Chapter 667: Beach King Challenge The sun blazed overhead, a white-hot coin hammered into a sky the color of bleached coral. Heat shimmered off the sand in visible waves, turning the beach into a griddle; every footfall left a fleeting print that the wind erased almost before it formed. Salt crusted the air, thick enough to taste on the back of the tongue, mingling with sunscreen and the faint, sweet rot of kelp baking on the tideline. Waves rolled in with a steady, muscular hush, their crests catching the light like knife edges before they shattered into foam. The blonde stepped back, hands raised, palms out—slow, deliberate, the way you’d calm a spooked horse. His boys followed suit, backing off, spreading their hands like I was a wild animal they didn’t want to spook. A girl in a teal one-piece paused mid-step, iced coffee dripping condensation down her wrist; a kid with a boogie board froze, mouth half open. Even the lifeguard on the tower leaned forward, whistle forgotten against his lips. "Relax, man," the blonde said, grin softening into something almost friendly, voice easy, sun-rough. "We’re not here for trouble." I lowered my gaze to my chest—where his hand had been, the skin there still tingling from the contact—then back to his face. Took a subtle step back, putting distance between us. Sand gave under my heel, warm and powdery, sliding between my toes like sugar. "Then scram. I don’t want to be disturbed." The big one—massive frame, shoulders wide as a doorframe—stepped closer, blocking more sunlight, but his posture was open, non-threatening. Heat rolled off him in waves; the faint scent of coconut wax and sweat followed. He reached out, hand angling toward my shoulder in that bro-bonding way guys did. I shifted left. Smooth. Natural. Like I was just adjusting my stance. His hand caught air. "Hey, hey—easy," he said, not noticing or pretending not to. His laugh rumbled low, like distant thunder over water. "We really aren’t here to start shit. Just wanted to talk." Movement caught my eye—shadows shifting, voices murmuring. The crowd was gathering. At first, just a few. A couple of girls who’d been walking past, slowing down when they saw the standoff, flip-flops dangling from manicured fingers. One whispered, the sound swallowed by the surf, but her eyes—wide, reflecting sunlight—said enough. Then more. A group of guys jogging by stopped mid-stride, sweat cooling on their skin. Someone whistled. Someone else laughed—sharp, delighted. Because even though I was a god among these dudes—literally, cosmically superior in every measurable way—they were hot too. Objectively. The kind of muscled, sun-bronzed, cocky surfer bros who drew eyes wherever they went. Popular on this beach. Regulars, probably. The kind whose names everyone at the beach knew. Ropey forearms, sun-bleached hair curling at the nape, abs ridged like the sand after a wave retreats. And my presence? That was a magnet all on its own. Put us together, and attention came like sharks to blood. More people drifted in—drawn by the gathering, by the energy, by the simple fact that something was happening. Women mostly, at first. Bikinis and cover-ups, phones already out, recording or pretending not to. But men came too. Curious. Territorial. Sizing us up. The circle widened, then tightened. Twenty people. Thirty. Bikini strings and board-short drawstrings, iced lattes sweating, kids on shoulders craning for a view. A woman near the front licked salt from her upper lip, eyes tracking the flex of the blonde’s bicep. Another angled her phone, thumb hovering, pulse visible in her throat. I scanned the crowd, annoyed, then looked past the five men standing in front of me. Five surfboards lay propped in the sand behind them—sleek, waxed, clearly well-used, edges scalloped from coral kisses. These weren’t just gym rats cosplaying beach life. They were also surfers. Actual surfers. Taking a rest, probably, before they’d spotted me and decided to approach. Dawn-patrol, speak-in-swell-height surfers. I turned back to them, voice flat. "I don’t want attention. Get out of my way." Started walking. "Wait!" One of the background three—shaggy brown hair, tribal tattoo sleeve like spilled ink—stepped forward, words tumbling fast. His hand came up, reaching for my arm like he was trying to stop me physically. I pivoted. Clean. His fingers grasped empty air where my forearm had been. Sand puffed up, glittering. "We came to invite you to surf with us, man," he continued, not seeming to notice. "We saw you out there earlier—you and that woman—" He gestured vaguely toward where the waves broke. "Fucking insane. We wanted to talk to you, but you guys disappeared before we could catch you." Ah. Now I understood. I’d thought they came to cause trouble—territorial bullshit, alpha posturing, whatever. But they just thought I was their bro in arms. Fellow surfer. Someone worth knowing. Maybe even challenging. The blonde jumped in, grin widening. He stepped closer, hand coming up—probably going for my shoulder, that universal dude-bro gesture of camaraderie. I bent to brush sand off my shin. Perfectly timed. He caught himself mid-reach, hand hovering awkward before dropping to his side. I really hate being touched! "We figured when you came back, we’d invite you, You’re, Eros, right?" he said, either oblivious or polite enough to pretend, might’ve heard when we were surfing with Ava. "At least surf with us. Harmless competition. Nothing crazy." He spread his hands wider. "What do you say?" I looked at the ring of people around us. Fifty now, maybe more. Girls pressed close, not being subtle—eyes roaming, lips parted, phones angled for the perfect shot. The energy was thick, electric, hungry. A girl in white pressed closer, fabric sheer where the sun hit, nipples dark against the cloth. Her exhale stirred the air between us. Competitions were common on this beach. I could feel it in the crowd’s vibe—they fed on this shit. Didn’t matter how many they’d seen. They never got tired of it. Unfortunately for them... "I was surfing for fun," I said, voice carrying. "No interest in competition." Turned. Started walking away. And the crowd erupted. "He’s running!" "Afraid of losing!" "Come on, dude—don’t be a pussy for a man with your presence and looks!" Laughter. Jeers. Disappointment cutting through the noise like knives. A woman’s voice, loud and clear: "He’s so fucking hot... but no balls." Another: "All looks, no game." I stopped. The sand burned under my soles. [DING! MISSION ALERT!] [Beach King: You’ve been invited to a competition, but walking away will damage your reputation as a god among men.] [Objective: Your pride and ego among women is being ruined right now, which will paint you as a coward. Women will see you as all godly hot but weak.] [Engage and win this competition until the very end.] [Rewards: 20,000 SP, $20,000, 50% Duplicate Card] [Objective 2: Spend the $20,000 reward money before midnight!] I stared at the notification floating in my vision, invisible to everyone else. It wasn’t about the reward. Okay, partly the reward—that Duplicate Card made me curious as hell. But my ego? My reputation? Those mattered more. I turned. Slowly. Let the silence stretch until it snapped. Met the blonde’s eyes. Then the big one’s. Then the crowd’s—hungry, sun-drunk, waiting. "On second thought," I said, voice cutting through the noise like a blade, "I’d love to watch you get your asses handed to you. For disturbing my rest." The crowd exploded. Cheers. Screams. Phones raised higher. The energy shifted from mockery to anticipation in half a heartbeat. The five surfers laughed—loud, genuine, pumped up. The blonde turned to the crowd, arms raised, commanding attention like he’d done this a thousand times. "CHANT HIS NAME!" he bellowed. "EROS! EROS! EROS!" The sound rolled over me like a physical wave. My name. Then another figure stepped out of the crowd. Tall—maybe six-something—with that effortless confidence money bought young. Designer board shorts. Expensive watch catching sunlight like a signal flare. Hair perfectly tousled like he’d paid someone to make it look natural. Trust fund. I could smell it on him from ten feet away. He stepped between the five surfers, winked at them—clearly friends—and the crowd cheered louder. So, he was popular too. Part of their crew. He turned to me, then to the crowd, spreading his arms like a ringmaster. "How about we make this interesting?" he called out, voice projecting easy. "Two competitions. Surfing and weightlifting." The five surfers huddled, whispering fast. I watched their body language. The glances. The nods. I understood immediately. They’d seen me and Ava surf. They knew they could lose that one and they’d lose their face in their own territory. But adding weightlifting? That gave them another window. Another chance to win. Of course they’d think that. I was a god—perfection everywhere, lean and tall like an immortal who’d walked out of the clouds. But these guys? Discount wrestlers. Bulging muscles, thick necks, arms like tree trunks. They probably benched twice their body weight for fun. While I was superior in everything, surely they’d win at weightlifting. Right? So they thought. I shrugged, let a slow grin spread. "You’re on." The crowd roared. Dex raised his hands, waiting for silence. Got it. "After this competition," he declared, grin wide, "party at my mansion. Free drinks, insane games, and whatever the fuck else happens!" The beach exploded into chaos—cheers, screams, bodies jumping, phones flashing. I stood in the center of it all, watching the energy swirl around me like a storm I’d summoned without trying. The blonde stepped forward, extended his hand. I looked at it for half a second too long. Then took it—brief, firm, released before it could linger. "Name’s Colt," he said. "This is Jaxon—" He gestured to the big one. "And that’s Ryder, Shane, and Kai." The other three nodded, one of them—Shane, probably—reaching out for a fist bump. I was already turning toward the water. His fist met nothing. "Eros," I said over my shoulder. "We know," Jaxon rumbled, grin splitting his face. "Whole fucking beach knows now." Dex clapped his hands together. "Alright! Surfing first. Three rounds. Best wave takes it. Then we hit the weights." He looked at me. "That work for you, god-boy?" I met his eyes. Let the grin sharpen. "Works perfect." The crowd pressed closer. The boards were grabbed. Wax scraped under palms. The ocean waited, glittering and merciless. And somewhere in the back of my mind, ARIA whispered: You really can’t help yourself, can you? No. I really couldn’t. For my god Pride and Ego