Rex stared at the number 49,200. It wasn't just a currency; it was a scorecard of violence, a tally of every divine mechanism he had dismantled and every law of reality he had bent to his will.
The number felt heavy in his mind, a cold reminder of the price paid for dominance.
He looked out at the courtyard. The serenity of the morning was almost insulting after the carnage he had just orchestrated.
The grass was green, the air was still, and the world was blissfully unaware that its temporal foundation had just been violently reconfigured.
Moving with deliberate slowness, Rex walked toward the training hall. His muscles screamed a dull, grinding ache that spoke of microfractures in bone and the cellular exhaustion of adapting to god-tier entropy.
He reached the entrance and sank down into the doorway, sitting with the flat, patient stillness of a predator who had finished the hunt and was now simply allowing the adrenaline to recede. He didn't collapse; he claimed his rest.
