"Who is that boy?"
"He's amazing, isn't he?"
"And so handsome… He looks like a prince from some faraway kingdom."
"A prince of tennis, maybe?"
Similar murmurs of admiration echoed all around. A small crowd had gathered along the edges of the tennis court, their eyes glued to a single figure inside.
The boy had rare, striking purple hair and wore a long cape that billowed dramatically behind him. On his forehead gleamed a golden divine crest shaped like a crown.
A peculiar charm radiated from him, drawing the attention of everyone nearby like moths to a flame. He shone so brightly, it was as though he were a sun that dimmed all the surrounding stars.
Listening to the crowd's praise, the boy tilted his head back and laughed heartily.
"Hahaha! I am the victor, the strongest, the invincible king who crushes all enemies! All those who harbor ill will toward me shall meet their defeat. Even outside the battlefield, victory remains ever within my grasp!"
Though his youthful appearance suggested a boy, his manner of speaking carried the cadence of an old man, tinged with an ancient, regal tone.
The boy gripped a tennis racket in his hand, and across the net lay an exhausted man sprawled on the ground, breathing heavily. The man's racket was discarded carelessly beside him.
It seemed the boy had just engaged this man in a match and had achieved an overwhelming victory.
After his laughter subsided, a hint of regret crept into the boy's expression.
"How disappointing… Even in a mundane contest like this, I still cannot taste the sweetness of defeat."
"When, I wonder, will a truly valiant warrior appear… one capable of gifting me the sensation of loss?"
Despite the arrogance in his words, they felt oddly fitting, as though he were destined to remain untouched by defeat.
At that moment, a sharp, mocking snort broke the silence.
"Hah! Big deal—you beat a normal person. Look at you gloating like you've conquered the world. What kind of god feels the need to inflate his ego by dominating ordinary humans? You call yourself the 'invincible king'? Don't make me laugh!"
The boy froze, his laughter cut short, and turned toward the source of the voice.
There, striding toward him with an air of defiance, was a golden-haired girl. Her wild, confident demeanor resembled that of a lion, her hands buried casually in her jacket pockets.
"And another thing!"
Mordred bared her teeth in a challenging grin, pointing at the boy with one hand. Her tone was dripping with disdain.
"There's only one true invincible king, and that's my father!"
"Who do you think you are, calling yourself the king of victory?"
Her declaration was followed by a long, heavy silence.
The boy's gaze locked onto Mordred. Slowly, he narrowed his eyes.
"A heretic god?" he muttered, his voice tinged with surprise. "Impressive. I didn't even notice until you were right in front of me…"
A surge of battle lust filled the air as the boy's previously relaxed demeanor shifted. The elegant aura surrounding him transformed into one of authority and might, as though he were a king seated upon a heavenly throne.
"I am the strongest," he proclaimed, his voice booming with divine resonance. "The one who holds victory in his grasp, who crushes every foe, be they human or demon."
"This body is called Verethragna! The undefeated god of victory, protector of sovereignty, and guardian of the sun!"
"Warrior goddess, have you come to grant me the taste of defeat?"
Invisible winds swirled around Verethragna, forming a protective barrier that seemed to revere him as their master.
The gusts brushed against Mordred's face, lifting her golden hair slightly.
"Still so full of yourself, huh?" Mordred sneered, a dangerous smile spreading across her face. "Once I've smashed that smug face of yours, let's see if you can still laugh so easily…"
Verethragna? Sorry, no idea who that is.
To Mordred, anyone who wasn't her father, Artoria, was nothing more than a second-rate nobody—a chicken squawking about their own doom.
Even gods weren't an exception.
With a ferocious grin, Mordred took a single step forward, but then… she froze mid-motion, her expression stiffening.
"Ugh… Almost forgot. Father told me not to fight in the city unless absolutely necessary."
Mordred tapped her head lightly, then jabbed a finger in Verethragna's direction.
"Hey! If you really want to fight, meet me out at sea. I'll not only hand you your first defeat, but I'll throw in death as a bonus."
"Hahaha! Now that's a deal I can't refuse!"
Verethragna pressed a hand to his face and burst into laughter. "Coming to this world in my heretic form was undoubtedly the right choice. Beyond the Mediterranean god-king I faced earlier, to find another warrior god as worthy as you… I can't wait for this battle!"
Hearing his words, Mordred's body tensed instinctively.
She remembered Artoria's advice: Don't initiate fights in populated areas. But surely, if Verethragna attacked her first, her father wouldn't hold it against her, right?
However, to her surprise, Verethragna suddenly changed his tone.
"But… at the moment, I am not at my full strength. My manifestations are still scattered across the land."
He lowered his hand, his glowing golden eyes meeting Mordred's with intensity.
"Though I doubt I could lose, I'd prefer to wait until I've reclaimed all my forms before engaging in our mythic battle. It won't be long."
"Manifestations?"
Mordred frowned in confusion, prompting Verethragna to explain.
"Previously, I summoned the Mediterranean god-king Melqart, seeking defeat. Our clash was intense—I wounded him gravely, but my ten manifestations were scattered in the process. I am currently in a weakened state."
Smiling, Verethragna added, "What say you? Care to strike me down while I'm vulnerable? I don't mind. I am a god who respects, cherishes, and defends victors. No matter how dirty or underhanded your methods, a victory is still a victory. So long as you hold the mantle of a victor, no dishonor can tarnish it."
"Tch! Don't look down on me!"
Mordred's emerald eyes flashed with defiance. "I don't need cheap tricks to deal with someone like you."
A moment ago, she had wondered why this so-called god seemed unusually weak. Now it all made sense—he wasn't at full power.
Still, Mordred scoffed at the idea of fighting him now. Beating a weakened opponent wouldn't prove anything, especially if they later claimed the loss didn't count.
"Very well…"
Verethragna gazed at Mordred with growing approval, his expression softening into a satisfied smile.
He opened his mouth to speak again, but his attention was suddenly drawn elsewhere. His eyes narrowed as he turned to look in another direction.
"Hm? What are you looking at?"
Curious, Mordred followed his gaze.
"Is there something over there?"
Verethragna didn't answer her. Instead, he murmured softly to himself, "At last… my manifestation has arrived."
"Manifestation?"
Before Mordred could press him further, a deafening, feral roar shattered the air.
Mordred felt it immediately—a wild, destructive divine presence filled with an overwhelming aura of ruin.
Far off at the edge of the sea, a brilliant light erupted. Emerging from it was a colossal boar, its body as tall as a mountain.
Its fur bristled like steel needles, its back ablaze with golden flames that roared like an inferno. Massive, curved tusks pointed skyward, gleaming with lethal intent, while golden divinity radiated from its form, shining as brightly as the sun itself.
---
...
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