The Mesopotamian exhibit at the Met?
Dead quiet most Tuesday afternoons.
Ren liked it that way.
It was peaceful.
The low hum of the A/C had a way of dulling everything else, and the smell—a strange mix of wax and old dust—made his phone’s endless notifications feel far away.
He stood there, in front of a glass case, eyeing a cracked clay tablet from Uruk.
His coffee had cooled to mediocrity, but he sipped it anyway.
Another sip.
Suddenly, every hair on his neck stood up.
The air shifted—tasted weird, metallic, like pennies on your tongue.
The A/C cut out, and this sharp, piercing ring drilled into his ears.
Ren frowned, slid his phone out of his pocket—nothing.
Dead screen.
He glanced up.
Something was wrong.
Somewhere far beyond his little corner of the universe, a Japanese teenager named Godou was busy fighting a god.
Not that Ren would know—he didn’t believe in magic, gods, or stories about heroes and monsters clashing across the sky.
But the fallout from real chaos doesn’t need a name or an address.
A bolt of strange, blue lightning—left over from that impossible fight—cracked between worlds.
It didn’t just hit the museum.
It erased it.
A flash, blinding and blue.
No pain.
No sound.
One moment he was staring at an old artifact, and the next—gone.
He wasn’t just somewhere else.
He wasn’t.
[ ERROR.
SOUL TRAJECTORY INTERCEPTED.
] [ REROUTING…
] Ren woke, drowning.
He thrashed, rolled sideways.
His lungs burned, drawing in choking, ashy air.
He dry-heaved, palms scraping over cold, broken stones.
His eyes shot open; they were bloodshot, tearing.
He clawed at his chest—panic, searching.
His heart crashed around in his chest, wild and uncertain.
*Alive,* he realized.
He was breathing.
He was still here.
He scampered backward, every inch in retreat, until his spine slammed into a rough wall of stone.
The museum?
Gone.
He was hunched in the wreckage of a shattered alleyway.
The buildings looked European—centuries old, stone and terracotta, all ruined, half-collapsed.
“What…” His voice creaked out raw.
He spat, blood and grit, onto the cobblestones.
Before his brain could make sense of anything, the air pressed down on him.
The world’s gravity slammed him flat, face in the dirt, like a giant boot on the back of his neck.
He couldn’t move.
It was ancient terror, pure and physical—the feeling of a predator arriving.
Blood vessels burst in his eyes, washing his vision in painful red.
Even so, he forced his head up, strained past the pressure, and looked out into the ruined plaza.
Above, the clouds tore open, smeared gold and bleeding, as if reality itself had split.
Out of the golden rift, a man descended.
He stood on air—literally—his armor gleaming, gold and flawless.
The light off him hurt to look at.
His eyes, slitted and burning red, swept the plaza and settled on Ren.
No anger.
Just pure disgust, like a human eyeing something crawling out from under a rock.
Everything around him broke just by being near him.
Cobblestones crumbled.
Ancient walls warped and fell apart.
Ren’s mind, fragile and desperately reaching for something familiar, finally recognized the legend.
Golden armor.
Red eyes.
That impossible weight.
Gilgamesh.
The so-called King of Heroes, God of Kings and Treasures.
The walking embodiment of the Golden Rule—everything belonged to him, by some cosmic decree.
A Heretic God.
A myth, now alive and standing right in front of him.
“A mere mortal.” The voice vibrated in Ren’s skull, each word sharp enough to set his teeth on edge.
It was laced with superiority so thick he could taste it.
“A powerless, filthy worm.
You are the anomaly that dared to disturb my slumber?” Gilgamesh didn’t need to draw a weapon.
He just lifted a single finger, gold-plated and idle.
Behind him, the air rippled and twisted, running like liquid gold.
One after another, the hilts of legendary weapons slid free—swords, spears, halberds—each one humming with raw, dangerous magic, all pointed right at Ren.
One gesture and the god would wipe out the entire block, just to crush one insect.
Ren’s blood went cold.
He couldn’t move.
Couldn’t breathe.
As Gilgamesh’s finger started to fall, a sterile, robotic voice cut in—freezing time for a split, impossible second.
[ SYSTEM INITIALIZATION COMPLETE.
] A glowing blue screen popped up, inches from Ren’s battered face.
[ Notice: Dimensional Anomaly detected by Divine Entity.
] [ Main Quest Triggered: Slay the Heretic God.
] [ Target: Gilgamesh, King of Heroes (God of Treasures).
] [ Probability of Survival: 0.001%.
] Ren blinked at the text.
Slay a god?
He couldn’t even get his breath back without coughing blood.
He let out a raw, broken laugh—more sob than anything.
The screen flared red.
[ To assist Host, a one-time Starter Package has been granted in light of extreme anomaly.
] [ Inventory Updated: ] [ 1x Venom of the Bull of Heaven (Effect: Absolute Divine Paralysis).
] [ 1x Mortal’s Fang (Effect: Single-Use Conceptual God-Killing Strike).
] New weight dragged at his jacket, cold and undeniable.
Through the fabric, he could feel the edge of a jagged blade, the ancient heft of a brutal syringe.
They felt real.
Too real.
Time snapped forward.
Gilgamesh dropped his finger.
The golden weapons shrieked to life, poised to fire.
Ren didn’t have a plan.
The Ren who managed spreadsheets and drank coffee was gone.
This was survival—nothing left but a cornered animal clutching a poisoned knife.