“I’m the Eighth,” Ren said again, voice cold enough to freeze the valley.
“I’m taking that Authority.
Got a problem with that, old man?” Marquis Voban didn’t bother with words—no threats, no insults.
He just let out a growl, deep and metallic, his thirty-foot werewolf body radiating raw, predatory hate.
Then he moved.
“Moved” barely covers it.
One moment he was there, solid and menacing.
The next, just a blur—silver fur and shadow ripping across the earth.
In a heartbeat, Voban loomed over Ren, a clawed hand crashing down with a force that could split mountains.
Ren didn’t even bother to dodge.
He watched the incoming attack, unblinking, like he was waiting for something.
[ Administrator’s Eye Active.
] [ Target: Voban (Werewolf Form).
] [ Trajectory: Downward Crush.
] [ Point of Impact: Absolute Center.
] No sword.
No shield.
Ren reached into the Gate of Babylon and pulled out a plain little medallion—the Aegis of the First King.
Not a weapon, but a concept: a shield that said, “This belongs to the King.
No arguments.” *CLANG.* You’d expect an explosion of noise, but the impact came and went in eerie silence.
The moment Voban’s claws crashed down on the slim ring of gold around Ren, the whole forest flattened for a mile.
Trees snapped like pencils, and the mountain floor caved into a deep crater, nothing but broken stone left behind.
Ren didn’t budge.
He just stood there beneath the giant werewolf’s shadow, gold shimmer around him, face unmoved.
Voban’s eyes went wide.
Shock—real shock—after centuries of never meeting his match.
He slashed again.
Then again, and again.
The shield didn’t so much as flicker.
Ren looked up, bored as ever.
“My turn.” He didn’t lunge or charge.
He just opened a hundred golden portals behind him.
He aimed at the ground under Voban’s feet, not Voban himself.
Dozens of ancient siege ballistae fired straight down.
Bolts hit the ground with the force of tank rounds, exploding bedrock and sending Voban stumbling backward, off balance for once.
Ren didn’t chase.
He just hovered into the air, the Authority of the Golden King bending the air to his will.
“You’ve had your fun, Marquis,” Ren called, his voice shaking the valley, heavy with magic.
He reached back and drew another weapon from his vault—a spear called the Piercer of Divine Foundations.
It was built to bring down lesser gods.
Ren threw it.
The spear didn’t fly; it vanished, then reappeared an inch from Voban’s chest.
The old wolf tried to move, call on that impossible speed, but it didn’t matter.
The spear bonded with what Voban was, not just where he stood.
The point drove into Voban’s shoulder, shoving him into the mountain.
Stone shattered and earth caved in, burying him under a ton of rubble.
Ren hovered overhead, calm as ever, dust settling below.
He hadn’t killed Voban—any Godslayer on their first day knows that’s not happening—but he’d made his point.
He owned the fight now, took the Authority, and knocked the oldest King in the world flat on his back.
Ren glanced at his System.
Multiversal Travel still locked, but the Divine Core of Tammuz was his.
“We’re done,” he muttered, not bothering to look at the chaos behind him.
He whistled.
The Vimana drifted down from the clouds, glowing gold against the dark sky.
Ren stepped aboard, never bothering to look back at the havoc in the valley.
He was the Eighth King now.
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