When devotees cry for help, no god worth his weight in divine ass-kicking can turn a blind eye—especially not this god named Kaisen.
"Lend me your power!"
Kaisen screamed, his voice echoing like he was auditioning for a supernatural heavy metal band.
The mana around him started swirling like he was about to go Super Saiyan, except way more dramatic.
And in front of more than a thousand wide-eyed, gawking cats, the impossible happened.
The library, which had been falling with all the grace of a drunk elephant, suddenly stopped just as it was about to flatten a few hundred unlucky furballs.
The world froze. No heartbeats. No breath. Nothing. Just silence. It was like the universe itself was holding its breath, waiting for what came next.
Kaisen, glowing brighter than a goddamn rave in the middle of the apocalypse, stood there with his aura blazing white-hot, his hair doing its best impression of a wind machine commercial.
He looked like the poster child for every over-the-top, shirtless hero ever, and the villagers? Oh, they were eating it up. Fear? Gone. Uncertainty? Out the window.
Every single one of them was now officially in the fan club of "Our Lord and Swole Savior."
And then, with another shout so powerful it probably made a few cats wet themselves, the impossible happened again—the library, all six stories of it, began to move back up.
Not fast, not gracefully, but with the slow, agonizing crawl of a hungover snail.
The ground beneath him shook like it was having a goddamn tantrum, and even the sky seemed to be in on the drama, rumbling like it couldn't believe what it was seeing.
Kaisen, arms straining under the ridiculous weight of an entire library, was pushing it up, up, and up—all while looking like he was about to drop the hottest hero mixtape of the century.
"Help him! Mages, fix the damn base!"
The Chief bellowed from some distant battlefield, clearly wishing he had a better vantage point—or maybe a flask of something strong to make this circus of chaos easier to swallow.
Even if Kaisen managed to lift that tree-turned-library back into place, it wouldn't matter a bit if the roots were still ripped out like some bad weed-job.
The whole thing would just collapse like a house of cards, but with way more screaming and crushed cats.
Mages, who had been hiding in the shadows like a bunch of lazy interns waiting for their cue, finally sprang into action.
They started casting their spells, muttering ancient gibberish while glancing nervously at each other, probably wondering if this was the day they all collectively fucked up.
Kaisen, meanwhile, looked like he was trying to haul up the world's heaviest piece of IKEA furniture—gritting his teeth, veins popping, with zero instructions except "Don't let everyone die."
He finally heaved the library upright, his arms straining like he was holding up the world's largest middle finger to gravity.
The mages got their act together and started manipulating the earth, digging a trench around the base like they were laying the foundation for some medieval cat mansion.
Dirt flew everywhere, and Kaisen, with a level of grace only achievable by someone who wasn't letting anyone ruin his hero moment, gently lowered the tree right into the hole.
In under a minute, the mages buried the roots like they were tucking the damn thing in for a dirt nap.
The whole structure stood there, firm as if it hadn't just been moments away from turning into a historical pancake.
"Wow, it's really fixed..."
Rodalina breathed, her voice barely a whisper, eyes wide and locked onto Kaisen like she'd just discovered the hottest man in existence. And let's be honest—she probably had.
He caught Kaisen mid-fall, but in the process, both of them went tumbling to the ground in a glorious mess of limbs and dirt.
They rolled together like a couple of drunks trying to out-dance each other at a bar, before finally coming to a stop.
The irony was delicious. Roland was the one to save the almighty Morning Star.
But of course, Roland's grip was about as reliable as wet toilet paper, and Kaisen got yeeted a few meters away as if he was nothing more than a sack of potatoes.
And then, because this village couldn't do anything *normally*, the crowd swarmed Kaisen like he was some kind of holy relic.
Cats immediately rushed forward, gingerly lifting the unconscious hero like he was made of the most fragile glass.
It looked less like a rescue mission and more like they were passing around a life-sized action figure.
More than a few hundred hands were in the air, and somehow, Kaisen was just floating along, his limp body being passed from one overly enthusiastic cat to another.
Finally, they placed him on a raised platform—like he was being offered up to the gods—and the crowd gathered around him with bated breath, staring at their fallen hero like moths hypnotized by a giant, glowing lamp.
"Is he alright?" one of the cats asked, their voice trembling like they were in a *soap opera*.
"Why isn't he waking up?!" another cried, as if they expected him to just pop up, give a thumbs up, and say, "Just kidding!"
"He's alive! Look at those perfectly chiseled abs and that sculpted chest rising and falling—like he's deep in some epic wet dream!"
A random woman in the crowd said, practically salivating as her eyes drifted lower to the unmistakable bulge in Kaisen's silk drape. Her voice cut through the panic, and suddenly, the chaotic cries stopped dead.
"..."
"..."
"..."
"..."
Even the kids were left speechless.
"Er... well, that is true..." another villager mumbled, trying desperately to act like they hadn't just noticed the same thing.
But now the mood had shifted from "Oh no, our hero might die!" to "Damn, that man is fine."
The realization spread like wildfire. At least the guy was breathing—no need for the CPR panic anymore, just ogling.
Roland, trying his best to ignore the ridiculous thirst in the air, pushed his way through the drooling crowd like a reluctant Moses parting a very horny sea.
"Move, make way," he muttered, facepalming as he reached Kaisen. Leaning down, he saw the hero's chest still rising and falling, and despite everything, felt a surge of relief. "Thank fuck," he whispered.
"Water. Or... get the damn mages over here," Roland barked, his voice cutting through the awkward tension. "Drench his face, for God's sake!"
Immediately, the crowd snapped out of their collective daze, murmuring to each other in a flurry of panic.
"Water mage! Someone—where the hell is John?! That useless fuck always disappears when we need him!"
From the back, an annoyed voice called out,
"I'm here, damn it! Hold your fucking horses!"