In the heart of the Twilight Manor, the sprawling headquarters of the Loki Familia, the morning training drills had come to a dead, confused halt.
Finn Deimne, the Level 6 captain of the Familia, stood in the center of the courtyard, his usually calm demeanor replaced by sharp concern.
Beside him stood Riveria, the elven high mage, and Gareth, the veteran dwarven warrior.
All three of Orario’s strongest adventurers were staring at their Goddess.
Loki was sitting on a stone bench, her knees pulled to her chest, trembling slightly.
The usually boisterous, carefree Goddess of Trickery looked physically ill.
Her trademark smirk was completely gone, replaced by a pale, wide-eyed stare directed toward the commercial district.
“Loki?” Finn asked softly, his hand resting on the pommel of his spear.
“What happened?
Was it an attack from Freya?
A pulse from the deep floors of the Dungeon?” “No,” Loki whispered, her voice uncharacteristically hoarse.
She wrapped her arms tighter around her legs.
“It wasn’t the Dungeon.
The Dungeon is just a hole in the ground.
This…
this came from outside the walls.” Riveria frowned, her magical senses sweeping the city.
“I feel nothing out of the ordinary.
A few minor scuffles in the Daedalus Street, but the ambient mana is stable.” “You can’t feel it because you’re mortal,” Loki snapped, though there was no real anger in her voice—only profound dread.
“You rely on the Falna.
You rely on the blessings we give you.
But whatever just walked through those gates…
it doesn’t have a Falna.
It doesn’t need one.” Loki slowly looked up at her strongest children.
“Finn…
you know how we Gods always joke about how boring immortality is?
How we came down here because we were untouchable and wanted some entertainment?” “Yes,” Finn said cautiously.
“Whatever just entered the city,” Loki said, a cold sweat beading on her forehead, “looks at us the way we look at goblins on the first floor.
It’s a predator.
A predator that eats divinities.
Miles away from the panic of the Gods, the apex beast in question was thoroughly enjoying his breakfast.
Ren sat on the open-air watching the clear water of the canal flow gently past.
He took another bite of his pastry.
It was a flaky, butter-rich confection filled with a sweet local berry he couldn’t name, but the taste was immaculate.
He took a sip of his black coffee, feeling the warm sunlight on his face.
Orario was proving to be a highly acceptable vacation spot.
The air was clean, the food was exquisite, “Excuse me.” Ren paused He let out a slow, silent sigh.
He didn’t turn his head, but his peripheral vision picked up three large, heavily armored men stepping onto the patio.
They wore polished steel breastplates and carried massive, poorly maintained broadswords.
They smelled of cheap ale, dried sweat, and the distinct, arrogant entitlement of mid-tier adventurers.
The leader, a hulking man with a scarred face, stepped right up to Ren’s table.
He looked down at Ren’s pristine, tailored silk coat, taking in his relaxed posture and the lack of any visible weapons.
Most importantly, the adventurer’s senses—honed by the Dungeon—registered absolutely zero Falna on the teenager.
To the adventurer, Ren was just a wealthy, unblessed civilian.
A soft merchant’s son who didn’t belong in the elite districts.
“This patio is reserved for adventurers,” the scarred man grunted, crossing his massive arms.
“You’re taking up the best table, kid.
Pay your tab and move along.
We’ve had a long night in the Dungeon, and we’re sitting here.” The waitresses inside the cafe froze in terror.
The other patrons on the patio quickly looked down at their plates, unwilling to draw the ire of Level 3 adventurers.
Ren didn’t move.
He took a slow sip , set the cup down gently on the saucer, and picked up his napkin to dab the corners of his mouth.
“I am currently enjoying my morning,” Ren said, his voice quiet, smooth, and utterly devoid of emotion.
“You have exactly three seconds to remove yourselves from my sunlight before I categorize you as a nuisance.” The scarred adventurer blinked, entirely taken aback by the sheer audacity of the unblessed teenager.
Then, his face flushed with anger.
“You arrogant little brat,” the man snarled, reaching a massive, gauntleted hand down to grab Ren by his expensive silk collar and haul him out of the chair.
He didn’t even get close.
Ren didn’t channel his mana.
He didn’t summon a weapon from the Gate of Babylon.
He didn’t even bother to activate his Ice Authority.
He simply raised his left hand and caught the adventurer’s heavy steel gauntlet mid-air.
The sound of metal buckling echoed sharply across the patio.
Ren applied a fraction of the *Megingjörð* Authority.
The physical strength of the Norse War God flared in his muscles.
He squeezed his fingers.
The enchanted steel gauntlet instantly crumpled like wet paper, followed immediately by the sickening, wet crunch of the adventurer’s hand and wrist bones being pulverized into dust.
The scarred man let out a blood-curdling scream, dropping to his knees as his shattered arm hung limply in Ren’s terrifying grip.
“W-What the hell?!” one of the other adventurers yelled, drawing his broadsword and swinging it down toward Ren’s head in a blind panic.
Ren didn’t stand up.
He casually tossed the screaming leader aside, letting go of his ruined hand.
As the broadsword descended, Ren merely backhanded the flat of the blade with his bare knuckles.
*BOOM.* The impact sounded like a cannon firing.
The broadsword shattered into a dozen jagged pieces of shrapnel.
The residual force of Ren’s casual backhand slammed into the adventurer’s chest plate.
The man was violently launched off his feet, tearing through the wooden railing of the patio and flying nearly thirty feet across the cobblestone street before crashing into a stone wall, unconscious before he even hit the ground.
The third adventurer froze, his sword half-drawn, trembling violently as he stared at the teenager who was still comfortably seated.
Ren slowly turned his dark, cold eyes toward the third man.
“I believe your friends are leaving,” Ren stated, picking up his cup once more.
The third adventurer didn’t say a word.
He dropped his sword, grabbed his screaming leader by the scruff of his armor, and sprinted away as fast as his Level 3 legs could carry him, leaving a trail of blood and shattered steel behind.
Absolute silence fell over the cafe.
The patrons were staring in wide-eyed horror.
An unblessed human had just physically dismantled seasoned adventurers without a drop of magic or effort.
Ren looked at the shattered wooden railing and the spilled blood on the cobblestones.
He sighed.
The ambiance was thoroughly ruined.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a solid gold coin, and tossed it onto the table.
It was enough to buy the entire building three times over.
“For the damages,” Ren said to the paralyzed waitress.
He stood up, adjusted his coat, and walked calmly out of the patio, heading deeper into the commercial district to find a quieter place to finish his morning reading.
He didn’t look up at the rooftops.
If he had, he might have noticed the massive, imposing figure of Ottar, the Level 7 King of Orario and the strongest adventurer in the world, standing perfectly still in the shadows of a chimney.
Ottar’s grip on his greatsword was white-knuckled.
He had been sent by Lady Freya to observe the anomaly.
He had expected to see a hidden magic user or a foreign king with an unregistered Falna.
Instead, he had just watched a boy with no blessing completely shatter the laws of their world with pure, unadulterated physical force.
A single drop of cold sweat trailed down the King of Orario’s stoic face.
The city of the Gods was no longer safe.
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