The Barbarian Race had been keeping a very low profile in recent years, so much so that no one knew what they were up to.

Unlike the Beastmen who lived up to their names, the Barbarian Race was far more calm and calculating than most gave them credit for.

If they weren't, how could they allow Leonel to hold their reincarnated king in his possession for so long? After they became Gods, they should have been arrogant to the point of at least making a demand.

But there was none of that at all. In fact, even the Sylvans had no idea just how the Barbarian Race had evolved after successfully becoming a God Race.

Everyone was so distracted by Leonel, the Fawkes, and the addition of the Four Great Families, not to mention the comeback of the Humans, that none of them had the time to mind the Barbarian Race.

By the time anyone was even considering looking into them a bit, the Pluto made their move, and now the Idol Battlefield was descending centuries ahead of time for seemingly no reason at all.

Who had the time to mind this newly formed God Race? Especially since they weren't the only Race that had elevated in this time. After all, not only had the Minerva returned, so too had the Fallen God Beasts... though, no longer Fallen.

However, if Leonel were here to see who had been sent, he would have been truly shocked.

That was because the man leading the small group of Barbarians was none other than Talon, the very man who should be scaled away in the Segmented Cube.

However, this Talon seemed very much different from the one Leonel knew. He wasn't as boisterous, and though he was still arrogant, and his belly was as solid and round as ever, there was a maturity that seemed to temper all of it.

His red tattoos seemed deeper now, almost looking like burn marks rather than just ink dotted across his skin. He was taller, standing at almost three meters, and there were odd fluctuations of the world around him.

Everyone was worried about the comeback of the Pluto, or the attempt of the Void Race to replace them as the overlord race, but no one was paying attention to the powerhouses lurking in the shadows.

Those of the Barbarian Race, after basking in the changes that came to their bodies, felt like there was no one other than themselves who were worthy of taking the next step to become the overlord Race of Existence.

Their mutation from Demi-God to God...

Was no less shocking than the mutation of the Pluto had been.

And soon, the world would know.

Talon looked off toward his wife, the memories of his past life having finally returned to him. He gave her a slight nod before vanishing, a group of Barbarian Race youths following after him.

The Pluto youths scattered across the world looked up toward the Idol Battlefield with silent expressions.

They all seemed to realize that this was an opportunity for them. They had all stepped out of their

comfortable lives, ready to risk death for the sake of seeing their Races rise once again. They knew that there might never be a day when they returned to how things had once been.

But now they suddenly felt like the world was helping them.

For the Idol Battlefield to descend now...

The Northern Star must want them to rise again.

They didn't care about whether they were strong enough to meet the threshold or not.

Every single one of them leapt into the air, streaking forward.

There were no Ancestors to stop them or decide who should and shouldn't go. In that case, they would take matters into their own hands.

Either they died and left a mark on this world, or they lived and became true powerhouses.

At that moment, the Constellation of the Pluto Race trembled, a scythe of time pulsing high in the skies as the hope of one race flared up like a pillar piercing through the skies.

In another corner of the world, the Four Great Families and what remained of the Three Finger Cult sat in silence.

They had lost all four of their Heirlooms. Their greatest trump card, the Envoys of Destruction, had been taken by Leonel and killed unceremoniously, and now it seemed like all they could do was sit here and wait for their death.

It seemed that after everything, they could only sit here and wait for their deaths.

At that moment, there was a ripple and a young woman with beauty beyond words appeared.

Anya.

The last time Leonel had seen Anya, he took her from the remains of the Three Finger Cult and made her a part of his Dream Pavilion. But it had been a very long time since Leonel had gone back to the Human world in the Mortal Realms, and quite frankly, he didn't care enough about it to give it another thought.

The fact that Anya was still alive after he killed her the first time also didn't really faze him. He had already come to terms with how life and death worked in this dark, twisted world.

If he was here to see Anya, though, he would likely find it amusing.

He had given her a chance to live, a chance to thrive in a Dream Pavilion and work for the Human Race once more, but here she was.

Maybe even she realized that she could only do this because Leonel simply didn't care about her existence any longer. Or maybe she was ignorant enough to believe that she had pulled the wool

over his eyes.

Whatever the case was, in her delicate hand was a scythe that looked like it was carved out of smooth, white marble. Well, at least the polearm was. The blade alternated into a gorgeous black marble with streaks of white through it.

The weapon rested on her shoulder as she looked forward.