The gods of this world were sustained by the devotion of the native inhabitants. Though they resided loftily in the heavens, they were tightly bound by the power of faith.
Perhaps in the past they had basked in divine authority, but now, as prime targets for abyssal creatures, they were under immense pressure.
Demons like Orsaga, who were curious about what gods tasted like, were hardly a rarity.
After all, even in the Abyss, they were considered premium delicacies.
Of course, that didn't apply to the trash-tier deities in low-tier worlds—those whose combat power was barely better than two tanks yet still dared to call themselves gods. Those could barely serve as toothpicks.
In truth, if they were truly willing to sacrifice everything—their divine roles, divinity, and even their divine realms—these gods could forcibly sever the world's shackles and escape the threat of Ignarok and his Demon army. But such an escape would leave them utterly hollowed out, reduced to little more than bloated pigs waiting for slaughter. In most cases, they were better off gambling everything in one last stand.
Compared to these gods who still had a fighting chance, the ordinary mortal races were truly the most pitiful.
No matter how hard they fought, victory or defeat ultimately had nothing to do with them—it all hinged on whether the gods could pull through.
If the gods won, mortals gained nothing.
If the gods lost, mortals couldn't run.
That was the main reason Orsaga didn't care about their discussions. The outcome rested solely on whether the gods would triumph or collapse.
If the gods managed to defeat Ignarok, Orsaga would immediately bolt at lightspeed without looking back.
If Ignarok took out the gods, then every native of this world, from top to bottom, would be served up on a platter.
Orsaga had to start preparing his getaway while the big shots were still brawling. If he waited too long, he might get cleaned up as collateral.
In short, no matter which side won, it did him no favors. His only option was to slip away.
His ideal outcome? Mutual destruction. If both sides crippled each other, then he'd be free to linger in this world without worry.
__
In another corner of the hall...
Several elegantly dressed women had gathered at some point.
They came from different races, ages, and power levels.
Their only shared trait? Stunning beauty.
And at the moment, every single one of them was glaring daggers at Golarial.
One woman, dripping with malice, asked the others, "How long do you think this one will last by Orsaga's side?"
Another responded with a smirk, "She's at least Legendary Rank. Fresh enough to hold his interest. Maybe half a month?"
"Ten more days?"
"Seven?"
Their spite wasn't even hidden. Golarial quickly picked up on the hostility.
Her expression darkened with annoyance as she turned to face them.
But the moment she saw their faces clearly, her irritation shifted into a lofty disdain.
That haughty look only enraged them further. Their eyes practically ignited with fury.
With a mocking smile, Golarial quipped, "Aren't you all Orsaga's ex-girlfriends.?"
Her tone dripped with victorious pride and undisguised contempt.
At that moment, the bystanders picked up the scent of juicy drama. Business talks were abandoned as all eyes turned to watch the spectacle unfold.
After all, it wasn't every day you saw Legendary Rank powerhouses engaging in a full-blown catfight over a man. This kind of showdown was rare—even by dramatic standards.
And in the eye of the storm stood Orsaga himself.
Despite being the focal point of every gaze, his expression remained calm and indifferent, completely unaffected by the brewing chaos between his romantic rivals. He stood there as if the whole mess had nothing to do with him.
It was a perfect display of how, with the right mindset, one could remain unfazed in any situation.
To him, a little catfight was hardly worth worrying about.
That unshakable composure made even those who disliked him quietly acknowledge—he was something else.
At the very least, if they were in his shoes, their heads would've been spinning.
Perhaps this was just how scumbags recognized one another.
---
Meanwhile, hundreds of kilometers away in a swamp near Misturk…
A thick gray fog blanketed the area year-round. Twisted plants, venomous snakes, and toxic insects infested every corner. Occasionally, some unidentifiable creature would screech in the distance. Adventurers often joked that if no one died in this place daily, it was a waste of a perfect horror set—no props required.
Deep beneath this cursed land, inside a magically constructed underground chamber, Sarah—the same woman Orsaga had recently extorted—was hiding with several dozen unsavory individuals.
Placing a crystal statue at the center of a magic circle, she instructed her assistant with a grave expression, "Start by distorting the statue's anti-demon wards. Don't destroy them. They can still be reused."
"Yes, ma'am."
The assistant bowed respectfully, then led over a dozen church members, each carrying tools, to surround the statue. They began to methodically disable the holy inscriptions on its surface, using runes and glyphs to reverse the intended protections—reactivating the statue's original function: a ritual for summoning a Dark God.
Before long, the protective wards had been smeared with blood and twisted into their dark opposites. The once radiant and ethereal crystal statue now glowed a sinister crimson, exuding an ominous presence that chilled the bones.
It was a primal warning—instinctual terror etched into every living creature's being.
Sarah smiled in satisfaction. "Good. Now, begin preparations for the master's descent."
At her command, several unconscious magical beasts were dragged to the edge of the ritual circle.
As the ceremonial knives—etched with glowing runes—pierced their flesh, blood poured from their wounds and flowed toward the crystal statue. Guided by the arcane power, it began forming a fresh magic array across the floor.
Excess blood gathered at the base of the statue, forming a half-human-sized blood-red cocoon.
Thump. Thump. Thump...
A deep heartbeat echoed through the chamber, slow at first, then quickening.
As the rhythm reached a certain crescendo, everyone in the chamber felt it—a divine presence awakening.
"He has descended!"
Squelch!
With the sound of tearing flesh, a small, slender figure—barely a meter tall—emerged from the blood cocoon.
Huff...
He exhaled a few short breaths, his chest heaving like a bellows. As his heart thundered, his skin rapidly hardened and gained elasticity, forming a crude yet effective defense.
Under the tense gazes of everyone present, the figure spoke at last. His voice was raspy, mature, like a man in his late thirties or forties.
"Bring me some fresh blood. This body still needs reinforcement."
---
Back in Mitesk, Orsaga glanced at the women still quarreling at his side and thought to himself with a trace of disappointment:
'Just an avatar, huh…? If the true body had descended, I could've redirected the ritual coordinates and sold him out to Ignarok's crew. That would've netted me a nice little payday…'
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