There was an initial silence that cut across the colosseum like the edge of a blade. A strange, unnerving calm blanketed the space as all eyes turned toward the newcomer. The air itself felt unsure, as if holding its breath, suspended between awe and disbelief.
The Trickster God had appeared—not with a flash of thunder or some grand celestial descent, but with a lazy, almost bored manner. His presence was effortless. Casual. As if he'd just strolled in from a nap, not crossed planes of existence. His plaiin black coat fluttered slightly in the breeze, and his bare feet touched the sand like it belonged to him. Like everything did.
At first, the crowd didn't move. Warriors, nobles, peasants—all frozen. They tried to assess him. Understand him. Who was this? A new challenger? A rogue immortal? Some mad sage from the outlands?
Their silence wasn't out of reverence.
It was the type of stillness one had when staring at a loaded crossbow with a shaky hand.
Then, he spoke.
"You're even more useless than I thought," the Trickster said, tossing a glance toward the defeated Emperor who was helpless against the crowd and stood staring but with a rapidly beating heart . "You couldn't even handle these lunatics…"
He laughed.
Not a chuckle.
Not a snort.
But a full-throated, wild, manic laugh that echoed through the great dome like a scream in a cave. It was a sound that didn't match his form—a sound that belonged to someone who had seen entire worlds burn and found the memory hilarious.
And just like that, the silence snapped.
Insults erupted like a dam breaking.
"Hey stupid! You dropped outta the clouds like a lazy raindrop and now you think you're a storm?" someone near the front jeered, cupping his mouth to project his voice.
"Who even is this clown? Did someone open a cursed scroll?" another yelled.
"He thinks he owns the empire! Even Groa Aratat, the Emperor himself, knows his place and dares not act the fool!" roared a noble from the upper tier, his silk sleeves flapping as he gestured angrily.
A deep-throated snicker rippled through the crowd as another voice added, "Look at him! So skinny and pale—someone feed him a real breakfast! Looks like he's missed a dozen in a row!"
The colosseum exploded into laughter. A storm of mockery. They hurled words like stones. Some even threw objects—pieces of fruit, sandals, broken bits of clay.
It was a complete rejection of the Trickster's presence. A display of mob confidence.
But the Trickster God just stood there.
Smiling.
Unbothered.
His blank eyes danced, not with rage, but with amusement.
Like a cat listening to the chirping of birds it planned to devour.
He turned his head slowly, gaze sweeping over the chaos like a monarch inspecting his future subjects. His smile widened, and for a moment, those close to him swore they saw something behind that grin—something old. Something monstrous. Something vast.
And then he whispered—not loudly, but the words carried, as though the air itself wanted everyone to hear:
"…Ah, perfect. I was hoping you'd all be this stupid."
The laughter rolled on—louder, crueler, bolder. The crowd howled with amusement, fists pounding against wooden railings, feet stomping the earth beneath them in rhythm. They thought him a fool. An eccentric actor in a drama they did not recognize. The jeers rose to a fever pitch, becoming less like mockery and more like a shared delusion. In their eyes, the Trickster God was no god at all—just another madman dressed in riddles.
And then… he smiled.
It was not the smile of someone insulted.
It was not the smile of someone provoked.
It was the smile of someone invited to play.
His lips curled slowly, deliberately, like the drawing of a blade from its sheath. And then, with the same ease one uses to ask a passing stranger for the time, he spoke. But it was not merely sound—it was presence. His voice pressed itself into the ears of his chosen targets, drilling inward until it sat behind their eyes.
"Do you really want to know who I am?" he asked, softly, yet it carried to the furthest reaches of the colosseum. "Or are you just guessing because you don't know who I am… Or is who I am a mystery you need to solve?"
He took a single step forward. Not toward them—but into them.
"Or… is it that you've lost touch with reality entirely?"
That was when the shift occurred.
A sudden drop in temperature.
A feeling like the sky had just blinked.
Laughter faltered, caught in the throats of those still standing. Some of them opened their mouths to speak, but no words came out. Only short, ragged breaths.
Then came the sound—squelch.
Another—pop.
Followed by a wet splat.
One by one, the heads of those who had insulted him—mocked him—dared to laugh—began to explode.
Like watermelons struck by unseen hammers.
Red mist. Skulls caved inward, eyes burst from sockets, necks jerking back grotesquely as if pulled by invisible strings. Heads were there one moment, and the next—gone, reduced to pulp and bone and blood-soaked robes.
Screams erupted. True screams now. Not theatrical shouts or excited noise, but soul-level panic. A few began to flee, others froze in terror, bodies shaking uncontrollably. Mothers shielded children. Men cried out the names of forgotten gods.
All were horrified…
Except Emperor Groa.
He did not flinch. Not that he was not afraid, but he expected such an outcome.
He merely lowered his gaze, expression blank. He had already seen what this god could do.
That night.
The night the Trickster had appeared in his chambers—without announcement, without guards, without cause—and whispered riddles into the ears of his concubines. By the time Groa reacted, they were already drooling on the floor, their minds almost reduced to shattered glass, it took mercy on the path of the trickster god to give them a leeway to return to sanity.
He had barely survived that encounter himself.
He now understood it—Perception Warping. A form of mental manipulation that twisted the target's sense of self, space, and truth. And when it was laced with Lies Sculpting, his divine gift, it became worse. If he layered in even the slightest whisper of his godhood aura, it was fatal. Instantly fatal.
No cultivation mattered unless you had reached the Immortal Realm. Mortal minds—no matter how honed or disciplined—simply could not withstand the weight of divinity filtered through madness.
The only reason anyone survived this time was because the Trickster had been merciful.
He had spoken only to those he meant to punish.
He had not released his aura.
If he had… no one would be standing. Not even Groa himself.
A strange cocktail of emotions stirred within the emperor.
Relief… Gratitude… Bitterness.
He was happy that the arrogant fools who had insulted a god had been silenced.
But he was also sad.
Sad that he now had to face the trickster god again, so soon. He thought he had some time to warn the people and plan with them, but they were just too angry. Too angry at him to even listen to what he had to say, now they had seen first hand the monster they needed to fear. And he is much worse than the scarlet Raven.
Emperor Groa clenched his fist behind his back, hiding the tremble that ran through his fingers.
The Trickster had not come to destroy his empire—at least not yet.
But he had sent a message.
And gods didn't speak for sport.
They declared.