The central square of Mist-Hidden City shimmers half‑transparently under the glow of the Twin-Realm Core. Chen Yuan's crystal‑soled boots clatter upon star‑forged tiles as he surveys the dissolving spire of the Shadow Ring. Its tendril‑like runes writhe against his own Cloud‑Thunder sigils, each brick sometimes dissolving to stardust, sometimes reforging into bone.
"Old Qing," he mutters, tracing the new twin‑realm glyph on his crystal arm, gears and star‑paths alternately dancing across his scales, "you've made your heart‑fusion look like a cosmic tug‑of‑war. Couldn't you broker a peace treaty between your Dao‑Essence and that Elder God cardiocore? I'd rather not have to repair city landmarks in the Deep Cthulhu Realm." The jade talisman on his chest hums in reply, channeling warmth through his crystal veins into the tower's runes—where Cloud‑Thunder stitches tear at the Shadow Ring's emblem, igniting sparks like reluctant agreement.
Lilith's shadow‑cloak shimmers bronze‑gold in residue starlight as she touches his pauldron. Her silver gaze fixes on the pavilion's rooftop emblem of writhing tendrils atop sun‑white rays. "Selene's star‑spark senses the First Ancestor's remnant—his Dao‑Essence rejects the cosmic heart deformation," she reports, her fingers sparking where shadow‑magic meets starlit pavement. "This Twin‑Realm fusion is tearing Mist‑Hidden City into tears of Chaos and Order."
Old Mo's caravan lurches at the square's edge, its mechanical tendrils draining upstar energy. "In '37, your parents buried Seven Star Anchors here in the pavilion's foundations," he cackles, brandishing a newly‑tuned Twin‑Realm compass whose needle swings wildly between Cthulhu constellations and Earth's longitude. "Now those anchors are leaking—this city's clockwork is running backwards, Iron Bastion's forge‑heart sprouting Ming Wall brickwork!"
Chen Yuan's crystal fingertips tighten as the ornamental fountain at the plaza's center boils—not water, but drifting Purple‑Gold Mountain mists and shards of shining stars. His bone‑resonance detects hundreds of chaotic memory‑flows: his father lecturing in Golden Capital University woven through Cthulhu rites, his mother resurrecting bronze cauldrons over the Shadow Ring's battlefield.
"So the Twin‑Realm merge brings free mind‑mash too?" he groans. His arm shifts to reveal a yin‑yang of cloud‑gears and starlight, palms tracing the symbol. "Lilith, bridle the fountain's time‑storm with shadows! Old Mo, fire your eyeball‑relic at the Dao‑Essence atop the tower—let's patch this cosmic tear!"
At the spire's pinnacle, the spectral First Ancestor flickers into view—half‑clockwork, half‑ethereal—with the Twin‑Realm Core pulsing in his breast. "Keeper of entropy," he booms, "the cost of merging is revealed: Cthulhu's star‑paths now devour Earth's history. The Seven Anchors your father buried are corrupting."
Chen Yuan's cosmic sight sweeps Earth's seven anchor points—Bronze Lions of the Capital, Mystic Cauldrons of the Forbidden City, the Filial Classics Cauldron of Stone Mountain—now all flickering red across his crystal scales. His arm burns with uncontrolled heat as maps of Earth etch themselves upon his flesh.
"Old Qing, you should've charged rent on those anchors!" he snaps. His arm transforms into a dual‑realm scanner, etching patterns of bridge‑like gears and starlit cables. "Selene, pinpoint Earth's collapsing anchors! Old Mo, shove your Heart‑Furnace shard into the engine—this time we're performing cosmic triage!"
Their caravan dives into the Twin‑Realm rift—he sees the Forbidden City's royal tiles fused with his star‑chart instruments. Within a glass case, the mother's jade talisman darkens, absorbing Cthulhu's chaos to become a dual‑realm core. Chen Yuan's crystal gloved hand blossoms into a conservator's tool, drilling away chaotic shell from the pendant.
"National Museum would intern me if they knew I was tempering artifacts in a spacetime crack," he grumbles. He plucks the racing chaotic core—within it, a scrap of his father's final journal. "Old Mo, can that core double as a backup battery? I'm not repeating last time's midnight reboot snafu." Old Mo's tendril snatches the journal: "Better than any battery—that's your father's distilled entropy energy. It immunizes your arm against cosmic rot… though…" He waves the journal cover, imprinted viably with "Guide to Raising Cthulhu Creatures."
Selene's star‑shards whirl overhead, forging alarm‑glyphs. "Thirty‑seven chaotic flare‑points converge on the Capital! The Eastern Domain of the Deep Temple is mustering—modified funeral golems borne on Nanjing Martyrs' arms!"
Stamped boots echo, she peers through a vent. "Thirty‑seven processions, in Sun‑Yat‑sen coats, carry steel‑clad biocoffins bound with palace tiles and curse‑runes. Those golems harbor survivors' rings from the Massacre."
"Imagine the headline—'Thugs in Yellow Coats Crucifying Cthulhu?'" Chen Yuan's arm fires triple bone‑cannons inscribed with the "National Anthem," severing golem joints. Each bone‑shard blasts forth the stirring strains of "March of the Volunteers," a protective enchantment his father embedded.
"Lilith, sever those coffin's steel nerves with shadow blades! Selene, tag the core's exact cavity—tonight's tutorial: modern history and cosmic horror!"
The coffinlid creaks off: inside lies a full‑automaton slumbering under a jade talisman—its mechanical heart throbbing with chaos, its neck etched "1937‑12‑13." Chen Yuan's breath catches. The arm whirs uncontrollably, blood‑gear runes bloom—the very war‑ward spells his father wove to guard Nanjing.
"Dad…" he whispers, as the core's fever feeds into his crystal arm, harmonizing its heartbeat with his own pulse—echoes of distant artillery roll across his senses.
The cultists erupt in a surge of corrupt energy. He shrinks the coffin into his talisman‑realm. In the whirlwind, his arm blooms triple cosmic wings of gear, star, and thunder‑sigil that each launch bone arrows etched with articles of the "Treaty of Nanjing"—lethal to the chaos taint.
"Old Mo, catch your newest trophy!" he howls, hurling the fractured cult core skyward. The mechanized tentacles snatch it, their rune‑glyphs flaring into "Never Forget" in stark Han characters.
Selene sighs: "Future‑visions name your assassin—Will he maul old Mo first, or you?" Her shards form an image of his father wielding a wrench.
The cultists vanquished, the Ram's Return tower tolls the dawn. Chen Yuan stands before the case holding "Map of All Nations," now synced to his talisman. The continents glow with anchor‑points over both sky and earth.
The glass bears his mother's final note: "Yuan'er, seek the third anchor at Sun Yat‑sen's Tomb for Father's last writings. PS: lubricate your arm's gears; please don't use Martyrs' Path gravel!"
Old Mo perches atop the wagon, calibrating the Time‑Shards in his palm. His eyeball‑relic reflects the rising sun over Sun Yat‑sen's grave: "Your father hid seven anchors '37 Huanglinging, each binding a fraction of the First Ancestor." He thumbs the journal, which shows young Chen Yuan and Su Mingyue posing triumphantly by the Beast Statue, custom‑armored in brocade robes—"he nearly turned the Lion Guardians into golems, but Mingyue's Cloud‑Brocade stashed their souls safe."
Lilith points ahead: a cadre in period dress scrambles toward the tomb—hands full of rune‑etched torches. "The Grey‑Robe Council's Asia Chapter come to harvest the chaos cores." Her silver eyes sparkle with mischief as shadow‑craft swirls into "National Museum Special Consultant" badges over their coats.
"Pass," Chen Yuan laughs, tapping the wagon wheels, which burn twin‑sun emblems into cobbles. "I'd rather my dad's arm be covered in Sun‑White badges than risk sparks in the Forbidden City."
As their wagon vanishes into the Twin‑Realm rift, Chen Yuan glances at his crystal greaves, awash in tricolor energy. In two worlds, he's a walking miracle—his jibes and wonders alike.
Ahead lies more: the Temple of the Deep's global cell, or the Grey‑Robe Archive's hidden vaults. Yet none daunt him now—his true talisman isn't the jade or the system, but an Earth‑born soul that thrives in these crossroads.
And at that nexus, gears meet star‑paths, chaos greets culture, and his laughter echoes as the Twin‑Realm's most unlikely hope: journeying on the gnarled edge of two realms, forging a path of defiant harmony in the pulse of Cloud‑Thunder's glow.