The collapse of the Gilded Dungeon results in a horrific, melodic chime of trillions of falling coins. As the Midas-Heart unraveled under the violet edge of the scythe, the vertical labyrinth of gold dissolved into a torrential rain of worthless copper dust. Ren Hanshin stood in the center of the ruins, his silhouette a jagged breach in the golden reality of the realm.

[Synchronization: 68.0%]

[Level: 112]

Ren’s breathing was a mechanical hiss, each intake of air vibrating through the porcelain and lead that now composed his chest. The 68.0% synchronization was a terrifying plateau; he no longer felt the weight of his boots or the friction of his clothes. He felt only the silk, the trillions of threads that connected every point in the Sovereign’s city to the Weaver’s loom.

The Weaver was no longer a specter behind him. She had woven her starlight form directly into his nervous system. Her voice was a constant, shimmering harmonic that made the diamond floor beneath him pulse with a rhythmic, crimson heat.

[Weaver]: We are at the top of the ledger, my King. The merchant has no more shields. He has no more avatars remaining. He is sitting on a pile of debt that we have already severed. Look at the palace, which is made of pride.

Ren looked ahead. The dust of the dungeon cleared to reveal the Palace of the Gilded Sovereign.

It was a structure that defied the laws of celestial geometry. It was a singular, massive mountain of liquid sun, shaped into a spire that reached for the absolute zenith of the Golden Realm. It emitted a conceptual radiation that forced the mind to calculate its value. To look at the palace was to feel poor. To stand before it was to realize that your entire life was a deficit in the eyes of the God of Wealth.

Ren gripped the scythe with both hands. His left arm, the leaden one, was now covered in deep, white-hot fissures where the divine mana had rejected the Midas-Infection. It was a mangled, heavy limb that served as a physical anchor, preventing him from drifting away into the absolute starlight of the synchronisation.

"I have a delivery," Ren whispered, his voice a dual-tone choral that shattered the nearby diamond pillars.

He transitioned like a blur towards palace. In one frame, he was at the ruins of the vault; in the next, he was standing at the base of the Sovereign’s throne.

The throne room was an infinite expanse of white marble and gold leaf. There were no guards. There were no servants. There was only a single desk made of frozen time, and behind it, the God of Wealth.

He did not look like a monster. He was a man of indeterminate age, wearing a simple suit of grey silk that seemed to drink the light. His eyes were two perfect, silver coins that reflected the Weaver’s Mark on Ren’s face. He was holding a small, golden scale, meticulously weighing a single human tear against a grain of starlight.

"Ren Hanshin," the Sovereign said. His voice was the sound of a thousand silk purses being opened at once. "You have crashed my trades. You have murdered my auditors. You have turned my most valuable dungeon into a pile of common dross. Do you have any idea what the insurance premiums for a dead Sovereign look like?"

"I’m not here for the math," Ren rasped, the amber-red blade of the scythe humming with a lethal frequency. "I’m here to close the bank."

The God of Wealth looked up, a small, amused smile touching his lips. "The bank is never closed, Executioner. It only changes management. You think you are fighting for the dirt? Look at yourself. You are a silk thread. You are a High-Tier Asset of the Weaver. You are just a different kind of currency."

The Sovereign stood up and tapped the scale.

[Domain Detected: THE ABSOLUTE MARKET]

[Condition: Identity Liquidation in Progress]

Suddenly, the white marble of the throne room was replaced by a digital-like grid of golden lines. Ren felt his synchronization being appraised. He felt a terrifying sense of being calculated.

"Let us see what you are worth," the Sovereign mused. "The Weaver’s contract? Valued at three galaxies. The Shinen-ryu style? Two thousand years of data. The sister? Ah, the sapphire. She is a liability. A debt that hasn’t been serviced in weeks."

"Shut... up," Ren growled, his human left hand shaking as it gripped the silk handle of the scythe.

"I will buy it all," the God of Wealth said, his eyes glowing with a silver, mercenary light. "I will buy your contract from the Goddess. I will buy your memories of the shrine. I will pay her three times your value to let you go. You will be free, Ren. You can go back to the mud. You can be a porter again. All I want in exchange is the scythe."

Ren felt a sudden, sharp pull on his soul. The Weaver’s manifestation let out a screech of divine fury. She was angry that the God of Wealth was trying to purchase her needle.

[Weaver]: HE DARES! HE DARES TO BID ON MY EXECUTIONER! SEVER HIM, REN! SEVER THE HAND THAT OFFERS THE GOLD! REAP THE MERCHANT!

Ren’s body was a battlefield. The God of Wealth was pulling from the front, offering him the porter’s dream, a return to the simple life. The Weaver was pulling from behind, demanding the total destruction of the rival Sovereign.

Ren looked at his hands. He saw the porcelain right hand and the leaden left.

"The Porter doesn’t take deals," Ren whispered. "He makes deliveries."

"Abyssal Circle!" Ren didn’t swing the scythe at the god. He swung it at the grid.

He used the scythe to cut the lines of value that were appraising his soul. The amber-red blade tore through the golden geometry of the Absolute Market, creating a massive rift of nothingness in the center of the throne room.

The Sovereign’s smile vanished. He raised his hand, and a massive, jagged sword made of solidified gold appeared in his grip. It is Interest-Blade.

"Then you are a bad investment," the God of Wealth said, his voice turning into a cold, metallic roar. "And I have no choice but to write you off."

The clash was elegant.

The sound was like a world-ending transaction. The Gold Sword hit the Crimson Scythe, and the resulting shockwave vaporized the diamond pillars of the palace for miles. Ren felt the weight of the Sovereign’s strike, it was the weight of every debt ever owed, every promise ever broken for money. It was a strike of ownership.

[Synchronization: 68.0% -> 68.2% -> 68.5%]

Ren was being pushed back, his boots melting the marble floor. The God of Wealth was purchasing his resistance. Every time Ren blocked, the Sovereign would pay a portion of Ren’s mana to the void, effectively draining his tank while hitting him.

"You cannot win, Ren!" God laughed, his silver eyes flashing. "I have an infinite treasury! I can buy your strength faster than you can use it!"

Ren looked at the scythe. The blade was turning grey again, the starlight being bought by the Sovereign’s aura. He realized he couldn’t win a battle of energy. He had to use the one thing that had negative value.

He reached into his mind, past the Weaver’s silk and the God’s gold, and pulled out the fatigue.

He remembered the feeling of being too tired to stand, yet standing anyway. He remembered the feeling of the straps cutting into his shoulders. He remembered the feeling of being worthless in a world that only cared about the price tag.

"Seventh Form: Final Eulogy."

Ren didn’t pull mana. He pulled exhaustion. He bonded with the scythe itself. He funneled the fatigue of the two thousand survivors, the grief of the Necropolis, and the absolute empty of his own human heart into the blade. The crimson-amber light turned into a dark, bruised violet, which is the color of a bruise that never heals.

SLASH!

He swung the scythe. The violet blade didn’t hit the Sovereign’s sword. It infected it. The solid gold of the Interest-Blade turned into rusted, brittle iron. The value of the Sovereign’s strike plummeted to zero.

"WHAT?" the God of Wealth gasped, his mercury-like body flickering. "This... this is a deficit! You are bringing bankruptcy into the Core!"

"I’m a porter," Ren rasped, appearing in front of the God in a flash of dark violet light. "And I’ve come to collect the interest on my soul."

Ren thrusted the blade of the scythe through the God of Wealth’s chest.

WHOOSH!

He didn’t use a divine skill. He used the flow. He twisted the blade, and instead of gold or mana, millions of unfulfilled dreams, the conceptual essence of the souls the God had hoarded, erupted from the Sovereign’s body.

The Palace of the Gilded Sovereign began to scream. The liquid sun walls turned to lead. The diamond throne shattered. The value of the Golden Realm was being wiped out by Ren’s human bankruptcy.

[Consumption of Sovereign Core: THE GOD OF WEALTH]

[Level Up: 112 -> 113]

[Synchronization: 68.5% -> 69.0%]

The God of Wealth didn’t die with a roar. He died with a quiet, rattling sigh. He turned into a pile of worthless copper shavings, the silver coins of his eyes falling to the marble floor and shattering.

Ren stood in the middle of the leaden ruins, his body smoking with a cold, amber frost. He was at Level 113 and 69.0% synchronization. He felt the Weaver’s presence reach a new, terrifying plateau. She was his breath.

He looked at his hands. The lead infection on his left arm had reached his neck. His porcelain right arm was so translucent he could see the crimson starlight circuits pulsing within. He looked toward the horizon.

The Golden Realm was falling apart. The sky of gold was being replaced by the deep, dark violet of the higher Astral realms. The Kashima Maru was visible below, its iron hull reflecting the return of the stars.

Ren looked at the shattered silver coins of the Sovereign’s eyes. He picked one up with his leaden hand.

It stayed shattered.

"The debt is settled," Ren whispered.

[Synchronization: 69.0%]

The Gilded Grave was behind them. Ren had claimed another Sovereign. But as Ren Hanshin stood in the ruins of the palace, he realized that the Weaver was already starting to stitch the next pattern.

The Aureum-Primus was dead. But the Void of the Weaver was just beginning.

Ren gripped the scythe and looked up. The next constellation was waiting. And the Executioner was still, stubbornly, carrying the weight of a world that didn’t know how to pay him back.