A hulking, hooded figure moved through the capital's winding streets, wrapped in sun-bleached layers of desert cloth. Sand still clung to the folds of his robe, a dusting of gold against muted, wind-worn fabric. His face was hidden behind a strip of linen, eyes shaded beneath the cowl.

The sandstone walls around him glowed with heat, but the city's narrow alleys felt oddly cool—damp, even. A strange wetness hung in the shadows, clinging to the corners of buildings that bore both the curve of southern dunes and the spires of northern stone.

He wasn't stealthy. He didn't skulk.

And yet, every eye slid off him like fog retreating from the sun.

As though he simply didn't exist.

"Are you sure about this?"

He didn't bother to whisper. His benefactor hid even his words from unwanted ears.

"Right, I get that," he continued to mutter. "But look at me—I'm not exactly one of the more well-received species around here. Pretty sure they'll try to kill me on the spot the moment they see what I am...

"Are you sure you can't give me a new body? I'd settle for a wood elf or something."

—Deep sigh—

"Fine. I get it."

He most certainly did not get it.

The hooded figure continued through the narrow backstreets, occasionally pausing to let unwanted eyes pass him by. No one ever saw him—but that didn't mean he wasn't cautious all the same.

He'd been given one task.

And one task alone: Meet with High Priest Nelzar.

Still, none of this made sense to him. Nelzar was the appointed leader of the Imperium's religious zealots—all devout worshipers of the Ascended Gods. So why would the Primordial of Magic want him working with... them?

Rob couldn't make sense of it.

And the Primordial's whispers? They never gave him the full story.

What he did know was this: she wanted Blake dead.

Why?

Apparently, there were guiding forces nudging Blake toward destroying the system itself.

Sure. Magic could probably convince her that was a bad idea—okay, no. That pudding masquerading as a woman couldn't be convinced of anything. Flaws of dealing with someone who's insane.

Also, it didn't take long for him to realize—Magic had a fucking ego.

But she didn't want to be seen killing Blake a second time.

Too much was happening that Rob didn't understand. Another power was returning to the realm, and Magic didn't want to end up on their bad side. At first, Rob thought it might be Death—he'd heard the stories… well, legends. But now? He wasn't so sure.

Still, whatever the Primordial's fears or reasons were for all this cloak and dagger nonsense...

His reward for doing it?

Totally worth it.

Magic had promised to send him home.

He missed his family. His mom. His little sister. There was so much he missed.

He wasn't cut out for any of this.

Rob had awoken in this realm—filled with vampires, monsters, and zealots—as a hulking brute of an orc. Well, half-orc. He figured the other half was elf—he had the ears, after all. The rest of him? Leaner than a full-on hulk, but still massive. Ripped. Intimidating.

But inside?

He was just a fifteen-year-old kid. Well… probably sixteen by now. But still—a kid.

He needed to go home. And Magic had offered him that.

All he had to do was play his part in some screwed-up conspiracy to get Blake murdered.

Again.

Simple, right?

Rob paused at the edge of the alley.

The castle ahead loomed like a half-forgotten dream—monolithic, mismatched, and still very much under construction. Jagged scaffolding clung to one tower like a ribcage. Wooden cranes stood frozen in place, their ropes swaying idly in the breeze. One wing was nothing but skeletal beams and exposed stone, while another gleamed with polished marble and fresh carvings, like it had been finished yesterday.

Moss crept up one wall. Another was scorched black.

Work hadn't stopped—it had just wandered off in every direction.

It was a monument to chaos. And somehow, still... impressive.

But that wasn't what made him stop.

No.

It was the guards.

They didn't stand. They loomed—too still, too armored, like statues with eyes. One turned his head as if he'd sensed the thought forming in Rob's skull.

He stepped back into the shadow of the alley.

"Will whatever it is you're doing get me past them?"

Rob's shoulders slumped as he gave a slow, reluctant nod.

"They'll attack me on sight."

With a resigned sigh, he turned to face the figure only he could see.

She was stunning—an ethereal vision of mana given human shape.

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Her body shimmered in soft blue wisps that drifted and curled around her form, constantly in motion. Hints of glowing pink pulsed in and out of the vapor, blooming like breath through her translucent skin. Her hair flowed in reverse—long, weightless strands of pink mist threaded with flickers of blue, dancing in a breeze that wasn't there.

She gazed at him with brilliant, luminous eyes—pure radiant pink, as if lit from within.

She wasn't just beautiful.

She was mana—alive, aware, and watching him.

Her next words trembled the very fabric of reality—and yet, no one but Rob heard them. No... not heard. Felt. Deep, primal. Etched into his soul.

"My control over the system is greatly reduced now that my sister's former lover has awakened," she said, her voice like wind threading through broken glass. "But I still hold some influence."

She drifted closer, her eyes aglow with cold power. "I'm only here in part—most of my attention is focused on managing the double convergence. But I can offer you something. I can max your level."

Rob blinked.

"That should be enough to get you through the castle gates unaccosted," she continued. "To them, you'll appear as something akin to a god—a mockery of godhood, perhaps, but that's all their so-called Ascended Gods ever were. Pathetic system-users who, by happenstance, gained access and clawed their way into power by maxing their levels."

She smiled, the kind of smile that promised more danger than comfort.

"So rest assured, my little champion... you'll have no trouble here. Or at the very least, no trouble you can't solve on your own."

Rob gulped—then dropped to his knees as power surged through him, hot and overwhelming. A system notification flashed before his eyes.

He didn't bother reading the whole thing. His gaze locked on one number: Level 999999.

The half-orc blinked, stunned, sucking in air like he'd forgotten how to breathe.

A whisper tickled his ear—soft as silk, sharp as static.

"By no means mistake your new level for real power. You're a Titan—a creation of my beloved sister. You don't need it. Remember that, my champion… no—my hero."

Still struggling to catch his breath, he lifted his head to the Primordial—but she was already gone.

Disappearing from the vampire's coven had been nerve-wracking. At the time, he'd been terrified—they hadn't just captured him. They had imprisoned him.

He'd spent night after night listening to the screams… the suffering. Prisoners brought in kicking and begging, only to leave as mutilated husks, drained of blood. Some were allowed to leave alive, but they looked hollow. Broken.

It had been Magic herself who guided him. Nurtured him.

And now—she had given him power.

Maybe it wasn't real power, like she'd said…

But real or not, he felt powerful.

And more than that—

She had given him hope.

Hope of going home.

Hope of seeing his family again.

He owed her.

Fuck Blake.

With newfound confidence, he pushed off the ground and stood. Back straight. Head high.

Golden armor… shining?

Wait.

He glanced down—and froze.

Magnificent golden armor blazed across his body, radiant like the heart of a sun. He lifted a hand, fingertips brushing against a helmet so light he hadn't even realized he was wearing one.

He needed to get a better look at himself.

Glancing around, he spotted a window—an apothecary, from the looks of it, judging by the shelves of potion bottles inside. Thankfully, it was empty. The interior was dim, casting the glass into a faint mirror.

He stepped closer, and there it was—his reflection, distorted slightly by the pane, but unmistakable.

The armor gleamed like forged divinity—dark lacquered plates traced in ornate veins of gold, curling across the surface like living flame or divine script. Massive pauldrons flared from his shoulders, shaped like gilded wings—or maybe jagged thorns—each one honed with regal menace.

The chestplate curved with unnatural symmetry.

Beneath it all, shadows clung to him—deep navy-black cloth trailing beneath the plates, flowing like mourning silk. A long tabard hung down the center, veined in gold, its design mimicking divinity… or something eldritch… or both. Like something ancient trying to remember how to feel.

And the helm—

It was a crown of war.

Barbed. Regal. Faceless. Just a black void where eyes should've been.

It didn't just protect him.

It made a statement.

It declared dominion.

It demanded reverence.

Best part? No one could see he was a half-orc.

Rob smiled—full tusks and all, completely hidden.

"Thank you," he said to no one.

And yet, he knew she'd heard him.

With more confidence than he'd ever known, Rob stepped out of the alley—back straight, head held high.

The guards spotted him immediately. The glow of Völuspá danced across his armor, casting shifting hues of blue and pink across the golden surface like divine fire. They didn't move. Didn't speak. Frozen in awe—fear? Maybe both.

It was clear what he was.

Undeniable.

But Rob didn't walk up to them.

No.

One moment, he was standing at the edge of the street—the next, he was inside the castle.

"Aw!" a gnome yelped as he toppled from his oversized chair, landing with a thud and an umph.

Rob stood silently before the desk, one eyebrow raised—not that anyone could see it beneath the helm.

The terrified gnome scrambled back into his seat, only to freeze mid-motion as his eyes locked onto the figure now standing before him. A horrified expression crept across his face.

"A—A—Ascended," he stammered, quickly bowing his head. "H-How may I be of s-service?"

High Priest Nelzar tried not to stare, tried not to examine the god before him too closely—unsure which of the Ascended had appeared in his office unannounced.

Then again, there were so many of them now, he wasn't all that surprised he didn't recognize this one.

Rob spoke, his voice rippling through the room in a deep, reverberating bass.

"I've come with war."

~

Off in the void near Völuspá's inner orbit, the true form of the Primordial of Magic held out her arms as if cradling a tear in the fabric of reality. She never left the void—only ever sending faint echoes of herself into the moons, subtle fragments meant to influence others into fulfilling her will.

Aspiring summoners had always been her favorite. Useful, disposable. Tools for scouting new worlds worth pulling into the fold.

But that was about to end.

Because at last… she had found what she'd been searching for. For so very long.

She glanced over her shoulder at the moon of Nyxoria and smirked.

Her latest little pawn would be more than enough for her plans. The levels she'd gifted him would do plenty to inflate his fragile ego, and that armor—gleaming, divine, deceptive—would work wonders in manipulating him into the monster she needed. A monster convincing enough to keep that irritating god occupied.

Not Blake—no.

Jörmun and his petty games were the real nuisance.

And she didn't have time to deal with him right now.

A shame her little nephew took after her in far too many ways.

She knew who he'd been conspiring with—and what his endgame was. And with what she was working toward, it couldn't be allowed to happen. Not yet.

Magic wasn't so sure Death would intervene if she killed a few Titans—those were already starting to sprout here and there as the convergence dragged on. But killing a true Elder God? One of Death's own children?

There were only three of them left.

Sure, she could simply erase that meddling god from existence… but could she truly stand toe-to-toe with Death if she did?

Honestly?

She wasn't sure.

If anything, it would be a brutal, drawn-out war.

No—better to sabotage Jörmun's plans from the shadows.

And that meant Blake.

She wouldn't deny it—what she'd done to Blake had hurt. Emotionally, at least. The eldritch were her children, after all. Failed as they may have been, they were still hers.

"I'm sorry, Azathoth," she whispered. "For what I did. Especially after you gained a soul… but it was necessary."

She still couldn't believe Duskara had managed to revive that shattered Titan soul from dust. It was impressive. Terrifying, even.

Not just reforged—a ruined soul, reborn.

That wasn't something she had ever done. Magic had learned a great deal from watching it unfold. To think—all it took was giving a part of yourself to create a soul.

Had Life really done that? For all her children? For the Titans? And the gods?

There was no way Death had done that too…

"Could I have given a part of myself away?"

No. That's absurd.

...Isn't it?

It was why the eldritch were failures. They had no souls.

It wasn't like souls were rare. She'd found countless examples across the multiverse—an inevitable byproduct of mana evolution.

Magic had tried to replicate that natural creation… but that, too, had failed.

So many failures.

And to think—the secret all along had been ripping a part of yourself away.

"I still can't believe Duskara did that," she muttered.

Magic pulled her gaze away from the moon and back to the dual convergences.

It might have been reckless to initiate a second convergence while the first was still underway. In fact, that first convergence was already spiraling toward destruction—all because of her impatience. But it also meant she didn't have to waste a few hundred years gently pulling Earth into this reality.

She could repurpose all the energy and system mana she'd poured into dragging the demonic world of Thanatoria here… and redirect it toward Earth.

Months instead of centuries.

So what if an entire race of demons died from it?

She had to hurry. Ever since she'd found the thread—no, the wound—connecting this place to Earth… to Tartarus, she could feel it.

The essence of the Primordial of Life.

And it was so very weak.

"Soon, sister. Soon."

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