Veyra torched it mid-leap. The creature burst into greasy smoke. "Next time," she hissed, "we go around."
On the seventh day, they saw it—the Dawn Federation's Royal Hold.
A megacity of contradictions, where magic and machinery danced in fragile harmony. Skyscrapers from the Old Era, their glass facades patched with spell-forged steel, pierced clouds tinged pink by pollution. Between them rose new constructions: floating gardens anchored by gravity runes, arcane elevators shuttling through hollowed-out buildings, and massive stone walls etched with glowing sigils to repel blightstorms.
The outer districts were a mosaic of survival. Markets sprawled across overpasses, stalls selling spellshard ammunition alongside pre-Blightfall relics, A street preacher shouted about the "Second Dawn," while children ran around playfully
But it was the city's heart that stole their breath: the Sovereign Spire. A needle of obsidian and chrome, its apex crowned with the Federation's sigil—a sun cradling a sword—projected holographically into the smog. Around it, Old Era buildings had been gutted and rebuilt into terraced ecosystems, waterfalls cascading from rooftop farms into purification cisterns below.
"Home sweet hellhole," Veyra said, grinning.
At the gates, Dawn Federation sentries in hybrid armor—polished breastplates over ballistic fiber—crossed runic lances to bar their path.
"State your business," one demanded, her visor flickering with scrying runes.
Gareth jerked his thumb at Rook. "Delivery for your corpse collectors."
The sentries looked at each other and nodded. "They've been waiting for you."
"Great. Tell them to send a thank-you basket."
As the gates groaned open, Rook's eyes snapped open—one pupil normal, the other still flecked with gold. "...City," he rasped.
"Yeah," Gareth said, uncharacteristically soft. "You made it, hero."
Bell watched from the astral plane as Gareth vanished into the city's neon-choked arteries. *That was definitely more fun than I expected. A post-apocalyptic fantasy world?* He smirked. *I thought they'd have to restart civilization from scratch after all this time. Turns out I slept through the reboot.*
His amusement faded as he recalled Rook's body—the way the boy's muscles had frayed like overused rope, the golden light seeping from his cracked ribs. *If I keep hijacking corpses, I'll end up a glorified necromancer. Need a proper vessel. Something sturdy. Something… fun.*
A shimmering notification sliced through his thoughts:
[God of Sol Prime, you have been invited to the Dian Solar System God Convention. Your presence is mandatory.]
[You will be teleported to the Lower God Realm in 10 minutes.]
A countdown materialized in glowing numerals above his head.
Bell blinked. "A God convention? Do we sit around comparing beard lengths and smite-counts?" But thinking about it wouldn't solve anything—he'd been forcefully invited. He had to find something to wear.
Bell stared at the floating countdown. Ten minutes to look less like a cosmic hobo. He snapped his fingers, channeling divine energy into his form. Golden light swirled around him, stitching together an outfit he deemed "appropriately godly." He admired his reflection in a shard of astral glass. "Regal. Fashionable. A solid eight out of—"
Teleportation felt like being squeezed through a black hole's birthday party. Bell rematerialized knee-deep in a river of liquid rainbows, his boots hissing as neon sludge ate at the soles.
"Welcome to the Lower God Realm!" chirped a three-headed peacock sculpted from stained glass, its voice harmonizing with itself. "Please enjoy our complimentary ambrosia fountains and ego-validation mirrors!"
Bell gagged. The air reeked of burnt sugar and narcissism, with undertones of celestial body odor.
The realm was a migraine masquerading as paradise. Floating marble islands dripped with gardens where flowers sang show tunes in four-part harmony. Bridges woven from stolen auroras connected temples shaped like their gods' obsessions—one resembled a gargantuan selfie stick studded with diamonds, another a fist crushing a constellation. Overhead, deities zipped by on clouds molded into their domains: a thunder god rode a lightning-bolt Segway, while a harvest goddess lounged on a pumpkin-shaped dirigible.
"Tacky," Bell muttered.
A sign flickered into existence:
[CONVENTION HALL: 2.3 MILLION KILOMETERS STRAIGHT. TAKE SECOND UTOPIA ON THE RIGHT.]
"Straight? In a spiral dimension?!"
Bell trudged past a pavilion where gods compared achievements on holographic scoreboards.
"—raised a civilization from bronze to AI in six millennia," bragged a god with cathedral wings, his voice dripping sanctimony.
"Pathetic," sneered a deity shaped like a sentient black hole, event horizon swirling with smugness. "I collapsed three religions and a planetary empire before brunch."
Bell ducked into an alley reeking of existential dread and cheap incense. A sentient trash can muttered Plato quotes.
"Hey, newbie," rasped a cloaked figure hawking jars of "damned souls" from a rickety cart. "Lookin' for the Hall? One hundred Faith Points. I'll teleport ya."
Bell narrowed his eyes. He was about to respond when another text appeared before him:
[WARNING: CONVENTION BEGINS IN 7 MINUTES]
Bell sighed. "How do I transfer Faith Points?"
"Handshake." The figure grinned, revealing teeth filed into tiny hellmouths.
Bell gripped his hand—a cold, slithering sensation crawled up his arm as 100 Faith Points drained away. The alley blurred.
The Convention Hall looked like a disco ball had vomited on Mount Olympus. Gods preened in outfits that defied physics and dignity: a war deity wore armor plated with singing angel faces (their harmonies suspiciously autotuned), while a love goddess dripped liquid hearts that sobbed when touched.
Bell's boots squeaked across the floor—a mosaic of trapped mortal prayers. "Help me pass calculus…" whined one tile. "Make her text back…" begged another.
"GOD OF SOL PRIME!"
The voice shook the hall. Bell turned to see the war god looming over him, his angel-faced armor screeching an off-key hymn.
"You're late," the god boomed, "and you've missed the last two conventions. What do you have to say for yourself?"
Bell shrugged, "Got lost redecorating a corpse. You know how it is."