KamiSama Game

"You know," Lancelot rasped between bouts of laughter, "when you drive someone into a corner, that's when they're the most dangerous."

Michael's grip on his spear tightened, his golden eyes narrowing. "What madness are you spouting now?"

Lancelot ignored him, his words spilling out in an almost delirious tone. "The best thing about someone like me? I don't lose when I run out of options. No—when the rules stop working, I create a new game."

In a blur of motion, faster than even Amaterasu could react, Lancelot twisted his body. He kneed her blade upward, the weapon flying into the air. The motion was seamless, and before the others could intervene, Lancelot clasped his hands together as if in prayer.

"Eradication: Black," he whispered, his voice carrying an otherworldly resonance.

Darkness surged outward, engulfing the battlefield. The once-radiant expanse of the Heaven Realm was swallowed by a void so profound that even the archangels' divine lights faltered. The very concept of form and space seemed to vanish.

As the darkness enveloped each of the archangels, a singular thought passed through their minds, synchronized like a grim chorus:

I can't see, move, breathe, hear, or even feel anything. It's as if every single one of my senses and more have been stripped from me. This is the essence of Eradication: Black.

Amaterasu's fiery aura flickered desperately in the darkness. "What is this…?!" she hissed, her voice quaking with uncharacteristic fear.

Michael and Zeus, their bodies locked in place by the overwhelming force of the void, could only watch helplessly as Lancelot ascended. He floated above them, his shirt burned away, his chest heaving as a blinding light began to coalesce at its center.

"Now, Let there be LIGHT!" Lancelot whispered, his soothing and calm voice contrasting the severity of the situation.

From his chest, a brilliant white light erupted, cutting through the darkness. It spread outward in a massive wave, obliterating everything in its path. The divine energy seared through the battlefield, its intensity so overwhelming that the archangels' shields and auras cracked under the pressure.

The wave expanded endlessly, consuming the once-glorious Heaven Realm. Mountains of clouds disintegrated, waterfalls of divine essence evaporated, and the very air seemed to ignite. Screams and shouts were drowned in the roar of pure energy as the light eradicated all in its wake.

When the brilliance finally subsided, the battlefield was unrecognizable—a scorched wasteland where divinity had once flourished. Lancelot lay motionless at its center, his body battered beyond recognition. Blood pooled beneath him, but his chest still faintly rose and fell, proof that life clung to him stubbornly.

Around him, the archangels were scattered. Most lay defeated, their divine forms dimmed and shattered. Only three remained standing: Amaterasu, Zeus, and Apollo.

Amaterasu clutched her left shoulder, blood seeping through her fingers. Her fiery aura was reduced to a faint glow, and her katana's blade was chipped and dull. Zeus leaned on his lightning-forged hammer, his breaths heavy, while Apollo's golden skin was marred with deep wounds, his chakrams hanging limply at his sides.

"He may be a crazy bastard," Apollo muttered, his voice tinged with awe, "but I must recognize his strength. Every title he owns is well-deserved."

Amaterasu grimaced, her face pale as she stepped forward. "Enough praising the enemy," she snapped, her tone sharp despite the weariness in her voice. "He almost single-handedly defeated the Heaven Realm. Let's hurry and seal him before he regains consciousness."

Zeus nodded solemnly, his hammer vanishing into golden sparks. The three archangels approached Lancelot's unconscious form, their hands glowing with divine sigils as they began the process of sealing him.

Far away, within the shadowed depths of a celestial chamber, Nyx, the God of Chaos, watched the scene unfold through a crystal orb. His expression was inscrutable as the images reflected in the glowing sphere.

With a weary sigh, he pinched the bridge of his nose. "What a spectacle," he muttered, leaning back in his seat. "That man… He's as much a force of chaos as I am."

The orb dimmed, and Nyx steepled his fingers, his dark eyes gleaming. "This is far from over."

Back in the mortal realm, Ace stirred in his bed, the faint echo of the divine battle ringing in his ears. He bolted upright, his heart pounding as an unshakable feeling of foreboding washed over him.

The hub

Ace leaned over the side of his bed, his thoughts swirling. Where the hell am I? The question echoed in his mind as he glanced down at himself. His damaged clothes—what remained of his shirt—were bloodstained and scorched. Frustrated, he ripped the remnants off and stood, clutching his head.

Then it hit him like a tidal wave. The memories came rushing back: the devastating battle, the man with the black staff tearing through their group as if they were nothing. Ace's breathing quickened as he turned, his gaze falling on his two bedridden comrades.

He opened his mouth to call out to them, but a small hand rested on his shoulder. Startled, Ace spun to his left to find a small, old man floating beside him. The man's gnarled features were offset by a pair of sharp, piercing eyes that seemed to glint with mischief.

"Who the hell are you?" Ace yelped, taking a step back.

The old man chuckled, the sound hoarse yet oddly comforting. "Why, I'm your teacher's father, of course."

"Wait… really? You're Lancelot's dad?"

The man let out another laugh, this one more giddy. "No, no, not at all! I'm the president and founder of the Magus." He leaned in conspiratorially. "I'm here on a favor from Lancelot."

Ace blinked, the name snapping him back to reality. "Wait—where is he? Where's Lancelot, gramps?"

The old man straightened, his expression turning more serious. "I sent him on a mission—a very urgent and dangerous one. You three were gravely injured, so he left you behind to recover. It wasn't a place for the wounded."

Ace sighed in relief, his lips twitching into a grin. "Oh, that's great! When will he be back to train me and my friends?"

The old man raised an eyebrow, studying Ace intently. "Hmm… it's almost as if you're not worried about your dear teacher."

Ace waved a hand dismissively. "Why would I be? Lancelot's the strongest guy there is—or at least that's what he told me. I've never seen him lose to anyone, so I trust him."

The old man's stern expression softened into a warm smile. "I see why Lancelot has taken a liking to you and your friends. Well, your comrades will wake soon. In the meantime, you should explore the Hub. I hear you have family here. Maybe you'll run into them."

Ace tilted his head in curiosity, but before he could ask anything else, the old man continued. "Once your friends wake up, all of you should come to my office. Ask around—you'll find it."

With that, the old man disappeared into thin air. Ace blinked, then muttered, "Well, that's not creepy at all." He turned to find a dark blue robe draped over a chair nearby. Slipping his arms through it and tying the belt, he glanced at his reflection in a shard of a broken mirror. The robe fit snugly, its black and navy pattern highlighted by faint silver embroidery.

"Alright, gramps," Ace muttered, "I'll see you soon."

Ace stepped into a wide hallway, its arched ceilings decorated with glowing runes. The air carried a faint hum of energy, and every step seemed to reverberate slightly, as if the very ground pulsed with magic. He soon emerged into a courtyard bustling with activity.

The courtyard was divided into two main groups. On one side, individuals dressed in navy blue uniforms sparred hand-to-hand. Their movements were precise, almost mechanical, each strike flowing into the next with practiced ease. On the other side, another group, cloaked in hoods and capes, sat in neat rows. They were meditating, ethereal energy swirling visibly around their forms.

Ace sauntered over to a barrel near the sparring group and plopped down. He rested his chin in his hand, watching the fighters. Their style was unlike anything he'd ever seen—structured, efficient, and unrelenting. Each motion seemed to carry intent, their footwork deliberate and balanced.

One fighter, a tall woman with short silver hair, darted forward with a feint before sweeping low with her leg. Her opponent countered with a sidestep, grabbing her outstretched arm and twisting her into a lock. The exchange was quick, calculated, and over in moments.

"Man," Ace muttered, leaning back on the barrel, "These guys, their fighting style is so bland and textbook . I could easily dismantle that fighting style."

A sharp laugh behind him made him jump. He turned to see a boy about his age, dressed in a similar uniform but with a red sash around his waist. "You think so, huh?" the boy said, crossing his arms. "That 'textbook fighting' is designed to take down guys like you."

Ace gives the boy an unreadable stare before hopping off the barrel. "Is that so huh? I wouldn't suppose you would want to test this theory out?"

The boy grinned, his eyes glinting with challenge. "Alright then come to the center then outsider."

Ace starts to remove his robes showing his very impressive and cut physique , a grin spreading across his face as he steps into the training circle.

The sparring circle fell silent as Ace and the boy stepped into the center. The air was thick with anticipation, and the surrounding fighters stopped their drills to watch.

"What's your name, outsider?" the boy asked, rolling his shoulders as he sized Ace up.

"Ace," he said simply, slipping into a loose stance. "And yours?"

"L," the boy replied, settling into a low guard. His movements were sharp and deliberate, his red sash marking him as a higher rank among the trainees. "Don't feel bad if this ends quickly. We train for years to perfect our techniques."

Ace smirked, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. "Good. I was worried this might be too easy."

Dorian's eyes narrowed. With a swift movement, he darted forward, his fist slicing through the air in a precise jab aimed at Ace's chin.

Ace tilted his head just enough to dodge.

Dorian didn't let up. He followed with a low kick, aiming to sweep Ace's legs out from under him. Ace jumped, his reflexes ripping with energy, and countered with a spinning kick aimed at Dorian's side.

The crowd let out a collective gasp as Dorian barely managed to block, staggering back from the impact. His eyes widened slightly.

"Not bad," Dorian admitted, adjusting his stance. "But let's see how you handle this."

He surged forward again, his strikes coming in a rapid, calculated flurry. Each punch and kick was part of a larger sequence, designed to leave no openings. Ace found himself backpedaling, weaving and blocking as best he could without much trouble.

"Your style's all about pressure, huh?" Ace quipped between dodges. "You probably get flustered easily and don't know what to do when someone fights dirty."

Ace suddenly stepped into Dorian's range, blocking a punch with his forearm and closing the distance. Before Dorian could react, Ace slammed his knee into Dorian's stomach, forcing him to double over. Ace followed with an elbow aimed at the back of his head.

But Dorian wasn't out yet. He twisted at the last second, using Ace's momentum to toss him over his shoulder. Ace hit the ground hard but rolled to his feet, a focused look pasted on his face.

The two clashed again, their movements faster and more intense. Dorian's disciplined style was a stark contrast to Ace's improvisational, instinctual approach. Ace ducked under a high kick, using the opening to drive his shoulder into Dorian's chest and sending him stumbling back.

Dorian responded by pivoting on his heel, delivering a spinning backfist that caught Ace on the jaw. The force of the blow sent Ace skidding across the circle, but he caught himself before falling.

The crowd roared, fully engrossed in the match.

"Alright," Ace said, wiping a trickle of blood from his lip. "No more holding back."

With a burst of speed, Ace closed the gap, his fists flying in a chaotic yet effective barrage. Dorian blocked most of the strikes but couldn't anticipate Ace's feint—Ace threw a punch, only to pull back at the last second and sweep Dorian's legs out from under him.

Dorian hit the ground hard, and Ace pounced, pinning him with an arm lock.

"Yield?" Ace asked, breathing heavily but grinning.

Dorian struggled for a moment, then sighed and tapped the ground twice. "Yield."

Ace walked back to the barrel pulling his robes back on, his adrenaline still high from the fight, but his thoughts were interrupted when he caught sight of a familiar face. His heart stopped for a moment. Standing just thirty feet away was his mother, carrying a basket of fruit and vegetables. Her face was a mixture of shock and relief, and on her hip was Mina, his little sister, who spotted him and broke into a sprint.

"ACE!" Mina yelled, her small legs pumping as she rushed toward him.

Ace barely had time to react before Mina launched herself into his arms. His mother wasn't far behind, her expression overcome with emotion.

"Ace!" she cried, embracing her son tightly. Tears welled in her eyes as she looked him over.

Ace, caught off guard, wrapped an arm around his mom while holding Mina in the other. He felt his body relax, his guard lowering in a way it hadn't in months.

"Where have you been, Ace?" his mom demanded, her voice a mix of relief and worry. "Are you okay? Why is there blood on your lip? And your pants—look at them! They're a mess!"

Ace chuckled softly, trying to ease her worry. "Mom, I'm okay, alright? I've just been out there, doing what I need to do to keep you and Mina safe."

His mother looked at him, her concern still etched across her face. "Are you being safe, Ace? With everything out there—monsters, danger—you shouldn't be out there like this! You're only fifteen! You shouldn't have to go through this!"

Ace sighed, giving her a warm smile as he gently placed Mina on his shoulders. "Mom, I have a great team backing me up and an amazing teacher. They've got my back."

But as the words left his mouth, a flash of memory struck him—his friends, battered and defeated, the dark figure with the black staff looming over them. His smile faltered for a split second before he quickly shook his head, pushing the memory away.

His mom seemed to notice but said nothing, instead continuing to chatter as they walked through the hub. Ace carried Mina on his shoulders, her giggles lightening his heart as they made their way through the bustling courtyard.

Meanwhile, within Troy's mind, he sat cross-legged in the shadowy void. Before him loomed the seventh shadowy figure, its form indistinct but undeniably menacing.

Troy frowned, glaring up at the silent entity. "Hey, asshole, are you going to say something, or what?"

The figure remained silent.

Troy scowled, standing up abruptly. "Why the hell am I here in front of you if you're not going to speak? When is this useless body of mine going to wake up?"

As he turned to leave, the figure's hand shot out, grabbing his wrist. Its touch was icy, sending shivers up his spine.

The figure's distorted, whispering voice finally broke the silence. "You are weak, boy."

Troy's eyes narrowed in anger. In a fit of rage, he swung a punch at the figure, but his fist passed through it harmlessly.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" Troy spat, his voice trembling with frustration.

The figure's voice was calm, almost mocking. "I am your path to strength. With my power, and the power of my brothers and sisters, I can ensure you never find yourself in this pathetic state again."

Troy hesitated, his anger faltering. "What? I don't know if you've noticed, but the others aren't exactly big on cooperating with me."

"Do not concern yourself with them," the figure replied. "I will handle that."

Troy's suspicion grew. "Why are you trying to help me? What's in it for you? I know you're not doing this for free."

The figure chuckled, a dark and hollow sound. "It is your rage that interests me. Your anger, your aggression—it holds immense potential. Rage is the strongest emotion in battle. Let me mold it into something powerful."

Troy stared at the figure, his fists clenched, his mind racing. For a moment, he considered its offer. Then, with a deep breath, he said, "Fine. 

The figure's grin widened, and the shadows around Troy seemed to deepen and swirl, enclosing him in their cold embrace. "Good choice," it said, its voice echoing ominously. "We will meet again soon."

With a flick of its hand, the figure sent Troy hurtling out of the void and back into his physical body.