The world smelled of expensive cologne and iron-scented blood. Arga felt a heavy, polished leather boot grinding his temple into the cold marble floor of the Wijaya estate. The pain was sharp, a stinging reminder of his current mortal frailty, but deep within the recesses of his soul, a dormant sun was beginning to stir.
"Look at you, Arga. A pathetic dog crawling in the dirt of a house that fed him for three years. Do you even have a shred of dignity left?"
The voice belonged to Kevin, the arrogant heir of a textile empire and the man who had been circling Arga's wife like a vulture. Kevin's laughter was a jagged sound, fueled by the champagne in his hand and the audience of elite socialites watching from the sidelines.
Beside him stood Linda, Arga's mother-in-law, her face twisted in a mask of pure disgust. "Just sign the papers, Arga. My daughter, Siska, is destined for the heavens. You are merely the mud that sticks to her shoes. Five hundred million rupiahs. That is the price of your disappearance. Take it and crawl back to whatever gutter you came from."
Arga didn't answer immediately. His mind was a chaotic storm of two lifetimes colliding. One moment, he was the Eternal War Sovereign, standing atop the Peak of Divinity, facing the combined betrayal of the Seven Heavenly Kings. The next, he was back in this cramped, materialistic world, being bullied by people whose entire lineage wouldn't even qualify as footmen in his celestial court.
So, the cycle of reincarnation actually brought me back, Arga thought, his eyes half-closed against the floor. I died as a God, only to wake up as a slave. Fate has a twisted sense of humor.
"Are you deaf, you piece of trash?" Kevin barked. He increased the pressure of his boot, his heel digging into Arga's skin. "Kneel properly and beg for the check. Maybe I'll let you keep your fingers intact."
Something snapped deep within Arga's dantian. A microscopic spark of golden Qi, the remnant of his Sovereign Soul, flickered to life. It was small, no larger than a grain of sand, but it carried the weight of a thousand collapsing stars.
"You want me to kneel?" Arga's voice was a low growl that seemed to vibrate the very air in the room.
Kevin snickered, leaning down. "What was that? Speak up, beggar!"
"I said," Arga began, his fingers suddenly twitching with a bronze glow. "Who gave a speck of dust like you the right to stand above a God?"
In a blur of motion that defied the laws of physics, Arga's right hand shot up. He didn't just grab Kevin's ankle; he clamped onto it like a hydraulic press. The sound of Kevin's expensive Italian leather shoe cracking under the pressure was the first sign that the power dynamic had shifted.
"Agh! Let go! You're breaking it!" Kevin screamed, his face turning a panicked shade of purple.
Arga rose. He didn't scramble to his feet; he ascended. His movements were fluid, predatory, and terrifyingly calm. As he stood, a shockwave of invisible pressure radiated from his body, causing the heavy crystal chandeliers above to chime in a frantic, glass-on-glass warning.
"You like to talk about dignity, Kevin," Arga said, his voice now cold and resonant, echoing through the hall like a funeral bell. "But you don't even know the meaning of the word."
Kevin swung his left fist in a desperate, uncoordinated haymaker. To Arga, the movement was so slow it was insulting. He didn't even bother to block. He simply shifted his weight by a fraction of an inch, letting the fist whistle past his ear. In the same motion, Arga drove his palm into Kevin's chest.
It wasn't a punch. It was a discharge of pure, raw Qi.
BAM!
The sound was like a car crashing into a brick wall. Kevin was launched backward, his body soaring ten feet through the air before crashing into the buffet table. Trays of lobster and silver platters of hors d'oeuvres scattered like shrapnel. The table collapsed under his weight, leaving the "Golden Boy" of the textile industry buried in a heap of broken wood and expensive appetizers.
Silence fell over the room. The socialites froze, their champagne flutes trembling in their hands. Linda gasped, her hand flying to her throat, her eyes bulging in disbelief.
"Arga! You... you monster! Security! Guards! Kill him!" Linda shrieked, her voice cracking with hysteria.
Four burly men in black suits, the Wijaya family's personal security, rushed into the room. They were trained professionals, former military men who knew how to handle a threat. They drew their batons, their faces grim.
"Stay down, kid, and maybe you'll live," the lead guard growled, stepping forward with a overhead strike.
Arga looked at them, a faint, mocking smile playing on his lips. "Four mortals against one Sovereign? The odds are still too heavily in my favor."
The lead guard swung. Arga stepped into the attack, closing the distance before the baton could reach its peak. He struck the man's solar plexus with two fingers. A needle of golden energy pierced the guard's nervous system, shutting down his muscles instantly. The man collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.
The other three attacked simultaneously from different angles. Arga spun, his jacket fluttering like the wings of a dark bird. He moved with the Nine Sun Current, a footwork technique that left afterimages in the air.
Crack. Snap. Thud.
In less than five seconds, all three guards were on the floor. One held a shattered wrist, another a dislocated shoulder, and the third lay unconscious. Arga hadn't even broken a sweat. His breathing remained as steady as a mountain breeze.
He turned his gaze toward Linda. The woman was trembling so violently that her pearls rattled against her neck.
"Now," Arga said, stepping over a fallen guard. "About those papers."
He walked to the marble coffee table and picked up the divorce agreement. He looked at the signature line where Siska's name was already written in elegant, cold script. He felt a pang of lingering emotion from the original Arga's memories, a memory of a wedding day filled with hope, but he crushed it under the iron will of his Sovereign soul.
"Five hundred million?" Arga asked, looking at the check Linda had placed on the table.
He picked up the check and, with a flick of his wrist, the paper ignited. It didn't burn with orange flames; it dissolved into blue sparks, vanishing into nothingness before the ashes could even hit the floor.
"I don't want your money, Linda. And I don't need your permission to leave this pathetic excuse for a family," Arga stated. He grabbed the divorce papers and, with a single surge of Qi, the documents disintegrated into a cloud of white dust that coated Kevin's unconscious form.
Arga turned to the glass doors leading to the balcony, overlooking the rain-slicked city of Jakarta. He could feel the thin, polluted energy of the world, but it was enough. He was no longer a husband, a servant, or a victim.
"Tell Siska that she didn't lose a husband tonight," Arga said, his voice carrying to every corner of the silent room. "She lost the only person in this world who would have protected her from the gods themselves. Now, she is on her own."
With a single step, Arga leaped from the second-story balcony. He landed silently on the wet asphalt below, his knees absorbing the impact like a cat. He didn't look back at the mansion that had been his prison for three years.
Rain began to fall harder, but as the droplets neared his skin, they evaporated into steam. The Sovereign had returned, and the city would soon learn to tremble at his name.