Passports and border checkpoints?
That’s human stuff.
Ren wasn’t about to bother with any of it.
He stood out on the penthouse balcony, the wind slapping at his overcoat.
Instead of reaching for a boarding pass, Ren dove into the King’s Treasury, searching for the very idea of flight.
If the Gate of Babylon held the beginnings of human innovation, why wouldn’t it have the plans for the first aircraft?
He started focusing—flight, that’s what he needed.
Those golden ripples tore through the air, booming open like massive curtains.
Out came a relic straight from myth: not a jet, but the Vimana.
Gold, emeralds, solar crystals—liquid mercury pulsed inside it, the whole thing shining with an unreal brilliance.
It was less a machine and more a flying throne room, pulled out of some Babylonian temple and built to rule the heavens.
Ren stepped out with barely a second thought, joining the deck and claiming the throne that stood at its heart.
His energy synced with the artifact.
“Take me to Eastern Europe,” he said.
No roaring engines here.
The Vimana just hummed—a gentle, supernatural sound—and soared upward, breaking the sound barrier almost instantly.
Now, Romania’s Carpathian Mountains were suffering something between a disaster and the apocalypse.
Ren hovered high above—a solid ten thousand feet—looking down at the carnage below.
Clouds twisted in ugly green spirals, sick with raw magic.
Ancient pines lay dead, turned to lifeless ash.
He leaned forward, wine swirling in his glass, and triggered the Administrator’s Eye.
His vision sliced through darkness and all that magical mess.
In the valley’s heart stood an old man, decked out in a flawless Victorian suit.
On the surface, he seemed like an aristocratic grandfather; but his eyes burned with a green, predatory light that said otherwise.
[ Target: Marquis Sasha Dejanstaal Voban.
] [ Status: The First Campione (The Oldest King).
] [ Threat Level: Fatal.
] [ Active Authority: Legion of Hungry Wolves.
] Things got worse.
Hundreds of giant spectral wolves circled Voban, tearing up the valley, their fury directed at a single glowing figure in the very middle.
Ren switched focus.
This prey was a Heretic God.
Gorgeous, tragic youth with a shepherd’s staff.
Every time those savage wolves ripped him apart, the ground exploded with life—flowers, grass, all kinds of plants—and his body knit itself whole in seconds.
[ Target: Dumuzid (Tammuz).
] [ Mythological Origin: Babylonian God of Shepherds, Vegetation, and Resurrection.
] [ Threat Level: High.
] [ Active Authority: The Cycle of Spring (Conceptual Regeneration).
] [ Weakness: Subjugated conceptually by the King of Uruk.
Highly vulnerable to anti-regeneration edicts and Babylonian Royal Armaments.
] Ren almost spat out his wine.
He put the glass aside, staring at the floating readout.
A dark laugh bubbled up—the kind you usually have right before trouble starts.
Tammuz.
The Babylonian god sentenced to the Underworld, forced to die and return, again and again.
But more importantly—Gilgamesh, in the ancient epic, mocked Ishtar for what she’d done to Tammuz.
Ren had more than just an edge.
With the Golden King’s Authority, Ren was literally Tammuz’s conceptual superior.
He could bypass that whole annoying immortality trick.
Down below, Voban’s patience finally snapped.
“Die and stay dead, you tedious pest!” The thunder in Voban’s voice shook the valley.
The old Marquis changed.
His expensive suit shredded as his body grew—thirty feet tall now, a monstrous werewolf.
Silver claws blazed, ready to cut all the way to Tammuz’s divine heart.
Ren decided it was time.
He didn’t wait for a landing.
He stood, stepped off the Vimana, and dove ten thousand feet—in freefall—straight into chaos.
Wind howled around him.
Ren stretched out his hand, calling on the Gate of Babylon.
Administrator, isolate anti-regeneration armaments.
Babylonian origin.
A golden ripple slid open next to him.
He grabbed a weapon—a heavy halberd made of starlit metal, crafted for one purpose: enforcing the King’s decree of absolute death.
Voban’s werewolf claws were almost at Tammuz.
Ren didn’t introduce himself.
No warning, no grand entrance.
He poured every bit of magic he could muster into the halberd and hurled it, meteor-like, straight at his target.
It streaked through the night, burning gold.
BOOM.
Right into Tammuz’s chest, just before Voban could strike.
The ground cratered, shockwave blasting the giant Marquis away, sending him crashing through what was left of the pines.
The golden halberd nailed Tammuz to the earth.
The Heretic God could only gasp, stunned as the King’s conceptual power shut down his resurrection Authority.
Cracks spidered across his body, turning him to golden dust.
Ren landed dead center, crashing hard, his coat flaring in the wind.
He straightened, brushing off his lapel, as Tammuz’s divine core shattered, pouring golden light over him.
[ Main Quest Completed: Slay the Heretic God.
] [ Target Destroyed: Dumuzid (Tammuz).
] [ Harvesting Divine Core…
] Ren grinned, soaking in the new power flooding his soul.
A bloodcurdling roar tore through the valley.
Voban, still monstrous, clawed his way out of rubble, eyes glowing with raw, ancient rage.
He’d just been robbed—a mortal had snatched his prey.
“WHO DARES?!” That shout could crack the earth.
Ren stood his ground, turning slowly to face the oldest Godslayer alive.
Hands in his pockets, dozens of golden portals blossom behind him, lighting up the forest with the King’s arrogance.
“I’m the Eighth,” Ren said, his tone calm as stone, thick with the Authority of someone who owned everything.
“And I’m taking that Authority.
Got a problem with it, old man?” CREATORS’ THOUGHTS entertainment_king_3820 Enjoyed the chapter?
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