Daion snapped his eyes open, immediately noticing the sky filled with countless floating islands. The god's domain… again.
He stood up with ease. His wounds were gone. So were his gauntlet and sword—and he felt a slight relief when he saw his right hand intact. He looked around: in the distance, the static star still shone, unmoving. He began leaping from island to island with agility, making good use of the gravitational distortions.
Eventually, he landed on a large island, similar to the one where he had first spoken with the god.
"Stop playing around. I know you can see me," he said to the empty air—which seemed to hear him, as the sky contracted in a strange way.
Immediately, the air grew heavy. But Daion didn't flinch. Unlike last time, he knew what was coming. An invisible force tore him from the ground and dragged him across the sky, zigzagging between floating islands. It felt like a roller coaster: terrifying the first time, even fun after the next few.
Suddenly, it stopped. He hung suspended above a massive island that stretched into the horizon, with a rather pleasant view of the star. The god's power released him, and he crashed to the ground with a dull thud. His back slammed against the surface, but he felt no pain. He jumped to his feet, rolled his joints, and scanned the surroundings—until he saw him. The god, sitting on the ground with his back turned, apparently in human size.
Daion approached, curious. He expected to find him doing something mystical—gazing into a crystal ball filled with human souls, manipulating a hologram of the universe, something that at least reflected divinity… But instead:
"Take this—eat lead, motherfucker!" the god shouted with enthusiasm.
Daion frowned, confused. Looking closer, he saw something as disappointing as it was strangely impressive: the god was sitting in front of a flat-screen TV, holding a controller that looked suspiciously like a PlayStation one—though the brand logo was completely unrecognizable.
The god radiated energy, furiously playing a shooter, mowing down bomb-strapped terrorists. Daion rolled his eyes, clearly unimpressed. He tried to say something, but the god raised a hand to silence him.
"Yes, yes… just a sec. I'm at the most important part of the match."
"You're kidding, right?" Daion asked. The primordial shot him a glare that made it clear he wasn't.
The god snapped his fingers, and Daion's body was forced to sit, pinned by increased gravity.
"Well, you've improved. Last time, you would've smashed your face into the ground."
Daion glared back, but the god kept playing. About forty-five minutes passed. Daion lay sprawled, bored, staring at the motionless sky.
Finally, the god let out a satisfied sigh and dropped the controller. He stood, stretched, and looked at Daion.
"Ah… Mortals are idiots and insecure, but damn, if they don't know how to make fun things," he said as he deactivated the gravity. Daion sighed in relief and followed him.
The god strolled across the island, casually shifting other floating islands in the sky—like rearranging the landscape to his taste, searching for a more picturesque view. They walked until they reached a small fridge, sitting in the middle of nowhere. When he opened it, it seemed completely empty. He reached in and pulled out two grape sodas, tossing one to Daion.
"Nice, huh? Gift from the Primordial of Space," he said, as if Daion should have any idea what the hell he meant. "I can literally grab anything from the universe."
"Am I dead?"
The god looked genuinely surprised, choking slightly on the soda fizz.
"For the love of the Noble, boy! Of course not! What gave you that idea?" the god said in a strangely friendly tone.
"Well, I'm here… isn't this the afterlife? And the gauntlet's gone. You told me I'd return it when I died," Daion explained nervously, uncertain. "For the love of the Noble…?"
The god snorted loudly, wiping soda from his lips.
"The afterlife? Please. Do you really think I could deal with every single one of the trillions of mortals that die? This is my domain. I bring whoever I want, whenever I want."
Daion opened his soda and took a sip. It was surprisingly good—perfectly cold, with just enough fizz to burn his throat a little.
"Gah…"
"As for your gauntlet… well, this isn't your body. It's your astral form, so to speak. I only brought your consciousness here," the god explained.
That explains the lack of pain and wounds, Daion thought.
"Don't worry. They're treating you as we speak. You'll regain consciousness tomorrow."
Daion sighed. Deep down, he didn't want to go back to that horrible world… but he wasn't ready to die yet, either.
"So, why did you bring me here?" he asked, sitting cross-legged on the ground.
"Congratulations. Despite your hero complex and general stupidity, you actually managed to defeat two Corrupteds," he said, pacing back and forth.
"I don't have a hero complex. I just did what I thought was right," Daion shot back, frowning.
"Yeah, sure," the god replied dryly. "Because it's perfectly rational to throw yourself into almost certain death for people you met just yesterday."
Daion clenched his fists and looked away.
"The point is, it was actually pretty impressive… considering your limitations. Well done. Oh, and by the way, if you want to stay alive, you can't use that ray again."
Daion glared at him, indignant.
"Maybe I wouldn't have to use it if someone hadn't sent me in empty-handed," he snapped. The god only shrugged.
"Yeah, I know. My bad. But that ray isn't just simple magic—it's pure Omega energy. I don't even know how you managed to fire it like that, but your body… it won't hold up," the god said. With a flick of his hand, a vision appeared before them, replaying the two times Daion had fired the beam… and the state his arm had been left in afterward.
"So what am I supposed to do then?"
"Well, you like helping people, don't you? My dear friend without a hero complex," the god said, half mocking, half serious. "It's very possible I might have accidentally mentioned to one of my followers a potential problem with a Corrupted vanguard near the border. And it's very possible that follower might head to SteelWall in search of Summoned and reinforcements."
"You want me to absorb more energy?"
"Yes, that wouldn't hurt. But you could also take the chance to scout the area. Do you remember what I told you about my first Summoned?" The god leaned forward with theatrical flair, stretching out his arm.
Daion paused to think. He hadn't paid much attention to that part of the conversation at the time—he'd been in too much of a hurry—but he had a general idea of what the god had said.
"The first ones you brought… they had some of your powers, right?"
"Yes. Well, not exactly. You see, unlike some lesser gods, I can't grant powers directly to mortals."
"Why not?" Daion asked, raising an eyebrow, remembering the god probably had superiors or rules he had to follow. "Aren't you supposed to be the strongest?"
"In this part of the universe. There's someone a little stronger… But that's not the reason. The gods made a treaty with the demons—or Corrupteds, as they call them in that world. I can't break it without my brother nagging me to insanity," he said with a frustrated sigh, waving his hand and distorting the air into faint visions.
The scene showed several battles at the border: Summoned fighting powerful enemies, but in the process destroying houses and crushing allied soldiers without a second thought, focused only on the Omega energy they could harvest. Daion thought of the earlier group and clenched his fists in frustration.
"Boring… anyway," the god said, suddenly shifting tone. "I couldn't give them powers, but I could give them relics—aside from the gauntlet and weapon—that would let them channel Omega energy properly. I think there were three."
Daion looked at him expectantly.
"First, a book…" The god stopped. Daion waited for more—for an epic name, a grand title, something worthy of legend. The god sighed. "The Book of Divine Gravitational Principles, or something like that. It's a bluish grimoire, filled with spells I wrote when I was young."
"Gods have an age?"
"Of course. Back then I was only three billion years old. Barely a divine sprout," the god said, completely deadpan.
Daion stared, bewildered. He really was talking to a god, but the guy's personality didn't exactly help remind him of it.
"And the second," the god continued, "is an adaptive armor I forged a few millennia ago, when I was bored." He glanced at Daion, who was still waiting for him to finish.
"You said there were three," Daion reminded him, raising an eyebrow.
"What's the point of telling you the third if you die before finding it? Don't worry, you'll know it when you see it—or you'll be dead first," he answered with a carefree smile.
The god walked to the edge of the cliff and took the last sip of his soda can. Daion did the same, feeling oddly satisfied. The god raised his hand and, with a simple gesture, the cans collapsed into tiny black holes. For an instant, Daion felt his very presence being pulled toward them… before they collapsed and vanished.
"Trash is annoying. Done," the god said, as if that explained everything.
Instinctively, Daion placed a hand on his chest, uneasy. Is the gravity of a black hole really strong enough to affect even my spiritual form? Good to know.
"Will I ever be able to make holes like those?"
The god laughed and shook his head.
"All right, time for you to go. My favorite show's about to start. The book should be somewhere in the war zone. Good luck."
Daion jumped to his feet, trying to move closer—he still had too many questions, especially about his past. But the god snapped his fingers and, in the blink of an eye, Daion's presence vanished.
A few seconds passed in darkness. He didn't fully understand what was happening; he expected to recall a few things like the last time, but it seemed this time his subconscious didn't want to bother him. Little by little, he began to feel his body again—first his feet, then his hands, arms, legs… And along with it, the pain.
An unbearable pain.
He could feel the fractured bones, the stickiness of dried blood clinging to his skin, and his internal organs barely functioning. For a moment, he wished the god had let him stay a bit longer. Even with that eccentric personality, it was better than this.
Several hellish minutes of unconsciousness went by before full sensation returned to his body—and the pain forced him awake. He opened his eyes, gasping for air. Looking around, he realized he was lying in one of the tavern rooms. Against the wall rested his sword, and above it, his jacket and the clothes he had worn the first time he arrived in this world.
He managed to lift his head, grimacing. His mouth was dry and carried a foul taste. They had probably given him another one of those healing orbs. Even so, his whole body burned.
When he looked down at his torso, he saw it completely wrapped in bandages and tourniquets that kept his bones in place. His gaze shifted to his right hand. The gauntlet was still there, but it had changed again: now it was bulkier, with small metal plates extending up to his forearm.
The gem shone brighter than before. He tapped it twice with his fingers, curious about his condition. The menu appeared.
[Summoned's Stats]
• Strength: Level 12 (Hard Type)
• Dexterity: Level 15 (Cunning Fox)
• Endurance: Level 10 (Human)
• Agility: Level 11 (Usain Bolt)
• Intelligence: Level 8 (Human)
There were some notable changes. The rank titles were different—slightly ridiculous and a little funny. It was obvious who had written them.
"Who the hell is Usain Bolt?" he asked in confusion.
"An athlete," answered a voice from behind him.
Daion let out a strangled cry and flinched in pain. He turned his head and recognized the mysterious Summoned from his first day there. He no longer wore the camouflage coat—only a sleeveless shirt. Even so, his face remained covered. He was tossing a bullet into the air over and over while staring outside, expression unreadable.
This idiot has to teach me how to appear like that, Daion thought as he lay back down and returned his gaze to the menu screen.
"An athlete, huh?" he asked, analyzing his stats.
"From a world without magic. He was the fastest man of his era. The Primordial of Gravity has… a peculiar sense of humor," he said as if he'd known him all his life.
"No kidding. But why did my stats go up? I was half-dead lying on the ground."
"I absorbed Omega energy from the Corrupted and transferred it to you. That increased your endurance and kept you alive," he explained; and as he tossed the bullet once more, it hung suspended in the air.
"Thanks. May I ask… why did you do that?"
"I observed your fight from afar, through the scope of my rifle," he said. "I figured it was only fair to leave the bodies to you, since you were the one who killed them. It would've been wrong for another Summoned to just show up and steal them."
He caught the bullet again as it fell into his hand.
"If you were watching… you could've helped," Daion muttered.
"Yes, I could have," he replied, standing up and heading for the door. "But I was curious to see what you'd do."
"Oh, and in case you're wondering: intelligence doesn't rise at the same pace as the other stats." Daion lowered his gaze to his screen again. It was true: it had only gone from level 6 to 8.
"That's because it doesn't grow with Omega energy. It increases with your actual cognitive development." He gave a casual farewell, tapping two fingers against his forehead and flicking them aside. "See you downstairs."
A greenish flash enveloped him, and his coat reappeared out of nowhere. Then he left the room.
Daion sighed and kept browsing through the menu. He tapped on the information tab.
[Divine Information]
• Patron God: No data
• Note: Currently on divine mission.
• Rank: Primordial of Gravity
[Effects on the Summoned]
Relief (3 days):
"A gift so you don't feel like complete trash. Kisses. Your favorite god."
[Divine Artifacts]
• Sword of Punishment (Rank E)
• Omega Gauntlet (Rank E)
• Adaptive Medium Armor (Rank F): destroyed
[Summoned's Evaluation]
• Omega Energy absorbed: 540Ω
• Level: 7
• Rank: Aspirant
He had gained about 400 more Omega points, and his rank had gone up. He wasn't entirely sure what it meant, but it was definitely the reason why his gauntlet had changed. Though the name was still a bit disappointing.
At least the god had had the decency to leave him a bit of temporary relief. Not that Daion could imagine pain worse than what he had already endured, but he was glad he wouldn't have to suffer it.
He stood up. Just setting his feet on the floor was painful. He put on the same clothes he had arrived in, and the moment he did, they instantly cleaned themselves. The jacket shifted into a more casual style, and the pants loosened for greater comfort. Daion let out another sigh when he saw his armor on the ground, shattered beyond repair.
Well, I guess cheap armor only lasts a day of use, he thought in frustration.
He reached for his sword, still sheathed, expecting it to be broken into pieces. But when he drew it, to his surprise, it was perfectly intact. In fact, it looked better than ever… almost as if it had been reforged.
The blade gleamed, now broader than before; the hilt was longer as well, allowing for a much more comfortable grip. He also noticed it was heavier, though not harder to carry. The guard was far more ornate, etched with small markings that converged at the center, and the pommel had taken the shape of a diamond.
Daion sheathed it again and slung it across his back. He walked out the door, not too concerned about his new appearance. To his surprise, he found someone lying in the hallway, their face completely bandaged and breathing with difficulty.
Looking closer, he realized the person wasn't alone: eight others were scattered along the corridor. Each bore different wounds. One woman was missing an arm. Another lay motionless, her gaze lost in the void. She was breathing, but she didn't seem conscious, her neck wrapped in makeshift splints and several layers of bandages.
Daion moved further ahead, trying not to look at the wounded with pity. When he turned a corner, he froze upon recognizing one of the patients. The man sat on a bed, clutching the sheets in frustration. Like Daion, he was alone in his room. It was the same man who had led the knights. Kael—that was his name, Daion remembered.
He entered without knocking.
"Hello, sir," he said, trying to sound cheerful.
The old man lifted his gaze. Daion felt relief at seeing him alive… until his smile faded. The man's eyes were dull, his lips fixed in a grimace of disappointment.
"I just came to see how you were doing… to thank you for…" Then Daion saw the reason behind that expression. The man's abdomen was tightly bound in blood-soaked bandages. And lower down, where his leg should have been, there was nothing but a wrapped stump.
End of Chapter 13.