Graymist Zone, former Forever City commercial district.
The lowlands of the so-called City of the Gods were squat and ruined. Cracked walls, stained brick. Shacks thrown together from rough timber and shattered stone, their roofs buried under ashen drifts. Lanes ran narrow with mud and rot. The air stank of garbage and coal. A divine barrier sealed the quarter off from the "holy" precincts; when you looked up, there was only a dead gray ceiling.
Inside a ramshackle lean-to, someone risked a "purge" by flicking on a palm-sized holo. The moment the Starcup broadcast flickered up, a crowd pressed in, craning for any proof that the Earth legend had truly returned.
"Grandpa... is that really him? He looks even older than you."
A big-headed, skinny kid—malnourished to the bone—peered up with equal parts hope and doubt.
The old man’s crimson mage robe was caked with grime. As he stepped forward, the others parted with quiet reverence. In this hovelscape, his word carried weight. His black eyes were cloudy, but there was a keenness buried there. On screen, a black coffin swallowed Belenor whole, and something like starlight flashed in the old man’s gaze.
"It’s him," he rasped. "The lord who walks from chaos."
"So it’s true? We’re saved! The Chaos God—he’s come to pull us out of hell!"
A young man clenched his teeth, voice trembling with reined-in joy, terrified a divine patrol might sense it.
"Ten years—more! We won’t have to crawl anymore. I want a proper war."
"By the true god... we were the proud Chaos Guard once. Look at us now."
"Dig up the armor. Drive out these counterfeit gods!"
Murmurs swelled into oaths. Fire long choked down began to lick through the room, bright and hungry enough to catch an entire city.
"What are the grown-ups saying? Is he... that strong?" the little boy asked, head cocked.
"Stronger than you can imagine," the old man said, smiling in real relief. "Looks like I’ve done what I stayed to do."
"You mean you’re gonna croak?" the kid blinked.
Flame Fosset rolled his eyes and finally cuffed the boy hard enough to ring his ears. He had refused Sienna’s plea to leave Forever City. He couldn’t abandon the natives—his brother and adopted son Blazewalker’s dying wish. He’d used Phantomcraft to scrub the identities of the Chaos Templars and hid them among the bottom rung. Partly to shelter the orphaned, partly to wait for this exact moment.
He didn’t know how high Orson had climbed, or why he looked even older than a worn-out grandpa. But Flame Fosset had never doubted the brat’s spine. That kid would never cut and run and leave the world to burn. Godhood or not, he was the jewel in a billion mortal palms.
"Flame Fosset, this is weird. I think I saw the Imperial Mage Guard you talked about—of the Holy Dragon Empire."
A girl he’d taken in tumbled through the door.
"Don’t be ridiculous. Holy and Dark Dragon empires both died ages ago. There’s no such thing as an Imperial Mage guard."
"It’s true! I saw the crest you described—stitched right at the mage’s collar. I swear!"
When no one bit, she grabbed two men by the wrists and dragged them toward the street.
Flame Fosset flinched, then seemed to remember something long buried. He caught the girl’s hand. "Show me."
Behind him, the Templars pulled dust-coated armor over their clothes and drew their hoods. Ready to answer the chaos muster the moment it came.
Orson’s party strode through the city, drawing stares. Their gear didn’t fit the local costume.
"Why are there Earth elites rubbing shoulders with these nobles?" Orson asked, glancing up as several ostentatious magi-skiffs drifted in to pace them. Sleeker than any air-car, armed as well as they were gaudy.
On the decks, Earthmen mingled with offworld adventurers, dressed in foreign fashions and genocidal chic—razor-cut hair in Wolfworld style, all swagger and flash.
"Most of the City of the Gods is still Earth stock," Saint Roland said, voice cool. "Pledge loyalty and gold to a god’s heir or a council lord, and you can buy yourself status."
So the other occupied cities would be run the same way.
"Hey, pal. What district you from? Retro cosplay meet and you didn’t invite me?" one skiff swung closer, its owner—broad, mean, and young—grinning down.
"Aminos District. You?" Orson said pleasantly.
"Ami—what? Never heard of it." The razor-head snorted. "Whatever." Thɪs chapter is updated by Novᴇl_Fire(.)net
"These rats don’t carry city-brand sigils. Stay clear," said his companion, a tiger-headed offworlder. "When a purge squad comes through, they’ll take you with them."
"No sigils? Perfect. I need a few tea-pouring lackeys," the kid crowed. The skiff’s hatch dropped and he hopped down with a couple dozen max-level muscle behind him.
"Birth name: Vincent."
"Threat: negligible."
"Father: Earth seat, Supreme Infinite Dimensions Council."
"Mother: Sword Soul Guild, support cadre."
Saint Roland rattled it off without a hint of warmth.
Vincent’s brows pinched. "Wow. Someone’s done her homework. You’re mine. Tonight, you keep me happy."
He scattered a fistful of coins. Gold clattered across mud—thousands. In this city’s crushed economy, that was a fortune. A family could live soft for years on that pile.
"Screw it. Let’s just gut him," Bradley muttered, already readying to drop the glamor and take the boy’s head.
"Easy. Let him talk," Orson said, smiling.
"This is why I dislike ’modern men,’" Bellara said dryly, flipping back her hood. Her face was a mirror of Saint Roland’s.
"Vincent hit the jackpot. Twins," the tiger-man sniggered.
"Not happy? Fine. One hundred thousand," Vincent said grandly. "I buy the pair and let you walk."
Orson’s smile curved into something sharp enough to cut. Bellara blinked. Without so much as a pause, he said, "Deal."
You received 100,000 gold.
Easy money was still money. Orson’s smile turned colder.
"Kill everyone who isn’t from this world," he said lightly. "Stack their heads from here to my front door."
"Yo, he’s really in character. Got that whole ’fallen imperial mage’ vibe," Vincent howled, clutching his gut. His crew chuckled. This scrub was really committing to the bit.
"I’ve been waiting for you to say that," Bradley said, and the grin that split his face was nothing but teeth. His glamor shattered with a hum.
The elemental blade hit his palm. Killing intent burst outward in a shockwave that rattled the city’s bones. He looked like a dragon boiled up from the abyss.
"An elemental dragon warrior..."
Vincent froze. The tiger-headed adventurer went sheet-white. "H-he... that’s the Godslayer butcher—Bradley!"
The hiss of a spine parting. A moment later, Bradley had a tiger’s head in his fist. He lifted it to the gray ceiling and roared,
"By your deaths, I consecrate the Steel Legion!"