Kagaseo

~The August Star of Heaven~

Staring at the smoldering remains of two monsters that he lured into attacking his position, Kagaseo plopped down to the sandy terrain of his pocket dimension and adjusted his breathing following the intense battle that had occurred. Picking nearby metallic debris that had fallen off from his attackers’ body and scrutinizing it closely, his gaze eventually came across the right hypochondrium of the mostly intact gray-colored one.

“These MIC-flavored assholes don’t seem to be the usual Gamers…” the Star God mumbled, seeing large white blocky letters that make up the word FREEDOM imprinted on it. On the other, a black-colored entity that fought more like an animal than a man before being reduced into mutilated components scattered throughout the battleground, Kagaseo glimpsed in their skirmish that the word NEUORDNUNG was written on its now-deformed left thigh armor.

A scoff escaped Kagaseo’s lips as he twirled the debris he picked between his fingers. It glinted with a mysterious aura in the dying embers of the monsters, reflecting the stark difference between these silent annihilators and the blustering Gamers of the Civilization Annihilation Game. Those higher beings had been all mouth and no trousers, bombarding him with taunts and threats before crumbling like sandcastles under his own growing might.

These two, though? They stalked onto the field like silent specters befitting their mechanical appearance, their movements economical, their purpose singular—to kill him. No victory cries, no braggadocious pronouncements, just a chilling symphony of claws tearing through the fabric of reality and attacks that burned with the cold hunger of oblivion. Comparing them to the run-and-mill Gamers was like comparing a flickering candle to a sun.

But for all their power, they can still be destroyed, and thus they lay still now, defeated. That’s all that matters.

“Alright, then…”

With a flick of his wrist, the Suet Jade Purifying Jar was pulled from its holster, its opened mouth ravenously devoured the swirling essences of the enemies Kagaseo had just defeated. Watching the swirling vortex within the jar with detached amusement, he waited until the two vanquished monstrosities were reduced to a shimmering liquid that would soon be his to claim in order to boost his power. He had been used to a swift process, yet as minutes ticked by, the jar’s glow remained. Seeing this, Kagaseo forced a sigh, concluding that it was a small wonder that these tongueless enemies would be rather powerful now that he knew just how high the concentration of mortal suffering crammed within their being. These must’ve been Gamers who got addicted to them for a very long time that they started losing the capacity for speech and became more animalistic as a result. ‘Creepy as fuck if true,’ Kagaseo admitted with disgust. ‘These no-good retards…’

Thus, with a grudging nod to the jar, the Star God collapsed the pocket dimension and teleported away to Astarte’s cottage with a feeling of slight anxiety, as if something was amiss.

❖⟐❖⟐❖

Kagaseo materialized in the realm that housed a quaint cottage dedicated to the dearest Astarte, still carrying an oppressive feeling of anxiety with him. It was a silence heavier than any battle roar, a suffocating sensation that muted the rustle of leaves and the chirping of small critters that he also willed to exist in this hideout realm.

'What is this feeling…?'

His hand hovered over the wooden door handle, but the metal suddenly icy beneath his touch. A primal scream tore through his senses, a wordless shriek of pure, unadulterated terror that bypassed his ears and slammed straight into the core of his being.

Something was wrong. Danger, ancient, and insidious, brewing within the cottage walls, its fetid breath that was not supposed to be there tainting the very air around him. He didn’t hesitate. With a surge of divine power, he forcefully pushed the door, hinges shrieking in protest as the door slammed open inwards, revealing the cozy interior bathed in a warm glow as usual. But something was wrong.

“Astarte—!!”

Kagaseo’s movement halted as soon as his gaze zeroed on the bed where the suffering goddess was supposed to sleep. His roar died in his throat, abruptly transforming into a strangled gasp of crushing despair.

Illuminated by the warm caress of lamplight, the presence of a figure beside Astarte’s bed shocked him into a reeling stupor. A young adult male-looking figure, with hair as white as freshly fallen snow and lavender eyes like the twilight sky, sat perched on a stool, his gaze fixed on the goddess with a serene smile playing on his lips. A white overcoat, adorned with belts and a flared collar that coyly veiled a crimson scarf, draped his form. Beneath, a black zip-up shirt and trousers tucked into black boots completed the ensemble to give the impression of a rather modern sense of flashy outfit.

Not at all phased by Kagaseo’s loud entry, there sat none other than the Executive Producer of the Civilization Annihilation Game—the one sitting on top of the system that had brought suffering to many worlds and entities—himself.

“Welcome back, Amatsu-Mikaboshi. You must have tired from your business,” the man said, addressing Kagaseo with a deceptively gentle voice that contrasted starkly with the storm of shock and rage roaring within the Star God.

“………How…!?”

Finally, in a heavily strained voice, Kagaseo managed to utter something.

“I knew all along where you hid her, of course,” the Executive Producer leaned back slightly and tilted his head. “You think you’re so cunning, aren’t you, you little trickster? I keep track of each and every single one of MY property. What makes you think that a common thief like YOU can stand a chance? Get away with inconveniences that you have caused?”

“You toyed with us…” Kagaseo retorted with quiet anger, his voice echoing through the cottage carrying his frustrations at this possible outcome that he had not expected to occur so soon.

“No, Amatsu-Mikaboshi. You’ve sown the wind, and so you will reap the whirlwind. Your problem is a personal feud with Shamash, isn’t it? Why would you even do this? I know you have killed many of the Gamers in your escapade, but in the end, does it matter to me? Does it matter to you? Obviously, the answer to the two latter questions turns out to be a plain ‘No.’”

A paralyzing dread, akin to blood turning to ice, gripped Kagaseo. The Executive Producer’s disarmingly casual delivery only amplified the chilling weight of his pronouncement. The Game, like an insatiable maw, perpetually devoured fresh batches of players eager to experience the thrill and agony of power. And those who weren’t playing? Well, they become spectators. The Civilization Annihilation Game was, indeed, came with an irresistible drug that this man before him dispensed with gleeful abandon, turning even the most skeptical into devoted addicts. Higher beings, intoxicated by the heady brew of mortal suffering, clawed for their fix. Empires would be traded, stars sacrificed, realities gambled – all for another fleeting surge of the Game’s cruel ecstasy. The Executive Producer, shown capable of reclaiming the spirited away Astarte himself, had tossed the Gamers Kagaseo’s way, solely on a whim. No grand machinations, just because he can. And now, it seemed, his amusement was waning.

Rising from the stool, his movements were languid, yet radiating an undeniable power that kept the Star God rooted to his spot.

“Anyway, since I need to run my business somewhere else, I’ll just say that I’ve indulged your little sideshow long enough. Henceforth, from now on Astarte will return to her rightful owner as part of the Civilization Annihilation Game.”

“DON’T YOU DARE LAY YOUR FINGERS ON HER!”

Kagaseo, his rage reaching a fever pitch, could no longer contain himself at those words. Managing to shake his doubts, he unleashed a guttural roar that shook the very foundation of the cottage, channeling the raw power into conjuring a lance of pure starlight, tip crackling with celestial fury. The air itself screamed as the lance arced through the room, aiming at the heart of the Executive Producer’s casual arrogance.

“Ode to Joy: Geno Thunder.”

Crimson lightning, not unlike the tendrils of a vengeful god, lashed out from all directions surrounding Kagaseo. The starlight lance launched by the kami of the Stars met its abrupt end, shattering like glass in the face of this magic before the attack rushed to the launcher himself.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!”

Kagaseo, caught in the mouth of the storm before he could even conjure a defense, felt his body convulse and lock up as he screamed. The pain, as if his divine essence itself was being ripped apart, was unlike anything he had ever experienced yet. After the attack died down, Kagaseo crumpled to his knees paralyzed, his face contorted in a mask of suffering.

“It seems that you misunderstood, Amatsu-Mikaboshi,” the Executive Producer shook his head. “It wasn’t a question. It was a declaration of fact.”

As if savoring Kagaseo’s agony, the Executive Producer moved with a deliberate grace that only amplified the Star God’s humiliation. With practiced ease, the man scooped the sleeping goddess into his arms and slung her over his shoulder. Astarte’s messy hair lay limp against her porcelain cheek, while her slumbering face was blissfully unaware of the storm that raged around her.

“Lullaby: Naraka.”

With a swipe of his hand, the once warm haven exploded in a shower of splintered wood and shattered glass, obliterating the cottage into nonexistence.

The Executive Producer conjured a vortex of inky blackness that ripped through the air like a ravenous beast. The sludge of mortal suffering materialized around the downed Star God, tendrils coiling around his limbs, chest, and throat with a painful sensation that seeped into his very bones. The bindings, stronger than the will of a god, pinned him against the surface of a crystalline pillar that emerged from the collapsing cottage. Kagaseo writhed against the pillar, roaring in defiance. However, the living sludge held firm in restricting his movements and sapping his strength, rendering his efforts futile. Watching the proceedings, the Executive Producer walked closer to the trapped god.

“I understand that you are frustrated,” walking away from him, the Executive Producer spoke with a faux-sympathetic tone. “But the fans crave Astarte’s performance… It’s just good business, supply and demand. You wouldn’t be so evil as to hoard the ‘talent’ that can be used to bring happiness to an uncountable number of viewers, would you?”

“GRAAH! DAMMIT! I’LL KILL YOU…! I’LL KILL YOU ALL!” Kagaseo screamed.

Around them, the star-studded ceiling of this dimension gradually turned into a hellish landscape as the Executive Producer’s Naraka began to form, intending to trap the Star God within it.

The albino entity sighed, “Consider yourself lucky that you get to keep your existence. Others aren’t so lucky for smaller infractions, you know. Let this be a lesson for you. A god hated by all just for being a stranger who comes to their realms like you, Amatsu-Mikaboshi, would do better to not stir up any unnecessary trouble for yourself. Especially against a thing like me, who even the most powerful gods of the multiverse combined could never hope of even hurting. Of course, since I’ll let this matter slide this time, I made sure that your cohorts Ashir and Mirook will not be punished too harshly.”

The Executive Producer rubbed it in his face with a small smile on his face as if he was talking about the fish he had just caught from a river.

“You could be better than this… for the sake of everyone around you, you must be better.”

“Raarrgh…! No…! Astarte—”

Then, the Executive Producer paused in his tracks as if he was remembering something.

“Oh, that’s right. I’ve been meaning to take a little scenic route myself. Ars Goetia. That’s one awesome name for a planet, and a venue for our future season, no less. What better place to stop by than the planet whose history you have tampered with, right? See you around, Amatsu-Mikaboshi, feel free to contemplate your actions. Hopefully if we get to meet again, you will be an older and wiser god.”

Kagaseo thrashed to no avail in response, his vision blurring as he watched the Executive Producer step through a swirling portal connecting to a pristine blue planet and disappear. Astarte, his reason for defying the Game, for facing gods and mortals alike, snatched away with a nonchalant shrug.

“No, no, no…! Grr! Gaah! Raargh! AAAAAARGH!! NO!! NOOOOOO!! AAAAAAAAAUGH!! WHY…!? WHY!?”

The Star God wailed, not even having the freedom to use his hand to reach for the dear one—the inferno that had fueled his actions sputtered in the rain of his despair. Rage had no bite against oblivion, calculating cruelty of a being beyond even gods. He felt broken, a star fallen from its sky, his light choked by the suffocating darkness.

“Why…?”

After a while, a sob began to escape his lips. Raw and ragged, it was the first of many that spilled forth like a dam breaching. After having the entire universe seemingly having something against him for simply existing, this was the last straw.

A god hated by all once had hope. But now…

‘I’m sorry…’

Ars Goetia

~Peaceful Days~

August 15, 1615 Central Calendar, 16:00

Leiden, Enysfal Province, Holy Milishial Empire

Watched by their friends and some of the kids of Leiden, the boys of the vacation group were spending the late afternoon in a field playing football, many of their teammates and opposing team members are Meteos and Walman’s classmates in elementary school. The field, a well-maintained verdant rectangle carved out in the heart of Leiden, thrummed with the electrifying energy of a late-afternoon football match. Laughter and enthusiastic yelling, like kites in the summer breeze, soared above the throngs of cheering girls. The familiar sight of their childhood buddies, faces aglow with the dying sunlight, sent a pang of nostalgia that Meteos quickly swatted away, replacing it with a wide smile on his face.

“Heeeey! Meteos!”

Meteos pumped his legs, chest heaving with exertion, eyes fixed on the empty space ahead where Walman’s pass should have arrived as they initiated their team’s counterattack.

However, no matter how long he waited, the pass never came, and for some reason everything went eerily quiet all of a sudden. Skidding to a stop because of this, Meteos looked around and widened his eyes at a surreal sight.

The ball hung impossibly in the air, frozen like a teardrop suspended mid-fall. Every noise had vanished, replaced by a suffocating silence that pressed down on Meteos like a tomb. His friends, mid-stride, mid-tackle, mid-cheer, had become as rigid as alabaster statues locked in eternal postures against the fading sunlight.

“What is this…? Did the time… has somehow stopped…!?”

Panic, sharp and icy, clawed at his throat. Everything suddenly froze, including the birds flying in the sky? This was no prank. In a worst-case scenario, judging from what was happening, there’s something like a god-tier powerful magic at play, highly likely to be some kind of incoming threat, Meteos’ mind quickly concluded. But why would he alone be able to move when others don’t?

‘…In any case, I’m too vulnerable like this!’

Adrenaline thrumming through his veins, Meteos abruptly sprinted across the field, feet pounding the verdant expanse with a newfound urgency hoping that nothing would hit him on the way. His gaze locked onto the still figure of Robin, aiming for the Manadriver holstered at her waist. Reaching Robin with a ragged breath, Meteos blurted out the impossible scene unfolding around him and pulled the Manadriver without hesitation in an attempt to somewhat acquire a means of self-defense. The Desire Driver MR is certainly powerful and versatile, but would it even function when time itself seemed to have stood still? Would it even do something to whatever caused this? Touching his friends doesn’t seem to make them free, but would his unfrozen state allow the technology he touched to function? There are too many questions, but having brushed once or twice with higher power above humanity directly—albeit through dreams—this reincarnator was somewhat conditioned, for a lack of a better word, to deal with bullshit like this.

Despite him channeling his mana, the crystalline display remained dark, devoid of the welcoming noise of charging power that normally greeted him.

“Dammit!” he cussed. Time had stopped. His friends were frozen in place, defenseless against whatever force had orchestrated this nightmare. And he was deprived of his strongest buff, forced to fight as normal. If there’s an entity in this world that can use magic to stop time, that entity must’ve been at least a demigod…

‘Just like Attarsamain’s Man and Woman of the Beginning—oh come on, of course the inherited memories about it would surface… Huh, roughly translatable in one human language as… Sakra Devanam Indra…? Huh, so in conclusion, time stop magic is indeed exist…?’

Damn, nice info.

But Meteos’ mind whirling at this VERY inappropriate time did not help him in the slightest.

“Kagaseo, if this is somehow one of your pranks I swear—”

“Good guess, but actually no.”

‘…Hm? Walter’s voice?’

A jolt of recognition surged through the boy as a masculine voice suddenly came from behind him. It bore an uncanny resemblance to Walter Zimmerman, his butler, yet a discordant note twanged beneath the surface. Alarm prickled his skin as he spun, finding himself locked in the gaze of a young man whose appearance looked like romantic poets just before the consumption and drug abuse really started to cut it.

Towering slightly above Meteos, he was dressed in white and black, with the addition of a red scarf around his neck. Witnessing another person defying the paused time, Meteos instinctively adopted a defensive stance.

“Who—”

“Hello. Sir Meteos Roguerider… isn’t it?” the man cut off his interrogation, tilting his head curiously as he sized the boy up and down with a smile.

‘A higher being?’ Meteos swallowed a bile, feeling slightly nauseous at the deceptively calm aura this entity exuded. It’s too unnatural that not even Kagaseo’s presence creeps him out to this extent.

“…What if I am?”

“How curious. I’ve heard that you’re known by many names, Little Brother. The Grand Mage of the Holy Milishial Empire, the Ace of the New Century, the Rising Star, the Silver Fox, the Hermit, the Quiet Old Man, the Person of Interest, the Sunset Traveler, the New King of Magitech Invention, my favorite one: the Rogue Rider, and on the other hand you have been called names such as the Most Hated Man in Gra Valkas, the Cringefuck Muhgictard, the Undercutter of Muish Economy, the Slayer of Science, the One Who is Probably a Secret Ravernal, the Knife-Ear Ass-Kisser, the Beastmen’s Secret Pet, the Midget Mountain-Dweller’s Drinking Mug, the Bastard Who Must Be Killed, the Cheater Devil, That One Fucking Asshole Who Always Survive His Assassinations, and many other distinguished titles that you’ve earned at the latter half-century of your life… You’ve even got a Milishian space station and a newly discovered galaxy named after you…! Well, in your previous life, that is.”

What is even the point of listing all of them, Meteos inwardly retorted, still not letting his guard down even though he tried his best from freaking out. And so, he uttered a dry wit, “So it would seem. “I love the fact that my attempt at friendship with everyone in my previous life’s twilight years has turned me into a target for many insults. Peak humanity moment, huh?”

“Indeed, that’s disappointing. Honestly, I feel bad for you. Ape should never kill ape—sorry, I chose the phrase wrong, mortals should never harm each other.”

So, this other white-haired man is a higher being. The one who likes to mess with people’s heads.

“Hmmm…” he hummed. “Those silver locks are like moonlight woven into silk, and those sapphire eyes reflect the depths of the ocean… and your athletic build for someone your age… You know, Little Brother, coupled with your tendency for looking stylish as well, a handsome fella like you could lead a lady or two by the nose without much effort.”

“What—”

Next, the mysterious man’s attention was directed to the line of frozen spectators behind Meteos.

“And what do we have here? So many lovely ladies,” he mused. “Though… I suppose only one can truly capture one Meteos Roguerider’s heart, wouldn’t you say?”

Meteos bristled. “This isn’t the time for this. Whatever you are, I need to know what’s happening and how to fix it.”

“I’m just messing with you, yes, but we got all the time in the world,” the man languidly waved him off. “Tell me something, Little Brother, do you already engage in a romantic relationship with someone? What’s your type?”

He first gestured at Nadia, with Meteos stepping cautiously beside him. “The demure one with hair and heart of gold? Or this one?” he pointed at Annette. “The aristocrat with a hidden depth? Or the cheery redhead?” he wondered further, gaze turning to linger at Sofia.

This time, his smile turned conspiratorial as Robin, Rachel, and Morgan came into his field of view.

“Or perhaps, you like older women? Eh? Your tomboyish master, perhaps? Or maybe you like maids? The feisty one or the motherly one? Then there’s also the question if you swing the other way, but it’s a whole other can of worms, to be fair…”

An intense frown marred Meteos’ face at these useless questions. The white-haired stranger, amused for a moment at the sight, stopped his saunter, a question mark creasing his brow.

“Oh? Did I finally bore you, Little Brother?” he quipped in feigned disappointment.

“This is getting tedious,” Meteos met his gaze, voice trying his best to sound calm. “You know, I don’t like playing games when it’s not the appropriate time to do so.”

“Well, well, well… what’s with that emphasis on that word?”

“Oh, you know.”

“Brave. Admirable. Or maybe you just like to push people’s buttons.”

A chuckle escaped the white-haired man’s lips as he finally met Meteos’ gaze head-on. The teasing façade melted away, replaced by a chilling sincerity that sent shivers down the boy’s spine as he looked at him with a simple, yet disarming smile.

“The thing is… I’m not ‘just’ from the Civilization Annihilation Game. I am THE Civilization Annihilation Game. The Executive Producer, in the flesh.”

The ground seemed to tilt beneath Meteos’ feet as his heart threatened to explode from his chest. None other than the very leader of the entity responsible for destroying countless worlds—and most importantly, behind everything that is wrong with this world—had appeared before him.

“The last boss…” he grunted, forcing those words out of his gritted teeth. “You… you’re the one who…”

“The final antagonist for this reincarnation story that Amatsu-Mikaboshi is spinning, yes,” the Executive Producer remarked offhandedly. “I have been called by many names, way more than your grandiose titles,” he paused for a chuckle. “Some of them make people run away really fast. But to make things simple, let’s stick with my three original names, okay? I want you to remember this well: Pestilence, the White Rider, and the First Horseman of the Apocalypse. Those are what they call me, Little Brother. I am not a god. In fact, gods fear me. They begged me to spare their existences, they envy me—they all want to be me.”

Having finished his self-introduction, the First Horseman of the Apocalypse, Pestilence, bowed politely with a hand placed on his chest.

“You are… one of the Four Horsemen…?”

‘A being more powerful by the gods…’

It was enough to make anyone’s head spin.

“Is that even possible? You might ask,” the white-haired man nodded. “The answer to that is yes. It’s merely one-quarter of the whole thing, in fact.”

Drawing from what he found after dealing with the Japanese in the previous timeline, he recalled a then-not-so-important tidbit that he never expected to become very relevant to his situation right now. Pestilence, some will say Conquest, is one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Together with War, Famine, and Death, these horsemen are personifications of calamities that are neither good nor evil, but inherently anti-mortal life at their core. He didn’t know how much the Japanese’s depiction of them was accurate to the situation, but it gave him an idea of what to expect.

Kagaseo has killed many gods, meaning gods can be killed. But can these beings be killed? If they somehow die, would people stop being sick? Or fighting each other? Stop being hungry? Stop dying? After all, they are not a god of anything… they are what cosmic function they represent themselves.

‘Of course, it now really makes sense what the Civilization Annihilation Game is all about. It’s a competitive Armageddon.’

“No, no, Little Brother. Be not afraid,” the man’s soothing voice reached Meteos’ ears, sensing the turmoil brewing within his mind. “I’m not here with any malicious intent.”

“…What is it that you want?”

Somehow, calmed down by the assurance, the boy managed to utter a question.

“To chat. Don’t let the fact that Amatsu-Mikaboshi’s carelessness turns me into an enemy in your eyes cloud your judgment. Little Brother, you seem like a calm and reasonable person. Are you?”

“…If the moment calls for calm,” Meteos muttered, answering with a voice that regained its steadiness with each measured word.

“I’d say the moment calls for calm, yes,” Pestilence smiled again. “There is a better place for such a tête-à-tête than this, we’re getting there within a moment…”

With a snap of the older man’s fingers, the world around them shimmered and dissolved. One moment, Meteos stood amidst his frozen friends in the field wearing a sweat-drenched getup, the next, he found himself clean and well-groomed, wearing a formal black and maroon attire while seated at a dimly lit table in a high-ceilinged, antique-style restaurant. The air was thick with the aroma of exotic spices and simmering stews, and the soft strains of a lute played somewhere in the distance. There was a steaming plate of roasted chicken and vegetables on the boy’s plate, as well as a white dragon bush tea on a porcelain cup, wafting a pleasant smell that was rather mundane compared to his bizarre situation.

There were no other customer-looking beings in the room except these two white-haired gentlemen, but what truly sent shivers down Meteos’ spine were the waitresses. Tall, willowy figures clad in flowing black gowns, their faces devoid of… faces.

“Don’t mind them, they’re just shadows I conjured to help around. Completely harmless,” remarked Pestilence, whose clothing was also changed to be more appropriate with the setting, rocking a dashing all-white three-piece suit.

Meteos’ direct interaction with Kagaseo did help him maintain a semblance of calm in the face of a godlike being, a fact that he owed him a lot. However… it just so happened that his bad luck today brought him to the audience of this being called Pestilence. Why would the leader of destroyers of worlds bother with pleasantries to mortals they regularly wipe out? Personalities like him are the worst, hiding malicious intent behind hospitality. This whole thing from whimsical teasing to polite conversation felt like a predator luring its prey into a false sense of security.

The lavish setting did little to ease the pit of despair festering in the reincarnator’s stomach. The steaming food mocked his lack of appetite, the gentle music an ironic counterpoint to the cacophony of dread roaring in his head. Every fiber of his being screamed defiance, yet the enormity of the situation left him feeling like a lone firefly against a starless sky. Pestilence’s nonchalant demeanor was just another layer of torture.

“……What is your business in our world?” Meteos asked after a while. He still hadn’t touched his plate, while Pestilence had already worked on the chicken with his utensils.

The older man looked up to stare incredulously at him.

“I don’t know you have such an overinflated sense of importance, Little Brother. Does witnessing your friend’s grisly death in your previous timeline have done absolutely nothing to temper your ego?”

Meteos tensed, listening to Pestilence who continued speaking.

“Ars Goetia is one little planet in one tiny solar system in a galaxy that’s barely out of its diapers. I’m old, Meteos Roguerider. Very old. Therefore, I invite you to contemplate how insignificant I find you.”

“………”

“Now, now, I’m just messing with you,” Pestilence smiled coyly. “Amatsu-Mikaboshi haven’t told you?”

“About what?”

“The Nihonkoku Shoukan, the tentative name for my reality show’s upcoming season.”

“Ah…”

Tentative.

This statement had just opened a door of many possibilities that sent more waves of nausea to Meteos’ already twisting gut.

“He did.”

“Oh, yes. Speaking of that ‘benefactor’ of yours. He’s… imprisoned, shall we say. After I retrieved Astarte myself, I deemed it necessary to ensure that he wouldn’t cause trouble to anyone. Having noble intentions as he might be, Amatsu-Mikaboshi is too impulsive.”

Meteos’ hands unconsciously clenched into fists. Each word Pestilence uttered was a hammer blow to his already teetering mind. Hearing his two godly allies, Kagaseo and Astarte, defeated by this enigmatic entity brought on a wave of despair that threatened to drown him. That this all happened so abruptly, without any buildup whatsoever, but a sliver of Meteos’ common sense reprimanded his hopeful heart, that it’s ridiculous for a being at the caliber of what Pestilence claims to strictly behave like a fictional villain.

“I don’t understand.”

“Take your time, Little Brother. I know it’s a lot to take in. You might not like the words coming out of my mouth, being the antagonistic force from your perspective, after all… but the ability to stay calm despite being the weaker one within a lopsided engagement is a virtue. You should be proud of yourself.”

Pestilence gestured to the untouched plate on Meteos’ side.

“Eat, Little Brother.”

“………”

“I won’t ask the second time.”

“Very well.”

Reluctantly, Meteos picked up the utensils and finally took the first bite of his meal. Forcing himself to swallow a mouthful of chicken, each chew felt like giving a concession.

“A wise choice,” Pestilence praised, taking another bite of his own meal. “Hunger clouds judgment, Little Brother. A full belly fosters clarity, and you’ll need all the clarity you can get for what’s to come.”

“………”

“By the way, do you like your second life?”

“Why would you ask that?”

“I mean, the real motive behind Amatsu-Mikaboshi’s shenanigans is to gather enough positive energy to heal Astarte through reincarnators—which happens to be you alone—as the ‘instrument.’ Surely you would want your feelings to be included in consideration, like asking you first instead of forcing you to duel a god with a second chance dangling as a reward?”

“…I don’t know,” Meteos paused. “In a way, he does seem to care for someone.”

“Indeed. A caring god,” Pestilence nodded. “But most of all, having gone through all that hardship must’ve given you a sense that your second life is earned, despite your flaws, no?”

“I wonder if it’s really the case. Never gave much thought to it. Only the fact that I lived.”

“That’s normal,” the older man commented. “You seem to cherish your second life, too, so that’s probably a good thing. You know, if only the entire pantheon of Ars Goetia is just as caring as Astarte, your world might be a better place to live. It took an outsider god to try bringing a semblance of sanity to this world, but shame, he unfortunately chose to get in the way of my interests in a rather unpleasant manner. Disappointing both ways.”

A flicker of unspoken questions sparked in the boy’s eyes.

“Here’s the thing, Little Brother. Gods created mortals in their image. Therefore mortals, how they behave to each other and to their creators, are a reflection of the gods who created them. Simply put, unhinged gods create unhinged creations. These kinds of gods, who themselves thrive in feuds within their pantheon, don’t really care about their creations’ well-being, only enjoying the chaos they cause whenever conflicts between them erupt. Of course, there will be times of calm, or times when conflicts are short and minimum. At these times, the aforementioned kind of gods will become bored. They will seek something to alleviate their boredom, and that’s where the Civilization Annihilation Game comes in. We prey on their insecurities to entice them into participating in the shows and consume mortal suffering in the process. Eventually, the more mortal suffering they consume, the more they will degenerate and then become deader than dead.”

“I heard that mortal suffering is described as an addictive substance to the gods,” Meteos stated. “What’s to say that your business doesn’t corrupt the benign ones?”

“Who knows? But we made it pretty clear what we are selling from our name, don’t you think? If there’s a god who really loves their creations, they would never choose to even spare a glance at what the Game is offering, and the Game would never thrive as a successful business. Astarte, the Goddess of Fertility and the Blessed Mother of the Elven Race within the Ars Goetian pantheon is the embodiment of such heroic qualities of a god… If there were more gods like her, the Game wouldn’t have a reason to even exist. Well, at least, the survivors of the Game will find hope under the warm protection of the benevolent gods.”

“…But she’s not unharmed, is she—”

“And?”

Pestilence shot down Meteos’ rebuttal.

“I never said that the Game will leave such gods alone. Betraying Astarte and other good Ars Goetian gods is the means of payment that we offered through Shamash’s mouth, but ultimately the other gods of your world chose to sell them and your world to us. After existing as a threat for so long, leaving destruction in our wake, surely you might imagine gods would have banded to try to stop us, wouldn’t you? But there are none. Only Amatsu-Mikaboshi took the initiative, but he still doesn’t realize his full potential, yet. He might speak of stopping the Game, to defy fate, for the good of mankind, but what his heart really after is… Shamash’s death and a place to call home. I also think that he might be smitten with Astarte. A love at first sight sort of situation.”

A humorless laugh escaped Meteos’ lips. “Is that an attempt to divide and conquer?”

“Well, it’s your choice to make of everything I said, Little Brother,” Pestilence smiled. “Ah… your story is an enjoyable one. Too bad it will end so soon.”

Meteos silently glared at him with resignation, knowing that there was absolutely nothing he could do. Trapped in this bizarre place with Pestilence, forced to listen to the architect of his world’s torment, a cocktail of emotions roiled within him.

“………”

“Such is the fate of a world betrayed by its own gods. Unless, of course…” Pestilence’s voice dipped to a whisper, “unless someone takes their place.”

“What?”

The older man leaned forward. “Become a god yourself, Little Brother. Ascend to the divine, kill the traitors, and cancel the deal by killing Shamash. Stop Ars Goetia’s annihilation, become the new master of the world. I can make it happen.”

“That’s obviously a trap.”

“Playing it tough, I see. Well, when the time finally comes for the show to commence, you’ll wish you were one. I know how much you cherished your world, how much you don’t want to see it trampled by outsiders… annoying outsiders with condescending tendencies,” Pestilence cooed. “You even wept for it.”

Indeed, who likes it when someone walked into their house unannounced and throws shit to their face? But weeping? Meteos knows he isn’t that dramatic. He’s a man driven by envy who spent the latter years of his first life one-upping the Holy Empire’s new competitors, not grief.

When he was about to reply to him, a choked sob escaped Meteos before he could even comprehend its source.

“Wait, w-what?”

Tears, warm and unexpected, traced paths down his cheeks, leaving salty trails against his skin. He was bewildered at first, until he turned to gaze up at Pestilence’s vindicated expression.

“You did this.”

Pestilence shrugged, neither confirming nor denying. His smile, which held an unsettling shade of knowingness, remained in place seeing Meteos angrily wiping his tears.

“Your heart seems afraid that all your efforts will be for nothing as a mortal, yet you are hesitant in the face of this offer because well, the common knowledge is that gods can’t interfere with mortal affairs. After all, you would want to enjoy the fruits of your labor in person, am I right?”

“…Enough. I don’t want to hear your propositions anymore,” the boy gritted out, pushing away the plate. “This conversation is over.”

Rising abruptly, he impulsively stormed towards the exit. He didn’t look back nor acknowledge the amused laugh that echoed in his wake. He just walked, marching to the door in the distance.

“No, Little Brother. It’s over only when I say it’s over,” Pestilence called out, sipping his wine. “I’m surprised you’re able to stay calm this long… but now that you’re getting emotional, a good fight will help you clear your head.”

Meteos stopped in his tracks, turning back to see Pestilence. And then, it happened. Particles of shimmering light danced into existence around his waist, swirling and coalescing before solidifying into a familiar silver band and a black buckle, with the golden and purple attachments for said buckle materializing into the holders on the sides of his waist.

Snapping his attention back to himself to check the new feeling of weight on his body, Meteos muttered in astonishment.

“This device—!”

DESIRE DRIVER!

The technology used to fight against Kagaseo through transformation into an armored warrior named “Rogue” appeared before him once again. But before he could even dwell on this turn of events, three blue flames ignited in his path, coalescing into spectral forms of three humanoid shapes that stood to greet him. The one in the center took longer to take form for some reason, but the ones flanking it revealed themselves to be people so familiar that Meteos’ eyes couldn’t help but widen in recognition.

To the left, a blue-eyed young girl Meteos’ current age stared back at him with a frightened expression that hurt him upon seeing her in that state. Furthermore, from underneath the dirt-stained blue jacket she’s wearing, blood gushed from multiple bullet holes that riddled her white dress.

“N-Nadia?”

She whimpered, too frightened by everything to hear Meteos’ pained call. Her tear-streaked face, framed by fringes of unkempt golden locks, stared past him, her dull blue eyes wide with an unimaginable terror.

On the right side, the flames revealed a haggard-looking woman in an olive-drab long coat. Different from the energetic Robin who’s familiar to him, this one was a gaunt, dead woman walking.

“Teacher…”

“Nnggh………?” she responded, lifting her tired gaze to Meteos. “Who… are you…?”

“What is the meaning of all this? What have you done!?”

Seeing them twisted into these haunting figures ignited a quiet fire within the reincarnator. In response, Pestilence readily gave an explanation. “These are what the versions of your closest friends look like when their lives ended without their fateful encounter with you in the first timeline, Little Brother. Put them out of their misery, or else their screams will haunt you for eternity…”

“Ghosts… don’t tell me…”

Gritting his teeth, Meteos braced himself for the final ghost to appear as the specter in the center finished forming after what felt like an excruciatingly long time. It must be Meteos Roguerider’s greatest regret. It must be him…!

As the blue flames danced and swirled, the spectral form of a slender man who is his childhood friend turned rival, Walman, materialized. Unlike the terrified Nadia and the hollow stare of Robin, his eyes burned just like the inferno that had consumed his Pal Chimera on that day. While familiarity lingered in his visage, Walman’s left side was horribly charred, making Meteos’ gaze harden upon sight. His body was never found. This must be what he looked like immediately after his soul left his body.

Far behind the reunion, Pestilence produced a velvet box containing seven glowing spheres and mused to himself, ‘Time to put all your powers into use. Don’t make a disappointing performance.’

While those seven spheres floated wildly and began to position themselves behind the ghosts, a stare-down between them ensued.

“………”

“……Long time no see, Walman…”

The man’s glare bore into Meteos. “You… Meteos…”

“Yes, it is me,” he replied, his voice kept level in the face of the specter’s burning fury.

“What is this joke?”

“I… survived the battle… died… encountered an unexpected turn of fate… and next, I woke up in this world, a five-year-old again… Ten years have passed since my rebirth. It’s almost ninety years since we’ve last seen each other, isn’t it?”

“So what does that mean!?” Walman snarled in the face of the admission. “You get to live into old age, and die in peace, is that it? And then—and then, you get to live a second time!?”

“Walman, you…”

“You’re alive thanks to me. So it only makes sense for you to die so that I can live, right? Meteos… let me live at your expense!”

“Ah…”

Meteos let out a long-drawn exhale. Having faced with Walman’s state of being, a strange sense of clarity washed upon him as he spoke, looking at his friend in the eyes.

“I know, I made so many mistakes…” he muttered wistfully. “One, I wasted the chance to repair the rift with the friend who was always by my side.”

“………”

“Two, I was blinded by the petty glory and let it go over my head. And three, many more people have shed tears simply because of that.”

“What are you talking about!?”

“I was… counting up my sins,” Meteos averted his gaze momentarily.

“Sins? It’s fine! All your sins will be forgiven once you sacrifice yourself!”

“I’m sorry—”

“Aah! It… hurts…! KYAAAAAAAAAH!”

“No… Ngggh! RAAAAAARGH!”

Their heated exchange was abruptly halted by the other two ghosts who began screaming in unison. From Nadia and Robin’s backs, two pulsating spheres of light each violently burrowed into their spines, sending ripples of pain through their being. After the spheres dissolved, Nadia and Robin’s forms were engulfed by black sludge that erupted from beneath their feet, transforming their human figures into metallic red-eyed abominations—Gameizers.

LOKI!

NEW ORDER!

In Robin’s place was a jet-black Gameizer clad in bulky armor with sharp angles. It sported visible weaponry which included machine guns on each arm and two jet engines mounted in cylindrical nacelles on its back. Crafted using victims from the Civilization Annihilation Game, this model compressed the collective brutality from god knows how many variants of an entity known as “Nazi Germany” into a singular, monstrous being. Additionally, a second component contributed to the creation of a hybrid Gameizer with enhanced powers. This second ingredient manifested as a pair of horns on its helmet and luminous green lines traversing the entirety of the Gameizer’s body.

SUSANOO!

RISING!

Nadia on the other hand, was turned into a much sleeker Gameizer sporting a white and red color scheme that was topped by a tattered white overcoat. Slowly reaching for a pair of scabbards on its sides, it pulled a pair of straight swords made of gleaming blue metal.

“Come on, Meteos.”

Walman’s growl snapped Meteos from his astonished stupor seeing the transformation unfolding before him. “Hurry up and die so that I get to live once again…!”

“I see…”

In response, the white-haired boy pulled the devices from their side holders.

‘The Feverslot Buckle and the Zombie Buckle. Looks like I need to rely on my luck this time, huh…?’

“You are my shadow, Walman… you are every mistake I’ve made.”

“So you understand that I can’t be real until you’re gone!”

“You’re not wrong,” Meteos remarked. “That’s why… your ghost is finished today.”

SET! FEVER!

“Henshin!”

ZOMBIE!

HIT! FEVER… ZOM~BIEEEE!

While the two buckles were inserted into the Desire Driver, transforming the boy into Rogue Fever Zombie Form, Walman’s ghost let out a bloodcurdling roar in the face of Meteos’ defiance.

“NO! NO, NO, NO, NO! YOU BASTARD! YOU DESERVE NOTHING! WHY…!? WHY THE FFFFFFFFFUCK YOU GET TO PLAY HERO NOW!?”

At that moment, the remaining three glowing spheres behind him merged into his figure, beginning the Gameizer transformation sequence.

“ARRRGH! RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRGH!”

CTHULHU!

FREEDOM!

MANIFEST DESTINY!

His Gameizer form was a much more grotesque monster compared to Robin and Nadia’s. The metallic gray armor, supposed to proudly represent the combined military might of many variants of the one nation that was said to be the beacon of freedom and democracy, was haphazardly obliterated in many parts by the Great Old One’s sickly green-colored elements. Draconic wings unfurled in a burst of rage before folding back, their razor edges dripping with ichor. The helmet bore a monstrous dragon head devouring a sphere that was the planet Earth in its mouth, and finally, Cthulhu’s writhing tentacles lashed out from inside the helmet in seven directions, forming a sinister crown to complete the look of utter insanity.

“Truly, your drive to do what you must is admirable, Little Brother,” Pestilence commented, still not moving from his seat.

Everything is a sum of one’s own choices. And Meteos Roguerider had chosen to face his demons head-on.

READY?

“…What other choice do I have?”

FIGHT!

FOR… DESIRE!