The golden ripple snapped shut, sealing out the sharp stink of ozone and scorched earth.
Ren slipped back into the safety of his volcanic hot spring.
The First Campione’s windstorm had ripped the forest apart.
Now the once-clear water was a mess—broken rock everywhere, shattered pine branches, a thick blanket of soot turning the steam a dirty gray.
Ren stared at the ruined spring for a long moment, not saying a word.
Annoyance flickered across his face.
There was no way he’d bathe in that mess.
He just lifted his hand and snapped his fingers.
Another golden portal sliced through space, opening onto a hidden geothermal pool on the other side of the prefecture.
Ren walked through, leaving the wrecked Chichibu mountains behind like they were yesterday’s trash.
This new spring was perfectly still, tucked beneath towering, moss-draped cedars.
The air was crisp and fresh, all pine and wet earth.
He shrugged off his yukata and let it slip to the rocks, then eased into the hot water until it reached just below his collarbone.
Heat soaked into his bones, finally chasing out the tension clinging to his muscles.
He leaned his head against a warm stone and closed his eyes.
Thoughts started churning right away, practical and cold.
He picked apart everything that had happened with Voban.
The old wolf had pulled back.
That easy block—swatting aside cursed lightning like it was nothing—fit the image of a top predator.
Ren didn’t let himself believe it.
He wasn’t some unbeatable monster.
I’m running on fumes, he admitted, watching the mist curl over the water.
When the Gate of Babylon’s spears shattered that violet lightning, Ren felt just how much raw hatred was packed in the attack.
And that was from a Marquis already worn out by fighting another Godslayer, his powers stretched to the brink.
It was the first meeting he paid more attention to.
Days ago, stealing Voban’s hunt had been pure calculation.
Ren found the opening he wanted, waited until Voban and the Heretic God were locked in their own battle, and struck from the shadows.
It was an assassin’s move, hitting while they were distracted—not the clash of equals.
He hadn’t faced the First Campione at his peak.
Not yet.
Ren reached for the small porcelain sake cup on the tray at the water’s edge.
His treasury—the Gate of Babylon—gave him a weapon for almost any legend he’d face.
But Campiones weren’t logical.
They were chaos incarnate.
Voban, with his centuries of experience and a new personal grudge, would be out for blood next time.
The old King wouldn’t show up for another ambush.
Surprise was off the table now.
The next fight, Voban would arrive with everything he had, ready to turn whatever city Ren called home into a battleground.
Ren took a slow sip of sake.
He felt no fear, just that keen, icy focus that comes right before violence.
Tomorrow, he’d wander the market and try the local food.
Tonight, he’d start combing the treasury for the right weapon—one that could finally put down a rabid wolf, once and for all.
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