The path to the temple was carved into the cliffs, ancient steps worn smooth by time. Renzō ascended in silence, his golden eyes fixed on the towering doors ahead. The air here was heavy—not just with chakra, but with something else. Something twisted.
The villagers below had spoken in hushed tones, their fear clear. To them, this temple was not a place of worship. It was a prison.
At the top of the stairs, two figures clad in black armor blocked the entrance. Their faces were hidden behind masks carved in the likeness of snarling demons, their spears crossed in warning.
"You should not have come," one of them growled.
Renzō did not stop.
The guards shifted nervously as his presence pressed against them—not with force, not with intent, but simply by being. His chakra flowed like an ocean tide, vast and unrestrained, making even seasoned warriors feel like children before a storm.
The second guard tightened his grip. "He does not allow—"
Their words died as Renzō placed a single hand on the massive temple doors.
The wood did not creak. The stone did not shudder.
Instead, the doors simply… opened.
A whispering wind rushed out, carrying the scent of incense and decay.
The guards stepped back, instinct overriding duty. They had seen their master strike down warriors with a flick of his wrist. They had watched men beg for mercy as their bodies crumbled into dust.
But as they looked into Renzō's golden eyes, they felt something far more terrifying.
He was not afraid.
Without hesitation, Renzō entered.
The temple was vast. Ornate pillars stretched toward the heavens, each inscribed with ancient script. Statues of faceless figures lined the walls, their hands pressed together in silent prayer. The air was thick with flickering torches, casting shadows that seemed to move on their own.
And at the center of it all, seated upon an obsidian throne, was him.
The so-called god.
He was draped in flowing white robes, embroidered with symbols of power long forgotten. His hair was silver, his skin as smooth and flawless as polished marble. His eyes—deep crimson—burned with unnatural light.
Renzō knew this power. He had seen it before. It was not divinity.
It was theft.
The man on the throne smiled, resting his chin upon his hand. "How rare," he mused, his voice carrying through the chamber. "A man who walks as I do, yet pretends he does not wish for more."
Renzō said nothing. He simply watched.
The false god leaned forward. "I see it in you. The power. The restraint." His crimson eyes gleamed. "You deny your nature, but I wonder—if I were to strike down those villagers, would you still claim to be above it all?"
Renzō's gaze did not waver. "You call yourself a god."
The man smirked. "And who will deny it? Those beneath me? Those who cannot comprehend what it means to hold power?" He gestured around the temple. "They kneel because they must. Because I am the hand that decides who suffers and who thrives."
Renzō took a step forward. His chakra, vast and formless, rippled through the room. The torches flickered. The statues cracked. The very air seemed to bend.
And for the first time, the false god's smile faltered.
"You misunderstand power," Renzō said, his voice calm. "You think it is the ability to take. To command. To make others kneel."
The temple walls trembled.
"But true power," Renzō continued, "is knowing you do not need to."
The false god rose from his throne, his crimson eyes narrowing.
The battle had already begun.