go, don't leash the Aeon like a common horse!
Tom turned his head, puzzled. He'd met Jing Yuan before, and since Yevenko often spoke to him, Tom figured this man was a friend. He'd meant to listen.
But after calling his name, Jing Yuan said nothing more. Tom scratched his head.
No problem. Tom was good at guessing Yevenko's thoughts—guessing Yevenko's friends' thoughts should be easy!
A lightbulb popped over his head.
He zipped to Jing Yuan's side—and offered him the rope.
Jing Yuan nearly fainted. He felt the Aeon's gaze swing toward him.
No—this isn't the recognition I wanted!
He forced calm, lips tugging into a polite smile.
"Tom, I didn't mean—"
But Yevenko strolled over, grinning.
"I get it. You want meaning? This is meaning enough. You called Tom, he came. He wants to share it with you—take it!"
Before Jing Yuan could protest, Yevenko grabbed Tom's rope and pressed it into his palm, even curling his fingers shut around it.
Jing Yuan: "..."
He looked at the rope in his hand. Looked at the Aeon glaring down.
His faint smile collapsed. Even his great heart quailed.
"Ah—ghhkk…"
He dropped the rope, eyes rolled white, and collapsed foaming at the mouth.
Yanqing rushed over.
"General! General!"
Jing Yuan cracked his eyes open, shook his head faintly, then shut them again.
Yanqing: "..."
His acting's this good?
For him, reverence for the Aeon mattered—but more than that, he wanted to answer his general's expectations.
So when Jing Yuan fell, his first instinct was to catch him.
As for Jing Yuan, lying still—this was beyond his control now. Better to play dead.
Only… his once-sacred image of Lan had cracked. Because now, every time he thought of the Aeon, he'd remember Tom tugging its leash.
Still, curiosity kept one eye cracked open.
Every time, Tom and Jerry exceeded his understanding.
He had thought them beneath Emanators. Then Jerry toyed with Hoolay, Tom split the Arbor with a crotch.
Now Tom had leashed an Aeon.
Was it really so impossible that a new Path of Tom might exist?
Yet his eyes dimmed with worry.
Would Lan see Tom as enemy?
As if answering—
Lan strained to depart. But bound by the rope, it could not.
It surged farther—dragging Tom along, claws gouging furrows, dirt piling under his feet.
And though the Aeon galloped in the heavens, Tom remained earthbound—the rope rising vertical, never snapping.
So be it. If the rope couldn't break—remove the cat.
Energy coalesced in Lan's hand, blinding arrow drawn.
With a snap, it loosed—an arrow of sheer cosmic Hunt, streaking down on Tom.
Its speed—instant. Only Emanators could glimpse its trace.
Feixiao frowned, ready to move, to save him.
Phantylia's eyes glimmered with cruel delight.
"To provoke Yao Bow—against an Aeon's might, even an Emanator is nothing. Only an Aeon can face an Aeon."
Jing Yuan knew Tom and Jerry's absurdity well. Even so, his chest tightened.
Lightning sparked at his fingertips, ready to summon Shenjun—not to save Tom, but to shield the others from the blast.
All eyes fixed on Tom.
The arrow was upon him.
Tom raised his paw.
Stop.
The arrow screeched to a halt. A white question mark popped above it.
Tom calmly pulled some sticks from nowhere. He staked one in the ground, tied the rope to it—freeing his hands.
Then, hat off, he donned a feathered headdress. Admired himself in the arrow's glow. Nodded, satisfied.
He carved a bow from sticks, plucked a feather for fletching. Nocked it.
But the arrow was too close.
Then Jerry appeared, director's cap on, script in hand. He unrolled it, pointed for the arrow to back up.
Obediently, the arrow retreated a hundred meters.
Jerry snapped his clapperboard.
"Cut—!"
The arrow shot again.
Tom whooped like a wild hunter, loosed his plain little arrow.
Meteoric Hunt-arrow met twig.
And froze.
Pink bubbles of hearts rose from the mighty shaft.
The cosmic arrow swerved, nuzzled up against Tom's arrow like a lovesick pup, heart-bubbles floating as the two flew off together toward Lan.
Feixiao: "..."
Phantylia: "..."
Jing Yuan: "..."
Yevenko snatched Jerry's script. On its cover:
[The Mighty Hunt-Arrow Fell in Love with My Poor Wooden Shaft]
He slapped his forehead.
This script… is a bit much.