Day in the Rub’ al Khali felt like drowning in fire.
At night, everything froze—the desert turned into a silent, empty void.
Anyone with a shred of self-preservation would steer clear of this place; it’s just endless dunes, wind that scrubs out any sign you were ever there, and a sun that turns bones into dust.
No hidden paths or secret oases, no hint of civilization—nothing.
Right at the heart of all this sits the shell of a forgotten era.
A palace, made of pale sandstone and faded marble, arches and domes poking through the sand like the ribs of some massive beast.
It’s been empty for a long, long time.
Tribes traded stories about it but kept their distance.
No one in their right mind goes too deep into the Empty Quarter.
Out here, demands disappear.
All you hear is the slow, endless moan of the wind outside.
He didn’t miss servants.
Why would he, when he owned the best of everything humanity ever made?
With a thought, the air beside him rippled like water.
The Gate of Babylon opened, and a perfectly chilled crystal decanter drifted over, trailed by a goblet cut from pure sapphire.
He poured himself a generous glass of wine—fermented back when Sumer rose and fell.
Dark berries, smoke, that strange sizzle of ancient mana.
He sipped and watched the sunlight beat down, the dunes burning bright enough to hurt your eyes.
Step inside and you’d see the strangest blend of ruin and wealth.
The sandstone walls were cracked and sun-bleached, but the floors had fresh, intricate Persian carpets, impossibly clean.
Golden and jade statues—gods long since forgotten—stood sentinel in empty halls, and tapestries spun from the silk of magical creatures hung thick, streaked through with colors that shouldn’t survive the ages.
He’d spent several days making this place into his own private heaven, not for anyone else—who’d even see it?—but because it pleased him.
It felt good, just doing something for himself.
Absolute autonomy.
“System,” Ren said.
His tone barely disturbed the hush.
[ Yes, Host.
] “Show me the status of the world’s magical network.
Filter for high-level Authority signatures.” A transparent, blue interface shimmered up in front of him, cool light washing over his face and catching in his crimson eyes.
The screen showed a map, lines of magical energy pulsing across the globe.
Some regions gave off a low, steady thrum—the Campiones’ countries.
Voban somewhere in the East, Luo Hao ruling in China, Doni roaming the Mediterranean and probably picking fights with anyone who crossed his path.
But then there was Japan.
There, the screen flashed erratically—a raw, chaotic spike of divine energy zipping across the nation.
Ren leaned back and swirled his wine, watching the data crunch and flicker.
Godou Kusanagi.
The Seventh King.
The boy had become a Campione just a little before Ren claimed his own title as the Eighth.
The entire magical world had been thrown into chaos—a new Campione was enough for a generational shake-up.
Two in such a short time?
Every mage association, secret group, and order was panicking.
The System scrolled through intercepted reports, showing how frantically everyone was moving.
The Bronze Black Cross and Copper Black Cross in Italy just about fell over themselves for the Seventh King’s favor.
The Japanese History Compilation Committee scrambled to contain the fallout every time Godou—bless his heart—ran into another Heretic God and blew up half a city block.
Godou was surrounded by schemers and zealots who all wanted to use him, surrounded by noisy teenagers, divine fistfights, and zero privacy.
Ren watched all this with a distance that felt almost comical.
He could imagine the chaos, the headaches, the harem of girls—half of them bringing as much trouble as actual gods.
He smiled—just a flicker.
Another sip.
The associations wanted to find the Eighth King, badly.
They’d tracked him after his last battle with Doni, but Ren simply vanished.
He’d flown the Vimana halfway across the planet to vanish, ignoring every scrying attempt and prophecy.
They thought he wanted to rule, to start a war, to build an empire.
He closed the interface with a flick.
The light died, leaving only the gold and white of late afternoon.
Just to push the point—prove how untouchable he really was—Ren set his glass down and walked to the edge.
A straight fifty-foot drop into the stone courtyard below.
Without hesitation, he stepped off.
He fell, wind snatching at his suit.
No magic, no Vimana, nothing.
Straight into the stone.
Everything snapped.
Pain hit hard, sudden, and real.
For a breath, he was wrecked—bones smashed, nerves on fire.
Then emerald light and gold dust flashed out from him, and the Authority of the Cycle of Spring reset everything down to the last cell.
Broken became whole before the pain even settled in.
He stood up, clean as ever, like nothing happened at all—the crater in the stone the only sign he’d taken the leap.
He brushed at his jacket, breathing even.
It was a nasty little habit, but necessary.
A reminder: He just couldn’t die.
Normal threats, mortal or magical, meant nothing.
Once you outgrow the world’s dangers, solitude starts to make sense.
He looked up.
Sun was down now, and stars started to scatter across the deepening night.
The chill came fast.
Ren raised a hand, and golden portals bloomed in the air—a ring of them, not a single weapon in sight.
Just bronze braziers, each one dropping into place before igniting with a smokeless, magical flame that cast the place in living warmth.
A ripple, and a grand dining table appeared, complete with arrays of silver dishes and crystal.
Then—food enough for a king far more demanding than him: rare meats spiced with extinct herbs, fruit that shone with inner light, bread as warm as the desert’s midday.
He sat at the head of that endless empty table.
The Quarter was dead silent, except for the new crackle of fire.
No one to share the meal.
No toasts, no words to break the quiet.
Let them panic about the Seventh.
Let the Godslayers make their clever plans.
Here in this swallowed-up palace, Ren had isolation, eternity, and more riches than anyone ever dreamed of.
No rules but his own.
He picked up his fork, took the first bite, and gazed out over his empty kingdom—a king entirely at peace with silence and solitude.
Your daily votes cost you nothing but help this fanfic climb the rankings and reach more readers.
Thank you for the support!