Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh!
The war staff stirred the firmant. The Goddess of Wind showed her true form—stunningly beautiful, with a blade of killing intent between her brows.
"Ha!"
In a flash, nine Gale Lances plunged from the sky.
Sizzle...
Each lance unraveled into ribbons of azure wind that hamred Hobilarze’s body in relentless succession.
Damage -1!
Damage -1!
As the floating numbers popped over and over, every trialist around froze in disbelief.
"That’s it? That’s your Godslayer ’god’?"
"He can’t even break Lord Hobilarze’s golden-body defense!"
Thinking he was in the clear, Vincent bent over laughing at Orson, desperate to claw back the face he’d lost.
"A so-called mortal god trying to pierce a divine weapon’s defense with an A-tier skill... no wonder Belenor got captured."
"Seems I’m not so different from Earth’s so-called Archmage after all."
Several offworld trialists chuckled, suddenly convinced their hesitation against "King Kay" had been pointless.
"A very interesting domain. Not a single flaw on the surface. And that’s the problem," Orson said, calm as ever. He tilted his head. "Because when there are no flaws, everything is a flaw."
They stared, baffled. To them, damage numbers were the only tric that mattered. Low damage ant weakness. The weak were to be crushed.
Only Hobilarze felt the wrongness. No matter how he pivoted, that "harmless" teal light always ended at the exact sa spot: dead center of his chest. Never off by a hair.
Crack.
A crisp sound. Hobilarze looked down, stunned. A hairline fracture scored his golden torso. Light crawled across him like webbing on delicate porcelain.
Magic Resistance removed!
Domain Effects removed!
"My domain outranks yours. My stats outrank yours. My execution outranks yours," Orson said, walking forward as if across a garden path, the staff idly sketching arcs of wind. A mild smile tugged his lips. "So, you’re not my match."
He lifted his hand again. Nine Gale Lances fell.
The air turned feral. A chill raced spines, and trialists instinctively backed away.
"You—"
A blast of force ripped Hobilarze from his footing. The spears pinned him to a spire like a butterfly to velvet. His domain-sculpted defense was gone—utterly unraveled.
"Even assuming a god-tier fighter has high-CD-reduction gear... his skill... doesn’t seem to have any cooldown at all?"
"No skill cooldown... He’s throwing an A-tier like it’s a basic attack."
"This casting precision—there’s no way a trialist should be able to do that."
"Do you have any idea what Orson’s ceiling even is?" SirLagsALot cackled into the broadcast. "Forget A-tier as a basic. If you piss off our old guildmaster, he’ll weave forbidden spells like he’s knitting a sweater."
The offworlders snarled back that he was posturing.
But anyone who’d actually seen Orson go all out knew there wasn’t a drop of exaggeration in it.
Orson strolled through the Graymist Zone’s wards and flicked his wrist. More Gale Lances fell.
Deadly Strike -180,000,000!
Deadly Strike -180,000,000!
The real damage began.
Nine lances, nine monstrous numbers. Hobilarze, divine weapon of ten thousand campaigns, saw his health evaporate. Golden light seared out of him like a newborn sun. His scream shook the bones of every god-tier trialist watching, freezing them in place.
"You stood in my way ho," Orson said, eyes forward. The god-tier line broke, n stumbling over each other to get clear, desperate not to be the second Hobilarze.
"Finish?" Bradley glanced up at Orson. Seeing Hobilarze still breathing, he was already stepping in to hack him apart.
"He’s a tool," Orson replied, voice even. "If you want to cut him down cleanly later or end him now, that choice is yours."
"When I’m ready, I’ll take his head myself," Bradley said without hesitation. The elental blade leveled at Hobilarze. "You stay on Earth. You don’t go anywhere. Not until I’m strong enough to split that golden skull."
Bradley might look honest and gentle, but he was born with a steel skull. He refused to believe he couldn’t break this gaudy idol with his own hands. And a divine weapon wasn’t even the goal. The only true victory was the god holding the leash.
"The temple is prepared, with fine wine waiting. We welco the God of Chaos," Aurex sighed, tearing open a spatial seam and stepping through.
Orson watched him go without pursuit. If Aurex dared show his face, he could handle the consequences. Strong, yes—but still a small piece on the gods’ board.
"A tool... this man is insane," soone whispered. "That’s a weapon of the gods!"
"The Chaos God is here—why haven’t our gods descended yet?"
The union-channel simr quieted at last. Orson’s words weren’t just contempt. They were blasphemy at scale.
So what if a divine weapon had lived a thousand lifetis? He could erase it with a single gesture.
The loudest voices shouting for a star-fleet to descend and purge the Chaos God suddenly went silent.
"Grandpa, is he really Orgod?"
"Is he your grandpa’s grandpa? You look younger than him."
Fla Fosset, hemd in by war-orphans yanking his trousers, snapped. "Shove your dog-breath! He’s my disciple! The most promising brat I ever trained!"
He whacked little heads with his staff until they scattered, squealing.
"Hey, you old turtle. You still in one piece?"
Orson’s face finally softened into a true smile at the familiar sight.
"In one piece my ass. We’re refugees. Where’ve you been strutting around all these years?" Fla Fosset bared a mouthful of yellow teeth, but his eyes shone wet.
Orson pulled the old reprobate into a hug, chest tight. If not for Fla Fosset pulling him into chaos magic back then, even a supre soul brand wouldn’t have carried him this far.
"Got your divinity?" Fla Fosset squinted.
"Got it."
The old mage clapped his shoulder, studying him up and down. "Good. Good. You did proud."
"And these?" he asked, sensing the auras swirling at Orson’s side.
"I’m Bellara. You’re this brat’s guide?" she asked, eyes narrowing as she studied the greasy old sorcerer—then her expression shifted. "You carry the scent of... that god."
"Lower God, eh? From the Era of Immortals. Incredible," Fla Fosset murmured, eyes glittering.
Orson blinked. The stronger he beca, the more he realized how unfathomable this old man actually was. Bellara, a lower god herself, couldn’t hide from him—and she felt god-scent on him.
"The Undying Lord. Saint Roland. First NPC crafted by the gods of ’Wow’ and ’Gah,’" Saint Roland said, inclining her head.
Orson paused. If he rembered right, Nightshade’s power traced back to that very bizarre pair of pri deities. If an Eternal Clan awakener like Saint Roland could et Nightshade... sparks would fly. Two divergent paths beyond system law crossing at last.
As Bradley had said, Nightshade now served the gods—but also possessed sothing every god in the Pantheon Sanctum coveted. Even before gods, he could stand eye to eye. That was no small thing.
"And you... fate’s a funny thing. You’ve returned, my lord," Fla Fosset said to Cain with a bow and a wicked little grin.
"You still owe a fortune, liar, swindler, temple-hawker, Fla Fosset," Cain said, tal face even colder than usual. If looks could cut, the old fox would be in strips.
"The war-horn is blowing," Fla Fosset’s adopted son, Fla.D, stepped forward and dropped to one knee, paying homage to the god birthed of chaos.
Seven hundred cloaked acolytes of the Chaos Hall—so natives, so trialists—stood with reverent eyes. They had guarded the Gray Alley slums in secret for years.
"Good," Orson said, smiling as he turned toward the alabaster sanctum rising over the city. "Then we start by leveling the so-called Pantheon Sanctum."
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