The marble corridors of Drakla's imperial stronghold echoed beneath heavy footsteps.
Every servant.
Every soldier.
Every living thing within those halls instinctively lowered their heads as Yurja Ramuni walked past.
Not because they were ordered to.
Because their bodies understood what stood before them.
The heir of the War Goddess moved with terrifying calm, massive hands folded across his chest while dark-red magic rolled subtly off his skin like heat from a volcano. The glowing blue tribal markings covering his body pulsed rhythmically beneath the dim torchlight, ancient symbols of the Ramuni bloodline reacting to his steadily rising power.
Each step distorted the atmosphere slightly.
Like reality itself struggled beneath his existence.
A cold smile rested permanently on his face tonight.
The kind worn by monsters moments before battle.
Two figures walked behind him carrying stacks of reports and magical documents.
Layka moved first.
A descendant of the high elves, she possessed sharp amber eyes and short brown hair cut just above her jawline. Her pointed ears twitched constantly whenever Yurja's aura fluctuated.
Even after years beside him—
his presence still unsettled her.
"Lord Yurja," she began carefully. "Approximately ten thousand survivors escaped Magnaris before total collapse."
Yurja didn't even slow down.
"Of course they escaped."
His voice rumbled through the corridor lazily.
"They aren't meant to die yet."
The silver-haired man beside Layka frowned.
Unlike her disciplined composure, his expression carried open contempt.
"Another dependent?" he asked coldly. "Someone trying to inherit the War God position before you?"
Layka's eyes sharpened immediately.
"If anyone opposes you, sir…"
Magic gathered around her fingers subtly.
"…I will eliminate them myself."
Yurja laughed quietly.
Not loudly.
Not arrogantly.
Just confidently.
A laugh born from absolute certainty.
"Among the countless gods," he said calmly, "ten have entered the Successor Games."
The corridor suddenly felt colder.
"Seven have already chosen their dependents and deployed them across various universes."
He stopped walking.
Instantly—
the air froze.
Even the magical torches dimmed slightly.
"This is not a tournament."
His crimson eyes glowed faintly.
"It is a divine extermination process."
The pressure behind his words alone cracked nearby marble.
"Each god selected ten dependents."
"Some were sent to build kingdoms."
"Some to save worlds."
"Some to gather faith."
A wider smile slowly spread across his face.
"And me?"
The walls trembled.
"I was told to destroy."
He resumed walking casually.
The others followed immediately.
Yurja Ramuni was not normal.
Even before the Successor Games began—
he had already been considered an anomaly among anomalies.
On a planet holding over thirty-two trillion lives, only four beings had ever been born with fully inherited ancestral mastery.
The Chosen.
The Ancestral Chattel.
Beings who instinctively inherited every perfected trait, technique, adaptation, and talent accumulated by their bloodline throughout history.
Satre.
Frana.
Layka.
And Yurja himself.
At only sixteen years old, Satre already rivaled medium-class spirits through talent alone.
Frana's combat growth bordered on absurdity.
Layka possessed one of the greatest mana efficiencies in recorded history.
But Yurja…
Yurja was different.
He had forcefully awakened three God Traits already through conquest and slaughter alone.
Three gates opened.
Three divine authorities unlocked.
And even while heavily restrained—
he stood incomparably above Shiro and Hiroy in raw destructive capacity.
A serious Shiro or Hiroy could devastate planets.
Possibly solar systems.
Yurja?
Yurja could erase thousands of large-scale universes with one fully unleashed strike.
Yet despite that monstrous power—
he knew the truth.
If the War Goddess herself decided to kill him right now…
he would disappear instantly.
No battle.
No resistance.
Nothing.
That realization thrilled him.
Because it meant he could still grow stronger.
Seven more gates remained.
Seven more ascensions.
Seven more opportunities to transcend beyond mortality itself.
Yurja suddenly stopped again.
He turned slowly toward Layka and the silver-haired man.
"You two are the final ones who proved worthy."
The glow in his tattoos intensified.
"Prepare yourselves."
A grin spread across his face.
"We're heading to the next world."
No chant.
No sigil.
No hand movement.
Reality folded.
And the three vanished instantly.
Hidden throughout the fortress, elite spies from rival kingdoms finally relaxed.
Several had been concealing themselves for hours using advanced stealth techniques and dimensional camouflage.
None of them understood what they had just witnessed.
Highest-tier Translocation Magic…
cast silently.
Instantly.
Without preparation.
Impossible.
One spy slowly reached for a communication artifact.
Then froze.
A strange sensation spread through his chest.
Warm.
Empty.
Wrong.
His heart stopped first.
Then his soul tore free from his body.
Every spy died simultaneously.
No screams.
No movement.
Just corpses collapsing silently across the fortress.
Yurja's third divine trait had activated automatically the moment he detected killing intent.
Soul Reaping.
Passive.
Absolute.
Unavoidable for weaker beings.
The corridor remained silent for several moments afterward.
Then—
a crimson shadow moved behind a nearby wall.
It stepped forward slowly.
Female.
Beautiful.
Terrifying.
Red aura poured endlessly from her body, distorting space itself while her glowing eyes radiated predatory delight.
A smile curved across her lips.
Not human.
Not divine.
Something worse.
"Ah…"
Her voice layered together unnaturally, like multiple realities speaking simultaneously.
"My favorite dependent."
She looked toward the place Yurja had vanished from.
"I cannot wait to see what you become."
This was not an observer.
Not a servant.
Not even an ordinary goddess.
This—
was the War Goddess herself.
Unlike the other deities, she never revealed herself at the start of the Successor Games.
She waited.
Watched.
Judged silently.
Only those who survived unbearable trials would ever earn her acknowledgment.
Only those who drowned worlds in blood and emerged stronger afterward interested her.
Her gaze drifted lazily toward the dead spies littering the hall.
Then she blinked once.
Every corpse instantly withered into ash.
The ashes scattered harmlessly through the shattered windows.
A moment later—
she casually flicked one finger.
Somewhere across the universe—
an entire planet exploded.
No buildup.
No chant.
No visible magic.
Just annihilation.
The nearby sun imploded immediately afterward, triggering catastrophic chain reactions across the surrounding solar systems.
Entire worlds vanished silently.
And still—
the War Goddess smiled.
Far away, moving between dimensions, Yurja felt the destruction behind him through their connection.
He didn't stop walking.
Didn't even turn around.
His grin merely widened.
Another trial completed.
His strength had increased twenty-eightfold from today's conquest alone.
But more importantly—
she had acknowledged him again.
The Successor Games had truly begun now.
Kingdoms would burn.
Gods would fall.
Entire universes would become battlefields.
And Yurja Ramuni—
the War-Headed Emperor—
would carve his name into eternity itself if necessary.
No matter the cost.
No matter how many worlds needed to die first.