Hexin circled the divine realm once, relying on instinct to locate what had once been the territory under the war god’s jurisdiction.

Unsurprisingly, the land had become a desolate wasteland. Even more so, given the war god’s original taste in real estate, the terrain was particularly rugged. Jagged mountain ridges crisscrossed the land, bare peaks stabbing at the sky. Even the wind howling through the cliffs seemed to wail in fear.

Loose rocks tumbled down from above, thudding into the ground with heavy crashes and leaving deep, jagged craters.

Hexin extended his senses into the earth below, wondering if he could unearth something like the Celestials’ holy city—just as he had done for the sun god.

—But alas, he was being too optimistic.

Raising a brow, Hexin followed the faint tremor he detected beneath his feet, then casually jabbed his spear downward.

Whatever was underground immediately started shaking like a leaf. The moment it realized it had been found, it bolted upward in a panic, practically throwing itself out of hiding.

Hexin blinked.
Wasn’t this the same creature that had run screaming when he opened the gateway earlier?

Well, fate had brought them together again.

The creature wasn’t anything special—just one of the many beasts native to the divine realm. It looked vaguely like a wyvern, with rough, armor-like hide, clawed limbs like an amphibian, crocodilian tail, and bat-like wings. It opened its maw and let out a low, pathetic “yiiiing,” while raising its forelimbs in an oddly familiar gesture—like it was cupping its hands in a ceremonial New Year’s greeting.

The war god: …tsk.

Its power level was laughable in Hexin’s eyes. He couldn’t help but feel disappointed by the weak, watered-down descendants of this realm. He jammed his silver spear into the ground beside him, the impact fracturing the earth with a dense network of cracks.

“I’ll ask you once,” he said lazily. “What happened to the buildings here—especially the Four-Pillar Tower?”

That structure was a defining landmark, not unlike the Celestials’ holy city. Hexin couldn’t ignore its absence.

Maybe because the war god had a long and… storied history with the divine-era beasts, Hexin could understand some of this creature’s crude communication. It wasn’t intelligent enough to have language, per se—its responses were mostly instinctive roars and garbled emotion.

Still, amid the confused, chaotic yowling, Hexin managed to extract one clear message:
The tower was moved.

…Moved?

The sun god left without so much as a bag, abandoned the whole holy city without blinking. And yet when his war god identity returned, everything had been packed up and taken like precious heirlooms?

Hexin smiled faintly. “Who moved it?”

The wyvern-thing shivered. Clearly, it knew this part well.
“It’s because… after the supreme gods all fell into slumber, the divine realm experienced several spatial quakes. The ancestors were worried the Four-Pillar Tower would be damaged, so they took it with them for safekeeping.”

Hexin frowned thoughtfully. That could only mean the original divine beasts—the ancient ones born at the dawn of this world.

—How curious. According to god of gods lore, those creatures should’ve hated the Four-Pillar Tower more than anything. He would’ve expected them to be first in line to tear it down.

The silver spear-toting god chuckled. “You call them your ancestors. They probably wouldn’t recognize you.”

Unlike creatures born through reproduction or shaped by divine hands, the original divine beasts—also called the primal beasts—were birthed directly by the world itself. Each one was utterly unique: appearance, power, nature, even their origin stories. They couldn’t be classified as a species at all.

They were wild, prideful, and violent—final boss monsters that every myth needed a hero to challenge.

When the gods later began creating new races, they drew some inspiration from these primal beasts. Unfortunately, many of the originals were gluttonous and brutal. They didn’t spare their lookalikes—in fact, they just saw more items added to their menu.

Before the age of heroes had even begun—before the first legendary monster-slaying warriors were born—the fledgling divine creations were no match for the original beasts.

And so, the task of suppressing those creatures had fallen to this identity: the war god.

Thus began the long, bloody saga of enmity (and mutual respect?) between the war god and the primal beasts—a mythology of epic clashes that echoed through the ages. Even now, anything with even a whisper of beast blood in them would instinctively flee at the sight of the silver spear.

That instinct, it seemed, had been genetically passed down.

“None of the good stuff got passed on,” Hexin muttered, nudging the trembling tail with his spear. “All that’s left is cowardice and mediocrity. Stop shaking. It’s annoying. If I wanted to kill you, do you really think you could run?”

The beast let out a shaky little “yiiiing.” qaq

Hexin clicked his tongue, then casually dismissed his spear. “Whatever. That tower was built for them anyway. If they took it, at least I’ll have some peace and quiet.”

The wyvern whimpered, seemingly eager to say something else, but the god had already lost interest. With a single step, Hexin shot into the sky, vanishing from sight in seconds, his departure leaving a loud shriek of air behind.

—

Elsewhere, Xia Zie led Rog through the front gates of the Academy of Divinity.

After their earlier encounter with the “mysterious stranger who was probably a god,” neither of them had any mood left for scenic views on the cliff. They decided it’d be better to retreat to the Academy to regroup and cool down.

The Academy of Divinity was a sprawling complex made up of several high towers, all interconnected by elegant skywalks. It was the heart of Baihe Star’s research into the mystical arts. Officially, it operated under the Department of External Research, and in the eyes of the public, it was a place of solemn mystery and inviolable prestige.

Xia Zie worked there, though his job came with flexible hours. When there was a task, it was full-throttle with no time to sleep. But during downtime, it was the opposite—endless idling. Today happened to be one of the quiet days.

Rog, as an outsider, had access to the visitor’s wing—an area designed for rest, education, and public outreach. There, people could learn about the Academy’s mission, recent accomplishments, and the world of the mysterious arts.

But maybe it was the earlier encounter on the cliff—Rog hadn’t quite been himself since. He looked like someone whose soul had been knocked loose, mind trailing somewhere else entirely. Xia Zie could sense it: Rog had tried several times to say something, lips parting—then hesitating, confused, conflicted, and ultimately swallowing it all back down.

After all, how would one even begin?
“I think I met a god.”
“Was that really a god?”
“Why did you two look like you knew each other?”
“Can I know where he went?”
“Is… is he coming back?”

There were too many things he wanted to ask, so many that he ended up asking none. And Rog knew, on some level, that with his current identity, there were things he had no right to know. Better to keep quiet than cause trouble.

But logic and emotion were two very different beasts.

Because—that was a god.
And the boiling, seething chaos in his chest just wouldn’t shut up about it.

“…According to current scholarly theory, among the emotional structures of the divine pantheon, the war god and the sun god are highly likely to be ‘allies.’ Of course, if the supreme gods think similarly to humans, their relationship could be described as ‘friends.’”

A sudden voice broke the silence between them—and at the word ally, Rog’s gaze snapped toward the source.

It was a holoscreen, floating nearby.

They hadn’t realized until now that they’d wandered into the Mythic Era exhibit. Clean white walls, a vast open hall, and projections looping documentary-style footage across the space.

Xia Zie noticed his friend had stopped walking. Far from surprised, he felt something like relief—finally, he thought. Rog hadn’t forgotten the “god” they’d met on the cliff. He’d probably already guessed who it was.

Xia Zie pressed his lips together and looked toward the screen, too.

The footage had now moved into a more detailed segment, focusing on individual deities.

A mural appeared on the screen. Though ancient and weathered, covered in cracks, and faded nearly colourless with time, its stylized, abstract strokes still conveyed a kind of solemn reverence.

The narrator’s voice dropped to a respectful hush.
“This mural was unearthed at the site of the Four-Pillar Tower. After extensive theological examination, scholars have concluded that it depicts a battle. Not just any battle—but a legendary clash spoken of across many pantheonic myths: the destined confrontation between a god and the three primal beasts.”

The image on-screen flashed, the lens rapidly panning along the length of the mural—dark passageways, stone walls, sweeping brushstrokes—like the viewer was being pulled directly into the epic.

And elsewhere, far from here, seated cross-legged on a mountain within the divine realm, chin propped in one palm, Hexin was recalling the god of gods war god arc—the climactic chapter, full of high-octane action and an absolutely absurd budget.

He’d done all the stunts himself. No body doubles. So now, every motion, every line of that episode was etched into his memory—

“You three… birthed of sky, sea, and stone. I heard even the second-rank gods sent after you were all defeated,” said the god, standing tall, silver spear in hand, wind in his hair, facing down the three towering silhouettes. His grin was cocky, almost cruel. “So I figured—why not build a tower? From now on, every unruly beast will answer to me. I just need a few gatekeepers.”

Before the words even faded, the black dragon at the front lifted its eyes—blood-red and venomous, like magma flowing under a crust of scabbed-over hate.

“You’re provoking me,” it growled, voice low and thunderous, trembling with suppressed rage. A volcano about to burst.

But the god just lazily waved his hand. “No no, just a few casual comments. You think that’s provocation?”

And then—he vanished.

A blink later, the sky dragon roared in fury, writhing.

The beasts of earth and sea hadn’t even realized he’d moved.

They looked—and there he was: standing on the black dragon’s spine.

At some point, he’d pulled out a silver chain—now looped tightly around the dragon’s neck, its other end coiled in his fist.

He yanked. The chain didn’t break—not from the beast’s serrated scales nor its frenzied claws. Instead, it bit deeper. The dragon let out a muffled snarl of pain.

Chain and muscle scraped together, a harsh metallic grind.

The dragon flared its wings, winds screaming across the land. The entire realm trembled beneath its fury.

And yet the god remained still atop its back, even raising his spear with a whip-like flick.

Every time it cracked against the dragon’s hide, the colossal body shuddered—each strike turning its tendons, bones, and even heart into something the god could command.

After the dragon had thrashed a hundred times through the skies—after it had torn across half the realm, leaving every watching beast trembling in terror—the god finally pressed the spear down, locking it against a vulnerable scale beneath the beast’s throat.

Crimson runes flowed from the silver shaft like blood.

The black dragon froze. Its heart twisted in its chest.

“That spot’s not supposed to be touched, right?” the god asked mockingly. Then he smirked. “Well, I’m touching it. Feel that? Cold—that’s my spear. Hot—that’s my blood.”

The dragon’s pupils contracted violently. Whether from pain, from shock, or from something far more intimate—it shuddered, voice trembling.

“Bastard… you—you dare…!”

“Oh? Still got breath to insult me?” the god tilted his head. “I remember now. You can take human form, can’t you?”

The beast’s eyes snapped wide, burning crimson—like two meteors crashing to earth and igniting upon impact. The flames roared inside, all rage and helpless desire.

“I want to see it,” said the god.

Towering, arrogant, merciless—

“Now. Right here. Take your human form.”
He commanded it. Just like that.