Chapter 43 – The King Who Defied the Gods (Extended)
The sanctuary was no longer holy ground. Its stained-glass windows cracked, its marble pillars splintered, its gilded murals of false gods drowned in shadow. What was once a monument of reverence had become an arena where destiny itself trembled.
The Celtic Highs stood at the heart of it, untouched, unshaken. Their dark robes billowed though no wind stirred, their eyes pools of endless night. A crown of false divinity pressed down on every soul in the room — so heavy that even hardened rebels fell to their knees, gasping under the unbearable gravity of their aura.
And yet, it was not enough to merely oppress. The Highs had desecrated the fallen.
The Royal Guards — once the proud defenders of Shinya, men and women who had sworn their lives to protect the kingdom — were nothing more than twisted puppets now. Corpses bound in black armor, their eyes glowing with voidfire. Each step they took rattled with chains of death magic, each swing of their blades split the air with shrieks of tortured spirits.
The rebels faltered. Their swords struck true, their arrows found marks, Kaya's waves shattered bones and shields — but nothing stayed down. The Guards simply reformed, as if death itself bowed to the Highs.
Herbet slashed through three of them in a single blur, his breath ragged. "Useless! They'll keep rising!"
Kaya answered with fury, water spiraling from her hands into jagged spears. "Then we'll drown them again and again if we must!" She hurled the spears into the crowd, each impact sending explosions of liquid force. The Guards shattered, but within moments, the pieces clawed their way back, crawling like insects toward wholeness.
The rebellion's morale cracked. One rebel screamed as he was dragged under, cut down by three Dark Guards. Another stumbled back, his shield arm shaking, eyes wide with terror.
And then the voices came.
"You resist gods?" one High intoned, his voice deep enough to shake the bones of every listener.
"You crawl in the dust yet dream of the skies?" another sneered, laughter dripping with venom.
"Bow. As your king has always bowed."
All eyes shifted toward King Hanks.
The king stood battered, his cape torn, his once-regal armor scorched and dented. His left arm hung heavy with injury, blood streaking down his gauntlet. For years, his crown had been a shackle, his throne a cage. He had smiled for his captors, bowed to their commands, and carried the shame of powerlessness.
Moro appeared beside him, glowing with blue Ultra Fusion, his very presence disrupting the gravity of the Highs' aura. He turned to Hanks, his voice urgent.
"Hanks. You're wounded. If you keep fighting, you'll collapse. Retreat. Let me face them."
For a heartbeat, silence.
Then the king laughed.
A laugh so deep, so raw, that it silenced even the Celtic Highs' taunts. It rolled across the sanctuary, shaking dust from the ceiling, echoing off the shattered walls.
"You think a king retreats?" Hanks said, his voice booming with newfound fire. "You think I bend my knee once more? Boy, I have carried chains heavier than this. I have carried a throne not of gold but of shame. I have worn a crown that was nothing but a leash."
His eyes burned, not with despair, but with rebellion.
"Tonight, I break that crown. Tonight, I rise as king of my people — not of gods!"
The ground quaked.
From deep within him, the Colossum Power awakened.
Crimson and golden veins of light erupted across his skin, racing like fire through his body. His muscles surged, swelling into a form both human and colossal, his every movement radiating primal strength. Fragments of stone and steel floated upward, pulled by his aura, before fusing into glowing armor that encased his form. His injured arm, once limp, now pulsed with restored might.
The crest of Shinya — the ancient royal sigil — blazed across his chest in searing light.
The rebels gasped. For decades they had whispered rumors that their king was no more than a puppet, a broken man who bowed to the gods. But here stood the truth: their king was a colossus, a sovereign reborn, a storm that no divinity could chain.
Even the Dark Guards faltered, their soulless forms shivering in the wake of his aura.
The Celtic Highs narrowed their eyes. "The king remembers himself… meaningless."
Moro's lips curved into a rare grin. The sight of Hanks towering with radiant power was like fire to his own spirit. His Ultra Fusion burned brighter, his blue aura roaring like a tidal wave, unraveling tendrils of the Highs' dark magic.
Side by side, they stood.
A king and a warrior.
Defiance incarnate.
Hanks raised his fist, the weight of mountains behind it. "Rebels! Hear me!" His voice thundered like rolling stone. "You are no insects. You are the flame that gods fear. Tonight, we show them — even eternity can bleed!"
The rebels roared. Their fear burned away, replaced with fury and faith. Kaya screamed as she raised her arms, her water surging into a titanic serpent that writhed across the battlefield. Herbet's blades gleamed as he tore through enemies with new fire. The rebels surged forward, shields locked, weapons high.
The Dark Guards rushed in, but the rebels no longer faltered. They fought under the banner of a king who had risen.
Hanks slammed his colossal fist into the ground. The sanctuary cracked, stone erupting in jagged pillars that impaled lines of Dark Guards, shattering their forms. Moro shot forward beside him, his body a comet of blue flame, slicing through waves of enemies with fists and kicks that burned with Ultra Fusion's purity.
Everywhere Hanks stepped, the ground quaked. His punches left craters, his roars sent shockwaves that scattered armies. Moro weaved between him like lightning, his strikes precise, his aura nullifying every curse hurled at them. Together, they tore through the endless tide.
But the Highs would not sit idly by.
Their hands rose, the air blackening, the ceiling warping into a vortex of shadow. Chains of pure darkness erupted from the ground, striking toward Hanks and Moro like spears.
Moro swung his arm, blue flames bursting outward, dissolving the chains midair. Hanks caught two chains in his bare hands and pulled — the sanctuary floor cracked as he ripped them free, shattering their hold.
The Highs hissed. Their aura deepened, their dark gravity intensifying until the rebels' knees buckled once more. But Hanks stomped forward, his Colossum Power countering the pull, his very presence lifting the rebels back to their feet.
"Stand!" he roared. "No god commands you!"
And they did.
The rebels rose, screaming their defiance, charging once more into the tide of death.
The sanctuary was chaos — blue fire and golden light clashing against black storms. A king reborn, a warrior glowing, rebels ignited, and gods shaken.
The battle had only begun.
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