: If you hesitate, do not fire.

The city that Qiao Ye sees now must have been magnificent in the past.

But at this moment, they were all engulfed by flames, outlining a hellish silhouette in the night.

Flames streamed down from every fallen spire.

The entire sky was burned to a sickly orange-yellow, like a festering wound.

Ashes floated in the air.

It fell densely, like snowflakes falling from the sky.

Qiao Ye stretched out his hand, and a few pieces of ash fell into his palm, still warm, with dark red sparks around the edges.

"Where am I?"

Although Qiao Ye had some vague guesses, he dared not make a definitive statement.

Soon, the system provided the background information—

[Current Dream: The Third Demon Reich - Throne City - 1945]

[Identity: Visitor (Temporary)]

[Client: King of Demons]

[Background: The 'Fated War' has reached its final moment. The Iron Federation's giant golem elites are about to crush this demonic land on earth.]

[Mission Objective: Head to the Magic Castle to see the little painter one last time.]

Qiao Ye thought to himself, "Just as I expected."

This is the day the little painter died.

A loud noise came from afar.

Something huge crashed to the ground.

The whole city shuddered, and loose stones rolled down from the nearby ruins.

Qiao Ye looked up and saw two figures fighting among the ruins in the distance.

One is a giant steel golem.

It might be thirty meters, or it might be higher; Qiao Ye couldn't make a precise judgment.

A furnace burned on the giant golem's chest, providing a continuous source of energy.

Its entire body is made of steel plates and rivets, and it constantly spews out steam.

It held a broken stone pillar in its hand and swung it to smash it against the other side.

The opponent is a demon.

It has a huge, ferocious body with three heads—a sheep's head, a woman's head, and a child's head.

The two enormous objects wrestled together, smashing through the remaining building and kicking up clouds of dust.

Qiao Ye didn't want to get close to them, so he chose to walk forward.

The streets were littered with the corpses of demons.

There are also countless giant steel golems in the city.

They swept away the remaining demons in the city, completely ignoring Qiao Ye.

At Qiao Ye's feet was a street soaked in blood.

He stepped forward across that river of blood.

Despite the constant sounds of fighting all around, Qiao Ye could still hear one voice.

It was a man's voice.

He was singing, but his voice was soft and intermittent.

But it guided Qiao Ye's direction.

The surrounding sounds faded into the distance.

Only faint explosions remained, like the city's last breaths as it clung to life.

At the end of the street stood a massive, half-collapsed building.

It must have been very glorious.

But now only ruins remain.

Half of the porch had collapsed, and a charred flag still hung on the remaining half, fluttering in the wind.

The door was made of iron and was half-open, with dim light shining through the crack.

Qiao Ye pushed open the door.

Inside was a staircase leading downwards, and every few meters on the wall hung a kerosene lamp, its flame flickering.

He went down.

At the end of the stairs was an iron door, half-closed.

The singing came from inside.

Qiao Ye pushed open the door.

It was a very small room, completely empty except for a cot and a chair.

A person is sitting on the bed.

He was wearing a tattered black uniform, which was covered in blood.

His head was down, and he was still humming that nursery rhyme.

Qiao Ye stood at the door, but did not go in.

The man heard footsteps and looked up.

That face—

It's that little painter from thirty years ago.

He is old.

But you can still recognize it.

The young painter looked at Qiao Ye.

Looked for a long time.

Then he laughed.

"You haven't changed at all," he said.

His voice was hoarse, no longer possessing the sharpness of his youth.

Qiao Ye walked into the room and sat down in the chair.

"But you're old," he said.

"After all, it's been more than thirty years."

The young artist said that each word was broken and intermittent.

"For the past thirty years, I have been thinking about our conversation back then. Why didn't you approve of me?"

That has always been a thorn in my side.

"I almost conquered the whole world, and I really wanted to find you then, but I couldn't find you no matter what I did."

"My glory days didn't last long after that."

"I lost, I lost completely."

Then you finally appeared.

Look at me, and then look at yourself.

"You haven't changed at all...not at all!"

The little painter looked at Qiao Ye, and at this moment, he no longer seemed to be the demon king who conquered the world.

He was just an old man in his twilight years.

"Witchers don't age much."

Qiao Ye made up an excuse to explain why he hadn't grown old.

However, the young painter shook his head.

"I wasn't supposed to get old, but I want too much."

The young painter said, "You have a childlike heart, which is why you can live so naturally."

He raised his head, a look of nostalgia on his face.

"I'm thinking now, would living like you be a good choice?"

"I just drew, in that little apartment, drawing whatever I wanted to draw."

"Perhaps, things wouldn't be like they are today."

His voice grew softer and softer until the last word was almost inaudible.

Outside the room, a muffled explosion could be heard from afar, and a few specks of dust fell from the ceiling.

The giant steel golem is approaching.

The final moment is approaching.

The young painter withdrew his gaze and looked back at Qiao Ye.

"Who did you just lose?" he suddenly asked.

Qiao Ye's shoulder twitched.

"You noticed?"

"Of course I can tell."

The young painter said, "Don't forget, I could easily see through people's hearts thirty years ago."

"He's someone very important to you, right?"

Qiao Ye didn't know how to answer.

He was not indifferent to what had happened before his eyes.

His father had transformed into Yahweh before his eyes, and now his fate was unknown.

Qiao Ye did see it.

He simply believed that Joe's father wasn't necessarily dead, and that there was still hope for a comeback.

Now is not the time for sadness.

He can control his emotions, but he can't control his thoughts.

The young painter immediately recognized it.

"And that's not all."

The young painter continued, "You are now in a very critical situation, probably facing the same danger of the world collapsing as I am."

Everything he said was correct.

After all, he was the King of Demons; even at the very end, his vision remained.

Qiao Ye didn't know how to answer.

The little painter continued:

"I have been through many desperate situations, but I have never given up. I have started over time and time again, and the world has given me many chances."

"But this time is different; I'm at the very end."

He paused.

"But you still have a chance."

The little painter suddenly raised his hand and took out something.

He handed it to Qiao Ye.

"This is for you, as a gift for your final farewell to me."

He said, "You know how to use it."

Qiao Ye took it and looked at the item in his hand.

It's that Walther PPK.

More than thirty years ago, this was a prop used by the young painter to transform into the Demon King.

"The Demon King is now in his complete form."

The young artist said, "Using this power comes at an unimaginable cost, far beyond what you can bear."

"But on the contrary, it can also help you find a way out in desperate situations."

How you use it is up to you.

The little painter smiled, looking at Qiao Ye as if he were looking at the next Demon King.

"If you have any doubts, don't fire."