he Omiya district of Saitama was a chaotic symphony of neon and noise.
To Vargos, it felt like being trapped inside a kaleidoscope made of glass and lightning.
He walked with a slow, rhythmic stride, his presence acting like a silent shockwave that parted the sea of commuters.
He didn't look like he belonged in 2026, yet he looked more "at home" in the world than any of the hunched, rushing humans around him. His ancient, tattered tunic—dark and woven from fibers that no longer existed—clung to his frame, drawing eyes from every direction.
Despite his annoyance at being alive, Vargos couldn't help but observe the inhabitants of this new era.
As he navigated the sidewalk, he noticed something that hadn't been true fourteen centuries ago: the women had become remarkably beautiful.
In his time, beauty was often a casualty of labor and disease.
Even the high-born ladies of his court carried the subtle marks of a world without sanitation.
But these modern women... they were different.
Their skin was flawless, polished by "potions" he saw advertised on giant glowing screens.
They walked with a confidence that suggested they hadn't spent a single day worrying about a goblin raid.
They wore fabrics that hugged their curves with predatory precision—tight denim, silk that shimmered like water, and those "crop tops" that continued to baffle his sense of royal decorum.
The species has refined itself, he thought, his red eyes briefly tracking a tall woman with long, chestnut hair and legs that seemed to go on forever.
At least the view has improved while the world went to hell.
His stomach gave a low, rumbling growl. It was a sensation he hadn't felt in an eternity.
Being dead was excellent for the appetite; being resurrected in a hungry, physical body was a chore.
He stopped in front of a tall, glowing rectangular monolith standing against a brick wall—a vending machine.
It was filled with colorful cylinders and crinkling bags.
Vargos stood before it, arms crossed, watching it with the intense scrutiny he usually reserved for enemy fortifications.
A high school student, wearing a dark blazer and carrying a backpack, shuffled up beside him.
The boy was shaking, clearly intimidated by the 6'2" shadow standing next to him, but his thirst seemingly outweighed his fear.
With trembling fingers, the boy fished a small, silver coin from his pocket and slotted it into a thin crack in the machine.
He pressed a button. With a mechanical thunk, a bottle of water tumbled into the tray at the bottom.
Vargos watched the process with a raised eyebrow.
A tribute system? You offer a metal token to the machine, and it grants you a prize? How unnecessarily complicated.
Vargos didn't have any metal tokens. He didn't even have a pocket.
"Excuse me," the boy squeaked, grabbing his water and trying to scurry away.
Vargos didn't look at him.
He simply reached out.
Without a hint of effort, without even tensing his shoulder, he drove his fist through the thick, reinforced glass of the vending machine.
SHATTER.
The sound was like a gunshot.
The boy froze, his eyes bulging as he watched the "unbreakable" glass disintegrate into a thousand diamonds.
Vargos's hand emerged from the wreckage, clutching a bright yellow bag with a picture of a sliced potato on the front.
"Sir! The—the CCTV!" the boy stammered, pointing a shaking finger at a small black dome mounted on the wall. "That's... that's a crime! You can't just—"
Vargos ignored the boy and the "CCTV," whatever that was. He looked at the yellow bag. It felt light, filled with air.
He didn't bother looking for an opening. He didn't understand the concept of "packaging." To the Demon King, if something contained food, the whole thing was food.
He tossed the entire bag into his mouth—plastic, nitrogen-filled air, and fried potato slices all at once.
He chewed twice. The plastic crunched, the chips gave a satisfying saltiness, and the air hissed out between his teeth. He swallowed the entire mass in one go.
Mediocre, Vargos thought, a slight frown marring his handsome face. Tastes like salted oil and regret.
He turned his gaze toward the student, who looked like he was about to pass out. "The tribute was lacking in quality. Tell the master of this machine that his offerings are insulting."
With that, Vargos walked away, leaving the traumatized teenager standing amidst a pile of broken glass and stolen snacks.
A few blocks later, the scent of something far more potent hit him. It was rich, fatty, and carried the aroma of slow-cooked bones and fermented grain.
He followed the scent to a small, open-air stall tucked into an alleyway. A sign above it read Ichiraku Ramen.
Inside, a man with a sweatband was vigorously shaking a basket of noodles. Vargos stepped up to the counter, his presence instantly dimming the light in the small space.
"What is this?" Vargos asked, his voice a low, commanding rumble.
The cook jumped, nearly dropping his noodles. "Uh... Ramen, pal. Best Tonkotsu in Saitama. You want a bowl? It's 950 Yen."
Vargos looked at the menu on the wall, filled with pictures and numbers.
He watched a businessman nearby peel a piece of colorful paper from a leather folder and hand it to the cook.
Yen. Money.
Vargos leaned against the counter, his lean frame radiating a bored, casual power. He realized he had two choices.
He could grab the cook by the throat, let a sliver of his aura leak out, and demand a thousand bowls of this "Ramen" until he was satisfied.
He could turn this entire street into his personal pantry in under a minute.
But as he looked at the steam rising from the pots and the tired, honest lines on the cook's face, he felt a strange lack of motivation.
Being a tyrant was exhausting.
It required management, fear-mongering, and the constant threat of rebellion.
He had done that for centuries.
He had achieved world peace specifically so he wouldn't have to deal with the headache of ruling people anymore.
I didn't come back to start another war, Vargos mused.
I came back to find a comfortable chair. And apparently, chairs cost 'Yen.'
He pushed himself off the counter without a word. The cook watched him go, letting out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
Vargos continued walking, his mind turning over the information he had gathered.
The woman—Mei—had mentioned something called the "GMMC."
A Management Corporation for mages. In his experience, organizations that "managed" magic usually had the most gold, the most secrets, and the most comfortable chairs.
He looked up and saw it.
A sleek, towering building of blue glass and white steel, with the letters GMMC glowing in bold, authoritative light. It was the Saitama Branch.
"Perhaps they have a 'Help Wanted' sign for a retired god," Vargos muttered to himself, a dark, cynical humor dancing in his red eyes.
He pushed through the heavy glass revolving doors.
The lobby was a cathedral of modern sterility. White marble floors, floating holographic displays, and rows of sleek kiosks.
There were people everywhere—mostly "mages" in tactical gear or suits, all of them checking their wrist-mounted meters or staring at their glowing hand-held tools.
As Vargos stood in the center of the lobby, trying to figure out where the "Tribute Master" of this establishment resided, he noticed a man sitting on a nearby bench.
The man was staring intensely at a small, glowing rectangle, his thumb swiping upward with mindless, repetitive speed.
From the device came a series of rapid-fire sounds—high-pitched music, laughter, and a rhythmic, thumping beat.
Intrigued by the man's total absorption, Vargos walked over.
He didn't ask. He didn't wait. He simply reached down with two fingers and plucked the device from the man's hands.
"Hey! What the hell—!" the man yelled, jumping up. He stopped halfway, his voice dying in his throat as he looked up at the 6'2" wall of muscle and ancient darkness that had just robbed him.
Vargos ignored him. He looked at the screen.
It was a "Reel."
The image was hyper-vibrant, almost sickeningly bright. It featured a woman—or something that looked like a woman.
Her skin was too smooth, shimmering with a plastic sheen that suggested she was an AI construct rather than a living being.
She was wearing almost nothing—strips of neon fabric that barely strained against a physique that defied the laws of biology.
The woman in the screen was turned away from the camera, her body bent forward as she performed a violent, rhythmic "twerking" motion.
The physics were exaggerated; every movement was calculated to be as suggestive and hyper-sexualized as the code would allow.
Heart icons and "likes" exploded across the screen in a digital frenzy.
Vargos watched for three seconds. He swiped up, just as the man had done.
The next video was nearly identical.
A different "woman," an even smaller outfit, an even more aggressive display of artificial flesh.
Vargos felt a wave of cold, sharp disgust wash over him. In his era, beauty was a thing of power, of lineage, of natural grace.
This? This was a digital slaughterhouse of dignity. It was "human filth" served on a glowing platter to satisfy the base urges of a society that had forgotten how to look a real woman in the eye.
"Filth," Vargos spat.
"Give that back! That's an iPhone 15 Pro Max! It cost me—" The man reached for the phone, his face twisted in a mix of greed and fear.
Vargos didn't look at him. He simply tightened his grip.
CRUNCH.
The "iPhone" didn't just break; it imploded.
The glass shattered, the lithium battery hissed, and the internal components were crushed into a mangled heap of metal and silicon. Vargos dropped the smoking remains onto the marble floor.
"My phone! You—you maniac! You owe me a hundred thousand yen! Security! SECURITY!" the man groaned, falling to his knees to cradle the wreckage of his digital life.
Vargos finally turned his head. He didn't leak his mana.
He didn't growl.
He simply looked at the man with his crimson eyes—the gaze of a king who had watched empires burn and felt nothing but the wind.
It was a look of such profound, ancient predatory weight that the man's voice didn't just stop; it was deleted.
The man's jaw hung open.
A bead of cold sweat rolled down his temple.
He scrambled backward on his hands and knees, his "hundred thousand yen" forgotten in the face of a man who looked like he could unmake the world with a thought.
Vargos turned his back on the whimpering civilian and looked toward the GMMC reception desk.
"I believe," Vargos said to the silent lobby, "that I am going to hate this century."