Yurja's eyes slowly opened as pale sunlight forced its way through the curtains of the hotel suite. A low groan escaped him while he stretched, the massive muscles along his back tightening beneath bronze skin etched with faint glowing blue markings.
The bed creaked beneath his sheer size.
Long dreadlocks tipped in dark cerulean spilled across his shoulders as he rubbed his eyes and released a slow breath. Even after sleeping, exhaustion lingered.
Not physical exhaustion.
Mental.
Responsibility was heavier than war.
Beside him, Layka remained partially buried beneath the sheets, her breathing calm and measured. Even asleep, the high elf carried an air of readiness. Her pointed ears twitched faintly at the slightest sound, centuries of battle instincts refusing true rest.
Yurja glanced at her quietly.
Though she appeared youthful by elven standards, Layka possessed centuries of combat experience and political understanding. She was one of the few people Yurja genuinely trusted.
Which was saying a lot.
Carefully, he rose from the bed and walked toward the towering window overlooking the city below.
Curth.
A diseased world pretending to be civilized.
The sprawling metropolis stretched endlessly beneath the morning haze. Massive steel buildings crowded together beneath polluted skies while glowing signs flickered endlessly like artificial stars.
At first glance, it looked advanced.
Modern.
Prosperous.
But Yurja's eyes saw deeper.
With a faint pulse of blue magic, the illusion coating the city peeled away.
The glamour vanished instantly.
Beneath the fabricated beauty lay rot.
Collapsed districts hidden behind holographic advertisements.
Children digging through piles of garbage beneath giant neon billboards promoting luxury lifestyles they would never touch.
Corporate towers rose above slums like monuments to greed while armored security forces patrolled the streets below like predators.
Bodies rested in alleyways unnoticed.
No one stopped.
No one cared.
To most readers, Curth would resemble a corrupted version of Earth itself—a world where technology advanced while morality decayed. A civilization consumed by wealth, fear, exploitation, and apathy.
Yurja's expression darkened.
This world disgusted him.
Not because it was weak.
Weakness could be corrected.
But because it accepted its own chains willingly.
He exhaled slowly.
The War God's mission echoed inside his mind once more:
Overthrow the corrupt regime… or erase the planet entirely.
Simple instructions.
Complicated consequences.
Honestly?
Yurja hated ruling.
He had been born royalty. Raised among emperors. Worshipped as a prodigy before he could even walk properly.
But crowns were chains.
Leadership meant carrying the weakness of millions.
And weakness disgusted him.
Behind him, sheets rustled softly.
Layka was already awake.
Of course she was.
She sat upright on the bed fully dressed, silver-and-brown combat attire already fastened perfectly against her lean body. Her green eyes sharpened instantly upon meeting his.
No hesitation.
No laziness.
Yurja smirked faintly.
"You sleep like a soldier," he muttered.
"You sleep like someone expecting assassins," Layka replied calmly.
A knock interrupted them.
"Sir," came Raul's voice from outside the door. "Are you awake?"
Yurja opened it immediately.
Raul stood waiting with military precision, silver hair neatly tied back and dark eyes alert despite the early hour.
"Morning," Yurja said casually.
Raul bowed slightly.
"As well as one can sleep on a doomed planet," he replied dryly.
That earned a small chuckle from Yurja.
The three moved through the hotel halls together, their footsteps echoing softly against polished marble floors.
As they walked, Raul began reporting first.
"The situation worsened overnight," he said. "The demon lord's enforcers executed another rebellion district."
Layka's expression hardened.
"Public morale continues collapsing," she added quietly. "Most civilians have accepted oppression as normal."
Yurja stopped walking.
Slowly, he turned toward another massive window overlooking the city.
The people below moved like ghosts.
No hope.
No resistance.
No pride.
Just survival.
His magic pulsed unconsciously.
The glass cracked slightly.
"This world disgusts me," Yurja muttered.
Raul folded his arms. "The people fear the demon lord too much to resist."
"Then they'll learn fear isn't an excuse," Yurja replied coldly.
The air around him thickened instantly.
Blue lightning crawled across the floor beneath his boots.
Nearby civilians collapsed from the pressure alone, trembling uncontrollably as his aura briefly leaked outward.
Layka sighed softly.
"You're scaring people again."
"They should be scared," Yurja answered.
Then he smiled.
And somehow that was worse.
"We'll crush the demon lord," he said softly. "Then we'll rebuild this world properly."
Raul raised an eyebrow. "You make that sound easy."
"It is easy."
There was no arrogance in his voice.
Only certainty.
Because Yurja Ramuni wasn't merely powerful.
He was one of the Ancestral Chattel. A once-in-trillions anomaly born carrying the perfected inheritance of his bloodline. A monster shaped by conquest long before the War God ever chose him.
Even among divine dependents, Yurja stood near the summit.
Outside, thunder rolled across the polluted skies.
Yurja stared down at the city one final time before turning away.
"This planet will change," he declared.
His glowing blue eyes sharpened dangerously.
"Whether it survives the process depends entirely on how much resistance it gives me."
And with that, the War God's favored dependent walked forward once more, Layka and Raul following behind him like shadows trailing a living storm.