The golden ripple in the alley snapped shut, cutting off Japan like it never existed.
Ren slipped from the shadows and stepped into sunlight, landing on a quiet, cobblestone plaza somewhere in rural France.
The shift hit him hard.
Gone was the bite of ozone and scorched earth—now he tasted espresso, lavender, and history baked into the air.
The kind of atmosphere that felt earned, not given.
He took his time, walking slow enough to let the low chatter of locals soak in.
At a bakery with a battered blue awning, he traded some coins for a pain au chocolat that was still warm and impossibly flaky.
He bit in.
Dark chocolate melted, sun touched his shoulders, and everything was quiet inside—just for a moment.
Three minutes.
That’s all it took for his soul to finally settle.
Then the world twisted.
First came that metallic tang—copper on his tongue—and then silence so abrupt it felt like someone ripped all the wires out.
Pigeons took off, wings flailing.
People froze as the pressure tanked A shadow, huge and wrong, smothered the plaza.
Ren glanced up.
The bright sky had vanished.
In its place, bruised black and sick purple clouds curled inward, spinning themselves into a vortex.
Cold rain hit his hand.
The heavens ripped open.
Water came crashing down—so thick he felt like he was drowning while standing.
The calm was obliterated.
An insane wind gutted the street, ripping awnings away and hurling chairs down the flood.
Ren didn’t budge.
He stared at his right hand, watching the rain ruin the pastry.
Butter gone, crust falling apart—just a soggy mess.
A bolt of blue lightning exploded in the middle of the square.
Windows shattered, stone flew—people slammed against walls, helpless.
From the blazing crater, horror stepped out.
He was massive, legendary muscle wrapped in scars, taller than anyone should be.
A thick, braided beard rested over his chest, heat steaming rain right off his skin.
He clutched a stubby war hammer—a thing crafted from collapsing stars.
Thor.
The Norse thunder god.
He looked wild, alive, charged up from mortal chaos.
Thor threw his head back, laughing so hard the bones of the earth rattled.
Eyes like sparks—rage barely contained.
Ren let the sad pastry drop on the flooded stone.
Tourist mask gone.
His soul snapped awake.
Rain halted—space warped.
Ten feet of dead stillness formed around him.
Killing intent poured out so thick it chilled the air.
Thor stopped laughing.
His electrified gaze locked onto Ren.
The god’s grin twisted, instincts catching the scent of someone worse than him.
Someone who butchered gods for fun.
“A Godslayer!” Thor barked, voice splintering glass all over.
He raised Mjölnir, drawing lightning from the sky.
Ren looked up slow, eyes cold, stripped of anything human.
Mythology meant nothing to him.
Only violation mattered.
“I bought that three minutes ago,” Ren said.
No shouting.
Just flat, lethal certainty slicing through the hurricane.
He lifted his right hand.
Rain behind him vanished into steam as dozens of golden portals ripped open.
The air thrummed with the reawakening of ancient metal—every weapon a promise.
Thor roared and swung.
Blue lightning carved a crescent through the storm, aiming to split Ren and the city in half.
Ren didn’t flinch.
He flicked his wrist.
Twenty spears—halberds, lances, javelins—shot out of the golden portals, shattering the sound barrier with streaks of gold against black.
They met the storm mid-flight.
The collision rocked the plaza, cracking stone down to bedrock, and for a moment everything vanished in white light.
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