Blood painted the battlefield crimson. And yet, the gods still floated. Silent. Passive.
They didn’t interfere.
To do so would be to stoop to the level of mortals. A disgrace. An insult to their divinity.
If you’re not strong enough... then die. That’s the order of existence.
Many of the dying were high-level cultivators. Experts. Talents of rare races.
But compared to the God of Mana’s beasts, they were just actors in a play they didn’t understand.
To the eyes of mortals, the battle was a blur—a high-speed, magical bloodbath.
But to the gods, it was all in slow motion.
They could see the flaws in every formation. The weaknesses in every technique.
To them, this was just another lesson in futility.
They had fought the God of Mana countless times.
Every time, it ended the same.
But when their Superior gave an order—they had no choice. Even if it meant shame. Even if it meant death.
They remembered his story.
The God of Mana had always despised Qi—with every fiber of his being.
He dreamed of something new.
After reaching the Demigod level, he vanished—gone without a trace. When he returned, they were ordered to strike him down immediately.
His cultivation base? Gone.
Or rather, invisible.
They couldn’t sense it. Couldn’t analyze it. Some thought he had sealed his cultivation. Others believed he had ascended to a realm far above theirs.
When a being is more than two realms higher than you... you can’t even comprehend their existence.
They probed him with their senses, hoping to detect Qi. But instead, they found something entirely different.
He called it... Mana.
And from that moment, he declared himself:
They fought him again. And again. And again.
Each time, he crushed them.
Each time, he proved:
He had surpassed them.
They were forced to accept the impossible.
He had truly created his own energy system.
They tried to absorb it—tried to use Mana. But Qi and Mana were like oil and water. They repelled each other.
Their bodies couldn’t contain it.
Then came a new threat—a talent connected to souls. The wielder of that power rose rapidly, drawing divine attention.
The God of Death was enraged—angry beyond belief. He slaughtered every angel under his command that failed to capture the soul user.
That person was eventually killed... but he left ripples.
By the time they returned their attention to the God of Mana, the world had already begun to change.
And they were too late to stop it.
[Sorry; Story would be continued another time.]
Looking at their shattered army below, the gods didn’t need explanations.
Their forces were falling like sand through fingers.
The battle formation? Crumbled.
The cavalry? Disrupted.
The beasts of the God of Mana pressed forward like an unstoppable tide—devouring all in their path.
The elves, goblins, orcs, minotaurs, evolved foxes, dwarves—all crumbled.
The Orcs resisted the most.
Their physical strength and resistance made them the toughest to take down.
They were mostly external cultivators, their bodies reinforced with tempering treasures.
The moment a hole appeared in their formation, the beasts swept through them like a plague.
Blood, bones, armor—scattered.
A slaughter. A purge. A reminder.
The glowing, silver-haired man—the God of Mana—rose calmly from his throne.
He floated outside, unhurried.
Not because he respected them.
But because he was... bored.
Graceful and effortless, he floated into the sky.
His movement was so smooth, so calm, that someone might mistake him for a man taking a stroll in the park—if not for the overwhelming power that surged with every breath he took.
His expression was stone-cold. Indifferent. Eternal.
If a mortal laid eyes on him now, they would collapse to their knees in reverent fear. The weight of his presence was not just magical—it was cosmic.
"No matter what happens... the weak are always weak."
"The strong, even after proving themselves... always get challenged."
"The foolish cling to numbers, thinking it equates power."
He gazed into the horizon.
His voice continued like thunder wrapped in silence.
"True strength... is holding your ground."
"And if you cannot do that... then you’re not strong enough."
The God of Mana, once called Ileus, was angry.
"The weak never learn... always grasping at the feet of the strong, always trying to pull them down. But when I return... I will show them true despair."
His thoughts were heavy, laced with rage and cold conviction. He clenched his glowing hand slowly, the very air shivering around his fingers.
"No more reincarnations. No transmigrations. No rebirths. Once I return, I will erase even the concept of second chances from existence. I will devour the immortal effect itself. But... to reach that level—I must die. I must become the very thing they overlook. I must disguise my soul and vanish from their senses."
He knew the danger. After death, a person’s soul releases Death Essence, a rare, invisible substance highly sensitive to the God of Death. That essence is immediately drawn to him... absorbed.
But Ileus was no ordinary being. His soul was divine. God-tier.
If he died now, his death would release massive waves of death energy, possibly even god essence—and that would be like fireworks to the God of Death, who would rush in and strike his soul down without hesitation.
And when a soul is caught off guard...
"A soul cannot attack. It can only defend. And if someone wishes to erase it completely, they can keep striking... until it fades forever."
He wouldn’t even be able to resist.
As long as he was still in soul form, he would be weaker than ever. It was a terrifying thought.
"As long as I survive reincarnation... I’ll find the means to counter everything they have."
But his greatest fear wasn’t the God of Death...
It was the God of Souls.