QUINTIN'S POV
The world… went quiet.
Not silent—no, the battlefield still burned. Flames roared. Metal screamed. Something far away exploded. But Quintin could hear the blood churning in his ears at the same time. Every other sound around him felt much farther away. He watched as his flames devoured airplane parts and cockroach bodies alike.
But over all of it—
Something else pressed down.
Heavy and vast, like the sky itself had leaned closer to watch.
Quintin felt it before he saw anything—his impending destiny was now. As if responding to it, his purple flames flickered all around him. He looked up instinctively at the massive portal in the middle of the battlefield.
The Lord's Portal pulsed.
Once.
Twice.
Then it opened wider.
Not like before—not violently, not tearing.
But slowly.
Deliberately.
As if something on the other side was taking its time.
For the first time since awakening, Quintin's fire—his vengeance, his rage—paused.
"…what is that?" he heard someone ask. But it sounded like an echoed thought. He didn't hear an answer either. His eyes and senses fully fixated on the portal that seemed alive.
And then Quintin saw it.
A shape moved within the darkness.
Tall.
Too tall.
Limbs—no, not limbs. Something more fluid than that. Something that didn't quite obey the idea of a body.
And then—
Something massive flew out of the portal. Quintin squinted into the darkness. It was a man's body.
It hit the ground hard enough to crack the tarmac.
Gasps rippled across the battlefield.
Ronan the Dragon.
He lay there broken and discarded. Completely unmoving.
Quintin's heart stopped.
What the hell. Why was this happening? This couldn't be happening!
And then—
Whatever it was stepped through the portal as if stepping out from a curtain of darkness. The moment it did, the air stirred as if rearranging itself to greet the arrival of the Lord.
Quintin's breath caught.
The being that emerged was… wrong.
Beautiful. That was the first thought. It came unbidden, unwelcome, and yet undeniable. The being was beautiful in a way that made no sense. His form shifted with every blink. One moment, pale skin stretched over a lean, elegant frame. The next, something darker layered beneath—like shadows moving under glass. His hair fell like liquid night, yet caught the firelight with a sheen that shouldn't exist.
His eyes—
Quintin made the mistake of looking up and immediately fell backward to the ground.
Not because they were grotesque.
But because they looked back too deeply. Like twin suns and deep pools that could burn and drown everything at the same time.
A faint smile curved the Lord's lips. It was not one that was warm nor kind, but… interested.
It was as though the battlefield, the fire, the death—this was all part of an elaborate performance staged to welcome him.
The Lord stepped forward, unhurried.
Each step was… wrong.
Too smooth.
Too deliberate.
As if gravity bent just slightly to accommodate him.
He reached down. Not gently, but not cruelly either.
Casually.
Fingers tangling in Ronan's hair—
And lifted.
Like lifting something that weighed nothing.
Like lifting something that meant nothing.
Ronan's body dragged, boots scraping against the ground, leaving a streak across the scorched tarmac.
Quintin felt his stomach drop like a rock. His heart started to beat in a panicked rhythm, like that of a bird caught in a trap while the hunter approached.
Quintin's flames surged. Then immediately faltered again. Perhaps he was the bird that decided to cowardly stay still and hope the hunter would not see him. Was he always this much of a coward? He hated himself for it, but his legs trembled under him.
The Lord looked up and smiled in his direction. Please don't see me! Quintin actually squeezed his eyes shut.
"Hmm."
The sound was soft, but Quintin heard it.
He opened his eyes again in time to see Lord Micah flick his wrist and throw Ronan back down. It was like a bored and spiteful child with a toy he hadn't asked for, repeatedly throwing it against the ground just to see when it would break.
"I specifically asked for the goddess." His voice was low and smooth, each word sliding into the next like silk over a blade.
He tilted his head slightly, looking at Ronan where he lay.
Then he looked at everyone else. He had seen them—the heroes, the flames, Quintin.
"Does that look like a goddess to you?"
Silence.
No one moved.
No one breathed.
Even the fire seemed to shrink back.
The AAA Shilem Roach—what remained of it—dragged itself forward. It was obviously broken. Missing limbs and chitin melted in several places, its body trembling and leaking cockroach gloop.
It bowed low to the ground. "Forgive me… my Lord."
The Lord didn't look at it immediately.
His gaze lingered elsewhere, as if searching or expectant that someone else would show up.
Was Lord Micah looking for him? The thought made Quintin's legs shake harder. Wasn't he supposed to be the hero? The chosen one? The number one cadet for the Hero Training School at PAU? Why was he trembling on the side like a newborn foal? Why was he not the hero stepping up at this point to put the villain in his place?
"Useless."
The word landed softly.
The roach collapsed further, as if the sound itself had weight.
And Quintin—Quintin finally understood.
This wasn't a battle. This wasn't even a war. They weren't fighting monsters. They were standing in front of something that treated reality like a passing amusement.
Micah smirked. "Do you utterly worthless things believe just leaving her scent on this… this marginally less worthless thing would trick me?"
"You." Micah turned to Quintin. "Where is our goddess?"
Who? Quintin could only remember Damien's Moon Goddess. In his panic, he blurted out, "The moon?"
Micah paused and then laughed. "That tasteless rock?"
Then Quintin remembered who the werewolves believed to be their Moon Goddess. "Ms. Jen?"
He slapped his hands over his mouth. His eyes darted to Ronan the Dragon. He was still breathing, low ragged breaths, but he wasn't moving. Was he lying low to recover? Or broken beyond repair?
Ronan the Dragon was dating Ms. Jen now, right? Oh, Ms. Jen was going to kill them.
The last time they got into trouble, Ms. Jen threatened to marry somebody's grandfather, uncle, or father and make their life hell. If her boyfriend died because of them, was she going to marry everyone?
Lord Micah looked back down at the fallen hero, smirking like a cat might look at its prey in its final struggle. This one was still alive. This one was as hardy as one of his commanders.
Micah stepped closer. The air seemed to tighten with each step he took, as though the world itself was bracing.
He stopped beside the fallen Dragon.
Then, without hurry, he bent slightly—just enough to draw in a breath.
A quiet inhale.
And another.
Quintin's stomach dropped.
Was he… smelling him? Was Ronan the Dragon about to become Ronan the Devoured?
Lord Micah's lips curved faintly. "Ah…"
Quintin's heart slammed against his ribs.
"D-don't—don't eat him!" he blurted, stumbling forward before his brain could catch up. "He's—ah—he's the goddess's lover!"
Silence.
Lord Micah straightened.
"If you kill him," Quintin rushed on, words tripping over each other, "she'll get really mad. And she's—she's really scary when she's mad."
That was a lie, but Quintin had no other threats on hand.
Lord Micah turned his head, regarding him with sudden interest.
"Her favored one?"
A pause.
"And it is not you, young hero? Are you not the chosen one?"
Quintin, on any other occasion, would have agreed. He had felt he was special for a long time. It was nice that someone finally saw his potential, too. But of all people, why did it have to be the Cosmic Devourer?
"Um, no…" Quintin admitted. "The goddess is very kind to me, but ah… I'm not…"
And that was when he realized it. The truth hit him like an epiphany of heroic proportions.
He wasn't a hero like Ronan the Dragon.
He was just a farm boy Fate had plucked out of obscurity and granted many fortunate encounters.
Like his new home with Ms. Jen, his new friends who had become like family, his powerful awakened powers, a chance to train as a hero cadet at PAU…
Suddenly, it became quite obvious to Quintin that he wasn't the hero he thought he was.
Not yet.
He still had a long way to go.
Unfortunately, Lord Micah was here now. And Quintin needed to be that hero now.
But what could he do?
Quintin cleared his throat and called out with a false bravado he hoped the Alien Lord would not notice, "What would you do for me if I brought the goddess to you?"
Ronan rasped, "No…"
Lord Micah pulled on Ronan's hair again.
Quintin quickly added, "You should keep him alive. He would be useless bait if he were dead."
Lord Micah smiled. "Yes. You are right. If I killed her lover in front of her eyes, wouldn't she only look at me?"
With a lot of hate, Quintin thought, but whatever. Quintin might not be the strongest fighter or most strategic mind or greatest anything. So far, he had just stumbled upon every fortune by sheer coincidence. It was almost as if these lucky breaks were written into his life.
But if there was one skill he had due to his own abilities, this one skill that he had practiced to ensure his survival as the weakest guy in his hometown, it would be his bootlicking skills.
He bowed low, just like the roach prostrated before Lord Micah. "I had eyes but failed to see your greatness. But the goddess wouldn't be blind to your beauty. The moment she meets your lordship, I doubt she would be able to take her eyes off you."
"Oh really?" Lord Micah let go of Ronan's hair and straightened to face Quintin.
Quintin snuck a quick glance at Ronan. He was a big man, and even broken on the ground, his muscles were still coiled. If Ronan the Dragon was still fighting, even in that state, Quintin couldn't quit now. He had to bootlick this Cosmic Devourer properly so they could make their escape.
"Yes, don't you see? He is just a low-res version of your lordship."
"Low… res?" Lord Micah looked unsure.
"A shoddy imitation," Quintin quickly clarified. "Look, he has the same height and build as you do."
"I did take a bite out of his shoulder. You know I can take the form of what I eat," Lord Micah said lightly.
Quintin gulped. "Ah, yes, but on your lordship it looks far more elegant."
That was exactly how he comforted his ex, Mabel, when another girl wore the same dress to school. Argh… Quintin cringed inwardly. He hadn't realized how much of a bootlicker he was.
He had always thought he was being the nice guy, but now he winced at how pathetic he was with all the groveling he did with those around him. Why had he not realized it before?
Because he had changed. Quintin had a second epiphany—yes, he did receive a lot of lucky encounters. But he had also grown and learned to use his powers, walk with a prince, run with a wolf, and negotiate with a gangster.
"My Lord Micah, let this humble servant lead you to her." Quintin put every ounce of himself into his bootlicking. He tried to imagine himself as Prince Angus' retainer, with the aura of the defeated rogues at Young Alpha Damien's feet, and the desperate kowtowing of Bastien's small fries.
"The chosen one wants to serve me?" This amused Lord Micah very much.
"I will live to serve you." Quintin bowed so his forehead touched the tarmac. "It will be the greatest honor of my mangy, useless life."
He bowed as low as possible so that he was a breath away from kissing the ground.