Red swiped a hand across the main console, collapsing the territorial map of the Seventeenth Continent. Claiming the continent effectively locked out the local game engine.
The war was over. The surviving pantheons answered to his throne, and the daily resource generation easily sustained his empire.
Yet, a hollow static hummed beneath his ribs.
He pulled up the macro-server display. Massive, locked continents floated in the digital void of the interface. High-tier warlords hoarded the central landmasses. Native gods, who were the true, original architects of the realms still slumbered or waged war in the uncharted sectors.
The local victory barely registered as a footnote on the global scale.
Every single vassal god under his banner had been transplanted by the system. The system simply snatched human souls from Earth, slapped a divine mantle over them, and dropped them onto the map.
However, it was different for him.
The system hadn't summoned him.
