The dimensional fold spat Ren out onto a terrace glowing in the afternoon sun high above the Tyrrhenian Sea.
Just a second ago, he’d been slogging through Tokyo’s sticky, crowded maze.
Now?
He stood in the lazy warmth of the Amalfi Coast, bathed in sunlight and salt air.
Honestly, not even a fair fight—he’d pick this over Tokyo any time.
Below, Positano unfurled in a mess of pastel houses clinging to the cliff, stairs tangled through pockets of bougainvillea.
The whole place smelled like sea spray, lemons, and that dusty heat you only get from baked terracotta.
If people ever managed to carve paradise out of stone, it probably looked something like this.
He stepped out of the shade and felt his outfit shift.
Out went the dark Tokyo suit.
In came a crisp white linen shirt, light trousers, sunglasses so oversized they were halfway to pharaoh-chic.
He drifted down the steps, letting himself blur into a river of tourists—most sunburned, most grinning, and locals who just didn’t care about anyone’s schedule.
No rush.
He had all the time in the world, and for once, he let himself sink into it.
An old man painted ceramics out on the street, a guitarist’s ballad curled around sunlit corners, and Ren let his bones fill up with warmth.
This was what it was about—the reason you move, the reason you keep chasing the next place.
The world’s endless, and Ren never waited for a sign.
Soon, his feet carried him away from the crowds, down to a quiet little cove.
There was a trattoria perched almost in the water, its deck shaded by twisting grapevines.
It looked perfect, so he took a seat at the rail.
The waiter showed up—old, leathery, with a grin like he’d seen it all.
He rattled off something fast in Italian.
Ren caught it and shot back the dialect without missing a beat.
Godslayer perks: no need for a translator.
He ordered a carafe of the house white, burrata, and let the kitchen decide which seafood pasta the day demanded.
The food arrived, and it actually lived up to the view.
Linguine tangled up with clams, mussels, fat prawns, slicked with tomato, garlic, and sunlight you could taste.
The wine was sharp and bright, every sip humming with summer dirt from some hill.
He ate slow.
Power was nice, but only mortals could make flavors like this.
Then, halfway through the meal, the local magical network exploded.
This was Doni’s territory—Italy belonged to Salvatore Doni, Their knights swarmed the place, always on alert for trouble, making sure their King didn’t obliterate a city by accident.
Ren hadn’t hidden his tracks.
He wasn’t flinging spells around, but just being here set off the alarms.
The ley lines probably wanted to set themselves on fire.
Panic crackled through the mages.
It was that same impossible energy Doni fought in the desert.
The same shadow that flashed through Tokyo that morning.
Now the Eighth King sat in their backyard.
Ren felt the ripples, telepathic messages skating overhead, portals snapping open in the hills, knights pouring out, convinced he’d come to pick a fight or start a war.
He just tried a prawn, another sip of wine, didn’t even look at the hills.
Roughly ten minutes later, someone finally showed up.
Young, scared, drenched in sweat barely keeping it together and trying to play it cool.
Standing this close to Ren probably felt like drowning.
The kid hid behind grapevines, fished out a comm crystal, and looked one more time like he might call for backup.
Ren didn’t bother to turn.
He just twirled his fork and spoke, voice quiet but sharp enough to cut through everything else.
“If you touch that crystal,” he said, “I’ll turn every weapon your order owns to dust.
Then I’ll turn you into a fountain.
I’m eating lunch.” The knight froze.
The crystal slipped, snapped on the deck, and the kid slapped a hand to his mouth, backing away so fast he nearly fell, face drained white.
“Good,” Ren said, pouring more wine.
“Go tell your bosses I’m on vacation.
If anyone with a magic crest comes within a mile before dessert, I’ll call it war on my lunch.
One minute.
Move.” He didn’t need to say it twice.
The kid bolted up the stairs, full-on panic, and Ren knew every knight in the hills picked up that fear.
The response was instant.
Knights scattered, and suddenly a one-mile bubble popped up around the trattoria—now guarded by the same crew ready to pounce a minute before.
Terror made some excellent security.
Ren almost laughed.
So predictable.
They only understood war.
Nobody expected a Godslayer to just show up for pasta and sunshine.
So he finished his meal, savoring the rare peace, while the waiter fussed around with desserts, blissfully unaware his little spot had become ground zero for magical panic.
Ren ordered lemon cake and espresso and just sat there, basking in the breeze as the sun started to slide down.
He finished, opened a tiny rip under the table, and pulled out a chunk of silver.
Left it on the tray—enough to buy the place twice over.
He stood, sunglasses catching the last colors over the sea.
Didn’t bother looking at the hills full of invisible eyes watching his every move.
He just raised one hand, folded the world open, and stepped through a shimmering doorway.
Space sealed behind him—only an empty seat, a brick of silver, and a windfall for one blissfully confused waiter left as evidence.
Miles away, commanders nearly collapsed with relief.
The Eighth King came, he ate, and left without blowing up the skyline.
Ren stepped into his own courtyard, cool desert air wrapping around him.
He’d had enough of the world’s noise for one day.
Quiet sounded pretty good.
Tomorrow?
Who knows.
Maybe Singapore street food.
The world really was wide open.
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