Part 1 — Suspiciously Good People
Morning inside the apartment was never truly peaceful, although every sunrise insisted on pretending otherwise, as warm light slipped through the windows with an optimism none of the brothers respected, while the city outside groaned beneath the usual suffering of modern life—cars arguing with traffic, students preparing for academic tragedy, office workers regretting every decision that had led them to adulthood, and somewhere far away, a man probably fighting for his life against public transportation—and within that chaos sat seven ancient embodiments of sin pretending, with varying levels of failure, to function as normal young men.
Zìháo sat at the head of the meeting hall table like a king forced to rule over nonsense, already dressed, already awake, already burdened by the invisible title of eldest brother, and before him rested what he considered the true enemy of existence: paperwork, bills, rent, taxes, electricity payments, internet fees, and several documents that looked like humanity had invented them specifically to insult dignity.
Zìháo said, while staring at a tax form like it had personally challenged him to single combat, "I have faced gods, monsters, divine judgment, and the collapse of civilizations, and yet I say with complete certainty that taxes are humanity's cruelest invention."
From the couch—which by this point had become less furniture and more Shùlǎn's natural habitat—came the slow, muffled sound of agreement from beneath blankets, pillows, and what might have been an entire ecosystem of laziness.
Shùlǎn said, without opening his eyes and while somehow sinking deeper into the couch despite already being physically impossible to locate, "The sun is too loud, society is too demanding, and I believe all responsibilities should be postponed until further notice."
Zìháo looked at him for a moment before replying with the exhausted patience of a man who had been dealing with this exact behavior for centuries, "It is six in the morning, there is no sun in your direction, and you said the same thing yesterday."
Shùlǎn adjusted absolutely nothing and replied, "Yesterday I was correct too."
Across the room, Yùwàng sat with his laptop open like a judge preparing execution, his expression already carrying the cold fury of someone reading another badly written web novel, and nobody in the apartment questioned how he could become personally offended by fictional incompetence before breakfast.
Yùwàng said, while typing with the wrath of a disappointed critic, "This protagonist has survived being poisoned, stabbed, betrayed, cursed, politically framed, emotionally manipulated, and hit by a carriage in under forty chapters, and at this point I no longer believe he is the main character—I believe he is simply an insult to narrative consequence."
Xiànmù, sitting quietly near the window with a Panelia graphic novel in hand and the expression of a man who had accepted disappointment as a permanent life companion, turned a page before responding without even looking up.
Xiànmù said, in the calm tone of someone who had long ago given up expecting better from humanity, "Some humans do not care about story, they care about action, dramatic entrances, and what they call aura farming, so naturally logic was the first sacrifice."
Yùwàng slowly looked up and pointed at him like a professor hearing the only correct answer in class.
"Exactly. Finally. Someone here respects literature."
Nearby, Tānlán sat surrounded by glowing screens displaying market charts, financial reports, and enough economic information to make ordinary humans cry, because introducing the embodiment of Greed to the stock market had been a catastrophic mistake for civilization.
Tānlán said, with the fascinated tone of a dragon discovering a kingdom built entirely around treasure, "Humans have taken greed, given it numbers, legality, and professional titles, and somehow convinced themselves that this is a respectable system."
Fènnù walked past carrying a drink in one hand and bad decisions in the other, glancing at the screens with the casual amusement of someone who respected chaos in all forms.
Fènnù said, while leaning against the doorway with the grin of a man who enjoyed trouble simply because it existed, "Be honest, you are not judging them—you are admiring them, because if greed had invented capitalism first, it would have looked exactly like this."
Tānlán did not even blink before answering.
"I admire efficiency, and humans are remarkably efficient at turning desire into institutions."
Before anyone could continue that deeply concerning conversation, the front door opened, and Wánjí entered looking like a war survivor returning from the battlefield, wearing a wrinkled school uniform, carrying a backpack full of betrayal, and possessing the hollow expression of someone whose trust in education had been permanently destroyed.
He walked to the meeting table with all the dramatic suffering of a tragic hero, placed his bag down like it contained the weight of civilization itself, sat heavily in his chair, and stared into the distance for a moment before speaking.
Wánjí said, with the solemn voice of a prophet delivering terrible news, "There is a physical education exam today, and I would like everyone here to know that I have been personally betrayed by the concept of movement."
The apartment fell silent.
Even Yùwàng stopped typing.
Even Tānlán looked away from his financial crimes.
Even Shùlǎn slightly lowered his sunglasses from somewhere inside the couch.
Because some suffering was universal.
Fènnù walked over and placed a hand on Wánjí's shoulder with the grave respect of one warrior acknowledging another before battle.
Fènnù said, while nodding like he was sending someone off to war, "You were not made for this, little brother, because your talents lie elsewhere, specifically in eating enough food to bankrupt nations."
Wánjí looked at him with wounded sincerity and replied, "Exactly, and yet they refuse to test that, as if endurance means running and not surviving three buffets in one afternoon."
Fènnù nodded immediately.
"Cruel and unjust."
Zìháo folded his hands together, trying very hard to remain the responsible eldest brother instead of agreeing entirely.
Zìháo said, in the voice of someone attempting to sound reassuring while knowing full well the situation was hopeless, "You will survive this, because while your relationship with physical activity is tragic, it is not fatal."
Wánjí turned toward him with the betrayed expression of someone abandoned by family.
"Brother, last week they made us climb a rope, and I would like to remind everyone that ropes are naturally hostile creatures."
Zìháo paused.
He considered the statement.
And then, with complete seriousness, replied, "…I see. That does sound aggressive."
From the couch, Shùlǎn contributed like a philosopher whose wisdom came entirely from avoiding responsibility.
Shùlǎn said, without moving even slightly, "Simply refuse, because if society demands suffering, the correct answer is non-participation."
Wánjí looked offended.
"It is mandatory."
Shùlǎn replied instantly, "Then simply fail. That was my academic strategy and, as you can see, I remain alive."
Yùwàng closed his laptop halfway and looked at him with visible disappointment.
Yùwàng said, "Why is it that every time you speak, your advice sounds like either terrible philosophy or laziness wearing a fake mustache?"
Shùlǎn adjusted absolutely nothing and answered with complete confidence.
"Because efficiency is misunderstood by the ambitious."
Before that conversation could become even less productive, Xiànmù's phone buzzed, and unlike the usual background noise of their ridiculous household, that sound made the room subtly change.
He looked at the screen.
Paused.
Then lifted his eyes toward Zìháo.
Xiànmù said, more serious now and with the quiet weight that reminded everyone he was still Envy and not merely a bored reader, "There are reports again from the countryside, and this time the descriptions are too familiar to ignore."
The apartment shifted.
Because beneath the school complaints, the stolen desserts, the financial crimes, and the literary criticism, they were still what they had always been—concepts, embodiments, disasters wearing the shape of young men.
Zìháo stood slowly, and somehow that calm movement carried more warning than anger ever could.
Zìháo said, while looking toward the window as though he could already see the answer waiting far beyond the city, "Tell me exactly what they said, because if seven suspiciously good people are helping farmers for free, then I already dislike where this is going."
Xiànmù scrolled through the reports and read aloud.
"Silver robes, golden eyes, calm personalities, repairing farms, helping villages, stopping monster outbreaks near rural zones, appearing without warning and leaving before anyone can properly thank them."
Fènnù let out a quiet laugh and crossed his arms.
Fènnù said, "That sounds so irritatingly noble that I feel offended on principle, and if I have to guess, I would say our old opposite numbers have once again chosen the most dramatic possible way to be annoying."
Yùwàng shut his laptop with the same energy one used when accepting inevitable disappointment.
Yùwàng said, "Good people are inherently suspicious, especially when they are competent, because normal humans are neither."
Tānlán smiled faintly, the expression of someone who enjoyed problems as long as they were interesting.
Tānlán said, "Virtue and sin are always drawn to one another eventually, like opposites in philosophy or debt collectors to my peace of mind."
Shùlǎn raised one lazy hand from the couch like a dying witness giving testimony.
Shùlǎn said, "Like debt, but with more emotional baggage and significantly worse conversation."
Wánjí, who had been listening carefully only for the important details, raised his own hand.
Wánjí said, with complete seriousness, "Do they have better cake in the countryside, because if they do, I believe diplomacy should begin immediately."
There was a pause.
Fènnù pointed at him without hesitation.
"Valid."
Yùwàng sighed.
"Annoyingly valid."
Xiànmù nodded once.
"Unfortunately, that is the strongest argument presented today."
Tānlán added, "If their desserts are superior, I would also like to know who their supplier is."
Even Shùlǎn muttered from his blanket kingdom, "If they have fresh bread, I may consider movement, which should be understood as a historic level of commitment."
Zìháo rubbed the bridge of his nose and looked once more toward the distant horizon where fields replaced roads and quiet places hid old truths, where seven other brothers likely walked beneath open skies pretending peace could last forever.
This war.
This ancient balance.
This eternal conflict between sin and virtue.
And somehow it was being delayed by school schedules, apartment rent, bad novels, stolen strawberries, and the possibility of countryside desserts.
Zìháo said, with all the exhausted dignity of the eldest brother of the Seven Sins, "The war between us has survived centuries, divine judgment, and the collapse of kingdoms, and now apparently it must also survive Wánjí asking whether our rivals have better cake."
From the table, Wánjí immediately leaned forward and asked with perfect sincerity—
"So… is that a yes?"
Part 2 — The Expedition for Cake
The discussion should have ended there.
It should have remained a passing comment, another ridiculous interruption in the endless chaos of their apartment life, another moment where Wánjí asked something absurd and everyone collectively chose to ignore it for the sake of peace.
Unfortunately, peace had never lived in that apartment.
Which meant the moment Wánjí asked if the countryside had better cake, the idea took root with terrifying speed, because once a thought entered the collective disaster that was the Seven Sins, it either died immediately or became a full-scale event.
This one became an event.
Wánjí sat upright at the meeting table like a scholar defending his thesis, both hands placed dramatically on the surface as though presenting evidence before divine judgment itself, and with complete sincerity in his voice, he looked at his brothers one by one.
Wánjí said, "I believe we are ignoring the most important issue here, because if seven suspiciously good men are living peacefully in the countryside and helping farmers, then statistically speaking, there must be grandmothers nearby, and where there are grandmothers, there is food, and where there is food, there is usually cake, and therefore I propose immediate investigation."
Silence followed.
Not because the logic was flawed.
But because it was, unfortunately, very strong.
Fènnù leaned back against the wall with his arms crossed, trying very hard not to look like he agreed.
Fènnù said, "I hate that this sounds like a military strategy, because somehow the argument of 'follow the grandmothers to victory' feels more reliable than most plans we have made in the last century."
Xiànmù turned another page of his Panelia graphic novel before speaking in the tone of a man reluctantly accepting truth.
Xiànmù said, "From an observational perspective, elderly women in rural areas do tend to possess recipes powerful enough to unite or destroy families, so I cannot dismiss this theory without evidence."
Yùwàng, who had reopened his laptop purely so he could close it again in disappointment, stared at all of them like he was watching civilization collapse in real time.
Yùwàng said, "I need all of you to understand that we are discussing an ancient reunion between opposing conceptual forces of existence, embodiments of virtue and sin whose balance shapes worlds, and somehow the deciding factor has become homemade dessert."
Tānlán, without looking away from his financial reports, calmly replied.
Tānlán said, "History has been decided by lesser things, and if the countryside possesses superior pastries, then resources must be allocated accordingly."
Shùlǎn, still buried within the couch and somehow managing to look like he had been there since the dawn of creation, raised one hand like a ghost requesting attendance.
Shùlǎn said, "I support the mission spiritually, emotionally, and from a safe seated distance."
Zìháo closed his eyes.
He had once believed being the eldest brother of the Seven Sins would involve commanding fear, wisdom, and authority.
Instead, it mostly involved this.
Zìháo said, while pinching the bridge of his nose with the patience of a saint who had made terrible life choices, "I need everyone in this room to explain to me why our inevitable confrontation with the Seven Virtues has somehow transformed into what sounds like a family road trip organized by hunger."
Wánjí raised his hand immediately.
"Because I am hungry."
"…Yes, thank you, I was aware."
"And because school is tomorrow, so if we are going, we should go today."
"…That somehow made it worse."
Fènnù stepped forward like a man volunteering for glorious stupidity.
Fènnù said, "I vote yes, because if our rivals are out there pretending to be morally superior while eating better food than us, then I take that personally."
Xiànmù nodded once.
"I also vote yes, because if I have to hear Yùwàng complain about fictional people for another week without a change of scenery, I may become violent."
Yùwàng looked offended.
"My criticism is necessary."
"It is loud."
"It is correct."
"It is still loud."
Tānlán raised one finger without lifting his eyes.
"I vote yes because if the countryside is stable enough for them to remain there, then I would like to know what resources exist, and if there are profitable agricultural networks, I would also like to know that."
Fènnù stared at him.
"Did you just turn vegetables into strategy?"
"Yes."
"…Respect."
From the couch came Shùlǎn's voice like a prophecy delivered by someone half-asleep.
"I vote yes if someone carries me."
Zìháo looked at him.
"No."
"Then I vote emotionally."
"That is not how voting works."
"It should be."
Wánjí looked at Zìháo with the full power of youngest-brother weaponized innocence.
"Brother."
"No."
"You did not even hear the question."
"I know the question."
"Then answer it kindly."
"No."
"…Cruel."
"…Accurate."
The room descended into overlapping arguments immediately, because nothing in that apartment had ever been decided peacefully.
Fènnù insisted the trip should involve motorcycles for dramatic effect.
Xiànmù said absolutely not because he valued survival.
Tānlán suggested a luxury vehicle because appearances mattered when meeting rivals.
Yùwàng said if they arrived dramatically enough, at least the writing would improve.
Shùlǎn suggested teleportation and then remembered no one trusted him with navigation.
Wánjí suggested trains because trains had snack carts.
And Zìháo, standing in the center of it all like a king abandoned by reason itself, wondered if becoming mortal would somehow be easier.
Then—
there was a knock at the door.
Everyone stopped.
Because normal people knocking on their apartment always carried one of two possibilities: rent problems or accidental supernatural consequences.
Neither was ideal.
Zìháo opened the door.
Standing there was their elderly neighbor from downstairs, Mrs. Han, holding a tray of freshly baked bread and wearing the expression of a woman who had fully accepted that the seven handsome young men upstairs were deeply strange but generally polite.
She smiled warmly.
"I made too much again."
This was a lie.
Everyone knew it was a lie.
Grandmothers and older women never "made too much."
They made exactly enough to feed armies and emotionally manipulate people into eating more.
Wánjí appeared behind Zìháo with supernatural speed.
His eyes widened like a pilgrim witnessing divinity.
Fresh bread.
Still warm.
The apartment itself seemed to hold its breath.
Mrs. Han blinked.
"…Goodness, child, you move fast."
Wánjí said, with the reverence of a man standing before sacred revelation, "Respectfully, ma'am, I would defend your honor in battle."
She laughed.
Fènnù had to physically turn away.
Yùwàng covered his face.
Xiànmù looked like this was the least surprising thing he had seen all week.
Mrs. Han handed over the tray like she was blessing a very strange congregation.
"Well, if you boys are free this weekend, my sister out in the countryside keeps asking why I never visit, and honestly I am too old to carry all the things she sends back with me, so if some of you strong young men wanted to help…"
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Then every head in the apartment turned.
Slowly.
In perfect synchronization.
Toward Zìháo.
Even Shùlǎn somehow sat up halfway.
Even Yùwàng looked interested.
Even Tānlán stopped looking at money.
Because destiny had spoken.
And destiny apparently sounded like an elderly woman with excellent bread.
Wánjí whispered like a man receiving divine prophecy.
"…Brother."
Fènnù added, barely containing laughter.
"The universe has voted."
Xiànmù closed his book.
"This is no longer optional."
Yùwàng folded his arms.
"If you refuse now, even fate will judge you."
Tānlán nodded.
"Also countryside relatives usually have superior cooking."
Shùlǎn, already falling back into the couch, muttered—
"This is the strongest plot progression we have had in chapters."
Zìháo stared at the tray.
At the bread.
At Mrs. Han's hopeful smile.
At his brothers looking at him like a courtroom awaiting judgment.
At Wánjí, who looked one sentence away from tears.
And with the full exhausted dignity of the eldest brother of the Seven Sins, he accepted his defeat.
Zìháo said, after a very long silence and with the heavy voice of a man signing a peace treaty he never wanted, "Fine. We will go to the countryside, we will help carry your things, we will behave like respectable human beings, and if any of you embarrass me, I will personally throw you into the nearest river."
Mrs. Han smiled.
"Oh good. I knew I could trust you boys."
The door closed.
Silence returned.
Then Wánjí stood on a chair like a revolutionary leader and shouted—
"WE RIDE AT DAWN FOR CAKE!"
Fènnù immediately cheered.
Tānlán approved.
Xiànmù regretted everything.
Yùwàng muttered something about narrative decline.
Shùlǎn asked if dawn could be postponed.
And Zìháo, eldest of Pride, embodiment of dignity, ruler of absolute authority—
sat down very slowly and questioned every decision that had led him here.
Part 3 — Tuesday, Apparently
The next morning arrived with the kind of false peace that cities liked to pretend was normal, sunlight stretching lazily across tall buildings, people rushing to work with coffee in one hand and regret in the other, students dragging themselves toward education like condemned prisoners, and somewhere in the distance a delivery truck was already fighting for its life against traffic.
Inside the apartment, however, preparation for the countryside expedition had somehow become a military operation.
Wánjí had packed snacks.
Too many snacks.
An amount of snacks that suggested he believed civilization itself might collapse between the city and the nearest farm.
Zìháo stood at the front door reviewing everyone like a commander preparing troops for war, arms crossed, expression sharp, already regretting everything.
Zìháo said, while staring directly at Wánjí's suspiciously large bag, "Explain to me why your luggage looks like you are preparing to survive winter in the mountains instead of visiting an old woman for an afternoon."
Wánjí held the bag protectively like a dragon defending treasure.
Wánjí said, with complete seriousness and zero shame, "Because trust is temporary, but hunger is eternal, and if there is traffic, emotional distress, or betrayal, I need emergency cake."
Fènnù immediately nodded.
Fènnù said, "Honestly, that is the most responsible thing he has ever said."
Xiànmù adjusted his jacket and sighed.
Xiànmù said, "You said that same sentence when he tried to store fried chicken under his bed."
"And I was right then too."
Yùwàng was leaning against the wall with the expression of someone who had accepted fate but refused to respect it.
Yùwàng said, "I still cannot believe our first meaningful step toward encountering our ancient opposites is being sponsored by someone's aunt and the possibility of superior bread."
Tānlán, checking something on his phone, replied calmly.
Tānlán said, "Most historical events begin for reasons significantly stupider than people admit later."
From somewhere inside the couch fortress, Shùlǎn's voice emerged like a ghost refusing unfinished business.
Shùlǎn said, "Wake me up when we arrive, or don't. Both are acceptable."
Zìháo looked at him.
"…You are coming."
"…That sounds avoidable."
"It is not."
"…Cruel leadership."
Before the argument could continue, the entire apartment building shook.
Not dramatically.
Not like the heavens had opened.
Just enough for the cups to rattle, the lights to flicker once, and for everyone in the room to pause with the universal expression of people who knew exactly what that meant.
Outside, somewhere down the street—
something exploded.
Fènnù blinked.
"…Tuesday?"
Xiànmù checked his phone.
"…Tuesday."
Yùwàng sighed like a man offended by scheduling.
"Of course it is."
Because in this world, monsters were not myth.
They were paperwork.
They were inconvenience.
They were traffic delays and broken sidewalks and city alerts that interrupted your phone while you were trying to eat lunch.
Dungeons opened.
Demons slipped through cracks in reality.
Systems ranked hunters, awakeners, mercenaries, guilds, and people who made poor life choices.
Humanity adapted.
Mostly by complaining.
A city alert sounded from every nearby phone.
[LOW-RANK DISTURBANCE DETECTED — GRADE C BEAST-TYPE MANIFESTATION, DISTRICT 8]
Wánjí looked disappointed.
"District 8? That's near the bakery."
Fènnù stretched his shoulders like a man hearing the opening music of his favorite hobby.
Fènnù said, with dangerous enthusiasm, "Well, if we handle it quickly, maybe we can still get breakfast."
Zìháo immediately pointed at him.
"No."
"…You did not even hear my plan."
"Because your plans begin with violence and end with property damage."
"Efficiently."
"That is not better."
Another tremor shook the street.
This time followed by screaming.
Not dramatic screaming.
Regular city screaming.
The kind that said, there is a monster near my apartment and I am late for work.
Xiànmù looked out the window.
Below, people were evacuating with the practiced annoyance of those who had done this before.
One man was still holding coffee.
A woman was dragging her child with one hand and texting with the other.
Someone shouted, "Again?!"
Another person shouted back, "I told you not to rent near unstable dungeon zones!"
Very normal.
Very modern.
Xiànmù said, while watching a monster the size of a truck casually destroy a streetlight, "It appears to be some kind of horned beast. Large. Fast. Ugly. Probably stronger than its résumé suggests."
Yùwàng stood straighter.
"…I hate when they look like they were designed by lazy writers."
Tānlán glanced once.
"Poor market value."
Fènnù was already halfway to the door.
Fènnù said, "I am going outside."
Zìháo said, without even turning around, "No."
"I am already emotionally outside."
"That does not count."
Wánjí raised his hand.
"If it destroys the bakery, I believe violence becomes morally justified."
"…Sit down."
"Justice for cake."
Shùlǎn, still horizontal, muttered—
"If the monster enters the apartment, I will consider caring."
At that exact moment—
something very large crashed through the building next door.
Silence.
Everyone stared.
Dust rose.
A parked car alarm began screaming.
Fènnù smiled slowly.
"…It entered the neighborhood."
Zìháo closed his eyes.
Somewhere, far beyond patience, he found exhaustion.
Zìháo said, with the voice of a man authorizing a controlled disaster, "Fine. Quickly. Quietly. Minimal collateral damage. We are leaving for the countryside in one hour, and I refuse to explain to Mrs. Han why her moving assistance has been delayed by urban monster homicide."
Fènnù grinned like the sun had personally blessed him.
"At last."
Wánjí stood too.
"If the bakery survives, I require compensation pastries."
Xiànmù sighed and closed his book.
Tānlán locked his phone.
Yùwàng looked offended on principle.
Even Shùlǎn slowly sat up, which was so rare it felt like an omen.
Shùlǎn said, while adjusting his sunglasses at eight in the morning, "If I am leaving this couch, someone is paying for it."
And somewhere, in another part of the world—
seven virtues walked peacefully through farmland, helping repair fences and carrying water under soft skies.
Completely unaware—
that seven problems were currently getting dressed.
Part 4 — False Wrath
The street outside looked exactly like what happened when humanity collectively agreed that urban planning was optional and monsters were apparently part of normal city life, because broken pavement, shattered glass, screaming civilians, one destroyed traffic light, and a man still trying to protect his coffee somehow created the perfect image of modern civilization adapting to disaster through inconvenience rather than panic.
The horned beast that had crawled out of whatever unfortunate crack in reality had decided today was its day to be a problem stood in the middle of the road like an insult given physical form, massive and ugly, with black hide stretched over unnatural muscle, curved horns like broken spears, and glowing red eyes that suggested either rage or very poor emotional regulation.
Fènnù stood on the sidewalk staring at it like someone seeing a rude imitation of himself.
Fènnù said, while cracking his neck and looking almost offended by the monster's entire existence, "I dislike it immediately, and not because it is trying to kill people, but because it looks like something a lazy author would write when they run out of personality."
Yùwàng, standing beside him with his hands in his pockets and the expression of a literary critic forced into field work, nodded once.
Yùwàng said, "Agreed. It has all the subtlety of a badly written side villain whose only purpose is to die and make the protagonist look emotionally complex."
Xiànmù, standing slightly behind them and observing the monster like someone reviewing a disappointing book cover, sighed.
Xiànmù said, "Its design says 'mid-boss,' but its behavior says 'dies in chapter twelve.' I expected better."
The monster roared.
Wánjí blinked.
Wánjí said, while holding a convenience store bun he had somehow acquired in the middle of evacuation, "It interrupted my breakfast, so I support murder."
Tānlán folded his arms.
Tānlán said, "Reasonable."
Zìháo stood at the center of them all with the posture of a king trying to prevent his family from becoming a public incident, which unfortunately was like trying to stop the ocean from being wet.
Zìháo said, while looking at the beast with complete disinterest, "Minimal destruction, minimal witnesses, and if any of you level an entire building again, I will personally make you explain it to the landlord."
Fènnù smiled.
"That sounds like permission disguised as parenting."
"That is because I am parenting."
"Fair."
Before the beast could finish roaring like it had rent to pay, it charged.
Fast.
Far too fast for something that large.
The street cracked beneath it as it rushed forward, civilians screamed again out of professional habit, and somewhere nearby an emergency hunter response team was probably still stuck in traffic.
Fènnù stepped forward.
Not rushed.
Not dramatic.
Just calm.
Which was always worse.
The seal across his back, hidden beneath shirtless broken battle armor that exposed his chest like some ancient war sculpture with anger issues, pulsed faintly beneath the surface of his skin, old markings glowing like restrained fire.
He lifted one hand.
Caught the monster by the face.
And stopped it.
Completely.
Its entire body froze against him like it had run directly into bad decisions.
Silence.
Even the car alarm seemed impressed.
Fènnù tilted his head slightly.
Fènnù said, with the disappointment of someone judging poor craftsmanship, "Oh. You are weaker than your entrance suggested."
Then he punched it.
The beast left reality for a moment.
Not died.
Not defeated.
Just spiritually exited existence.
It flew through a parked bus, three decorative trees, and what had once been someone's very expensive morning before disappearing into the side of a building.
Dust exploded upward.
A pause followed.
Wánjí slowly clapped.
"…That felt emotionally healing."
Zìháo closed his eyes.
"…The bus."
Fènnù pointed.
"It was already ugly."
"That is not a legal defense."
"It should be."
Before the argument could continue—
every phone in the area screamed.
Not rang.
Screamed.
The kind of emergency system sound designed by humanity specifically to cause stress.
Everyone looked down.
The alert flashed across every screen in violent red.
[EMERGENCY ALERT — HIGH-RANK HUMANOID ENTITY DETECTED]
[RANK ESTIMATION: S-CLASS THREAT]
[ENTITY HAS SELF-IDENTIFIED AS: "THE SIN OF WRATH"]
Silence.
Real silence.
The kind of silence that happened when reality itself realized it had made a mistake.
Then—
very slowly—
everyone turned.
Toward Fènnù.
Because standing there, in broken battle armor, glowing seals, and visible violence, was the actual Sin of Wrath.
And he was not smiling.
That was worse.
Much worse.
Wánjí whispered, through a mouth still full of stolen breakfast, "Oh no."
Xiànmù closed his book.
"…That is unfortunate."
Tānlán looked genuinely interested now.
"Someone stole intellectual property."
Yùwàng folded his arms.
"That is not intellectual property. That is identity theft with dramatic consequences."
Shùlǎn, who had somehow come outside and still looked like he resented reality for it, adjusted his sunglasses.
Shùlǎn said, "I respect the confidence. I do not respect the survival instinct."
Fènnù stared at the screen.
Then read it again.
Then again.
As if hoping literacy itself had failed.
It had not.
His eye twitched.
Just once.
The air around him shifted.
Not visibly.
But enough.
Like the world itself suddenly remembered what anger actually meant.
The seal on his back burned hotter.
Cracks of red light spread faintly across his skin.
The temperature dropped.
Then rose.
Then everyone nearby with functioning instincts took one very respectful step backward.
Fènnù said, in a voice so calm it immediately qualified as a national threat, "There is apparently someone in this city calling himself the Sin of Wrath."
No one interrupted.
Because self-preservation was still a valid lifestyle choice.
Fènnù smiled.
It was not a happy smile.
It was the kind of smile wars were written about later.
Fènnù said, while staring toward the distant direction of the alert like a man hearing destiny challenge him personally, "And now I must go introduce myself."
Zìháo sighed the sigh of an eldest brother watching paperwork turn into homicide.
"…Try not to start an international incident."
"No promises."
"Try."
"Still no promises."
Yùwàng nodded once.
"If he is using your title without proper characterization, I support violence."
Xiànmù added, "If he is poorly written, I also support violence."
Tānlán smiled faintly.
"If he is rich, I support selective violence."
Wánjí raised his hand.
"If he delays cake, I support maximum violence."
Even Shùlǎn muttered—
"If I had to leave the couch for this, someone should suffer."
Zìháo looked toward the heavens, toward fate, toward the Author, toward whoever was responsible for his life.
And with the full exhausted dignity of Pride itself, he said—
"…Of course this happens before lunch."
Part 5 — Finding the Fake
There were many kinds of dangerous people in the world.
There were hunters who climbed rankings too quickly and forgot fear.
There were demons who mistook cruelty for intelligence.
There were monsters born from broken systems and unstable gates.
There were ancient beings like the Seven Sins and Seven Virtues, concepts so old they had forgotten what it meant to be anything less than inevitable.
And then—
there were people with Main character syndrome.
Which, according to Yùwàng, was somehow the worst category.
The city was still in mild chaos, which for modern society meant traffic had become even more hateful than usual, civilians were recording destruction on their phones instead of running away, emergency responders were trying to look competent, and somewhere nearby the remains of a very unfortunate bus were becoming tomorrow's insurance problem.
In the middle of all this stood Fènnù, still staring at the alert on his phone like the words themselves had insulted his bloodline.
[ENTITY HAS SELF-IDENTIFIED AS: "THE SIN OF WRATH"]
He read it again.
Still offensive.
Still stupid.
Still alive, unfortunately.
Fènnù said, while slipping his phone back into his pocket with the calm fury of a man planning educational violence, "There are insults, there are challenges, and then there is this—someone waking up in the morning and deciding to steal my title like they found it in a discount shop."
Zìháo, who had already accepted that this day would be terrible, folded his arms.
Zìháo said, with the exhausted authority of a man managing disasters rather than siblings, "Your job is to locate the idiot, not reduce half the district to historical ruins, because while I understand your anger, I would prefer not to explain mass destruction to city officials before noon."
Fènnù nodded once.
"I hear your wisdom, eldest brother, and I will ignore approximately half of it."
"…Better than usual."
Wánjí, still holding emergency snacks like they were tactical equipment, looked around with great seriousness.
Wánjí said, "Should I also be angry on principle, because if someone stole my title, I would be deeply offended and probably bite them."
Xiànmù looked at him.
"No one wants your title."
"That is hurtful."
"It is realistic."
Yùwàng stepped forward, adjusting his coat like a man attending an execution he intellectually approved of.
Yùwàng said, "I would like to witness this purely for academic reasons, because if someone has chosen to call himself the Sin of Wrath, I need to know whether it is arrogance, delusion, or poor writing."
Tānlán added calmly, "If he is strong, he may be useful. If he is rich, he is definitely useful. If he is both, please do not kill him too quickly."
Fènnù looked at him.
"I make no financial promises."
From behind them, Shùlǎn—who had once again somehow appeared while still looking like he had been asleep the entire time—adjusted his sunglasses and sighed like reality was a personal inconvenience.
Shùlǎn said, "I support whatever ends fastest and requires the least walking."
"Then stay here."
"I plan to."
Perfect.
Normal.
As always.
Fènnù stepped forward, stretching his shoulders as the faint seal across his back pulsed beneath skin and old battle scars, ancient runes flickering like restrained fire, and for a moment the street itself seemed to remember that Wrath was not an emotion but a concept wearing human skin.
Then—
someone laughed.
Not from the street.
Not from nearby.
From above.
Everyone looked up.
And there he was.
Standing on top of a tall building like the universe itself had hired a bad director.
A young man.
Long coat flowing dramatically despite the wind not cooperating.
Hair perfectly arranged in the kind of way that suggested he spent more time practicing entrances than actual combat.
One foot on the ledge.
Arms crossed.
Looking down upon the city like he had personally been promised narration rights.
Behind him, the skyline framed him with the kind of accidental lighting that only happened to people who believed they were the main character.
Silence followed.
Even the civilians nearby seemed to pause.
Because everyone, on some instinctive level, recognized it immediately.
This man had Main Character syndrome.
Severe Main Character syndrome.
Untreated.
Yùwàng stared upward with the same expression a professor might have upon discovering plagiarism.
"…Oh no."
Xiànmù closed his eyes.
"…He has rooftop posture."
Tānlán frowned.
"That coat is expensive. I dislike him already."
Wánjí squinted.
"Why is he standing like that? Is he waiting for applause?"
Shùlǎn answered without emotion.
"He believes the camera is on him."
And Fènnù—
Fènnù looked up at the stranger standing dramatically against the sky, claiming atmosphere he had not earned, farming aura like it was a full-time profession, and for several long seconds simply stared.
The rooftop man smirked.
Of course he smirked.
Then, in the tone of someone who had rehearsed this in the mirror, he called down—
"So… you finally arrived."
Silence.
Fènnù blinked once.
Looked at him.
Looked at the building.
Looked back.
And with complete sincerity, absolute judgment, and not even the slightest effort to be polite, Fènnù said—
"…What a fucking stupid thing to do."
Silence.
The rooftop man's smirk faltered.
Somewhere nearby, Yùwàng physically had to turn away.
Xiànmù bit the inside of his cheek to stop laughing.
Wánjí made a sound like a dying bird.
Even Zìháo looked briefly proud.
Because sometimes, truth was simple.
Fènnù shook his head like a disappointed older brother witnessing fashion crimes.
Fènnù said, while pointing upward with all the authority of someone offended by poor life choices, "You climbed an entire building to stand there like a rejected side character waiting for background music, and for what? Dramatic tension? Symbolism? Wind effects? There is no audience. You just look ridiculous."
The man on the rooftop looked personally attacked.
Which was fair.
Because he was.
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
"You—"
Fènnù cut him off immediately.
"No. Whatever you are about to say, no. I am busy. Someone is out there stealing my title, and I do not have time to deal with a man whose personality was built entirely out of mirror practice."
Yùwàng whispered, almost reverently—
"…He killed him without touching him."
Xiànmù nodded.
"A clean execution."
Tānlán added, "Financially efficient."
Wánjí, through tears of laughter, said, "Brother, he looks like he pays for premium hair products."
"Exactly."
The rooftop man, whose confidence had now visibly filed for divorce, tried one last time.
"You dare speak to me like—"
Fènnù turned around.
Just turned around.
Completely.
Like the man had ceased to exist.
And began walking away.
Because true disrespect was not anger.
It was disinterest.
Fènnù waved one hand over his shoulder.
"If you are not the idiot calling himself Wrath, then congratulations, you are merely embarrassing, and I have larger problems."
The silence that followed was so powerful it deserved its own chapter.
Then Fènnù kept walking.
Straight down the ruined street.
Toward the real problem.
Toward the false claimant.
Toward whoever had made the mistake of borrowing his name and surviving long enough for him to hear about it.
Behind him, on top of the building, a man with protagonist syndrome stood alone against the skyline, dramatically devastated.
And below—
his audience had already left.
Part 6 — Cheap Imitations
Fènnù walked through the city with the kind of calm that made normal people instinctively move out of his way without understanding why, because some forms of danger did not need explanation, they simply existed, and even hidden beneath the appearance of a handsome young man in his early twenties with battered battle armor exposing his chest and ancient runic scars crawling across his skin like restrained fire, Wrath was still Wrath, and the world itself seemed to remember that.
Behind him, the others followed at varying speeds and with varying levels of enthusiasm.
Zìháo walked like a tired emperor forced to supervise nonsense.
Yùwàng walked like he expected disappointment and was prepared to document it.
Xiànmù walked like someone attending a public execution out of mild curiosity.
Tānlán walked like he was evaluating whether the target was worth stealing from.
Wánjí walked because there might be food afterward.
And Shùlǎn—
well, Shùlǎn was technically present, though no one was entirely sure how, because his level of effort suggested he was being carried by laziness itself.
The emergency alerts continued flashing across nearby screens and public broadcasts.
[S-CLASS THREAT DETECTED]
[MULTIPLE HIGH-RANK HUMANOID ENTITIES CONFIRMED]
[CIVILIANS ARE ADVISED TO EVACUATE IMMEDIATELY]
Fènnù said, while looking up at one of the warning screens with visible offense, "Multiple?"
Xiànmù checked his phone.
Xiànmù said, in the same tone one might use to report bad weather, "Yes. Apparently your identity theft problem has expanded into a full group project."
Yùwàng sighed.
Yùwàng said, "Of course it did. Bad writing always escalates before it improves."
Tānlán glanced at the report.
Tānlán said, "Seven signatures. That feels intentional and deeply annoying."
Wánjí blinked.
Wánjí said, "Wait. There are seven?"
Silence.
Then everyone stopped walking.
Because yes.
Obviously.
Of course there were seven.
Fènnù slowly turned.
Fènnù said, with the dangerous quiet of someone connecting all the wrong dots, "Tell me… there are not seven idiots walking around calling themselves us."
Xiànmù looked at the report.
Paused.
Then sighed.
"…There are seven idiots walking around calling themselves you."
A beat.
Fènnù smiled.
It was not a happy smile.
It was the kind of smile ancient kingdoms wrote warnings about.
"…Excellent."
Zìháo rubbed his temples.
"Why is it never simple?"
Yùwàng folded his arms.
"Because simplicity would imply respect for narrative structure."
Shùlǎn muttered from somewhere slightly behind reality itself—
"Or because the Author enjoys suffering."
No one argued with that.
They followed the source of the alerts deeper into the city, where broken streets gave way to abandoned construction zones, half-finished towers, and industrial districts where monsters and bad decisions both felt strangely at home.
There, in the skeletal remains of unfinished concrete and steel, stood seven figures.
Waiting.
Dramatically.
Because apparently subtlety had died.
They stood spread across the ruined construction site like people who had studied villain entrances and taken notes.
Each one carried the exaggerated appearance of what a normal human might imagine a Sin should look like.
Too obvious.
Too loud.
Too shallow.
Like caricatures made by someone who had read half a mythology book and decided confidence was enough.
Fènnù stopped walking.
And stared.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Because honestly—
it was insulting.
The first stood at the center, clearly the one claiming Wrath.
Massive.
Overdesigned.
Covered in jagged black armor with too many spikes, red glowing eyes, flaming chains wrapped around both arms, and the expression of someone who thought anger meant shouting.
He looked like a teenager's sketchbook had gained sentience.
To his left stood one claiming Pride, draped in golden armor so excessive it looked like a chandelier had become a person, wearing a crown large enough to qualify as architecture.
Nearby, one claiming Lust looked like someone had mistaken beauty for lack of clothing and mystery for bad posture.
The one calling itself Greed wore jewels like he had robbed a jewelry store and then lost the ability to stop.
Sloth looked less like laziness and more like someone cosplaying unemployment.
Gluttony was simply large, which somehow offended Wánjí on a spiritual level.
And Envy—
Envy looked like a man holding mirrors and bad intentions with absolutely none of the subtle cruelty the real Xiànmù carried just by existing.
Silence.
Then—
Fènnù laughed.
Once.
Short.
Sharp.
Dangerous.
Fènnù said, while staring at the fake Wrath like a king judging a counterfeit crown, "This… is what you thought I looked like?"
The fake Wrath stepped forward dramatically, flames rising around him like someone paying extra for special effects.
"I am the true embodiment of rage, destruction, and endless fury—"
Fènnù raised one hand.
The man stopped talking.
Not because of power.
Because disappointment was somehow louder.
Fènnù said, "No. Stop. Before you embarrass yourself further, I need to understand something. Did you look at the concept of Wrath and decide the answer was 'more spikes'?"
Behind him, Yùwàng covered his face.
"I cannot survive this chapter."
Xiànmù nodded.
"Secondhand embarrassment is a valid weapon."
The fake Pride stepped forward next, voice full of theatrical arrogance.
"We are the Seven Sovereigns of Sin, chosen by the world itself to inherit divine authority—"
Zìháo finally spoke.
And somehow, his voice carried more weight than the speech.
Zìháo said, while looking at the fake Pride with the tired disappointment of a professor reading confidently incorrect homework, "You are wearing a crown the size of bad decisions and speaking like someone who thinks authority is volume. Pride is not decoration. It is certainty. Sit down."
The fake Pride stopped.
Actually stopped.
Because some authority could not be faked.
Tānlán looked at the false Greed and frowned.
Tānlán said, "Why are you wearing your wealth instead of investing it? This is not greed. This is bad taste."
Wánjí stared at the false Gluttony.
Long.
Judgmentally.
Then pointed.
Wánjí said, with genuine offense, "You think Gluttony is just being big? That is lazy writing. Gluttony is hunger. It is endless want. It is the void that says more even after the world is gone. You just look like you lost a fight with a buffet."
Fènnù actually looked proud.
"…That was beautiful."
Even Shùlǎn opened one eye to look at the fake Sloth.
Then immediately looked disappointed.
Shùlǎn said, "You are standing too aggressively."
The fake Sloth blinked.
"…What?"
"Real sloth would have sat down by now."
"…That makes sense, actually."
"Thank you."
Yùwàng looked at the fake Lust and sighed.
Yùwàng said, "You are all aesthetics and no understanding. Lust is not seduction. It is desire so powerful it rewrites morality. It is obsession, ambition, hunger, pain, revenge, devotion. You look like a perfume advertisement."
The fake Lust looked genuinely hurt.
"…That was unnecessarily specific."
"It was deserved."
Xiànmù finally looked at the false Envy.
The mirror-holder smiled arrogantly.
"I can copy anything."
Xiànmù tilted his head.
"Except dignity, apparently."
Silence.
Again.
A lot of silence happened around the real Seven Sins.
Mostly because humiliation was faster than combat.
The fake Wrath, now visibly furious and trying very hard to recover control of his own scene, roared and pointed at them.
"Enough! You dare mock the chosen rulers of sin?! We are gods compared to mortals!"
Fènnù stepped forward.
Slowly.
Calmly.
Which, once again, was much worse.
The seal on his back glowed.
The air changed.
The construction site trembled.
The sky itself seemed to lean closer.
And for the first time—
the fake Seven realized something.
These were not hunters.
Not awakeners.
Not powerful humans.
Not rivals.
Not even the monsters they understood.
These were the originals.
The concepts.
The real thing.
And suddenly—
their costumes looked very small.
Part 7 — Original Copies Do Not Need Introductions
There were moments in life when words were necessary.
This was not one of them.
The ruined construction site stood in complete silence, broken concrete beneath their feet, unfinished steel beams stretching toward the gray morning sky, dust still drifting through the air like the world itself was holding its breath, and across from the true Seven Sins stood seven cheap imitations who had made the single greatest mistake available to creatures with survival instincts: they had mistaken appearance for authority.
They had thought titles were costumes.
They had thought symbols were enough.
They had thought that if they looked dramatic enough, if they stood on ruined buildings and called themselves monsters loudly enough, the world would believe them.
They had not understood the difference between wearing a name and being one.
And now—
they were learning.
The false Wrath stood at the center of them all, flames still rising around his jagged armor, trying desperately to hold onto confidence now that reality had begun personally insulting him, while the others around him shifted uneasily, because for the first time since their grand villain entrance, they had realized something deeply unfortunate.
The men standing before them were not rivals.
They were not obstacles.
They were not powerful awakeners with strange attitudes.
They were wrong answers to a question these seven had asked by accident.
And some questions should never be asked.
The fake Wrath tried anyway.
Pride and stupidity had always been cousins.
He raised his voice, flames burning brighter, forcing strength back into his posture as though confidence could save him.
"You think because you imitate us, you can stand before the true rulers of sin?! We were chosen! We were blessed by the system itself! We inherited these names through power, through trials, through blood!"
Fènnù stared at him.
Just stared.
And that was somehow worse than rage.
Because anger could be survived.
Disappointment could not.
Behind him, Yùwàng folded his arms.
Yùwàng said, in the tired voice of someone witnessing a badly written villain speech and resenting the wasted potential, "I would like it officially recorded that this monologue is weak, repetitive, and lacks emotional weight."
Xiànmù nodded once.
Xiànmù said, "There is also too much shouting and not enough self-awareness."
Tānlán added calmly, "And from a presentation standpoint, the spikes are still excessive."
Wánjí, still holding emergency snacks and somehow making judgment look innocent, tilted his head.
Wánjí said, "He keeps saying chosen like that makes him special. My school cafeteria chooses suffering every day."
Even Shùlǎn, who looked one inconvenience away from returning to the couch dimension permanently, sighed.
Shùlǎn said, "Please finish this quickly. I am tired of standing near people with this much unnecessary ambition."
Zìháo said nothing.
He simply stood there, arms crossed, watching.
Because he already knew how this ended.
He had known the moment the title appeared on that alert screen.
Because there were things Fènnù could forgive.
Bad decisions.
Broken walls.
Property damage.
Questionable life choices.
Even stupidity, occasionally.
But title theft?
No.
That was personal.
The fake Wrath pointed forward dramatically, flames rising higher.
"Bow before us, or be erased!"
Silence.
Then—
Fènnù took one step forward.
Just one.
And the ground beneath him cracked.
Not from force.
From recognition.
Like the world itself understood who had just decided patience was over.
The seal across his back burned beneath skin and old scars, ancient markings glowing brighter like chains trying desperately to remember their purpose, the restraints placed there by his brothers long ago awakening under pressure, suppressing, containing, holding back the thing that existed beneath the human shape.
Because Fènnù was calm.
Unusually calm.
Terrifyingly calm.
Wrath was never loud at first.
Wrath was the moment before fire.
He rolled one shoulder slowly.
Looked at the fake Wrath.
Then at the others.
Then let out a single quiet breath.
Fènnù said, in a voice so soft it made the entire construction site feel colder, "You know what bothers me most? It is not that you stole the titles. It is not even that you wore them badly. It is that you genuinely believed names like ours could be borrowed."
No one moved.
No one breathed.
Even the false Seven were beginning to understand instinctively that survival was no longer part of the conversation.
Fènnù smiled.
It was small.
Almost polite.
Which made it infinitely worse.
Fènnù said, quick, casual, like someone ending a boring conversation at a bus stop—
"See you the fuck never. Bitches."
And then—
he punched once.
No dramatic stance.
No battle cry.
No drawn-out divine attack name.
Just one fist.
Forward.
Simple.
Honest.
Wrath did not need choreography.
The seal on his back flared violently, suppressing most of it—holding back the vast majority of the rage that should have been there, the ancient force that would have turned half the city into memory if left unchecked.
Most of it.
Just most.
And even that—
even the restrained, chained, civilized fraction—
was enough.
The punch never truly landed.
It did not need to.
The force generated from that single movement shattered the air itself, space in front of him folding like glass under impossible pressure as a wave of pure destructive intent exploded forward, not fire, not light, not magic, but the physical shape of anger given permission to exist.
The false Seven did not scream.
There was no time.
One moment they existed.
The next—
they didn't.
No bodies.
No dramatic final words.
No defeated villain speech.
Just absence.
Erased so completely it looked less like death and more like reality correcting a typo.
And the destruction did not stop there.
Everything in front of the punch vanished.
Concrete.
Steel.
Walls.
Distance.
A clean line of devastation tore through the construction site, through empty streets beyond it, through abandoned structures and shattered air, a scar carved into the city so precise and violent it looked like the world had been split open by judgment itself.
Silence followed.
Dust rose slowly.
Somewhere very far away, a car alarm finally gave up.
Wánjí stared.
Looked at the missing section of reality.
Then slowly raised one hand.
"…I feel like that was excessive."
Yùwàng looked at the destruction and nodded.
"No. It was appropriately editorial."
Xiànmù turned a page in his book like this happened every Tuesday.
"Honestly, cleaner than expected."
Tānlán adjusted his sleeve.
"Property values will be interesting."
Shùlǎn, already halfway emotionally back to the couch, muttered—
"And this is why we do not let him choose vacation activities."
Zìháo pinched the bridge of his nose.
He looked at the city.
At the missing skyline.
At the paperwork this would become.
And with the exhausted dignity of the eldest brother of the Seven Sins, he said—
"…I specifically said minimal collateral damage."
Fènnù cracked his knuckles.
"In my defense, I was emotionally invested."
"That is not a defense."
"It is to me."
Far away—
far beyond the city, beyond roads and buildings and broken insurance claims—
the countryside remained quiet.
Fields stretched beneath soft skies.
Wind moved gently through crops.
Farmhouses stood beneath sunlight.
Peaceful.
Ordinary.
And in the middle of it—
seven young men paused.
A farm fence half-repaired.
A basket of vegetables forgotten.
Phones still glowing with the earlier emergency alert.
[HIGH-RANK HUMANOID ENTITY DETECTED — "THE SIN OF WRATH"]
One of them had looked at it earlier and dismissed it.
No.
Surely not.
Too ridiculous.
Too dramatic.
Too city-like.
Surely not him.
And then—
the energy wave arrived.
Not the attack itself.
Just the distant aftermath.
A pressure.
A ripple.
Something ancient moving across the world like memory.
The wind changed.
The fields bent.
Birds fled.
And every one of the seven looked up at the exact same moment.
Silence.
Then one quiet voice.
"…No."
Another.
"…That was him."
And somewhere in the countryside, beneath soft skies and farmland peace—
seven virtues stood very still.
Because far away—
Wrath had introduced himself.