(The Pit, Mauriss' POV)

Mauriss strolled out of the prison cell with giddy written all over his face as he replayed the moment in his head, savoring it again and again, the cadence, the timing, the way Raymond's expression had cracked when he mentioned deception and ball sacks, as he concluded with absolute certainty that it had been one of the better lines he had delivered this decade.

'That one landed perfectly.'

He thought, lips curling upward as satisfaction warmed his chest.

'I must have looked ridiculously cool to that Dragon kid, no?'

The thought amused him further as he lifted his gaze and scanned his surroundings, only to find several barbarians staring back at him with open confusion, their expressions blunt and unguarded, lacking even the courtesy of fear.

They were massive, scarred, and half-armored, standing in loose clusters near the holding area, their eyes tracking him with the same dull curiosity they would give one of their own.

Mauriss blinked once.

Then twice.

He looked down at himself.

Bare chest.

No divine mantle.

No weapons.

No regalia.

Just flesh, scars, and arrogance, as realization dawned upon him that the dimwits genuinely believed him to be one of them.

"No. No. No."

Mauriss muttered, a slow, offended grimace spreading across his face as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I'm not dumb like you inbreds."

He said, before tapping his foot lightly against the stone as the world cracked.

*KABOOM*

A thunderous sonic boom erupted beneath him as air collapsed violently inward, stone fracturing in a widening ring as he vanished upward in a blink, leaving behind barbarians flung backward like leaves caught in a storm.

The shockwave rolled outward long after he was gone.

Far above, the sky folded around his ascent as he streaked forward like a thrown spear, space bending obediently before him while distance became irrelevant, his trajectory carrying him across hundreds of kilometers in a single breath.

The land below blurred.

Mountains shrank.

Rivers became threads.

Then heat surged.

A dormant volcano loomed ahead, its caldera split open like a wound, red molten stone glowing faintly from residual magma far below as ash drifted lazily through the air.

"...."

Mauriss landed at the volcano's crown without sound, boots settling gently against blackened rock as if gravity itself were hesitant to restrain him.

*Swish*

*Swish*

*Swish*

Helmuth's axe moved in clean, brutal arcs, each swing carving through the air with such precision that the space it passed through seemed permanently altered, the edge humming faintly as the attack altered reality itself.

His body was massive even by godly standards, muscles layered thick and corded beneath scarred skin, veins standing out prominently as heat radiated from him in heavy waves.

Each motion was efficient.

Each step deliberate.

The pinnacle of what an axe wielder should be.

Mauriss clasped his hands behind his back and watched.

He did not speak.

He did not interrupt.

He simply stared, knowing full well that Helmuth hated being watched while he trained, and that by merely standing here, sooner or later, the Barbarian God would snap.

*SLASH*

Just as expected, a powerful axe strike soon came his way without warning, the sheer force behind it enough to cleave a couple of planets in two.

"HAHAHA!"

Mauriss chuckled, reacting casually as he raised two fingers and caught the attack between its tips.

*FSHHH—*

The force pressed forward just enough to pierce skin, a thin line of crimson forming where divine essence met flesh as blood welled briefly before spilling free.

*Drip*

A single drop of blood loosened from his finger as Helmuth froze in disgust, while Mauriss smiled shamelessly.

"Mmmm. What a powerful attack."

He said, before bringing the finger to his mouth as he licked the drop slowly, eyes rolling back as his breath hitched, his expression melting into pure, unfiltered ecstasy, which only irritated Helmuth further.

*Sigh*

Eventually, Mauriss sighed contentedly, savoring the taste as Helmuth snorted in response, irritation rolling off him like heat as he picked his axe up once more and turned away, resuming his practice without sparing Mauriss another glance.

"Don't bother me today, Deceiver."

Helmuth said flatly as his axe continued to move.

"If you want entertainment, find it somewhere else, for I am not inclined to accompany you today."

Another swing followed, heavier than the last.

"I need to get into my battle rhythm over the next forty hours."

His stance shifted as power coiled through his frame.

"By the time Soron arrives, I need to be in peak physical and mental condition."

The axe struck the air again.

"And for that to happen, I need you gone."

Helmuth warned, as Mauriss clicked his tongue in disappointment.

"Tch."

He said, shaking his head slowly as he wagged his already healed finger.

"I come early, I bring guests, I provoke family drama, and this is the reception I get."

He sighed dramatically.

"I had hoped The Pit would be more entertaining two days before the execution. But you, Helmuth, have disappointed me by choosing training over my delightful company—"

He taunted, however, Helmuth did not bother responding, the Barbarian God's entire focus now solely diverted to his training, as Mauriss watched him train for a few moments longer, noting the controlled breathing, the measured aggression, the way Helmuth was already aligning himself toward war rather than spectacle, before eventually turning away in defeat.

'How boring.'

Mauriss thought, as he felt Helmuth's reaction dull his excitement further.

As with a final glance toward the caldera, Mauriss stepped back and vanished once more, space folding inward as he left without further provocation, unwilling to genuinely irritate Helmuth before the main event.

'After Helmuth dies…. One of the first things I'll do is to wipe off all the inbred barbarians from this universe.

They copy my style too much.'

Mauriss thought as he smiled faintly, already picturing the screams, the chaos, and the silence that would follow, as the universe slowly learned that imitation, especially of his dressing style, was the one sin never forgiven.

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