The shift was instant—harsh, like being torn from the jaws of death and hurled into a blinding storm of sound and fury. One moment, Luis's severed head lay cold and still on blood-slick stone. The next, Zyx stood—not on the battlefield, but in the roaring heart of the Celestial Arena.
Above and around him, a multitude of gods—luminous, shifting entities of impossible form—cheered with thunderous delight. The air itself pulsed with divine static, vibrating with the grotesque glee of beings celebrating mortal agony.
Laughter. So much laughter.
He saw it in their radiant faces, their gleaming mouths curled in contempt. He heard it in the clashing of voices, in the shrill and the deep, the crashing and the hollow.
"Look at him! The God of Misfortune, mourning his toy!" boomed a voice like breaking glaciers.
"Another loss, Zyx? What is that now, the one thousand three hundred twenty-fifth? Embarrassing," sang another, each syllable a blade of mockery.
The ridicule, once a dull ache he'd long grown numb to, now tore at him like glass shards under skin. But it wasn't their jeering that wounded him most. It was something deeper—an unfamiliar, aching rupture inside his very being.
A void.
A space where Luis had once been.
Luis, the broke college kid who laughed even while dying. Who mocked pain with cracked jokes. Who looked at a god and saw something worth pitying. That stupid, stubborn boy who refused to bow or beg. That human.
A god shouldn't have felt it. But Zyx did.
And that terrified him.
"He's crying," a goddess sneered, her eyes whirling galaxies. Her laughter echoed like broken glass scattered in wind.
Zyx didn't speak. Didn't react.
Let them laugh. Let them mock.
None of it mattered anymore.
For the first time, he felt something too real, too raw to name—a brittle, precious thing that had been stolen from him. The arena, with its glowing walls and shrieking hosts, became a stage for cruelty. And the gods? An audience of parasites, fat on the pain of mortals.
He turned away. The noise behind him dulled, blurred, until it was nothing but static on the edges of thought. He walked. Past gods whispering of disgrace. Past sneering titans and glowing beasts of judgment. He walked toward the only place in this skyless kingdom that had once belonged to him—a quiet, forgotten corner of Heaven.
But as he moved, something colder began to bloom inside him.
Not grief. Not anymore.
It was anger. A deep, blistering anger—not at the boy's death, but at the system that fed on boys like him. At gods who fed on screams. Who sipped on fear like wine. Who laughed when a mortal died with defiance on his lips.
And then—he felt it.
A pulse. Low, steady, not from above, but from within.
It beat once.
Then again.
Shadow tendrils, thin as smoke, curled out from his chest. They slithered across his form, devouring the divine glow until he was more shade than light. Power welled inside him—ancient, wild, unlike the passive misfortunes he'd always wielded.
Then, impossibly, a glowing tab blinked into existence before him.
Zyx flinched. A system notification? Here? Impossible. The Royale system belonged to Earth—to mortals. Not here. Not in the realm of gods.
But the message burned across his vision like prophecy:
[CURSE MARK ACTIVATED]
THE GOD MAY RETURN TO EARTH AS A HUMAN, INHERITING HIS HOST'S ABILITIES AND STATS, BUT HE IS INFLECTED WITH A CURSE MARK. (CURSE MARK REDUCES EVERYTHING—ABILITIES, STATS—TO 99.9%). UNSEEN BY THE WORLD AND HEAVEN.
The gods will not know he exists. He cannot be watched.
Zyx froze.
A loophole.
A ghost in their grand design.
Two options blinked beneath the message: Accept. Decline.
He stared. For a moment, doubt whispered. To return as human? Cursed? Blind and weak?
Then—Luis's face, smiling through blood. His final joke. His unbroken will.
The decision was made before his hand moved.
"Accept."
Darkness erupted. A vortex of shadow rose and consumed him, swirling and pulling and tearing. The light of Heaven vanished behind him, replaced by wind—a cosmic howl that roared as he fell.
Down.
Down.
Down.
Then—impact. Hard. Bone-jarring. Wet earth. Cold and real.
He gasped. Air, thick and alive, filled his lungs. He opened his eyes to an open sky. Grass brushed against his arms. Sunlight pressed down on his face, warm and heavy.
He lifted one hand. Flesh. Blood. Fingers.
Human.
He drew a breath. Another. He could feel the air. Taste it. Smell it—earth, ozone, something wild growing nearby.
Tears welled, unbidden.
Not grief. Not sorrow.
Awe.
"So," he whispered, his voice—his voice—breaking with wonder, "this is what it feels like… to be human. The wind. The warmth. The scent of dirt and green things. And this—"
He touched his chest, where his heart now beat like a drum.
"This storm of feeling gods aren't meant to know."