Plague Night had passed, but the sky never really brightened.
The firmament over Skycast City looked smoked-black, a dead, suffocating gray. In the alleys of Rust Street, damp sheets hung on lines, freshly washed rags drip-dried from window bars, and the air still carried the smell of fevers not yet fully gone.
Someone on a bench at the mouth of an alley was breathing slowly, chest still tightening now and then.
Someone sat in a doorway with a child in their lap. The kid's face had that flushed sheen you only saw after an illness, but his eyes were bright—he'd made it through.
Qi Luo stood on a rooftop, looking down at the messy-but-still-breathing neighborhood.
He'd forced the Great Plague Contingency into "cooldown," turned a cleaver into a duller blade—but the blade still hung over the city.
The Forbidden Sigil on his chest hadn't cooled all night. It smoldered like banked coals at the bottom of a furnace.
"You look like you just went twelve rounds with the world," Rosh puffed as he hauled himself up from the stairwell, giving him a once-over. "You can still stand?"
"As long as I can still write," Qi Luo said.
What he didn't say was—on the wind-tower last night, he'd used more than technique. He'd used that "key-mark" coiled around his name. Use that too much, and the world would start keeping score.
From the streets below, a wave of chiming rolled up.
Not Rust Street's own battered scrap-metal bells—but something heavier, more precise. Every strike set people's teeth on edge.
Garth swung up from the eaves on the other side, his face darkening.
"Temple bells," he said.
Sanya tugged her torn cloak tighter around herself. "Ringing those in broad daylight? That's never good."
Qi Luo looked down.
In his Chain-sight, the massive Temple Mainline in the city's center was slowly lighting up. Rings of light pulsed outward from the heart of the city, like some official decree being passed down tier by tier.
[Catastrophe Contingency · Level: City-Scale]
[Trigger cause: chief Plague-God fallen, plague contingency execution abnormal, mortal interference exceeding tolerance threshold.]
[Recommended measure: revoke localized cooldown, initiate full incineration-reset for designated city.]
The final words hung on the Chain, icy and crisp:
[Full Incineration Reset.]
Qi Luo's breath hitched.
Everything he'd done last night—every "target replacement," each "order adjustment"—were minor tweaks under this line.
This was the real hammer, lifting overhead.
"They're about to hit the reset key," Sanya said coldly.
"The chief god doesn't come down," Rosh bared his teeth. "Sends a stand-in."
Explanatory text was already spiraling out along the Chain:
[Executor: third proxy under the Catastrophe Seat.]
[Descent form: statue projection · Covenant Chains manifested.]
The fog over Rust Street split under a sudden beam of light.
Not sunlight. A cold white shaft punched straight down from the Temple at the city's heart. It pulled tight into a huge ring in midair, its surface packed with rotating clauses.
At the center of the ring, a hazy figure formed.
Qi Luo had never seen the true god, but he recognized the level at a glance—one tier above the chief Plague-God, marked under "Catastrophe Management" and "Order Reset."
The kind of god actually authorized to hit "Incinerate City, Roll Back Structures."
People in Rust Street, the workshop districts, and the middle-city streets were all forced to look up.
Some dropped to their knees. Some sobbed under their breath. Some just stood there, numb, palms still pressed to foreheads that had burned through the night.
"Mortals," the figure spoke, his voice carrying as if from every tower and pipe at once. "Amid plague, you lost all order, meddled in Covenants, and disrupted execution."
He didn't name names, but Qi Luo knew half that line was for the city—and half was for him.
"By clause," the voice went on, "when the chief Plague-God falls and the contingency fails, and mortal interference drives fear beyond limit—the Catastrophe Seat has the right to initiate city-scale incineration reset, to preserve overall order."
The matching clause lit up along the Chains:
[Catastrophe Reset Clause · Section Seven: Where local contingency fails and interference descends into chaos, one-time incineration reset may be executed within designated city area.]
[Execution contents: revoke protection Chains at all levels, unseal the abyssal mist, incinerate the designated city, roll back partial base structures.]
[Termination condition: execution completed, or further modification by higher authority.]
"Roll back partial base structures."
Qi Luo stared at those words, spine running cold.
It was the first time he'd seen just how close the World Recovery Contingency ran to the city—using an entire city as a test field.
"You hit the brakes last night," Garth said under his breath. "And now the one driving the carriage showed up."
The statue projection drifted down, anchoring above the central square.
That was the broadest open space in Skycast City—used for coming-of-age rites, bestowals of honors, public trials… and "grand clause recitations."
Now, people from Rust Street, the mid-levels, even upper towers could all see that ball of light.
"—Hearing," Qi Luo said suddenly.
"What?" Rosh blinked.
"The incineration-reset clause." Qi Luo's gaze locked on the Chains. "By their own rules, before execution they have to hold a 'public recitation' and grant the city a 'symbolic right to speak.'"
He'd flipped past that page in class—some old god obsessed with "procedural justice" had forced it in.
[For any city-scale destructive contingency, execution must be preceded by granting at least one representative of the affected city a chance to speak before the god, to show that 'judgment is not arbitrary.']
Most of the time it was pure theater. The temple picked some priest to mumble a "prayer for mercy," then the destruction went ahead on schedule.
But the word "chance" was real in the clause.
Qi Luo drew a deep breath.
"I have to go there," he said.
Sanya clamped a hand on his arm. "That's the Temple Square. Hunters, priests, Council envoys—everyone'll be there. On paper you're dead—walk in there and you're throwing your anomalies right in their faces."
"We're all about to be ash anyway." Qi Luo looked at her, voice very quiet. "One more time on the record doesn't make a difference."
He slipped his arm free and bolted for the stairs.
With every step, the Forbidden Sigil thumped against his ribs, heavy and hot, like it was urging him on—or warning him.
The Temple Square had become an impromptu trial ground.
Chains cordoned off the surrounding buildings. Ordinary people were pushed back to the edge. Priests knelt in the front rows. Hunters lurked in the corners, cloaks drawn low, sleeve-chains glinting cold.
Ruan Ji stood in the shadow of a stone pillar, head tilted back toward the projection.
In her lens, the plague Chains in the lower city were clearly slowing—that was the "cooldown" Qi Luo had forced open last night.
But in the catastrophe sector, another, thicker Chain was now spooling up:
[Incineration Reset · Preparation state: confirming.]
"They're about to carve out the whole block like necrotic tissue," she thought.
Just then, a disturbance rippled along the edge of the square.
Someone was pushing against the ebb of the crowd, moving forward.
Gray clothes. Bright eyes.
Ruan Ji didn't need the lens to recognize him—Qi Luo.
"Looking to die," she swore inwardly, but she didn't move.
The Hunter's chain at her wrist had already tightened, ready to snap "in custody" onto him.
She didn't.
She wanted to see what this brat—who'd just made a world contingency hit the brakes—planned to do to a catastrophe proxy.
Up in the air, the projection had already begun reciting.
"Skycast City—" the voice rolled slowly, "because of plague out of control, contingencies in disarray, order broken, now in accordance with World Base-Covenant article…, Catastrophe Seat section seven, shall enter incineration reset procedure."
Each word lit another segment of Chain above the square.
Qi Luo shoved his way to the base of the central steps and looked up.
He spotted the key line at a glance:
[Procedural requirement: before execution, one mortal representative of the city must be granted a chance to speak; their statement shall be recorded in the clause's annotations.]
He lifted a foot to move forward.
Two priests flung their arms out, blocking him. "Stop. This area is reserved for Council and temple representatives. Mortals are not—"
Qi Luo raised his hand and slapped a round stone disk against the stair's edge.
It was an old "recitation stone," originally used for mock trials at the Academy—he'd walked it out of the classroom and tweaked it.
The stone flared. A thin Chain shot from it and snapped into the recitation Chain overhead.
[Request: activate mortal speech permission.]
The system paused.
The projection cocked its indistinct head, attention sliding down to him.
"Who gave you the right?" the Catastrophe proxy asked, voice mild. "Mortal."
Qi Luo looked up and met that gaze.
"You did," he said. "In writing."
In the clause-world, the node beside "procedural requirement" flickered—request logged, representative present, recitation stone active, city-level witness conditions met.
To refuse was to tear up his own clause in public.
[If, before a god, a valid speech opportunity is denied despite conditions being met, this shall be considered minor Covenant breach, triggering godhood review.]
That was buried in the divine self-discipline clauses—no one ever touched it.
The Catastrophe proxy clearly had no desire to risk "breach" for a minor provision.
After a moment's silence, he spat out two words:
"Permission granted."
All across the city, every monitoring stone linked to the recitation Chain chimed softly—from Rust Street to noble towers. Mortal speech permissions were open.
Ruan Ji let out a slow breath behind the pillar.
"He pulled it off," she thought.
Qi Luo stepped up beside the recitation stone.
He didn't kneel. He didn't perform the Academy's "proper obeisance." He just dipped his head slightly, like a contract-smith facing a very difficult client and saying, Sit.
"Qi Luo," someone whispered in the crowd. Their mouth was quickly covered.
Qi Luo pulled his satchel up onto the step and drew out a stack of already-organized pages.
The paper was yellowed with lamp smoke, covered in his dense handwriting.
This wasn't improvisation.
He'd prepared this a long time ago.
[Skycast City Epidemic Shelter and Reconstruction Covenant · Human Clause Appendix (Draft).]
Qi Luo raised his head to the projection.
"Catastrophe Seat proxy," he said, voice low but level, trying to sound like just another mortal making a statement. "Under your current clauses, you have the right to burn this city and use the Recovery Contingency to reset parts of its structure."
"But you also know—" he gestured at the Chains, "in last night's execution, the contingency has already entered 'cooldown.'"
On the Chains, the line he'd forced in—[Great Plague Contingency · entering cooldown]—still glowed.
"According to the World Base-Covenant's own notes on contingencies," Qi Luo went on, "when execution causes fear and structural damage in excess of benefit, the contingency should automatically move into adjustment or shutdown."
"At this point, to directly start an incineration reset is no longer executing the original contingency. It constitutes an additional action."
The proxy didn't answer, but inside the Chains, several evaluation modules lit up at his words.
[Current contingency state: in cooldown.]
[Is incineration reset part of original contingency?]
Result: ambiguous.
Qi Luo took the opening and lifted the pages a little higher so the Chains "above" could see them.
"This is an appendix I've drafted," he said. "Written in your language. Built on the World Base-Covenant's logic."
"The contents are simple—"
He didn't read every line, just the crucial ones.
"Article One: Any god executing destructive measures against a city under epidemic contingencies, from the moment of signing, must simultaneously bear responsibility for 'sheltering survivors.'"
"Article Two: Any mortal listed in that city's registries shall, between plague and disaster, enjoy the right to priority evacuation, treatment, and information. Before executing destruction procedures, these duties must be fulfilled to the greatest possible extent."
"Article Three: If, after signing, a god still executes incineration without any attempt at shelter or evacuation, such conduct shall be deemed an 'explicit breach before the god,' triggering godhood review and deep-level backlash."
The last words flared on the Chains:
[Explicit breach before the god.]
That line was far more dangerous than the earlier "refused to allow speech."
The divine self-discipline clauses had one rule—
[Any Covenant openly signed before the god, once broken, will leave a permanent mark in the World Base-Covenant as a negative factor when evaluating the stability of that god's seat.]
In simpler terms: gods could kill—but not get caught cheating.
Qi Luo's voice wasn't loud, but carried via the recitation stone and Chains across the city.
In a small chapel on Rust Street, people who'd just clawed their way back from fever lifted their heads. They heard words like "shelter" and "rights," and just looked confused.
In mid-level workshops, workers stopped what they were doing and stared at the ball of light—realizing for the first time that someone was saying "mortals have rights" in front of a god.
In the towers above, nobles and priests scowled. To them, this sounded like the world turning upside down.
The Catastrophe proxy finally spoke.
"Mortal," his voice carried a thin laugh. "You bring a stack of paper and expect a god to sign?"
"You think you can threaten me?"
Qi Luo's gaze was level, with hardly any reverence—just very clear calculation.
"I can't threaten you," he said. "I'm just reminding you—you're in the clauses too."
"The incineration reset clause is written into the World Base-Covenant. Today, you're reciting it here. The notarization stones are watching. Hunters' Chains are watching. The Council is watching."
He tilted his chin, indicating the faintly glowing Chains around them—each one a "witness."
"If you execute an incineration reset with no amendments at all, that line goes on the Catastrophe Seat's record."
"You may still keep your throne," Qi Luo spread his hands. "But next time the world needs a decision on a major contingency, the World Base-Covenant will weigh that entry—deciding whether you've already lost your qualification as 'guardian' and kept only the reflex to destroy."
"You think the world only cares about efficiency?" Qi Luo smiled softly. "It cares whether it wrote something wrong, too."
It sounded arrogant.
But the proxy knew—part of that was true.
The World Base-Covenant was ruthless, but it despised "uncontrolled destroyers."
The Catastrophe Seat existed to maintain order, not burn for fun.
"And if you sign this appendix—" Qi Luo pressed on, "you can tell everyone you personally, out of 'mercy' and 'justice,' chose to add a protective clause."
"The incineration contingency can stay as a 'last resort,' but before it, you'll be written into a Covenant that says 'this god will shelter mortals.'"
"From that day on—" he looked up, "when other gods want to burn other cities without such an appendix, they'll be compared to you."
"Who looks more like a true 'guardian god'?"
He didn't shout, but everyone who understood clauses heard him clearly—Qi Luo was handing the proxy a clean way out.
Sign, and he'd plaster "Catastrophe Seat, willing to add human protection clauses" across his own face.
Refuse, and he'd be publicly stamped "refused to shelter" in the Base-Covenant and every witness Chain.
More than that—if the World Recovery Contingency ever had to run for real one day, that ugly key-mark would almost certainly come up in audit: You refused to protect this city then.
The proxy said nothing.
Inside the Chains, the calculation cycle clearly stuttered.
[Risk assessment: sign human clauses—additional shelter obligations, higher future review bar; refuse—strong negative entry linked to destruction action.]
[Breach risk: if, after signing, incineration still executed, "explicit breach before the god" will trigger; consequences unmeasurable.]
Even the proxy didn't dare touch that last line lightly.
In the pillar's shadow, Ruan Ji watched, fingers pressed to her sleeve-chain.
She knew better than most mortals what "breach before the god" meant.
It wasn't just faith collapse.
It was structural backlash—chunks of the divine name on the Base-Covenant could blow out like overloaded circuits.
The proxy knew that better.
"You're helping him," she thought toward the unseen world. "You're using your own constraint clauses to help a mortal corner a god."
The glow in the air wavered faintly.
Qi Luo knew he hadn't "persuaded" a god.
He'd used the clauses to drag the world itself onto the scales.
"...Who are you?" the proxy finally asked.
He studied the youth on the steps, his gaze turning appraising for the first time.
Qi Luo smiled.
"I'm Qi Luo," he said. "A contract-smith from Rust Street who's already died once."
The words rippled through the Chains—Hunters' links and Council Chains both twitched.
"Already died once" meant his Basic Covenant record was abnormal.
The Catastrophe proxy's gaze flicked to his chest.
He saw it—the dark stripe, half-hidden under black mist.
He knew that stripe.
It hung beside the World Rollback Covenant in the restricted archives, wrapped round and round with "DO NOT TOUCH" warnings.
Key-mark, he thought.
In an instant, he understood why the Council hadn't simply dragged this brat in and opened his chest last night. Why even the main Seats had only been giving orders from afar, not sending their true selves to "check" personally.
A Key.
The Key of Rollback.
The proxy did a blisteringly fast calculation.
If he refused and proceeded to burn the city, the Base-Covenant would be logging each step—and would have to consider what role that key-mark might play when the Recovery Contingency truly fired.
If he signed, the human clauses became precedent, but the Catastrophe Seat could temporarily stabilize this Key, keep it from doing something worse at a worse time.
"...Bring it here," he said at last.
The light above condensed into a spectral hand reaching down.
Qi Luo's heartbeat stumbled once.
He spread the pages and laid them on the recitation stone.
In his Chain-sight, the ink strokes unfolded into lines the world could read.
The Catastrophe proxy's hand didn't "take" the paper. It pressed it.
A thick Chain uncoiled from his palm, lowering slowly to the page.
[Signatory: third proxy of the Catastrophe Seat.]
[Hereby voluntarily recognizes the following as an attached Covenant to Skycast City's epidemic contingency and accepts the associated shelter responsibilities and breach reviews.]
The Chain paused noticeably after that sentence, then gritted through the last line:
[Signing time: after the Night Bell, day following Plague Night.]
The square went eerily silent.
Everyone saw it—
The glowing hand on a mortal's papers, and lines of words flaring in the air.
In Rust Street, someone choked out half a laugh and got their mouth covered again.
"Was that… a god signing something?" someone whispered, stunned.
"Signing what?" another voice trembled. "Is it forgiveness? Or… new punishment?"
Others just stared, blank, with a new expression in their eyes—not just fear that could only kneel. Something like seeing, from very far away, a door that should never open for mortals crack a little.
On the towers, the nobles' faces were ugly.
They understood perfectly—once this appendix was acknowledged, mortals would remember: gods could be dragged down and made to hear the word "obligation."
Ruan Ji, however, seemed to finally exhale.
In her lens, the Chain labeled "Skycast City Epidemic Shelter and Reconstruction Covenant · Human Clause Appendix" was being slowly registered at some corner of the World Base-Covenant.
The index number was long, tagged onto the tail of a cluster of world-level clauses like a tiny hook on the edge of a massive gear.
"From today on," she thought, "mortals have something they can point at and say, 'It's written in the clauses.'"
The proxy withdrew his hand.
"Out of mercy," he said, tone returning to that face-saving chill, "I grant your city new shelter clauses."
"But from this day," his eyes narrowed, "mortals who interfere in Covenants shall bear the consequences themselves. Qi Luo—"
He spoke the name directly for the first time.
Qi Luo looked up.
"The Covenant you've made today will be tallied to you," the proxy said. "If, one day, these human clauses are used to block a reset the world deems necessary—"
"You will be the first name reclaimed."
It wasn't entirely a threat. It sounded more like a sentence.
The Key had been pinned to a new interface—along with responsibility and risk.
"Then write it down," Qi Luo said. "My name's already died once."
He stepped back from the recitation stone.
In the clause-world, the status of the "Incineration Reset Clause" eased back from "preparing" to "on standby."
[Incineration Reset · status: temporarily suspended.]
[Reason: execution conditions adjusted, shelter clauses signed, contingency entering revision period.]
The mass of pale light above the city coiled in on itself and thinned into a faint ring, sliding back into the corresponding sector of the World Base-Covenant.
The projection's form faded.
Before it vanished, it cast one last look at Qi Luo.
In it were annoyance, wariness—and a reluctant scrap of acknowledgment.
In this city, beyond gods and the Council, a third thing had appeared: a mortal who could point fingers at the world's contingencies.
The square's noise slowly returned.
Some people cried and clung to each other. Some stayed kneeling, hands shaking, unable to believe what they'd just seen.
Ruan Ji stepped out from the pillar's shadow.
She didn't go to Qi Luo yet. She just watched from a short distance as he carefully gathered the now-binding pages back into his satchel.
"This is a trial version," Qi Luo murmured, to himself. "Far from enough."
From Rust Street's direction came faint children's laughter—someone running outside for the first time since they'd fallen sick.
He looked up at the ring of light that hadn't fully faded.
[Skycast City Epidemic Shelter and Reconstruction Covenant · Human Clause Appendix (Trial).]
The words shone along the Chains like mortal handwriting forced into a myth.
Ruan Ji walked two steps closer and stopped beside him.
"You know what you just did?" she asked.
"Made a god sign in front of everyone," Qi Luo said. "Next time someone says, 'Gods only destroy,' you can show them this line."
"And nailed yourself to that line," Ruan Ji said. "Anyone who wants to tear down these human clauses will come for you first."
"Let them," Qi Luo's mouth twitched upward. "The Firm's open for business. We're not afraid of traffic."
He turned and looked at her, eyes lean and stubborn.
"Haven't you been trying to catch me?" he said. "That was a good chance just now."
Ruan Ji studied him for a moment, then slipped her hand back under her cloak.
"I was busy recording the Covenant," she said coolly. "I'll arrest you another day."
"Another day," Qi Luo said. "Remember to bring proof—you're coming under clauses too."
For a heartbeat, there was a strange flicker of mutual understanding between them.
For the first time since the Night Bell, the square of Skycast City had a new kind of shared memory—not a mortal dragged up in chains, but a high-tier god signing a document that put limits on his own power, in front of everyone.
Someday, people would exaggerate this over drinks—say, "That day, a god got forced by some kid from Rust Street to sign on the dotted line."
The clauses wouldn't exaggerate.
They'd just record, cold and clean:
[On such-and-such year, such-and-such day, during the plague of Skycast City, human clauses were first carved into a divine Covenant.]
[Witnesses: the whole city.]