The marble halls of Yurja Ramuni's stronghold echoed with authority as the War God's heir walked with deliberate calm, hands folded over his broad chest. His sheer presence warped the atmosphere—thickening the air with pressure, commanding respect and obedience with every silent step. A cold smile traced his lips, sharp and certain.
Flanking him were his two most trusted subordinates, each holding stacks of detailed reports. Their expressions were grim, yet focused. This was war—and they had much to prepare for.
"Sir," began Layka, her tone steady but tinged with emotion. She was a descendant of the high elves, her short brown hair brushing the edges of her angular face, her pointed ears twitching with restrained energy. "Ten thousand survivors escaped from the last city."
Yurja barely reacted, his voice a low rumble of certainty. "Of course they did. They're not meant to die yet. Someone else will end them."
At his side, the other subordinate—a lean man with silver hair and shadowed eyes—spoke with a touch of venom. "Is there another striving to become the War God?"
"If they stand in your way, sir," Layka added firmly, "I will eliminate them."
Yurja chuckled, the sound deep and unsettling—like a blade sliding through steel. "Among the many gods, ten have joined this game. Seven have already sent their chosen dependents into this world."
He stopped walking. The very air stilled.
"This is the Successor Games. A divine deathmatch where gods pass their mantles onto mortals. Each has chosen ten dependents. Some are sent to build. Others to annihilate. Me?" He turned, smile widening. "I'm tasked with razing the most advanced cities… except ours."
He resumed walking, his cloak flowing like a tide of darkness behind him.
To Yurja, it was a simple task. Even before being marked by the gods, he was a phenomenon—a cosmic aberration born once in five trillion lives. On a planet of thirty-two trillion souls, only four shared this unnatural tier of existence: Satre, Frana, Layka, and Yurja himself. They were the Chosen—the Ancestral Chattel—born with every skill and trait mastered by their bloodlines across time.
At sixteen, Satre had already reached the level of a medium-class spirit, and she hadn't even fully awakened. Yurja, by contrast, had forcibly awakened three of his God Traits through relentless conquest. And even with just three gates unlocked, he towered far above Shiro and Hiroy.
While Shiro or Hiroy could obliterate a few large planets or maybe a solar system at full power, Yurja could collapse thousands of large-scale universes with a single blow.
Yet even he wasn't at the summit.
He knew—if he faced the War Goddess now—he would be erased without a second glance.
Seven more challenges stood between him and that terrible power. Each gate more grueling than the last. Each test carving deeper into his soul.
Yurja halted. Turned. Eyes glinting with quiet anticipation.
"You two are the last who've proven themselves," he said coolly. "Prepare yourselves. We're heading to the next world."
With a single, soundless pulse of magic, the trio vanished.
The spies who had hidden within the castle shadows—elite agents from rival factions—stood stunned. Yurja had just cast Translocation magic of the highest order without a single word, sigil, or motion. A spell like that should take a master months to prepare.
But awe quickly turned to horror.
Their hearts stopped.
Their souls ripped from their bodies before they could even move.
Yurja had unlocked Soul Reaping—the third divine trait of his lineage—and triggered it with a passive aura the moment he sensed their hostility.
Not a single corpse twitched.
Behind a nearby wall, a crimson shadow stirred.
It stepped out slowly, oozing a malevolent energy that twisted space with every movement. Its body was wreathed in shimmering red aura, its eyes glowing with predatory malice. A grin—not just cruel, but mythically terrifying—split its face.
"Ah... my favorite dependent," the figure whispered, voice layered in both affection and threat. "I can't wait to meet you."
This was no mere observer.
This was her.
The War Goddess.
An entity beyond the comprehension of even the highest gods.
Unlike her peers, she never revealed herself at the start of the Successor Games. She waited. Watched. Judged. Only those who survived her labyrinthine trials—those who shed blood, shattered worlds, and proved unbreakable—would earn her presence.
She glanced down at the lifeless hall, the corpses of spies splayed like discarded puppets.
She blinked.
Instantly, their bodies withered into ash and scattered through the window.
Then, with a subtle twitch of her hand, the entire planet exploded.
A burst of energy so vast, it imploded the nearest sun, setting off a chain reaction that collapsed every orbiting planet nearby into themselves.
And still... she smiled.
Somewhere far away, Yurja felt the echo of the explosion behind him. He did not flinch.
Instead, he smiled wider.
Another trial complete. His strength had multiplied twenty-eightfold today. But more importantly, the War Goddess had watched.
The Successor Games were only beginning.
And Yurja Ramuni would carve his name into the bones of gods if he had to.
He would win.
At any cost.