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Verethragna, the Eastern God of War, a deity originating from Zoroastrianism, shared a relationship with Zoroaster, the sovereign of Zoroastrianism, of bestowing courage and strength.
Of course, perhaps if placed in the Little Garden, where strength is determined by one's own spiritual power and achievements, Verethragna would by no means be on the same level as Zoroaster. However, now, appearing in this place, this place called Sardinia, was precisely this Heretic God.
Having lost ninety percent of his divine power in the recent battle with Melqart, he was still searching for his lost 'incarnations.'
Naturally, his enemy, Melqart, was not faring much better.
And at this moment, Melqart was facing a life-threatening crisis.
It was an ancient structure called a 'Nuraghe'—these were towers that rose high from the ground, their complexity clearly demonstrating the architectural standards of the people of that era.
And beneath this Nuraghe, constructed from massive black rocks, the Heretic God named Melqart was recovering from his critical injuries.
Embedded in his chest was a golden sword used to sever divinity, an injury inflicted by an incarnation of Verethragna, the Eastern God of War.
That golden greatsword was thrust into his chest, golden divine blood splattering down its sharp blade. Anyone with common sense seeing it would realize this was an irreparable injury.
Such a wound, even for Melqart, a Heretic God, was extremely fatal. If left unattended, it would directly cause him to return to myth.
However, for Melqart, for Melqart who possessed the Authority of 'God of Life,' it was not an unrecoverable injury.
After all, he was also the 'God of the Underworld,' so such an injury would, at most, merely weaken his strength.
But, even so, it would mean his death.
"Mongrel, get your ass out here for this King!"
It was an incredibly deep voice. Within that masculine, magnetic tone, there was an indescribable sense of majesty, one that even made Melqart tremble involuntarily.
Perhaps, if he were not a Heretic God, the emotion called fear would have welled up in his heart.
However, at this moment, this severely wounded Heretic God revealed a smile of joy.
Undoubtedly, that voice was berating him, and the one possessing such power was naturally the current master of this land.
Naturally, as a Heretic God, he would not fear battling a Godslayer.
Indeed, he was even rejoicing—a joy from being able to fight a strong enemy, even if the price was his own life, he would not hesitate.
After all, a fellow who could make him feel a trace of fear merely with his voice truly made his heart surge with excitement.
"Really bad timing!"
Melqart glanced at the golden sword in his chest, a hint of annoyance appearing on his face.
Not because he feared death, but simply because he couldn't have a hearty, unrestrained battle. As a Heretic God, he had never had a reason to fear!
This Heretic God slowly walked out from beneath the Nuraghe.
Before his eyes was a radiant ship of light, crafted from gold and emeralds.
That golden, radiant ship hovered in the air, and that man stood upon it.
The man named Gilgamesh had his eyes half-closed, the corners of his mouth seemingly expressing a silent contempt for the severely wounded Heretic God before him.
"Well then, you must be the so-called Melqart, mongrel!"
It was an extremely arrogant tone, without a trace of peace, only an unparalleled killing intent.
And that Heretic God, just exposed to the sunlight, let out a hearty laugh.
He was a god over two meters tall, his entire body covered in incredibly solid muscles, as if carved from rock. Numerous scars adorned his immensely robust physique.
The knights who had accompanied the King, upon seeing this Heretic God, couldn't help but reveal expressions of fear.
These Heroic Spirit Knights, usually synonyms for steadfastness and resolve, couldn't help but feel an urge to prostrate themselves welling up from the depths of their hearts.
Undoubtedly, although this Heretic God was unkempt and severely injured, he exuded a kind of convincing sanctity.
Merely looking at him made one want to kneel and bow their head.
However, even so, not a single one of these knights bent their bodies.
The fleeting fear in their eyes had long been overwhelmed by a fervent fighting spirit, burning like flames.
Even though their King had not yet given the order, they all rested their hands on their sword hilts.
Undoubtedly, they all harbored the desire to slay the Heretic God, the desire to use Melqart's blood to build their own legends.
Even if they wouldn't gain an Authority by slaying a Heretic God, it could still enhance their own legends, thereby increasing their strength.
"Well then, so many heroes, no, they should be considered Heroic Spirits, shouldn't they."
Melqart said in a deep voice, but his weighty tone contained a trace of unseen mockery.
"It seems you've acquired an Authority similar to Odin's Valhalla. That's not exactly an ability suited for combat!"
However, upon hearing Melqart's words, Gilgamesh revealed an arrogant smile.
"Why would you think that dealing with a mongrel like you would require this King to act personally!"
Gilgamesh's tone made no effort to conceal his contempt for Melqart. Perhaps to him, even a Heretic God, so lofty in the eyes of ordinary people, was just a mongrel he could kill at will.
That King was just that arrogant, like a star hanging high in the cosmos—no matter how brightly it shone, it was not something ordinary beings could touch.
"Are you planning to use these Heroic Spirits as cannon fodder against me?"
The mocking smile on Melqart's face deepened, and within his dark eyes, a strong killing intent emerged.
He was a god; even as a Heretic God, it was the same. The tolerance of a god allowed him to ignore the disrespect in Gilgamesh's tone, but such an action he could not tolerate.
He could not tolerate being defeated by these Heroic Spirits, absolutely not!
"If you're harboring such despicable thoughts, then don't embarrass yourself!"
He said thus, slowly materializing the phantoms of two clubs in his hands.
Undoubtedly, this Heretic God was now truly enraged.
"Ha, what are you saying, mongrel!"
Hearing Melqart's words, an arrogant smile also appeared on Gilgamesh's face. His crimson, serpent-like eyes slowly opened, and endless pressure emanated from his body, lashing against the knights.
"To deal with a mongrel like you, does this King even need to act personally?"
A dangerous curve formed on Gilgamesh's lips.
"Mongrels should act like mongrels. Just obediently kneel and die. To actually think of dirtying this King's hands, your crime is truly unforgivable!"