The city didn't breathe. It didn't pulse with human noise or technological hums. But it wasn't dead either. It simply was—massive mountains slicing the sky, floating islands casting shadows on untouched snow, a manor, a citadel, and bridges like veins connecting gods who had long since left the body behind.
Menystria stood still, silent, and unbothered.
Its creators had moved on, scattered themselves across the globe like fallen fragments of a once singular divine thought. Seeking, watching, meddling.
Noah wandered through what was now China, a mechanical beast too advanced for its own skin. Cold towers pierced cloudlines, streets flooded with synthetic voices and glassed eyes. He was... satisfied. Annoyed at how close they were to his ideals, but satisfied.
Evodil walked the torn remains of Russia, or what was left of it. No longer a whole, just shards of identity pretending they still belonged to something larger. The god of shadows didn't speak. He watched, studied, laughed when it felt right, and vanished when it didn't. People saw him in dreams, blamed madness or radiation. No one believed.
And James?
France.
He had chosen it not for its beauty, or culture, or past, but for its laws. It was strict—quietly so—but still alive with a sense of structure. A society that wanted to believe in borders, in rules, in roles. And it was breaking. He could see it in the eyes of the people. They obeyed because they feared, not because they respected. Authority was a dying god, and James knew it.
He walked among them as a shadow of power in a neat navy suit. His eyes covered by cheap sunglasses he took off a vendor's table without paying. No one stopped him. He passed soldiers. He passed rioters. He passed a woman screaming at an empty ATM, and a boy trying to sell raw meat out of a lunchbox.
He walked into a courthouse. Sat down. Waited. No one noticed. The trial went on—some poor bastard being crushed by paperwork and accusation. James watched.
And he smiled.
Not because he enjoyed it, but because he saw the cracks. The desperation. The slow unraveling of something once revered.
They didn't need gods.
But they needed order.
And if no one else would give it to them, he would.
Even if he had to tear down every fake wall they'd built around the idea first.
He walked among the normal people, seeing the tourist attractions—or what remained of them. Old statues, cracked walkways, plaques smeared with dirt and graffiti. Each monument seemed more irrelevant than the last, important to the humans for whatever reason, for history, legacy, or pride.
Did he care?
Not much.
It was information. That's all it ever was. Markers. Reminders. Pieces of the bigger puzzle that helped him understand how humans thought, how they behaved, how they failed.
He watched crowds take pictures in front of burned cathedrals, couples argue under rusting arches, children beg near fountains once celebrated in books.
How pathetic. How predictable.
Peace was never real with them. Just a waiting room. A pause before another collapse. A silent breath before someone stronger came and reminded them how small they truly were.
And here they were again—at peace, for now. Pretending. Wandering streets built on blood and marble like they meant something.
He didn't hate them. That would require care.
But he knew what they needed.
Not gods. Not heroes.
Order.
And thus… he heads to Paris.
The grand capital of the fractured French population. Its streets were cleaner here, though the cracks still ran beneath the surface—literal and otherwise. Grand architecture remained, iron-laced balconies and stone towers watching over old roads filled with new machines. The courts were guarded, but not too tightly. The parks had life, but not peace. The houses were stacked close, uniform yet tired, and the restaurants tried to play cheerful music loud enough to hide the tension.
He walked through it all. Silent. Watching. Noticing.
It wasn't awe that made him pause—it was assessment. Evaluation. The way things connected, the way power moved.
And then he stopped.
The white house of the current president. It stood with pride, its clean walls surrounded by men with guns, its windows shut tightly like eyes refusing to see. A place of decisions. Weak decisions.
He stared at it.
Thinking.
Wondering what to truly do now.
He thought about it.
Coming in.
Taking the country for himself.
Then the ones around it.
Then the whole planet, if he even could.
Why?
Because he could.
Because he wanted to.
Because this world had no spine, no spine and no direction—only noise.
And yet, just as the thought lingered…
He remembered.
Noah's voice.
Back when Evodil was still missing—gone somewhere unknown, unspoken.
A warning.
"They can't take over the world. If even one of the presidents found them out, a war of such high scale would start that there would be no world left to take control over."
It stuck.
So he sighed.
Turned to the pillar beside him, white and crumbling, part of some "restored" monument standing guard near the government palace.
He struck it once.
The stone shattered—what pieces were left flew miles out, scattered across the city like forgotten history.
A few screams echoed, but he didn't turn back.
Didn't look.
He just walked away from the palace.
He groaned as he walked.
The sound of his frustration low, yet heavy enough to send a pulse through the air.
People around him flinched, some just paused—others crossed the street entirely.
They didn't know who he was, but they felt it.
The weight. The pressure.
The quiet rage of something that should not be walking among them.
He muttered under his breath, voice cold with sarcasm and barely restrained fury.
"Follow the laws, he says. The damn god of law... following laws that he made. Genius."
His fists clenched and unclenched, boots thudding just slightly heavier into the pavement with each step.
It took him a while, but eventually—he reached a park near the edge of the city.
Quiet enough. Less people. The kind of place built to calm nerves that didn't belong to people like him.
He stared at it for a second, then let out a long exhale.
"Why the hell not..."
He moved toward the bench and sat down, his back against the cold metal, arms resting along the top, posture halfway between a man relaxing and a storm brewing.
A moment of stillness in a world that didn't know what was coming.
He pulled out an old metal cigarette case, one of those vintage ones that looked like it belonged in a war-torn past.
He flipped it open, revealing a neatly arranged line inside. With two fingers, he took one out and placed it between his lips.
A spark flicked from his thumb, a thin flame dancing at his fingertip for half a second before fading as the cigarette lit.
He inhaled. Slow. Deep.
Then exhaled, smoke curling into the crisp Paris air like a quiet, tired sigh.
His eyes stared out across the park, but they weren't looking at anything. His mind had already drifted.
Menystria.
The city built by gods, now empty and quiet. The mountains Noah raised, the islands he himself dragged into the sky, the shadowed crater Evodil buried himself in.
They'd made something impossible. Something real.
And yet, it wasn't enough.
The humans were still out here.
Still thinking they were alone in the universe, still worshipping their own creations—technology, governments, ambition, and ego.
He took another drag, the ember flaring at the tip of the cigarette.
They had the power to change that.
To show the world that gods weren't just myths scribbled into pages, but walking, breathing, thinking things.
They could take the world, reshape it, mold it into something better—or worse.
But for now, all they had were possibilities.
After a while of brooding like some bitter old man stuck in the wrong era, judging everything around him just because "it's not the same anymore", James let out a low grunt and pushed himself up from the bench.
His bones didn't ache, but his patience sure as hell did.
He stretched his arms back lazily, shoulder joints cracking faintly, and with a flick of his fingers, the cigarette was reduced to atoms—smoke, ash, then nothing.
He exhaled one last time and shoved his hands into his coat pockets.
Slow steps carried him past the edge of the park, boots clicking lightly on the pavement.
A pond sat nearby, water still and smooth like a mirror, birds floating on its surface, too peaceful for his mood.
He glanced down into it for a second, the reflection of the cloudy sky above rippling slightly. He didn't stop, just kept walking.
Wondering, not with excitement but a low, simmering boredom, what else this path might throw at him on the way back home.
As he was just about to leave the park, the sky darkened with an eerie suddenness.
A storm rolled in fast—ominous clouds blotting out the faint light of the late afternoon. Thunder cracked in the distance, a low growl that might've made a human pause. But James? He barely raised an eyebrow.
Just rain. Nothing unusual. A little water he could dry off in seconds.
But as always, the universe had a sick sense of humor.
A bolt of lightning tore through the clouds and struck him dead center, right where he stood.
It lit up the park for a split second, deafening thunder following immediately after.
Smoke hissed from his coat, and the charred remnants of one shoulder smoldered.
His hair, slightly singed at the tips, smelled like burnt cloth and ozone.
He stood there for a moment, still as stone, face twitching once.
No real damage—his body could take it—but that wasn't the point.
His jaw clenched. One hand twitched. He looked down at the new rip scorched into the sleeve of his coat and exhaled like a bull about to charge.
"Of course," he muttered. "Of fucking course."
He stood there in the rain, clothes half-burned, hair crackling with leftover static, and just stared blankly ahead—thinking, or maybe just done with thinking altogether.
What the actual fuck was he supposed to do now?
He didn't feel like returning home, not yet.
He didn't feel like dealing with people, gods, or laws either.
He just wanted to not look like a pissed-off scarecrow for a while.
Out the corner of his eye, something tugged at his attention.
A small boutique, tucked away at the edge of the road beside the park. Quiet. Modest. Almost hidden.
But more importantly—it had clothes.
He glanced down at himself. His once-pristine suit, the very image of formality and authority, now looked like it had been through a warzone.
Blackened edges. Torn fabric. Smoke stains that refused to disappear.
"…Fine."
He walked toward it, the rain doing little to him as it slid off in rivulets.
A faint bell rang as he pushed the glass door open.
Inside?
Surprisingly tasteful. Warm lighting. A deliberate placement of color tones that actually made sense. Mannequins dressed sharply in modern designs, yet with a subtle nod to traditional cuts.
James raised an eyebrow.
"...Huh."
Even he had to admit—it was decent.
He didn't waste time.
No need to ponder or compare—he found what worked.
A new dark navy suit, sleek and practical, nearly identical in color to his last. This time paired with a clean black turtleneck underneath instead of a formal shirt, giving him a colder, more refined air.
The earpiece microphone? Functional and polished. Already synced with his internal godly tech—whatever Noah shoved into him back in Menystria.
He walked to the register with a neat stack in his arms, ready to get this over with.
Then he saw her.
Blonde hair curled just enough to look natural. Eyes as sharp as they were blue, glowing with that annoying but undeniable curiosity humans always had.
A red dress hugged her figure like it was made for her alone. Not flashy. Just… confident. Controlled. Present.
He paused. Just for a moment.
She looked up at him, caught his gaze, and smiled like she'd been expecting someone like him to walk in today.
"…Name?" she asked, scanning the clothes without glancing down.
He studied her a second longer before replying, tone clipped but steady.
"James."
A beat.
"James what?" she asked, almost teasing.
He didn't answer right away.
"…James will do."
She gave a quiet laugh. "Alright then… James."
"Jessica Leroy," she added, motioning to herself before tapping in the total.
"Owner, designer, and unfortunately the cashier today too."
James nodded slightly. For some reason, he didn't walk away just yet.
After another pause—too long to be casual—James spoke again.
"This place is… surprisingly well-arranged," he said, gesturing vaguely to the mannequins near the entrance. "The color pairings, the distance between racks, even the positioning… efficient. Well thought out."
Jessica blinked. "Uh… thanks?"
He continued. "The location, too. Hidden but not lost. You don't rely on heavy foot traffic. You rely on precision. The ones who need something good find you. It's… effective."
She folded her arms and tilted her head slightly, one brow raised. "You… compliment stores often, James?"
He didn't seem fazed. "Only when they deserve it."
Jessica gave a tired smile, eyes scanning the empty store before returning to him. "Well, that's flattering. But if you're done giving me a Yelp review, your total's on the screen."
He glanced at it, paid without looking.
Still didn't leave.
"…I used to design things too," he said, eyes drifting to the patterns on a nearby scarf. "Different things. Less… wearable. More permanent."
Jessica sighed, clearly unsure whether to humor him or ask him to leave. Instead, she offered the receipt in silence, already mentally preparing for the next oddball that might wander in.
He didn't stop.
Words spilled out like a damn flood breaking loose. Comments on fabrics, reflections on human taste, critiques of modern fashion—even a short tangent about how Menystrian robes would outclass anything here if it weren't for how loud they looked.
Then, mid-rant, he asked her out.
Jessica stared at him for a moment before she burst out laughing. Not polite laughter, not nervous laughter. Genuine, head-tilted-back, "what the hell did I just hear" laughter.
"You? Are asking me out?"
He nodded, not even slightly embarrassed.
She composed herself just enough to speak. "Yeah… no. Why don't you get on with your day already, mon dieu."
The shift in the air was subtle, but it was there. The light hum of tension that followed an insult not meant to be an insult—just honesty that hit a nerve.
James' eyes narrowed slightly. His jaw tightened.
"I'm not just some man off the street," he said sharply, voice cold now. "I am a god. Of law. Of order."
Jessica blinked. "Right… of course you are."
"I'm not joking," he snapped, his voice rising a little. "I could have taken this city. This country. All of it. But I didn't. I let it be."
She took a slow step back, hand inching toward something beneath the counter. "Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to calm down, or—"
"I am calm," he hissed, now fully leaning over the counter. "I just wanted a simple conversation. You should be honored—honored—to be speaking to someone like me."
Jessica stared at him in silence, not out of awe… but disbelief. Like watching a man try to lecture a hurricane.
James leaned in further, eyes locked on Jessica, his tone shifting from arrogant to possessive.
"You should feel lucky," he muttered, voice low and sharp, "someone like me finding you worth a second glance. That's not admiration—that's a reward. You're not a person to me, you're an achievement."
As his hand moved, almost reaching for her arm, Jessica didn't flinch—she pressed the small red button under the counter.
The sound was immediate. Sirens began blaring through the walls, a flashing light igniting above the entrance. A silent alarm, loud now.
His face dropped.
He stood there, fists tightening, breathing shallow, thoughts racing. If police showed up and he let them see even a fraction of what he really was, it'd unravel everything. The law Noah insisted on. The quiet Evodil swore to keep. The invisible control they barely managed.
Jessica said nothing. She didn't need to. The smirk on her lips said it all—Get out.
James stared at her for a long, tense moment. Pure fury swimming in his eyes. Then, slowly… he turned.
He walked out of the boutique with stiff, angry steps. The rain soaked through his clothes in seconds, but he didn't even notice. Not with the fire already burning in his chest.
A single flame flickered into existence in his palm, shielding him from the water, but not from his own temper. And as he stepped away from the store, from the street corner, from the laughter and mockery that clung to him like fog—
He stopped.
Turned halfway back.
And with a low grunt of rage, hurled the fireball behind him.
The boutique exploded into flame instantly, fire ripping through wood, mannequins, and fabric like it was made to burn. The rain hissed as it touched the blaze, but it couldn't stop it—not yet.
James didn't look back. He just kept walking.
Screams erupted from the surrounding streets as the flames devoured the boutique. Civilians shouted over one another, some frozen in place, others rushing forward to help—phones out, some filming, some calling emergency lines already swamped with panicked reports.
The fire danced violently in the rain, as if defying nature itself. Windows burst from the pressure, mannequins within melting into warped silhouettes of what once were.
Police sirens grew louder, flashing red and blue cutting through the smoke.
Officers barked orders, pushing civilians back, shouting to find witnesses—anything, anyone who saw what started it. But no one could say. All they knew was that one moment, the store was quiet, the next it was an inferno.
No signs of explosives, no gas leaks, no electrical sparks.
Just a man. A tall man with black slicked-back hair and glowing orange eyes who walked away from the scene without a word. No one got a clear look. Or, if they did, they weren't sure if they wanted to remember.
James was already gone.
His laughter echoed off broken buildings and dark alleyways, ricocheting through the streets like the roar of some maddened beast. At first, people turned to look—curious, disturbed. But as the sound deepened, turned guttural, unrelenting, they fled.
His steps were heavy, purposeful, but erratic—like a machine built for war, now fractured at its core. He didn't care where he walked, what he passed, or who heard him. His hands shook with restrained rage. His thoughts weren't even thoughts anymore—just jagged pieces of fury spiraling through his head.
Noah's rules.
The humans.
That woman.
His own restraint.
Hours bled into each other like spilled ink on old parchment. The laughing never ceased—though his throat went raw, his voice cracked, his chest hurt. It didn't matter. He needed to let it out, all of it.
And finally—
The gates.
Ancient, towering structures of metal twisted into divine architecture, so unlike anything the human world could ever craft. They had stood since the beginning of their world, unmoving.
As James approached, they slowly creaked open—acknowledging the returning god like they always did. But as he crossed the threshold and stepped onto the sacred soil of Menystria, the gates slammed shut behind him.
BOOM.
The sound was deafening, like thunder crashing through stone. The ground trembled slightly beneath his feet, dust shaking off from the cliffs above. The gates no longer welcomed, they warned. Something had changed.
And James, now silent, walked deeper into the mountain realm—still burning.
He stepped into the cold silence of the Citadel, the doors groaning shut behind him as if the entire structure was exhaling in relief. The place was empty, dark, save for the faint flicker of soul-powered torches along the stone walls. He didn't bother lighting more. He didn't need the warmth.
His steps echoed through the long halls until he reached one of the many forgotten corners of his home. A small shelf. Dusty. Unused. On it sat a single bottle of whiskey, its label faded from time, a souvenir from another doomed attempt at understanding their kind.
France was supposed to be different.
He thought maybe—just maybe—they'd finally see.
But they didn't.
He grabbed the bottle, ripped off the cork, and drank without restraint. The burn in his throat was welcome, grounding. His free hand trembled as he leaned against the stone wall, head tilting back to stare at the ceiling.
Everything they built…
Everything he upheld…
Mocked. Challenged. Rejected.
By mortals. By them.
He growled under his breath, slamming the empty bottle to the floor—shards scattering across the marble like tiny truths he no longer wanted to see.
And in that stillness, in the quiet judgment of his Citadel's cold walls, James declared his new law.
A law not carved into stone, nor announced with celestial heralds.
A law for himself—sharp, simple, final:
"Never again will I feel for a human."