Paolo Blandelli kept his forehead pressed right against the asphalt.
The pressure from the man in black wasn’t just creepy—it felt like someone had set an anvil on his back.
“We swear absolute fealty to the new King!” Paolo blurted out, barely keeping his voice steady.
“The Copper Black Cross, all our mages, everything we have is yours to command, Your Majesty!” The crater went silent.
Nobody moved.
Paolo braced himself, waiting for the Eighth King’s first order.
Tribute, maybe.
Or a blood oath.
No one expected what happened next.
All that crushing force just—lifted.
Like someone flipped a switch.
“No.” Paolo’s mind froze.
He blinked, staring at the ground.
He finally looked up, scars twisted in confusion.
“Y-Your Majesty?” Ren stood maybe ten feet away, flicking dust off his black overcoat.
Behind him, ten golden ripples just vanished like they were never there.
“I said no.” Ren’s voice was flat, bored.
“I don’t want your knights.
I don’t care about your politics.
And I’m definitely not babysitting a bunch of magicians.” Paolo was lost for words.
A Devil King refusing loyal followers?
Paolo’s whole magical worldview just fell apart.
“But… a King needs a domain—” Ren just cut him off, not even glancing back.
“A King does whatever he wants.” He strolled out of the ruined plaza, straight into the city, not giving a damn about the dozens of knights still kneeling behind him.
“Clean up this crater,” Ren tossed over his shoulder.
He didn’t stop.
“I need a drink.” Once he left the wreckage behind and walked into those quiet Italian streets, Ren finally took stock.
Clothes: indestructible.
Power: enough to turn a city to ash.
But… No ID.
No passport.
Divine lightning had vaporized his phone and wallet, too.
I’ve got the wealth of all human history in my soul, he thought, popping a small golden ripple open and pulling out an ancient gold bar.
But try paying for a penthouse suite with a Babylonian ingot.
“System,” Ren mumbled, tossing the gold bar from hand to hand.
“I’ve got the King’s Treasury, but no cash.
Convert the gold in the Gate of Babylon into something I can actually spend?” A blue screen flickered in at the edge of his vision.
[ Understood.
] [ Asset Liquidation module online.
] [ System can convert Host’s Treasury assets into untraceable, digitized funds in multiple offshore accounts.
] [ Start conversion now?
] “Do ten plain gold bars,” Ren said.
[ Processing… Ten gold ingots used from Treasury.
] [ $8,450,000 credited to Host’s accounts.
] [ Creating access point… ] His jacket pocket buzzed quietly.
He reached in and pulled out a matte-black titanium card—brandless, just a chip and endless zeroes in the digital world.
The kind of card that made doors fly open.
Ren grinned, sending the gold bar back through a golden ripple.
The System was looking pretty reliable so far.
Half an hour later, he pushed through the doors of the Grand Hotel Majestic—best hotel in the city, probably the whole country.
He strolled right up to the desk, black overcoat swishing behind him.
The concierge, eyes sharp for money, straightened up as soon as he saw Ren’s clothes.
“Good evening, sir.
How may I help you?” “Presidential Suite.
Indefinite stay,” Ren said.
The concierge flashed a perfect “I’m so sorry” smile.
“That suite usually requires advance booking, sir—” Ren slid the black card across marble.
Nothing flashy—just confidence.
The concierge’s fingers paused.
He picked it up and dropped it into the card reader.
No beep.
Just a green approval glow—a code reserved for billionaires and heads of state with limitless access.
The concierge’s mask dropped in a heartbeat.
His spine straightened.
“My apologies for any inconvenience, sir.” All formality, quiet awe under the surface.
He handed the card back with both hands.
“The penthouse is yours.
Allow me and our general manager to escort you personally.” A few minutes later, Ren was sprawled on a leather sofa in a penthouse with windows that made the whole city sparkle below him.
In one hand, a crystal glass of scotch—harvested straight from the Gate of Babylon, a hundred years old and smooth as liquid gold.
He took a sip.
It burned in the best way.
Tasted like old victories.
For twenty-four years, he’d pinched pennies, skipped meals, worried over subway fares and rent.
Now?
The wealth of human history was his.
All it took was a thought.
He raised his glass toward the empty room.
“To unemployment,” Ren said, and finished the scotch.
But the celebration faded quick.
Luxury’s nice and all, but it’s not the mission.
*Multiversal Travel Module currently LOCKED.
Host must harvest more Divine Cores.* Right.
He needed another Heretic God.
“System,” Ren called out, voice echoing in high ceilings.
“I need a new target.
If I’m gonna hop universes, I need Authorities that’ll keep me alive in unknown worlds.
Find me a Heretic God on Earth right now with spatial, absolute defense, or resurrection Authority.” The blue screen flickered up again, this time over the skyline.
[ Scanning… ] [ Match found.
] A map of Europe zoomed in, stopping on some remote Eastern European mountains.
[ Target: Marquis Voban.
] [ Status: The Oldest Campione, The First King.
] [ Note: Voban commands “Legion of Hungry Wolves” and “Dead Servant” powers.
He’s currently chasing a Heretic God from the Underworld who holds a Conceptual Resurrection Authority.
] Ren’s eyes sharpened, lips curling into a wolf’s grin.
Marquis Voban.
The nastiest, oldest Godslayer there was.
Living disaster.
Killed for fun, gods and men alike.
Powerful, ancient, arrogant to the core.
But if Voban was after a resurrection Authority, Ren knew what he had to do next—crash the old wolf’s hunt, steal the kill, and claim the power to survive anything.
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