Coker was walkin now through the forgotten ruins of the God King's capital, a place erased from maps and memory, swallowed by time itself and buried beneath layers of ancient curses and divine silence. The sky above wasn't sky no more—it was dark red, cracked like shattered glass, as if the heavens themself couldn't bear to look down at the place where gods once ruled and died. His footsteps echoed over broken bones and sunken stone, but the ground didn't dare move beneath him. Even the wind that once screamed through the shattered spires held its breath. He was different now. Not just strong. Not just awakened. He was pressure. He was storm. He was *inevitable*. The Devourer of Fate wasn't just a title no more—it was a warning to the world. The old gods felt it. The new kings feared it. The beasts that once ruled the dungeons trembled in silence. He had climbed through ranks they never saw, through fire they never touched, through pain they couldn't even imagine. And he was still climbing. Still hungry. Still pissed. Still powerful.
His hand touched a broken obelisk, once a pillar of eternal light, now just cold stone. A flood of memories not his own shot into his mind—gods laugh'n in gold robes, humans kneelin in fear, a crown that sucked souls just to stay shinin. Coker crushed the stone without even blinkin. Dust flew. And in that dust, voices from ancient times screamed for mercy. "We made fate," they whispered. "We wrote destiny." But Coker spat. "Then I guess I'm the eraser." With each step, the air around him thickened, his God Core swellin with power so dense it bent the shadows. The sky cracked louder above him. Lightning fell, not in bolts, but in *sheets*, like god tears beggin for a second chance. But no one got second chances no more. Not since he got betrayed. Not since he got thrown out like garbage. Not since he swallowed a god and kept walkin like it was just breakfast. Coker reached the throne hall finally, a massive space where stars once bowed and angels once danced. Now it was all ruin and ash. At the center stood the Throne of the First, a twisted mass of swords, bones, and forgotten wills. And sittin on it... was him.
Or what looked like him.
A copy. A fake. A shadow made from all the fear of the world. It grinned with Coker's face, spoke with his voice, but it wasn't him. It was a cursed echo made by fate itself, a last desperate shield between Coker and true godhood. "You ain't real," Coker growled, starin the fake down. "You just what the world wish I stayed. Weak. Controlled. Small." The fake rose, its own aura burstin like black flames. "You're unstable," it hissed. "A monster with no chain." Coker cracked his knuckles. "Good. I like it that way." And then the air snapped. Both moved at once. Fist met fist. Explosion. Walls shattered. Time screamed. The battle wasn't just fists and fire—it was *ideology*. It was control versus chaos. Leash versus freedom. Every punch was a scream from history, every clash a rejection of chains. Coker didn't fight to win. He fought to *prove*. He fought to destroy what the world feared most—*a god they couldn't predict.*
The battle went on for hours or maybe seconds. Time bent. Space wept. At one point, stars leaked through the cracks of reality just to watch. The fake grew desperate. It summoned past champions, echoes of dead kings, illusions of power. Coker devoured them all. Skills. Techniques. Pain. They became his. He was the God Core. He was the Devourer. He was the unrecorded chapter in every ancient book. He slammed the fake through the throne, crackin it in half. "You ain't me," he spat, blood drippin from his mouth but eyes still blazin. The fake whispered, "But I was made from your pain…" Coker nodded. "And I made peace with that pain. I don't run from it. I use it." With one final roar, he unleashed all the fates he'd eaten, every dungeon boss, every trial, every nightmare. The fake got swallowed whole. Silence dropped like a hammer.
Then... light. Not soft. Not warm. Blinding. Violent. Transformative. The throne, now broken, glowed. Not gold. Not silver. But *black*. Beautiful, furious black like the void between stars. Coker stood in front of it. The voice inside him—the ancient god—spoke again. "You are now the true king of what should never exist." Coker smiled. "Cool. Lemme show 'em what that means." He sat. The throne didn't reject him. It *obeyed* him. The entire ruin pulsed like a heartbeat. Across the continent, power trembled. Magic systems glitched. Divine barriers cracked. Every god who ever called himself immortal *felt it.* One whispered, "The throne... was taken?" Another screamed, "It's not possible!" A demon lord shattered his own altar in rage. A kingdom's sky turned dark even though it was noon.
And Coker? He just rested his chin on his fist, leanin into the throne like it was made for him. Because now it was. The crown formed above him. Not placed. Not gifted. Formed. From the ashes. From the pressure. From the betrayal. From the grind. From every moment the world laughed at him. And it was a *crown of ash and flame*. The system tried to scan him again, desperate to understand what he became. But all it could say now was: **"ERROR. SUBJECT: UNDEFINABLE. TITLES: Fate Eater, Thronebreaker, Void Son, Chainless God."** The chapter of fate was rewritten right there in that ruined hall. And the first line said: "Coker exists."
He didn't need their permission. He didn't care for their rules. They locked the throne behind trials and time, behind curses and fear. But he *walked in anyway* and *took it.*
Because he was *done* being trash.
He was now the **Crowned Devourer.** And the war of gods... just got a new player who don't play by the rules.