The night air of the city was thick with the scent of rain-slicked asphalt and the electric hum of a metropolis that refused to sleep. After the high-tension lunch at L'Eclat, Chen Feng had successfully dodged three more "strategic meetings" and a very persistent phone call from Lin Xuerui.
He spent the evening in a state of absolute, modern bliss. He had discovered a late-night arcade—a place he called the "Hall of Digital Combat." There, he sat on a plastic stool, a bucket of coins beside him, and systematically dismantled the high scores of every fighting game in the building.
To the observers, he was a blur of fingers and bored expressions. To Chen Feng, it was a meditative exercise. The 8-bit explosions were far more relaxing than the actual planetary collapses he used to manage.
Around 2:00 AM, he sat on the hood of his orange Lamborghini, parked on a ridge overlooking the sprawling neon carpet of the city. He held a cold can of cheap beer in one hand and a wagyu beef burger in the other.
This was the prime of life: no sect wars, no disciples begging for enlightenment, and a 5G signal so strong he could stream "Heavenly Chef" videos in 4K.
As he watched the flickering lights of the skyscrapers, his mind drifted back to the Heavenly Realm.
In the old world, the palaces were carved from cloud-jade and guarded by dragons that breathed liquid starlight. The air there didn't smell like smog; it smelled like "Absolute Purity." But "Absolute Purity" was remarkably boring.
"The Immortals spent ten thousand years chasing a single drop of Dew of the Morning Star," Chen Feng muttered, taking a massive bite of his burger. "They never knew the complex, greasy glory of a double cheeseburger with extra pickles. They sought the 'Eternal Truth,' but they forgot the 'Immediate Deliciousness.'"
The worldly realm was messy, chaotic, and filled with people who were terrified of their bank balances, yet it had a vibrancy the Heavenly Realm lacked. There, everything was static—a perfect, golden museum. Here, everything was decaying, moving, and screaming for attention.
He leaned back against the windshield, the cold metal of his Richard Mille watch pressing against his wrist. The silence of the night brought back the faces he had tried to bury under layers of sarcasm and "salted fish" apathy.
He remembered The Sword Goddess, Liu Ran. She was the only woman who had ever fought him to a standstill. They had sparred for forty-nine days across the rings of a gas giant, their blades cutting through the fabric of space.
"I brought her a bouquet of Universe-Ending Lotuses," he whispered to the wind. "And she told me my 'footwork was sloppy' and that she was 'married to the Sword.' Ten thousand years later, and I still don't know if she was joking."
Then there was Yao'er, the Saintess of the Nine Moons. She had waited for him at the edge of the Forbidden Sea for three hundred years. When he finally arrived, covered in the blood of a Demon King, she had looked at him with those eyes that held the tides of the ocean and said: "Feng, you are too bright. To love you is to be blinded."
She had ascended to a higher plane of silence, leaving him with nothing but a jade hairpiece that he had eventually used to stir his tea during a particularly long winter.
"In the end," Chen Feng mused, "I stabilized the universe, but I couldn't stabilize a single relationship. I could rewrite the laws of gravity, but I couldn't make a woman stay for breakfast."
His smartphone buzzed in his pocket, breaking the melancholy. It was a notification from a food delivery app.
[Your 'Noodle-Sovereign' Xiao Bo has completed a delivery in record time! Would you like to tip?]
Chen Feng laughed, the sound echoing over the cliffside. The ghosts of the Heavenly Realm faded, replaced by the ridiculous reality of the present.
The Sword Goddess was probably still staring at a wall in some void, and the Saintess was likely a cloud of pure consciousness by now. But here? Here he had a purple car arriving on Tuesday, a cold beer, and two of the most powerful women in the city currently competing for his "consultation."
He tossed the empty beer can into the back seat (he'd clean it later—maybe) and started the engine. The Lamborghini roared like a caged beast being set free.
"The stars are cold," Chen Feng said, shifting into gear. "But the neon is warm. Sorry, Liu Ran. The Bean Dao is just more my speed."
As he sped back toward the city, a single, glowing violet butterfly—a remnant of his old cultivation—fluttered briefly in his wake before dissolving into the smog. He didn't look back. The Sovereign was retired.