Chapter 735: 735: Weakness of the Gods
Fatal Strike -60,000,000!
Critical Hit!
Critical Damage -15,000,000!
…
A storm of numbers burst across the battlefield. The larger the demon, the higher its damage output, and the more perfect a target it beca.
Orson’s chaos orbs detonated again and again. With heavy burning modifiers stacked on every hit, the lower demons couldn’t endure even a breath before being reduced to ash in the chaos fire.
Accuracy didn’t matter anymore. All he had to do was hurl his spells into the thickest part of the black clouds and let them rain death.
If he couldn’t use skills, then his basic attacks, stronger than most forbidden spells, would serve as his forbidden spells.
He beca like so ancient artillery piece, eyes alight with divine madness, spitting fire without end.
Cloud after cloud broke apart. In less than a minute, over a thousand demons were reduced to dust before they ever even laid eyes on their killer.
“Heh… hehehe.”
Bellara first stared, astonished, then covered her face as laughter spilled from her lips like silver chis.
In centuries she had seen countless Sunforge prodigies, even ascended adventurers whose brilliance burned bright for a fleeting mont. But never had she seen sothing this absurd, this shaless.
Even the demons, fad for their cunning and cruelty, would have to bow their heads to this man’s antics.
Orson kited them rcilessly, hour after hour, whittling them down with sheer range. Half the swarm was dead before they ever glimpsed his shadow. The rest, marshaled by dozens of high demons, surged toward the mountain ridge where he stood.
Arrows of chaos fell to et them.
Whole peaks shattered and crumbled into dust under the storm.
High demons roared their defiance, but each was pierced through in mid-air, their bodies riddled like hornet’s nests before plumting lifeless from the skies.
“Chaos Blade.”
As the swarm pressed closer, Orson rolled his wrist and shifted into Sword God form.
With a single swing he carved a fortress of sword-light, walling the battlefield in luminous steel.
It was only his basic attack, yet it shook the heavens. Few could survive a single clash. Only those high demons close to king-tier could last more than a mont.
He copied Bellara’s movent, weaving between the hulking beasts. Every slash unleashed a spray of black blood.
From sunset until dawn he fought, until the final demon was split apart by his blade.
“Your level has reached the cap of 120.”
The prompt chid. Orson drew a deep breath, weariness flickering across his face.
He had already reached 120 after slaughtering divine weapons on the Awakening battlefield. But then his experience bar hadn’t been full.
Now the bar glowed gold. No more demons or monsters could grant him XP.
“Your Overgod Soul Marks: Heavenly Spirit’s Right Eye, Heavenly Spirit’s Left Eye, Heavenly Spirit’s Heart.”
“Proficiency at maximum! Fusion condition t!”
“Your marks are of the sa series. Probability of fusion into Divinity is extrely high. Proceed with fusion?”
“Current success rate: 19%.”
“Adventurer rits may be exchanged for the divine item Divine Essence to increase the rate.”
Orson froze. Fuse the soul marks into Divinity… beco a god?
For a heartbeat he felt adrift. Just a mortal, yet standing on the brink of godhood? It felt like a dream.
Then he snorted. “Wait. Nineteen percent is ‘extrely high’?”
He’d never trusted luck. A red warning text glared at him: fusion failure would drop his proficiency one rank lower.
A failure loop. Every attempt would lower his odds further. Below five percent, the marks would be forcibly unbound and lost forever.
It was a scam. And with his rotten luck, gambling wasn’t an option.
He pulled up the rit shop.
His jaw dropped.
One Divine Essence cost a billion rits—and only boosted fusion by one percent.
He had seventeen billion left. Seventeen asly percent.
How many demons would he have to kill to scrape together enough?
And with his level capped, he discovered another truth: rits had hard limits.
A king-tier adventurer could exchange up to twenty billion. A god-tier up to forty. Above that were the Divinity ranks: lesser god, mid god, high god, galactic sovereign.
The higher the rank, the more they could squeeze from the system.
And once you hit god-tier, the Infinite Dinsions rules gave you permissions that bordered on omnipotence. Authority over entire unaltered worlds. The power to create NPCs from nothing. To decree life and death.
A true creator.
But immortality wasn’t free. Gods lived on faith points. As long as worshippers endured, they did too. When belief died, they withered.
To climb higher, only two roads existed.
Complete quests tailored only for gods, harder than Legendary-tier missions.
Or slay a god greater than yourself, seize their Divinity, and claim their authority as your own.
“No one but the original Creator was born a god.”
Orson sneered. His suspicion was confird. Aside from the one who had forged the Infinite Dinsions itself, the rest were nothing but mortals like him, leveraging the rules to climb.
He carried his thoughts with him as he strode toward the Tiamat temple.
Inside a side chamber he found a wooden bucket, drew water from the well, and washed the blood from his skin.
“Hey. What do you think you’re doing?”
Bellara, stationed at the entrance, scowled at being ignored. And when she saw him neatly fold his beast-hide tunic on the bed, her temper spiked.
“As you can see. I’m staying here.”
He barely spared her a glance, his mind busy stitching together clues.
“Staying? Look properly. Do you know who I am?”
She glared and revealed the title floating above her head: Sunforge Sovereign. The implication was clear—the world itself belonged to her.
Orson didn’t blink. He simply let his own title gleam above him: Chaos Sovereign. His voice was calm. “Chaos has no order. By that logic, all the galaxies beyond the gods’ reach are lawless realms. Which would make … master of the universe.”
“Huh?”
She blinked, dumbfounded. Millennia of killing demons, of sharpening her resolve, undone in a single line.
“You’re not afraid I’ll kill you?” she asked, face cold.
“Afraid, of course.”
He grinned, shadows dancing across his eyes. “But killing won’t be easy. And if you chase off this ninety-ninth heaven… how will your people feel when I vent my frustrations on them?”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
“Why wouldn’t I? Dead is dead. And if I go down, plenty will join on the way.”
He laughed softly. He had found it—the gods’ weakness.
If no one in Sunforge believed in her, she would fade. Even if she couldn’t be beaten in combat, she could still be undone by ti.
“You bastard!”
Bellara’s fury boiled over. She slamd the door and stord off.
Orson only smiled. Her strength was terrifying, but her mind was almost too easy to toy with.
Killing every Fireborn in the world was impossible. But she had slaughtered thousands upon thousands alone—if she truly wanted him dead, he’d have perished long ago.
His gaze drifted to the temple’s great idol.
Tiamat.
She was older than most gods. Yet her Divinity was in Sienna’s hands, her Chaos Cauldron fragnts in his. And still, the incense here burned on.
Could she still live?
He shook his head. Too many riddles.
Stretching out on the simple bed, he closed his eyes and replayed battles in his mind. Every path ended the sa.
Defeat.
Ambush, frontal clash, wide-area slaughter—it didn’t matter. Bellara’s centuries of battlecraft made her untouchable. And her stats had long since maxed the limits of a lesser god.
Even Orson couldn’t glimpse her true attributes.
She monopolized nearly all the “resources” spawned in this world. She was a server boss beyond comprehension.
But at least, he thought with a sly smile, she was sheltered.
Which ant the farm was his now.
All he had to do was harvest enough Divine Essence to force the fusion.
Max his stats.
Break the barrier.
Go ho.
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