The Gods’ Gacha Game: Return of the God-King

Prologue [Volume 2]

The third floor of the Scarlet Pavilion overlooked much of District D, a vantage point few divine warriors could even dream of reaching, let alone afford to rent entirely. Sunlight filtered through the red-stained glass windows, casting the room in a hue reminiscent of dried blood and stretching long, ominous shadows across the polished white floor.

Seated on the largest sofa, Ronan of the Crimson Crest leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. His amber eyes glinted, focused on the parchment map of Fantasia on the low table before him, with each mark representing a known faction.

Graham was dead.

He had witnessed it with his own eyes, right there in the Grand Colosseum. The moment it happened, he knew the city would never be the same. Graham had ruled the first three districts with an iron grip for months, snuffing out any challenger before they could rise. He wasn’t just strong; he was also symbolic. A reminder that in Fantasia, strength was law.

Now he was gone. Executed by Raphael after being defeated in public combat. And worse, beaten by someone no one had ever heard of, who was basically a nobody.

Ronan had once been a high-ranking adventurer, a seasoned leader who guided his party, the Crimson Crest, through ancient ruins, uncovering secrets and hoards long buried by time. He had carved out a life of purpose and prestige, earning a name through cunning, grit, and instinct. By all accounts, his path had been set—until the day he was ripped from that world and thrust into this death game called Divine Will.

Yet even in this new world, he adapted quickly. Upon arrival, he’d immediately attained Gimmel rank and possessed the “Veteran Adventurer” class, which fit someone like him. Had it not been for Graham’s earlier arrival, Ronan was certain he would’ve stood at the top. He was younger, sharper, and far more methodical than that brute.

Leaning back against the plush velvet of the sofa, Ronan laced his fingers together, thumbs resting against his lips in thought. His amber gaze never left the map in front of him.

“The wolves are going to descend…” he murmured.

“He left a void, my lord,” came a quiet voice from his left.

It was Saria, one of his oldest companions from the Crimson Crest. She’d always been his eyes in the dark, the scout who moved without sound, slipping through shadows while others stumbled blind. Her curled chestnut hair was tied in a high tail, and her worn leather gloves creaked faintly as she tightened the straps—a nervous habit she hadn’t shaken since their earliest days in the field. Right now, her hands were taut.

And so was Ronan.

“District E’s in a bit of a chaos,” she continued. “Groups being led by Gimmel-rank divine warriors are already making moves to recruit more divine warriors to expand their powers. I suspect they’ve been waiting for this.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Ronan said flatly. “Gathering weaklings won’t change a thing. All it’ll do is make their chain of command brittle.”

Moreover, Ronan knew they wouldn’t be able to help him climb the scenarios and join in challenging the tenth scenario in time.

From the right, a deeper voice chimed in. “There are a few who might climb higher, though.”

The speaker was Voltz, another one of Ronan’s old companions from the Crimson Crest. Towering and broad-shouldered, his whole body crackled faintly with the residual discharge of his Thunder Mantle skill, which was a signature skill he obtained after being transported here. He had once used it to fry an entire beast horde to ash.

“Several groups like the Silver Heralds and the Black Gale are making moves,” he added. “Trying to fill the void left by Graham and his upper circle after Raphael wiped them out.”

It could be said that these groups of divine warriors were like gangsters or even mafia gangs. It was similar to an idiom he heard from a random divine warrior in Fantasia: “When the tiger is away, the monkey becomes king.”

Ronan tilted his head. “Even Black Gale’s making moves? I thought their leader was still recovering from that failed rebellion against Graham.”

Voltz shrugged. “She’s injured, not stupid. They’ll want a seat at the table before someone else sets the rules.”

Ronan muttered, “So we’ve got four potential factions on equal footing, including us and that mysterious Obsidian Order… Five, if we count the largest low-rank divine warrior group, New Hope. Six, if the remnants of Graham’s people manage to rally… though there shouldn’t be any Gimmel-rank divine warriors left among them.”

He tapped the map with his finger. “What’s the information about the one who killed him?”

Voltz and Saria exchanged a glance.

“Not affiliated with any faction,” Saria replied after a pause. “Name’s Maximilian Anderson. His only known companions are a young girl named Michelle and a brawler from Earth named Boris. They’ve been moving through the districts, but always under the radar.”

“Earth?” Ronan raised an eyebrow.

Fantasia’s divine warriors were known to have originated from three different worlds, and one of them was this so-called “Earth.” Compared to the others, divine warriors from this place were generally weaker at first, physically and magically, but they were the most unique and unpredictable. Some of them had strange values, like spouting idealistic nonsense about justice, equality, and teamwork, which Ronan had always found difficult to understand.

Still, there was no denying their potential, despite their weaknesses. In fact, there were a few Gimmel-rank divine warriors from Earth who had risen quickly, and Ronan was cautious about them. The leader of New Hope was one of them—a persistent idealist with enough charisma to rally the masses. Then there was Erika Saito, a swordswoman known for her skill and the fierce precision of her twin blades.

“He defeated Graham alone. Don’t tell me that’s ‘under the radar,’” Ronan said, voice edged with disbelief. “No faction backing him, and yet he took down the strongest divine warrior in Fantasia in less than what—two weeks? That’s impressive.”

Voltz crossed his arms. “Might’ve been a fluke. Or maybe he burned some one-time trump card. Either way, he’s not building a faction. Just three people.”

“Then he’s not a threat to us,” Ronan concluded.

Saria hesitated. “He might not be now, but—”

“No. That’s the difference. This place rewards power, yes, but not solitary power. Fantasia is a crucible. You either forge others into your sword, or you become someone else’s whetstone.”

Still, it was somewhat true that just because he wasn’t a threat now didn’t mean he wouldn’t become one later. Even lone wolves could rise as kings if the circumstances allowed.

“Keep an eye on him,” Ronan ordered, his gaze drifting back to the map. “What matters most is clearing the mandatory scenario and completing the tenth. Once we ascend to the Daleth rank, no one will be able to challenge us. That’s when we take control of Fantasia.”

Power vacuums never stayed empty for long. And in Fantasia, only one law mattered: ascend or die.

He raised a hand, and a crimson-glowing crystal floated from the socket on his gauntlet. “Issue the summons. All Crimson Crest members above Gimmel rank are to start challenging lower-level scenarios and max out their levels. Once we’re fully prepared, we challenge the tenth scenario within the week.”

“As you wish.” Saria gave a crisp salute before turning on her heel and striding out of the room.

Voltz cracked his knuckles with a grin, the faint hum of electricity dancing along his arms. “Finally. A real fight’s coming.”