Malthus couldn't touch me.

Not with his sword, not with his ego, not even with the fiery desperation of a man who skipped therapy for war crimes.

I was untouchable.

The same couldn't be said for him, though — I had cut his foot earlier. Yeah, clean off.

He wasn't expecting it — probably thought I was too busy monologuing or being a disappointment to humanity.

But no. I was done being that guy.

I'd grown. Mentally, spiritually, and possibly in hair density.

He regrew his foot, because of course he did — apparently Malthus' body parts come with a lifetime warranty — and came swinging like an unpaid electricity bill.

Yet still… he couldn't land a hit.

I, on the other hand, was calm.

Serene.

An emotional monk in a battle royale.

I had faith. Faith in my training, my patience, and my katana — the only thing more loyal to me than my childhood crush.

If I stayed focused, I would hurt him. Eventually.

But patience was not Malthus' strong suit. The man had the emotional restraint of a toddler with a flamethrower.

He stopped fighting, raised his hand to the sky — classic villain move.

Palm open. Eyes glaring.

Begging the gods for attention like an influencer losing followers.

Then came the heat.

Then came the light.

Then came my regret for not investing in sunscreen.

And then… Malthus said something that officially broke my will to understand logic: "If a sword won't hurt you, I'll throw a sun at you!"

…Excuse me?

Sir.

You failed basic astronomy, didn't you?

A sun?

You're gonna throw a star at me because stabbing didn't work? That's like losing a chess game and bombing the opponent's house.

But fine. Turns out it wasn't a real sun. Just a smaller version.

Like a pocket sun. A fireball with delusions of grandeur.

Still — hot enough to turn me into barbecue.

I didn't back down. I raised my katana.

"I can cut this," I told myself. "I believe in my training."

Then my System decided to open its big mouth.

[ You won't be able to cut shit, you idiot! You're the main character, not Chuck Norris. Put that katana down and let me handle it. ]

I was about to argue — maybe even file a complaint — but the damn System interrupted me.

[ Skill: GOLDEN SHOWER — ACTIVATED. ]

…

Silence.

I blinked.

Then I looked down.

Nothing.

Then I felt something.

Drops. On my head.

Golden drops.

I looked up. No clouds. No people.

Just divine justice.

Which meant… God was taking a piss.

And he had perfect aim.

One drop became two. Then a downpour.

Suddenly, it started raining like Heaven had bladder issues.

Golden rain fell across the land — shimmering, sizzling, sanctified chaos.

Those celestial droplets hit Malthus' miniature sun, and poof.

It vanished. Just like that.

Outshined, outclassed, and out-pissed.

The heat vanished. The light dimmed.

The battlefield cooled.

And I stood there, wet in divine urine, victorious.

The people watching on the sky-screen went feral.

They screamed my name like a stadium full of drunk cricket fans.

"THE HERO KING!"

"HE DID IT!"

"BATHED IN GOD'S LOVE — AND GOD'S PISS!"

Some even drank the golden rain.

Why?

I don't know.

Maybe they thought it was holy. Maybe they were just dehydrated and stupid.

Either way, I didn't care.

The sun was gone, Malthus was mad, and I was the hero again.

Malthus' face twisted into an expression that could make statues file for emotional damage.

His jaw was clenched so tight it could've cracked diamonds. His nails dug into his palms until blood dripped like guilt.

And I smiled.

Because this time, he was the one losing his composure.

Last time, he got frustrated because I kept cracking jokes mid-fight with Sexis and Erect.

This time, he was mad because I was actually winning.

Character development, baby.

We were both on the ground now — not floating, not flying.

My feet hurt, my soul was sweaty, but I felt powerful.

I couldn't fly. Not yet.

But I could jump like my rent was due tomorrow.

Still, I knew Malthus could fly.

He was the kind of guy who probably came out of the womb midair.

Then my System chimed in again like an uninvited coworker:

[ You can do that too. You have a skill for it. I'll activate it when I see the need. ]

I grinned. My System had my back.

Finally. Something in my life was reliable.

Everything was going my way.

My allies were thriving too.

The Nano Bites — those adorable murder robots — were in Impossible Mode, a.k.a. "God Mode with caffeine."

They were untouchable.

Faster than gossip in a small town.

Stronger than your ex's opinions.

They could launch their arms like missiles, bend like contortionists, and kill like tax audits.

One robot? Killed five men.

Effortlessly. Like swatting mosquitoes.

I looked to my master next.

She was dueling Malthus' mother — two seasoned psychos fighting like divorced thunder gods.

Master was an absolute monster.

She trained every day, every hour, probably even in her sleep.

She could kill an army while humming lullabies.

Ghost Jack was nearby, keeping watch, because Stronges was carrying his body like a cursed backpack.

He didn't want her hurt, so he was ready to blind Malthus' mom the moment things got hairy.

Honestly, I wasn't worried about Master.

The woman could beat death with a broomstick if she felt like it.

Next up: Sexis and Erect.

Both thriving. Both chaos incarnate.

Sexis was reaping souls with his scythe like a farmer who got rejected too many times.

Erect was smashing bones with his hammer like a toddler discovering physics.

Erect even broke Malthus' brother's leg — twice.

Sure, it healed instantly, but that's not the point.

He broke it.

Small victories matter.

Then I saw him.

The merchant.

Mohawk Guy.

My favorite lunatic.

He was still alive — somehow — fighting Malthus' dad.

The old man had grabbed his mohawk like a handle on a shopping cart, but the merchant didn't flinch.

Instead, he kicked him in the head and punched him with brass knuckles like a motivational speaker with brain damage.

Both looked half-dead, but that's fine.

Progress is progress.

I took a deep breath. Looked around.

Everyone was giving their all.

The robots, the master, my friends, even the mohawk freak.

All doing their part.

So I cracked my fists, smiled at Malthus, and said the only thing that made sense.

"Guess it's time for their king to remind you who the fuck I am."

And for the first time in a long time—

I meant it.

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