The climactic battle: ten thousand immortals, arrayed in formation, their weapons glowing with the light of stars not yet born.

Nezha fought at the front, his Wind Fire Wheels leaving trails of fire across the sky. Erlang Shen fought beside him, his third eye blazing. Jiang Ziya stood on a hilltop, scroll in hand, calling the names of the dead — and watching them rise.

Heaven watched. Hell waited. And the celestial bureaucracy took notes.

When the battle was over, the Investiture Scroll was read from beginning to end. Three hundred and sixty-five names. Three hundred and sixty-five new gods. The celestial order was complete.

And Jiang Ziya, old and tired, sat by the Wei River with a straight hook in his hand.

The fishing was good. The fish were scarce. But that was not the point.

The point was the waiting. The point was the water. The point was the silence at the end of a great and terrible day, when the world had been remade and all that remained was a river, a hook, and a man who had never expected to matter.