Slaying God: I, the insane and witty god

The sound of his heart pounding like a giant hammer still echoed on the sea, but Thor dared not look back even once more.

Lightning tore through the atmosphere. This Asgardian Thor was like a gambler who had lost everything, only wanting to leave with the last of his chips.

What he was carrying in his hand was number 22, who was as dirty as a mud monkey.

"Let go! I'm going to throw up!"

Number 22 was held upside down by the ankle, with a gust of wind blowing into his mouth, but he still clung tightly to the golden scepter, his knuckles turning white.

"Shut up."

Thor uttered two words coldly, without slowing down in the slightest.

He glanced down at the ruins that were receding into the distance—the remains of the King's Treasury, a mountain of gold piled high with countless divine artifacts.

Normally, he would never let go of such fatty meat.

But that heartbeat... that mere sign of awakening that made his divine nature tremble, forced him to abandon his greed.

He only has one life, and Asgard still needs him to hold on.

"Where's that guy with the mark?"

Thor suddenly spoke, his sharp eyes sweeping over Number 22's greasy face.

"The agent number 03 who went in with you."

Number 22's eyes darted around very quickly.

He sensed the suppressed rage emanating from this supreme deity.

If you answer even one wrong word, you'll probably be thrown down and smashed into a pulp.

"died."

Number 22 sniffed, adopting a dejected expression of shared sorrow.

"The divine power inside was too chaotic. He was greedy and tried to forcibly devour the divinity of that divine beast through the mark... and it exploded."

With a thud, not even a piece of good skin was left.

Thor frowned. A backlash from the mark? That makes sense.

That level of divine ruins is indeed difficult for a mortal body to withstand.

“Now that he’s dead, you are the only key.” Thor’s gaze fell on the scepter in Number 22’s arms.

Take this mortal back to Asgard and use his bloodline to forcibly unlock the core permissions of this Sumerian artifact.

Although the methods were somewhat underhanded and did not conform to God's glory, with God's war imminent, what need is there for saving face?

"Consider yourself lucky." Thor withdrew his gaze, tacitly acknowledging the survival of this good-for-nothing.

"Hold on tight, no one will save you if you fall."

Number 22 nodded meekly, his head bowed low, like an obedient lapdog.

But in the instant he lowered his head, his gaze pierced through the gaps in the clouds.

It happened to be aligned with the number 03 on the back of the mythical beast Xuan Turtle below, who was looking up at the sky.

That guy who always acted superior and pretentious with his monocle was now watching in terror as he was taken away.

Number 22's mouth stretched from ear to ear.

He silently mouthed the word "idiot" to the ground below.

That chilling yet triumphant pleasure thrashed about in his chest like a venomous snake.

Claude isn't dead? Who cares?

If you're a dead man in Thor's eyes, then you'll remain a dead man.

Asylum of the Gods.

The fog rolled in, completely isolating the outside world from noise.

Lin Qiye stood in the center of the hospital lobby, the murderous aura of a night watchman still lingering on his body.

Before him, two huge treatment room doors were tightly closed, with only the two names on the doorplates still faintly glowing.

【Sun Wukong】.

Gilgamesh.

"You're a madman."

Wu Hen sat on the steps to the side, toying with a Sumerian dagger he had just acquired.

The tone, however, didn't carry much blame; instead, it revealed a hint of appreciation.

"You're going to drain my abilities right after a fight? Aren't you afraid your body will burst?"

"That's the medical fee they owe me." Lin Qiye didn't even turn his head, reaching out to grab at the ethereal mist.

Two enormous turntables appeared out of thin air.

This is a mechanism unique to hospitals.

Once the cure rate reaches a certain standard, or a specific "discharge" task is completed, an ability can be extracted from the patient.

This time, it's a double-yolk egg.

On the left is the golden "Monkey King", and on the right is the eerie scarlet "Hero King".

"What do we do?" Wu Hen sheathed his dagger, stood up, and dusted himself off.

"Draw the monkey's first? I think the monkey's [Fiery Eyes] skill is quite useful. At least I won't have to worry about being tricked in the future."

"No, that consumes too much mental energy." Lin Qiye shook his head, his gaze sweeping over the two spinning wheels.

"What I lack now is an absolute means of explosive power, or a trump card that can change the course of the battle."

"Then what's that 'Seventy-Two Transformations' thing?" Wu Hen raised an eyebrow.

"A life-saving skill!"

Lin Qiye didn't respond.

He's scheming.

The situation is becoming increasingly chaotic. Ancient gods are reviving, and mist is descending. Simple physical combat is no longer enough.

He needs rule-based power, or that...

Lin Qiye's fingers slowly reached towards Gilgamesh's wheel.

The option called "King's Treasury" is too tempting.

Having that is like having a mobile arsenal; you could even become an army by yourself and dominate the entire field, just like before.

"Have you thought it through?" Wu Hen walked up behind him, his voice low.

"Although that guy is a patient, his pride is not an act."

“To strip him of his power is tantamount to challenging his monarchy.”

"This is a hospital." Lin Qiye's eyes were calm.

“I am the hospital director, and he is the patient.”

"I'm in charge of the rules here."

After saying that, he didn't hesitate any longer and pressed his fingertips hard on the start button in the center of the turntable.

ka ka ka-

The turntable began to spin rapidly, and the pointer jumped wildly across those dazzling skills.

[The All-Knowing and All-Powerful Star]... [The Chains of Heaven]... [Gate of Babylon]... [Ea]...

Every name, if revealed to the outside world, could trigger a bloodbath.

Wu Hen also held his breath, staring at the pointer that was turning slower and slower.

This is a million times more exciting than opening a blind box.

Just as the pointer was about to stop.

Squeak.

The door to Gilgamesh's hospital room opened a crack without warning.

An ancient and heavy aura seeped out from the crack in the door, instantly lowering the temperature in the hall to freezing point.

The pointer on the roulette wheel seemed to be stuck by some invisible force, abruptly stopping between the two options.

Lin Qiye suddenly looked up.

Deep within the dark ward, a pair of scarlet snake eyes slowly opened, filled with mockery and scrutiny, meeting his gaze across the void.

"Miscellaneous cultivator".

Gilgamesh's voice wasn't loud, but it seemed to explode directly in Lin Qiye's mind, causing his consciousness to tremble slightly.

"To steal my power, you need more than just guts."

The haughty figure did not emerge; he remained seated on the throne in the shadows, swirling a glass of red wine that would never run out.

Lin Qiye narrowed his eyes, his mental energy instantly tensing, ready to suppress at any moment: "This is part of the treatment agreement. Do you want to back out?"

"Going back on your word? That's an excuse for the weak."

Gilgamesh chuckled and tilted his head back to drink the wine in his cup in one gulp.

The next second, his serpentine eyes suddenly narrowed, and a terrifying pressure belonging to the most ancient king emanated from him.

A storm, as real as a physical storm, crashed into Lin Qiye, who was standing in front of the turntable.

It's not an attack, it's a question.

It is a questioning from the level of the soul.

"My power is also my curse."

Gilgamesh put down his wine glass, a cruel smile curving his lips.

"Whether it's the sword that cleaved the heavens and the earth, or the vault filled with the world's greed..."

"If you catch it, you're a god; if you don't, you're ashes."

"Lin Qiye."

"Are you really ready... to bear the weight of a 'king' that will break your spine?"