Time slammed back into motion—snapping, wild, like a rubber band on bare skin.
Up above the busted alley, the air just started to scream.
Swords, spears, halberds—too many to count, each one humming with legend—came tearing down from golden ripples that rippled and twisted overhead.
They hammered through the sky, shredding the silence into smithereens.
Ren didn’t even try to run.
Honestly, bravery had nothing to do with it.
There just wasn’t anywhere to go.
His thoughts locked up.
Panic gnawed at the edges, chewing him down to the bone.
He realized, almost like a punch to the gut, that this wasn’t some random magical meltdown.
Nope.
He was dead-center in *Campione!*—the kind of over-the-top anime he used to binge just to survive finals week in college.
Funny, he thought, how the anime never captured the stink of burning ozone, or that animal terror when a Heretic God’s aura turns your blood to ice.
And if all the rules were real, Ren wasn’t just in danger—he was screwed.
In *Campione!*, gods stick to their myths, no matter what.
Gilgamesh, King of Heroes—ego taller than the sky and sharp enough to cut you.
He doesn’t just flick bugs away.
If you piss him off, he’ll make a show of grinding you into paste, just to prove he can.
Ren’s legs wobbled.
He barely managed to stay upright.
The sky was coming down, gold and deadly, and he jerked his arms wide, heart beating out of control.
He didn’t plan it.
The words just ripped out of him: “IS THIS IT?
THE KING OF HEROES SCARED OF A BUG?” Everything crashed to a halt.
A monstrous broadsword, all dripping jewels, froze with the tip bent an inch from Ren’s nose.
The air it dragged with it whipped Ren off his feet, slamming him across the alley.
Stars popped behind his eyes.
Blood burned in his mouth.
He staggered up, gritty and shaking on the cobblestones.
Things got darker.
Gilgamesh—he wasn’t just furious, he was nuclear.
The God dropped down, gold armor flashing, anger almost alive, thick as tar in the air.
“You dare speak to me, mongrel?” His voice rolled out heavy, cracking the ground.
“You crawl.
You bark at powers you can’t dream of.” One blink—Gilgamesh ten feet away.
Next blink, he was there.
Gold-plated fingers locked around Ren’s neck, lifting him like a rag doll.
Heat faded.
Breath gone.
Ren clawed at the metal, feet kicking, lungs screaming for air.
Gilgamesh’s aura pressed in, tighter, sharper, threatening to crack him open right down the middle.
“I won’t vaporize you,” Gilgamesh whispered, almost bored, voice slithering with cruelty.
“No.
I’ll savor this.
I’ll drain the life from you.
Slow.” Ren’s right hand shot out on instinct.
He yanked a rusty syringe—*Venom of the Bull of Heaven*—from his pocket and jammed it into the gap under Gilgamesh’s jaw.
He slammed down the plunger, hope burning out with every ounce of strength he had.
Gilgamesh’s eyes snapped wide.
Everything flickered—the King’s sneer went rigid.
That choking aura just…
stopped.
Silence swallowed the alley.
The gauntlet slipped off.
Ren hit the stone, gasping and clutching his throat, pain echoing all through him.
Didn’t matter; he knew this kind of luck never lasted.
He dove for his other pocket, hand closing on something sharp.
The *Mortal’s Fang* felt dead in his grip—just filthy bone, really, ugly and small.
But when his skin touched it, something woke up—a pulse of hate, old as gods themselves.
Gilgamesh glared at him, eyes wild with rage.
He was paralyzed, but his stare promised death a hundred times over.
Ren lunged—no time to think, no options left.
He jammed the *Mortal’s Fang* straight under the breastplate, driving it hard into the story that made Gilgamesh.
What came next wasn’t a scream you could call human.
It was legend shattering—pure raw chaos.
Magic detonated and sent Ren flying again, pain white-hot and sharp, then gone.
A new kind of quiet.
No agony.
Just empty, soft warmth, like floating somewhere outside pain.
Ren blinked, expecting hospital needles, maybe fire—or nothing at all.
Instead, purple twilight.
Stars scribbled across the sky, and beneath him, endless marble, white and cold and forever.
“Well, that’s new,” he said, voice cracking the silence.
Somebody else was there, perched on an oversized Greek throne—girl, young, wicked smile sharp as sunlight on glass.
Purple hair spilled over a white tunic.
Her bare legs kicked back and forth, too casual for a goddess.
The memories hit—hard.
He knew her.
*Pandora.
The witch of witches.
Mother of Devil Kings.* She grinned, head tilted, eyes bright and wild.
“Literally just did the Dark Ritual for my seventh kid an hour ago.
Godou, somewhere in Sardinia.
Thought I could nap for a century, but nope—Netherworld sirens blaring, and here you are.” Ren staggered upright, world tilted under him.
“The seventh…
So, I’m…?” “The Eighth!” Pandora clapped, delighted.
“Wildcard, too!
No magic school, soul cracked up from shortcuts between worlds, but somehow—you killed the King of Heroes.” She floated off the throne, circling, eyes like torches.
“Do you know what it means to kill a Heretic God?” she whispered, voice purring close.
“It means I’m a Campione.” The answer felt heavy, but real.
“A Godslayer.
Devil King.” She stopped.
Her grin got sharper, full of teeth.
“Oh, you’re fun.
No questions, no bargaining.
Perfect!” She hovered in close, finger tracing his jaw, and a strange fire pricked at her touch.
“You took everything—his myth, his power.
But a mortal can’t take all that godhood and stay whole.” Her fingers dripped purple flame, old and wild.
“So,” she breathed, eyes blazing, “let’s see if you live through becoming a King.” Black fire fell, swallowing everything.