The sun climbed over the endless sand of the Rub’ al Khali, making the dunes glare like fresh snow.
Ren stood right in the middle of his palace courtyard, the heart of the place he’d built from nothing—just magic and stubborn willpower.
He’d done it all himself.
Shaped it until it fit, so every breeze felt cool and smelled like lotuses and damp earth.
There was a waterfall and a pool so clear you could see the bottom.
Old trees, huge enough to seem unnatural, dropped thick shadows over pale marble paths.
The place looked flawless.
No one could get in—not mage, not god, nothing.
This was his fortress, his retreat, and nobody messed with it.
But there he was, sunk in a velvet chair, half-listening to the water run, thinking: I’m bored.
Ren knew real boredom.
The kind that left you drowning in cubicles, gray walls, empty routines.
He’d sworn never to fall into that trap again.
Yet, here he was—another cage, dressed up as a palace.
Sure, it was lovely, golden, magical.
Still a cage.
The palace made a good base—a spot to sleep, stash treasure, hide out when everything outside got too loud.
But eternity in one place?
That’s not what he wanted.
What good’s immortality, endless wealth, or freedom, if you’re stuck alone in a garden?
He craved chaos.
Crowded cities.
Wet cobblestone streets, unfamiliar food cooked by real hands.
Not magic tricks.
The world stretched wide, packed with noise and culture, and time was on his side.
Ren stood up, left his coffee untouched.
No need to grab anything—his stuff was always tied to him thanks to magic.
He raised his hand, flexed just a hint of power.
Space twisted, folding on itself.
This wasn’t regular teleportation—he had a relic from a royal treasury, a key that let him step straight through reality.
He pictured where he wanted to go, stepped into the shimmering ripple—and vanished.
Suddenly, the desert heat was gone.
Cool, late-afternoon air replaced it, somewhere in Europe.
He landed in a quiet Paris alley.
Streetlights hit the wet cobbles, making them shine, while the city buzzed beyond.
All at once, the smells hit—coffee, fresh bread, wet stone, exhaust.
People rushed by, umbrellas up, chattering in French.
Cars honked, voices echoed.
The place felt alive.
Ren grinned and faded into the crowd.
He looked sharp.
His coat was made-to-measure, deep charcoal, unfazed by rain or dirt.
Under it, a black suit that fit so well it made people stare—maybe a model, maybe some kind of royalty.
He soaked up the glances, wandering the avenue.
For hours, Ren wandered—watched boats slide down the Seine, traced old streets, drinking in the wild energy of everyone around him.
People might see him as a threat, someone who could wipe the city off the map.
He just liked blending in.
A rich whiff of garlic and butter caught his attention.
He drifted toward a tiny place down a quiet street, no big sign—just a small plaque, three Michelin stars.
People queued, dressed to impress.
The maître d’ kept turning everyone away, apologizing, booked solid for six months.
Ren ignored the line, went straight to the entrance.
The maître d’, tall, tidy mustache, blocked his path.
“Monsieur, I’m very sorry, but—” Ren didn’t bother explaining.
He pulled out a wad of cash.
The guy hesitated, saw the pile, and his polite refusal melted.
Ren’s red eyes didn’t miss anything.
“I’d like a window seat,” Ren said, soft but clear.
“If you have one.” “Of course, Monsieur,” the maître d’ stammered, almost forgetting his script as he pocketed the cash and led Ren in past the grumbling crowd.
The restaurant hugged him with warmth and low light.
Ren skipped the menu.
The nervous waiter approached.
Ren ordered the tasting menu and asked for their best wine.
For two hours, he lost himself in the flavors.
Truffle pastry, seared scallops, wagyu beef that tasted like pure bliss.
The magical food he had back home was functional—it healed wounds, ramped up powers—but magic never packed in the struggle and joy you could taste here.
The chef had poured his whole life into these plates.
Ren savored it, not just food but tribute.
He polished off a dark chocolate dessert right as someone stepped through the door.
Two men walked in—sharp suits, stiff movements, tension written all over them.
Mages, knights, from some local magic club.
Their mana tightly wound.
The maître d’ greeted them.
One flashed a credential, cast a small spell, nudged the mortal’s mind away.
They took seats at the bar, ordered nothing.
Their conversation barely above a whisper, shielded by a silencing ward.
Ren had the hearing of a Godslayer; their ward was useless.
He sipped wine and listened.
“The divination arrays in London blew out,” said one, gripping the bar so hard his knuckles showed.
“The Witenagemot’s panicking.
They dumped a mountain of mana into a scrying ritual—found nothing.” “The Italians aren’t doing better,” the other muttered.
“Sir Salvatore’s hurt but keeps quiet about who hit him.
Copper Black Cross chased energy spikes in the Middle East, found an empty desert.
It’s like the Eighth King vanished after that fight.” “A Campione doesn’t just vanish,” the first snapped.
“They’re disasters—leave evidence everywhere.
But this one?
No group, no territory, no demands.
It’s weird.” Ren smiled into his wine.
That’s exactly how he wanted it.
“The higher-ups are nervous,” the second said.
“A king in hiding is riskier than one causing chaos.
Nobody knows what Authority he has, what he’s like.
For all we know, he could be walking among us, planning to crack Paris apart.” Ren found their fear funny.
These guys expected violence—never imagined a god-killer quietly enjoying dinner.
He decided to have a little fun.
He asked for the bill.
No card—just opened a tiny portal under the table, dropped a solid gold Roman coin onto the check.
He shrugged on his coat.
Passing the bar, right behind those tense mages, he let his guard slip—just for a heartbeat.
He didn’t make a show, just relaxed.
For a flash, the pressure of a Godslayer flooded the room—a force that bends fate and kills gods.
The air turned heavy.
Both mages froze.
Their faces drained, eyes wide, instincts screaming predator.
They couldn’t move or even breathe.
Ren walked out, into the rainy Paris night.
When the mages finally came back to themselves, spinning in panic, everything else was normal.
Nobody noticed.
Ren vanished into the crowd, laughing to himself.
He’d head back to the oasis when he needed a break.
Tomorrow?
Maybe he’d grab breakfast in Tokyo—see what chaos the Seventh King was stirring up.
Or he’d wander the markets in Bangkok for something new.
The world was huge.
He was a tourist with all the time he wanted.Ren picked this path—and honestly, it was perfect.