Sunset Peak had never seen a gathering like this.
Stretched across the terraced green slopes of the mountain, where ten seasons ago a humble copper-wire furnace had first begun to hum in the dirt, were three thousand long, heavy-duty picnic tables built from rough-sawn Douglas fir.
Suspended between steel utility poles high above the valley were miles of commercial-grade black festoon lighting strings. Hundreds of thousands of warm, clear filament bulbs glowed with a soft, amber radiance, powered by the immaculate sixty-hertz baseload of the Sunset Peak municipal grid.
Zero sparks of tribulation lightning appeared. Zero drops of martial blood fell.
Seated shoulder-to-shoulder at the wooden benches were beings who, in any other epoch of existence, would have torn star systems apart in blood-soaked war.
Here sat mortal iron miners from the Black Iron Mines, wearing clean flannel shirts and laughing heartily as they passed wooden platters of spiced sausages to nine-thousand-year-old Ancient Daoist Grand Elders. Across the aisle, towering Dragon Kings with polished jade horns were politely asking third-year pipefitter apprentices to pass the coarse sea salt and pickled garlic.
Emperors from four mortal dynasties clinked heavy stoneware mugs of cold cellar ale with demonic sect leaders who had traded their skull scepters for six-inch framing squares.
Over near the timber-framed souvenir gazebo, Li Xiaoyao was doing brisk, roaring business. He had set up a souvenir tent draped in bright orange banners. He sold white hard hats stamped with the Sunset Peak logo and six-inch brass spirit levels in velvet boxes. The biggest hit was a charcoal t-shirt printed in bold block letters: *I SURVIVED THE BIG CRUNCH AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS CODE-COMPLIANT UNIVERSE*.
A line of three hundred ancient sect elders stretched around the corner, eagerly trading refined spirit stones for commemorative t-shirts, carefully checking that their shirts conformed with NFPA 70E flame-retardant standards.
Nearby, Zhao Ba—the immortal brawler who had famously spent three hours riding the sorting chutes back in Season Six—was holding court around a keg of cold lager, gesturing wildly with a half-eaten pork rib.
"I tell you, young apprentices, always stay behind the yellow line!" Zhao Ba boomed, tapping the brim of his hard hat. "The moment your steel toe crosses the boundary without an escort, the pneumatic arms don't care that you're at the Void Shattering Realm! They will scoop you like gravel, drop you in the sorting hopper, and classify you as coarse aggregate! Respect the yellow paint, or the Master Contractor will give you eight hours of mandatory safety retraining!"
The young apprentices shivered, nodding in solemn, respectful enlightenment.
Down by the central pavilion, the culinary heart of the banquet was enveloped in a magnificent, mouth-watering cloud of aromatic hickory and applewood smoke.
Standing proudly on a raised platform behind a fifty-foot-long, custom-built offset barbecue smoker forged from boiler-plate steel was Chief Inspector Pug.
For this grand occasion, Pug wore his ceremonial attire: his crisp yellow safety vest, his white hard hat tilted rakishly back, and a clean, red-and-white striped cotton apron embroidered with bold red letters: *GRILL MASTER*.
In his right front paw, Pug gripped a three-foot pair of spring-loaded stainless steel tongs.
Every ten seconds, Pug would click the tongs together twice—*clack-clack*—before expertly flipping a sizzling, three-pound prime solar-beef ribeye on the expanded metal grate. Beside him sat Chonker, wearing a comically oversized red chef’s toque between his furry ears, happily basting whole roasted solar oxen with a mop soaked in spicy cider barbecue sauce.
Whenever a hungry guest walked up with an empty plate, Pug squinted through the savory smoke. He sized up their appetite with an experienced snort, then speared a thick slab of glazed smoked brisket right onto their platter.
He would then click his tongs twice and let out a warm, booming bark:
*"WOOF!"*
"Thank you, Master Grillmaster!" the guests would say, bowing deeply with watery eyes before scurrying back to their tables with their steaming feasts.
At the head of Table Number One, situated beneath the shade of an ancient pine tree overlooking the peaceful valley, sat Austin.
He had removed his heavy canvas tool belt, setting it gently upon the grass beside his chair. His level one hundred core—containing the eternal, unmoving balance of the Universal Dark Core—idled at a quiet, rhythmic hum in his abdomen. His two thousand pounds of certified lead ballast sat comfortably within its twenty-eight brackets, anchoring him to the green mountain earth with absolute, timeless stability.
Austin reached out and ran his knuckles along the underside of the picnic table bench, nodding with quiet tradesman appreciation.
"Good carpentry, Kuang," Austin said. "Half-inch galvanized carriage bolts with lock washers. Beveled edges on the 2x6 planks. Zero splinters. You built these tables to hold three tons."
Tie Kuang beamed, rubbing the back of his neck with a massive, calloused hand. "Learned from the best, Master. Never use drywall screws where a carriage bolt belongs."
In his left hand, Austin held an icy, sweating bottle of house-brewed dark lager, chilled to a crisp thirty-eight degrees by the closed-loop copper refrigeration coils running from the valley spring. In his right hand, he held a buttered ear of sweet corn on the cob, seasoned with smoked paprika and coarse sea salt.
Sitting to his right was Tie Kuang, nursing a half-gallon stoneware pitcher of foaming amber ale. To Austin’s left was Xuan Ming, who had traded his safety glasses for reading spectacles, happily buttering thick slices of homemade sourdough bread.
Across the table sat Sword Sovereign Jiang Taixu, along with former Grand Archons Yuan Shi and Gu Ming, their plates piled high with smoked ribs, baked beans, and sweet potato mash.
"Master Contractor," Jiang Taixu said, lifting a wooden goblet of aged plum wine with both hands. "For ten million years, this old man has attended imperial banquets in the highest palaces of heaven. I have tasted Dragon-Liver Elixirs and Peach of Immortality Nectars served on plates of solid celestial jade. But none of those hollow banquets can compare to this table."
Austin took a bite of his corn, chewed slowly, and washed it down with a long, satisfying pull of cold beer.
"That's because imperial banquets are political theater, Taixu," Austin remarked with a faint chuckle. "Everybody's looking over their shoulder wondering who’s trying to poison their wine or usurp their throne. A job-completion barbecue is different. When the building is done, the roof doesn't leak, and the inspector has stamped the certificate, there’s nothing left to argue about. You just sit down, eat your brisket, drink your beer, and appreciate good company."
"Spoken like a true sovereign of the craft!" Tie Kuang laughed, slamming his mug against the table with a hearty thud that sent ripples through the beer. "Master, do you remember Season One? When we were digging that ditch for the copper wire by hand with rusted shovels?"
Austin smiled, looking out over the sprawling, glowing valley.
"I remember," Austin said. "We didn't even have a three-ton hydraulic jack. We had to pry boulders with split logs and pray the lever didn't snap. You had a blister on your thumb the size of an apple."
"And you gave me a roll of cloth friction tape and told me to keep digging!" Tie Kuang roared with laughter, wiping tears from his eyes. "Best advice I ever received in my life!"
At that moment, the crowd parted respectfully as three mortal emperors, accompanied by Matron Ling Yue of the Silver Moon Sect, approached Table Number One.
The Grand Emperor of the Southern Celestial Empire, clad in ceremonial robes of yellow silk that had been tailored to conform with OSHA Class 2 visibility standards, dropped to one knee before Austin.
"Supreme Lord of the Dark Core! Master Architect of the Heavens!" the Emperor proclaimed, lifting a velvet-lined box containing an imperial jade seal. "The mortal realms wish to bestow upon you the eternal title of Grand Heavenly Emperor of All Existence! We offer you nine thousand palaces of gold and sixty million immortal maidens to govern your heavenly court!"
Austin looked at the imperial seal, then looked at the Emperor with a flat, unimpressed stare.
"Get up, Emperor," Austin said, shaking his head. "First of all, nine thousand palaces is a zoning nightmare. Do you have any idea what the maintenance budget on nine thousand roofs would look like? The deferred maintenance alone would bankrupt three dynasties in twenty years. And second, I don't want a palace. I have a three-bedroom house with a wrap-around porch right up the hill, and the roof is brand-new forty-year architectural shingles."
The Emperor blinked, thoroughly stunned. "You... you refuse the imperial throne?"
"I'm a contractor, not a king," Austin stated plainly, pointing with his corn cob. "Kings sit around giving speeches and collecting taxes until their kingdoms fall apart. Contractors actually fix the plumbing. Keep your seal, run your kingdom to code, make sure your mortal villages have clean drinking water and grounded electricity, and we won't have any problems."
Matron Ling Yue bowed deeply, her eyes glowing with pure, enlightened understanding.
"The Master Contractor seeks no praise," she whispered reverently. "For him, the highest throne is a job well done, and his crown is a spotless hard hat."
"Amen to that," Tie Kuang grinned, passing a plate of hot garlic rolls to the stunned emperor. "Here, your majesty. Have some garlic bread. Pug made the butter fresh this morning."
Pug trotted over from the barbecue pit, carrying a large oval serving platter loaded with a thick, juicy, dry-aged porterhouse steak that had been seared to absolute medium-rare perfection over hardwood coals.
Pug hopped up onto the bench beside Austin, setting the platter down on the table with great care.
Pug sat down on his haunches, looked up at Austin, and gave two short, affectionate whines—*whimper-whimper*—nudging Austin’s forearm with his warm, velvety snout.
Austin looked down at the steak, then at his loyal companion.
"Did you save this cut for me, buddy?" Austin asked softly.
Pug gave a proud, authoritative bark:
*"WOOF!"*
Austin picked up his steak knife, sliced a generous, thick chunk of the sizzling rib cap, and set it onto a clean paper plate on the bench beside Pug.
"Fair split," Austin said with a warm grin. "You worked the pit for eight hours. Chief Inspector gets the best cut."
Pug attacked the steak with joyful, slobbery enthusiasm, his stubby tail wagging so fast it became a golden blur against his red-and-white apron.
Austin cut a piece for himself, savoring the rich, smoky flavor. Around them, the music of thirty thousand happy voices, clinking beer glasses, and gentle laughter echoed across the slopes of Sunset Peak.
The night sky above was clear, deep, and brilliant.
Through the clean, non-turbulent atmosphere, the synchronized stars of the reborn cosmos twinkled with steady, unwavering warmth. There were no black holes eating innocent worlds. There were no rogue gravitational tides dragging planets to their doom.
The entire universe was turning in quiet, code-compliant peace.
Xuan Ming leaned back against the bench, looking up at the glittering expanse.
"Master Contractor," Xuan Ming asked softly. "Now that the universe is built, inspected, certified, and celebrated... what will you do tomorrow?"
Austin took a sip of his cold beer, looking up toward the ridge where his quiet timber-frame house stood among the pine trees.
"Tomorrow?" Austin replied, his voice relaxed, peaceful, and filled with deep, hard-earned tranquility. "Tomorrow I hand over the master tools. And then... I sit on my porch."