Chương 99: Ascension - 3

Now this was a surprise — Faux, the Trickster God?!

"Faux... long time no see. I'm going to be real with ya, if that's really you, then what the feck-on-shet, bruh?" It was an important question. A black grumble came from the puppet.

"I was punished. After I gave you the modification tool, the divine assembly saw fit to make an example of me. They stripped me of my holy essence and sentenced me to the most accursed judgement of all — de-divinification! I was cast into space and forced to subside on eldritch leftovers until I became what you see before me. I see you have inherited my old flesh forges..."

"I have. Though I must say, Faux, sob story aside, I figured you would have been stronger with so many flesh forges. Plus, you were a god when you feel, right? I expected more, is all," Warhol said, intentionally antagonizing the ex-God. He wanted to see if their anger would lead rise to a hitherto hidden power.

"My flesh forges are ill-compatible with my unique ontology, mortal," Faux replied.

"I was only able to eek a fraction of the potential you drew from it."

"Well... bully for me, then!" he again looked at the puppet and the huge door. He wanted entry.

"I'm going to come on through, now. See you soon, Faux!"

"No! Warhol!" the warrior guardian shouted, remaining firm in its defense of the door.

"You will cease your assault against my palace! Do so now and I will spare your life!" Really? It was going to make such a pathetic stand, despite being outclassed? He should just get it over with, then. Warhol blinked and was front of the armored guardian before it could react. He thrust both of his knife-sharp hands into the armored suit, then spread his arms wide, as if he was waiting for a pass from a team in an athletic competition.

The guardian tore in two, a pile of worms' slick with shadow magic plopping to the ground.

'Gross...' Warhol held out his hand an incanted an [Eldritch Flame], incinerating the worms easily. He then flew in front of the door and heaved with a small portion of his might to slowly open the continental sized doorway. Beyond the door was a hallway in proportion to that of the planet-sized room previously. It was incredible, this eldritch palace. When he wandered too high, he saw how the ceiling of this place was formed of stars, the floors from the rarest of precious metals.

Faux had gaudy tastes, that was for sure. Thus, his assault on the palace began. Well, 'assault' was the technical term. A lot of enemies did throw themselves at him and he did end up destroying many a monumentally sized facility whose sole purpose was to give birth to horrible monstrous entities, such as the Swarm Goblins he slaughtered by the trillions. Crimes such as these were horrendous and Faux would need to be brought to justice for his crimes against life.

And yet, all the same, many of his twisted creations were anti-climactic. Demons could only be twisted so far before they were blase to look at and fight. And though many worlds worth of people were abducted along the way, those people were life-forms Warhol did not know, so many, just maybe, it wasn't as bad as it seemed? Okay, unlikely, but still, nothing Faux did proved a challenge to him, and that was the real crime as far as his lessened morality was concerned.

By the time he barged his way into the throne room — a place made wholly made from precious ores and minerals — he was thoroughly bored.

"Listen up, Faux," he told the lithe figure sitting upon the throne.

"How about you scurry your scrawny ass out of here and if you do that, I might be merciful and rip through some Gods on your behalf. Sound good?" Faux sat upon his throne. Few people knew this about Faux, but their features were that of a Troll. Whether that was because they themselves had Troll genetics or because they thought it some kind of strange joke to disguise themselves as a Troll, being a Trickster god and all, he didn't know.

Faux wore a royal garment; Warhol's Meta-Resonance told him the garment was made from skin and fabrics. Horrific. Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

"Hmmm... why should I accept such a poor deal?" Faux replied.

"Can't I just kill you and be done with it?" Warhol chuckled.

"Come on. You really think you can take me in a fight? I'll admit. When I first heard of this Horror of yours bearing down on my planet, I was scared shitless. Now? Bro — I've been blowing away your tentacles left and right. There's no way you can stop me. I'm giving you an out as a sign of appreciation for your modification tool and how it made me. Take it." Faux rose from their seat and growled.

"You've become too big for your shit, Warhol! Your stats might dwarf mine, but there is more to magic than raw might. Allow me to demonstrate!" The Troll-God-Not-A-God summoned powerful creatures to his side. Sand worms, Draconic Snapping Turtles, and Demonic Giants.

With another wave of their hand, those monsters were encased in a potent magical armor; another wave of their hand gave the monsters weapons — swords, shields, maces, but also shoulder-mounted machine guns and chest cannons; and yet, Warhol remained unimpressed.

"Really?" he said.

"This is the best you can do?" Warhol incanted a simple [Dispel] incantation. Though he was impressed, somewhat, when the spell didn't remove the magical weaponry and armor, he could not say the same when the [Dispel] succeeded the second time he cast it, when he imbued the incantation with a trivial amount of mana. With their defenses gone, Warhol shot into the air and blasted straight through the demon giant's neck and brain; he then cast [Eldritch Neon Blast] which took care of the remaining monsters.

"Please, send me more?" he asked Faux sarcastically. And so, for a number of hours, Faux summoned monsters to fight. And Warhol killed those monsters. It was tedious in the extreme.

"Okay, Faux. I'm done. I want my final mutation. So, if you won't flee, how about I end this for the two of us?" He held his palm open and toward Faux and unleashed an [Unholy Cosmic Beam Blast] imbued with a few million mana units; the beam seared away everything before him, leaving only half a throne room on one end and space in the rest. Was that it? He felt no tug in his mind that replicated a System notification.

"You dead, Faux?" No response. He turned and found Faux standing behind him — knife held high and forged from a substance known as Divine Steel, a moment of panic erupted inside Warhol as the knife descended and... harmlessly pinged off his reinforced scales.

"W-what?!" Faux stuttered.

"T-that knife was supposed to be my trump card! I don't understand. I put everything into this knife!" As Faux talked, Warhol used his Meta-Resonance to identify the knife: {Striking Power: 245, 000} {Mana Limit: 5, 000, 000, 000} {Durablity: Unlimited (Mortal Plane Only)}"Wow," he told Faux.

"That's pathetic. I expected more from you. Tell me. How is it that you even made this Horror?" Faux dropped his knife and stumbled back.

"I... didn't... it was an infant Horror when I discovered it after my fall. I trapped it using my illusion incantations. Then I built this palace on its brain to control it..." Palace on its brain? He didn't know that, that he was inside the creature's head. Interesting. Warhol moved too fast to be stopped and grabbed hold of Faux's neck.

"You know, I could kill you right here and now. Your efforts might have been sad, Faux, but I see how much of your body has been reinforced with mana and monstrous energy. I could eat you and absorb a hefty payday." To his surprise, Faux did not beg for mercy. They sighed, resigned to their fate.

"Go ahead. I give up. I'm pathetic. And seeing as how I needed your help those centuries ago to even propose to my lady, I've always been pathetic. Not that any of that matters now. I'm no longer a god, my wife is gone, and my efforts to extract revenge on your world turned hopeless long ago. Go ahead and end my misery." Their eyes did not lie. There was no tricks up the former God's sleeves. This was it.

It would have been the easiest thing in the world, then, to tighten his grip and shatter Faux's neck, wringing it dry of all its bodily fluids like a juiced fruit. And yet, Warhol did not tighten his grip. He found Faux's plight too... unfortunate for it to end here. He released his grip and allowed Faux to fall to the floor and into a crumpled heap. When no killing blow came, Faux asked, "If you are not going to kill me, I suppose I will go into exile. Or maybe fling myself into a star."

Warhol rolled his eyes at the ex-divinity's melodrama. They sounded like his son the first time a village girl dumped him.

"Faux," he said.

"Instead of self-immolation by way of a star, how about you find new purpose with me?" The Trickster's head tilted toward him.

"W-what?"

"Your illusions and tricks wouldn't have done anything to me, which is, probably, why you didn't try them on me, right? Well, they will work on humans and mortals of all types. There are a lot of situations where your slight-of-hands would come in useful. Why not join my side? I have big plans for the world and for the Gods, for that matter. Join me and become something greater than the sniveling pile of secrets you are now!" Faux got up, slowly.

He cleared away his tears and said, "I have nothing else in life worth following. So, why not? Okay, Warhol. I can't believe I am saying this, but... you've got yourself a follower. I, Faux, the ex-Trickster God, hereby do pledge myself to your cause."