The Son of God

Grace wasn't just a word—it was Kaisen in all his half-naked, god-like glory, moving like a damn ballet dancer who'd trained on the blood of his enemies.

He wasn't just fighting, no—he was performing.

Like some ancient warrior who's been through more battles than condoms at a frat house, he moved with the confidence of a man who knew exactly how to kill you and still have time to critique your outfit before you hit the ground.

His spear? Oh, that thing was an extension of his body, piercing enemies with a precision that'd make a porn director weep.

It sliced through the air, finding its targets with such ease that it was almost offensive.

Every stab, every twirl, every flick of his wrist was so fluid, you'd swear he rehearsed it in front of a mirror for hours. And honestly? He probably did.

The guy looked like he knew his angles, dodging blows and sliding across the battlefield like he was auditioning for the real "Dancing with the Stars."