As night deepened and the fire in the living room died down, Lorne quietly turned over in bed, then got up and locked the doors and windows.
Stealthily, he pulled out the twelve-sided die and placed the silver badge, he had just obtained in the morning, onto the altar, then clasped his hands together, and began shaking them while silently chanting his desired outco:
Athena, Athena! Co on, give Athena!
Those who've studied summoning magic know that a catalyst is necessary.
It doesn't have to be a specific item, it can be a location, a sacrifice, or anything that establishes a connection with the target, commonly referred to as a "relic."
According to what Lorne had heard, so of his fellow obsessed fans in the gaming community, while traveling in the UK, would go out of their way to collect local "souvenirs"—like red soil from King Arthur's tomb.
They claid they'd use it as a relic to summon a gluttonous, suit-wearing sword maiden with an ahoge to help them win the Holy Grail War—so they'd never have to work 9-to-9, 6 days a week again.
After a few of these trips, with people pulling several kilograms of dirt from their luggage and bragging in group chats, Lorne began to wonder if Arthur's grave had already been baldly stripped bare by these folks.
Of course, even with all that prep, whether they were rolling online or practicing rituals in real life, they'd still end up with the wrong character.
After all, luck doesn't beat probability, and money doesn't change fate.
So people summon with charm; others summon with sheer misfortune. In this business, you just have to accept your lot.
Already feeling like his soul had been twisted by bad rolls, Lorne didn't hold out much hope.
He could only count on the so-called "Dice of Randomness" to maybe acknowledge the favor of using Athena herself as a relic and give him a bit of a location-based buff.
With a feeling of intuition striking, Lorne released the die as it rolled across the table a few tis before landing on a side marked with a blood-red nural ford from crimson spears.
…Ares?
Well...another miss.
Lorne let out a sigh and reached for the die, ready to put it away, when suddenly, a blood-tinged silver rune lit up on the ntal altar in his mind, radiating a violent and savage divine presence.
His previously disappointed gaze froze instantly and his pupils contracted sharply.
No way… it's that one!?
.
.
.
anwhile, on Mount Olympus, in the Temple of Beauty—
The wildly rocking bed suddenly ca to a screeching halt.
Inside the canopy curtains, the war god Ares, mid-thrust and brandishing his "sword", froze with a violent shudder, his face flushed crimson.
"T-That was an accident! Definitely an accident! It's just that Hephaestus has been bothering a lot lately, and I—"
BANG!
Before Ares could finish explaining, Aphrodite's stunningly beautiful face had already turned frosty and filled with disdain.
With one swift kick, she sent the now-useless man crashing to the floor.
She had originally returned from outside after hearing of her lover's awkward situation, and out of kindness, decided to personally "comfort" him.
But once again, he was all appearance and no substance, a silver spear tip that looked sharp but couldn't pierce.
Had she known, she would've lingered a few more days in Atlantis.
Climbing up from the ground, Ares wanted to prove his virility still remained, but as that familiar wave of exhaustion surged over him, his face suddenly turned black and he wanted to cry but had no tears.
Not again!
—anwhile, in a civilian house sowhere in Knossos—
Lorne was overwheld by the surge of divine warlike energy flaring in his mind, so intense he nearly jumped out of bed in excitent.
War God Authority: Infinite Martial Refinent
I am the God of War. I am the God of Terror. I will ignite slaughter after slaughter, traverse endless battlefields, sacrifice with blood, temper with fire, and ascend to the peak!
As this wild and arrogant divine voice echoed in his mind, Lorne gripped the edge of his blanket tightly, enduring the storm-like impact of warlike divinity on his ntal altar.
At the sa ti, corresponding knowledge stread into his consciousness.
The so-called Infinite Martial Refinent referred to a state where martial prowess in an era had reached a near-unparalleled level.
Such individuals achieved complete unity of mind, body, and technique.
Even under extre ntal or physical conditions, they could unleash their peak combat potential.
As far as Lorne knew, throughout the entire Greek Heroic Age, those worthy of this title were few and far between.
Among them, the most famous was the future demigod Heracles.
A millennium later, in Celtic mythology, the Knight of the Lake, Lancelot, was also honored with this distinction.
According to canonical records, Lancelot had never suffered a single defeat in his life, unlike his fellow Round Table knights, who all had losses.
Legend had it that when King Arthur was ambushed, Lancelot rode back from France alone and, acting as a one-man army, protected Arthur and fended off an entire force.
Afterward, he casually departed.
Even after losing his weapons, he could kill enemies with nothing but tree branches.
Clearly, these two paragons of martial skill validated the sheer weight behind the title.
But to achieve such harmony of mind, body, and technique, was that even possible with his soft, pale hands?
Lorne looked at his own fair-skinned palms and couldn't help but feel a little doubtful.
He was a little crafty obviously, but he wasn't the one with brute force and he knew he couldn't be one.
However, as the divine energy of war coursed through him, he gradually grasped the true aning of Infinite Martial Refinent.
Integration of the three..
Mind: unwavering inner focus and spirit, representing willpower and battle intent.
Technique: self-explanatory, martial skills and combat techniques, acquired through endless battles and rigorous training.
Body: physical strength and constitution capable of supporting high-level techniques.
In short, it was the ability to unleash one's full combat potential perfectly, no matter the ntal strain or physical burden.
But to achieve this, one needs unwavering willpower masterful combat skills corresponding physical prowess, it's a comprehensive evaluation of one's entire being.
But upon deeper reflection, Lorne couldn't help but feel sowhat lost.
While he had ascended to the rank of a demigod and possessed rich combat experience battling Titans and other divine creatures, with a combat will second to none...
Even so, he was still a long way off from achieving Infinite Martial Refinent.
Could one truly reach such a realm just by being infused with a sliver of war god's divinity?
After all, even Ares, the god of war himself, had never fully attained this state.
If he had, the other Olympian gods wouldn't have treated him like an experience farm, casually taking him down as they pleased.
Buzz!
Just as Lorne was deep in thought, the silver divine oracle in his mind exploded into a flood of blood-red light and suddenly one terrifying battle scene after another ca flooding into his mind.
Blood! War! Slaughter! Death!
A fierce figure wearing a bronze-feathered helt and leather arm guards swung a copper war spear, then slashed with the sword of the war god—piercing, sweeping, slicing, hacking, against a relentless tide of enemies.
That figure radiated killing intent and beca a monstrous beast that devoured all in its path.
He was naturally gifted—majestic, swift, tireless in battle.
He was the nesis of wisdom, the bane of life.
Blood poured like rivers, lives were rcilessly harvested, sacrificed to terror and death.
Headless Titans, mindless nymphs, wingless dragons, howling heroes, one by one they fell before his spear and blade.
When the final standing figure crumbled to the ground, Lorne, who was facing the god of war himself, felt a pure, boundless battle frenzy and violent will crash into his heart as scarlet madness surged and swept through him.
Suddenly, his eyes turned bloodshot, and his heartbeat thundered like war drums.
Scorching blood pumped fiercely through his limbs, as if fire itself burned within.
An uncontrollable urge to fight and destroy surged through him. Unable to resist, he leapt from the bed into the pitch-dark courtyard.
Gritting his teeth to maintain his last shred of reason, Lorne grabbed a tree branch and began slashing wildly at the surrounding plants.
In an instant, leaves scattered, petals flew, and the entire garden was left in ruins.
At last, after venting for a while, the raging bloodlust within him began to slowly subside.
However, just as Lorne was trying to figure out how to suppress the defiant battle frenzy in his body, a cool voice drifted over from behind him.
"Crude. Far too crude…"
Under the moonlight, Athena, dressed in a plain white gown, looked at the wreckage strewn across the courtyard with an expression of pure disdain..well, even a dog would shake its head at the ss.
Then, picking up a nearby branch and tapping it lightly against her palm, she gracefully stepped over the ruined flowers and fallen leaves and slowly approached Lorne, who was still waving the tree branch around like a sword.
"Very well. Let teach you… how to truly wield a sword."
In that instant, the raging battle intent in Lorne's body exploded like oil thrown on fire.
The sword in his hand moved on its own, slashing down toward the goddess of wisdom.
A fierce duel was about to begin!
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