The Campus Guard is a Retired God of War

Alistair Cain did not hate his job. He hated the uniform.

The crisp, slightly cheap polyester of the Horizon Imperial University security shirt chafed against the skin that had once been hardened by the storms of the Nine Heavens. The cap, perpetually ill-fitting, was a crowning insult.

It had been seventeen months since the High Gods banished him to this forgotten solar system for the ‘crime’ of ending their war too efficiently. Seventeen months of suppressing the infinite power of the Calamity Star, seventeen months living on Earth as a man—a man required by his Divine Contract to wear the most pathetic mantle possible: a campus guard at the West Gate.

In his security booth, which resembled a shack, he sat on a cheap plastic chair and watched the slow, grinding sun set behind the massive, ivy-covered main library, which he was actually there to guard. The Library served as the Nexus, preventing the city from being engulfed by the Abyssal Gate underneath it. As part of his 1,000-year punishment, he had to keep the Gate closed and the mortals safe, which meant constant watchfulness—not this ridiculous play.

Alistair sipped from his cracked thermos of tepid tea. It wasn't tea. It was a carefully concentrated Divine Brew meant to dampen his own aura, lest its natural gravitational pull ripped the surrounding buildings into dust.

A horn blared, but it was a furious, long-lasting blast rather than a polite, elite one.

Twenty feet away from his booth, a shiny black Aston Martin Vantage with gold trim screamed to a stop. The license plate, ZJ-999, was a personalized vanity tag.

The door flew open and out stepped Zhang Jianming, Alistair’s cousin-in-law. Jianming was twenty years old, dressed in three thousand dollars of Italian cashmere, and possessed the swagger of a man who believed his family name was a substitute for actual talent. He was currently failing his final semester of business law.

“Guard! Why is the gate access panel lagging again?” Jianming sneered, sauntering toward the booth.

Alistair didn't move, only shifting his focus from the newspaper crossword to the young man. Jianming hated him. Not just because Alistair was the family’s greatest embarrassment—the useless son-in-law of the Zhang household—but because Alistair, the trash-tier security guard, was married to the Zhang family’s most successful member: Associate Professor Elena Zhang.

“The panel is running optimally, Mr. Zhang,” Alistair said, his voice flat. “The biometric scanner registered a 94-percent arrogance level, which triggered the slight delay.”

Jianming’s face flushed purple. “Watch your tone, lackey! You forget who allows you to even breathe the air near this campus. If you weren’t married to my cousin, you’d be sleeping under that bridge.” He pointed dismissively to the concrete overpass leading off campus.

He reached into the Aston Martin and pulled out a large, crumpled paper bag that clearly held fast-food wrappers and half-eaten fries. He held it out and deliberately dropped it a few inches from the booth entrance.

“Clean that up, Cain. The Headmaster is bringing important guests tonight for the Founder’s Gala. We can’t have your filth ruining the image of Horizon Imperial.” Jianming turned, dusting off his hands with exaggerated disgust.

Alistair’s eyes narrowed, not in anger, but in calculation. Insults were dust. But this was about more than trash; this was a deliberate violation of the code of conduct he was bound by. He would not violate the contract, but he would also not tolerate this.

As Jianming started to walk back to his car, Alistair’s hand snapped out and plucked a single, polished stone—no bigger than a marble—from the gravel next to his chair. It was a piece of common limestone.

He didn't throw it. He merely let it drop from his fingers.

“Suppress.”

In the silent, unseen reality only Alistair could perceive, the stone became infinitesimally denser. It became a point of concentrated, localized gravity—a singularity the size of a marble. The stone plunged straight down through the gravel and the asphalt below it, carving a perfectly cylindrical, nearly invisible hole.

The resulting vacuum was minute, but it was enough. The crumpled paper bag of trash, already ten feet away, was instantly sucked down into the pinprick void with a soft, whoosh, before the hole sealed itself as the effect ended.

Jianming, oblivious, looked back. “Did you get that, Cain? I want it gone now, before I report you.”

Alistair leaned back, his eyes catching the empty spot where the trash bag had been. “Report acknowledged, Mr. Zhang. Perimeter is clean.”

Jianming squinted, seeing nothing but clean, flat asphalt. He dismissed it as the guard having scurried out and hidden the mess immediately. With a final, disgusted snort, he roared off.

Alistair resumed his crossword. Six letters, a word for ‘inevitable destruction of the cosmos.’ The answer was ‘RAGNAROK,’ but he wrote ‘DEATH’ instead. He preferred simplicity.

The peace lasted exactly twelve minutes until his two-way radio crackled.

“West Gate, this is Central Command. Report to the Head of Security’s office immediately. Urgent matter concerning personnel termination.”

Personnel termination. Alistair sighed. He finished writing the word ‘DEATH.’

The office of the Chief of Security, Mr. Harrison, was a small, uncomfortable room that smelled of stale cigar smoke. Waiting for Alistair were three figures: Mr. Harrison, his face pale and apologetic; Elder Zhang, the family patriarch, radiating smug satisfaction; and a third man, Victor Lei, who stood like a statue of polished obsidian.

Victor Lei was handsome, well-built, and wore a custom suit that cost more than Alistair’s annual salary. He was the head of the city’s newest and most successful private security conglomerate, 'Crimson Shield.'

Alistair ignored them all and focused on the energy signatures. Victor Lei’s aura was cold, efficient, and, most alarmingly, overlaid with a faint, crimson-black miasma—a type of low-grade demonic taint that Alistair recognized immediately. This man was either working for, or had recently been in contact with, an Abyssal Cult.

“Cain, good you’re here,” Elder Zhang announced, not looking at Alistair but at Victor. “Mr. Lei has kindly agreed to take over all campus security, effective immediately. Mr. Harrison is resigning, and frankly, your little position is obsolete.”

Harrison swallowed hard. “Alistair, I’m sorry. This was arranged by the Board. Here is your final paycheck.” He shoved an envelope across the desk.

Victor Lei finally looked at Alistair, a look of profound, controlled contempt. “A man of your… limited skills… is simply not adequate for protecting a landmark like Horizon Imperial. We offer Tier-Zero protection. You offer… what? A flashlight?”

Alistair picked up the paycheck and folded it neatly. He met Victor’s eyes, the eyes of the Calamity Star finally stirring from their slumber.

“My protection costs nothing, Mr. Lei. It requires only that you stay out of the way,” Alistair said calmly.

Elder Zhang burst into mocking laughter. “Listen to him! The failed son-in-law threatening the head of Crimson Shield! Get out, Cain. You're dismissed. We have a Gala to attend, not a dump to clean.”

Alistair turned to leave, but stopped at the door. He turned back, his face emotionless, his tone carrying the weight of ancient caution.

“Mr. Lei. If you are bringing artifacts or gifts for the gala, I advise you to have them meticulously inspected. I sense corruption. This campus is more fragile than you know.”

Victor Lei smiled, a predatory expression. “Corruption? I bring protection, Guard. And I will show the entire city tonight just what real security looks like.”

Alistair didn't argue. His job description had changed. He wasn't guarding the West Gate anymore. He was going to the Gala.

Alistair arrived at the mansion he shared with his wife, Elena, near the campus grounds. Elena, an elegant woman in her early thirties, was already dressed in a deep sapphire gown, looking frustrated as she adjusted a silver brooch.

“You’re late. And you smell like old coffee,” she said, not looking up.

“I was terminated. I was collecting my redundancy pay.” Alistair tossed the envelope onto the table.

Elena stopped. She finally looked at him, her face twisting with a mixture of pity and resentment. “Terminated? Alistair, that was the only employment you had. Now how are we going to—”

“Don’t worry about the finances,” he cut her off gently. He had more than enough money from selling a few low-level demonic cores last month to fund this family for a century. “Tell me about the gala.”

“It’s the Founder’s Gala. The annual fundraiser. It’s critical for my promotion, and the whole city’s elite is there. My family will be furious you were fired, but I still need you there.”

Alistair raised an eyebrow. “As your date?”

Elena sighed, rubbing her temples. “No, Alistair. As staff. My mother got you a uniform. The catering company is short-handed. You can help move the food carts and set up the tables. It will let the family see you working and maybe soften the blow. Just, please, try not to embarrass me.”

Alistair felt the familiar, crushing weight of scorn, but he simply nodded. The campus, the nexus, was compromised, and the entire city’s elite would be gathered in one spot. He needed to be inside the building.

“Get me the uniform. I’ll be there,” he agreed.

One hour later, Alistair was pushing a cart loaded with pristine white tablecloths toward the Grand Hall of the university’s main administration building. He was dressed in the catering company’s white shirt and black trousers—another form of a servant's uniform.

The Grand Hall was a glittering spectacle. The Zhangs were there, all smiles, surrounding Victor Lei who looked like the prince of the night. Elena stood slightly apart, already looking stressed.

As Alistair wheeled his cart past the main stage, Elder Zhang caught his eye. He snickered and subtly gestured toward a stack of dirty dishes. Alistair ignored him, but his attention was elsewhere.

Victor Lei was walking toward the stage, followed by two armed guards from Crimson Shield, one carrying a huge, ornate iron chest.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Victor announced, his voice booming over the sound system. “My company, Crimson Shield, is honored to present this gift to Horizon Imperial, marking our new partnership. An ancient artifact, a piece of history that guarantees protection!”

He placed the iron chest on a pedestal.

At that exact moment, Alistair, the Calamity Star, felt it. It wasn’t the low-grade miasma from earlier. It was a massive, violent vibration that originated deep beneath the Library next door. The air shimmered, the light bulbs flickered, and a wave of pure, concentrated Abyssal Corruption slammed into the campus.

Alistair’s eyes widened, his tea forgotten. The Seal had fractured.

The iron chest on the stage, responding to the raw surge of demonic power, burst open. It was a Trojan Horse. Instead of an artifact, a hideous, snarling, Shadow Beast—a monster with twin horns and eyes like burning coal—materialized, roaring and shattering the ceiling glass.

The beast's massive shadow fell over the entire Grand Hall. Chaos erupted. Screams drowned out the music.

Alistair didn't flinch. He gripped the edge of his serving cart, his knuckles white. His disguise was over.

“A Code Red scenario,” he thought. “And the Calamity Star has only a catering uniform and a serving cart.”

He looked up at the Shadow Beast as it prepared to lash out at the nearest group of elites—a group that included Elena.

Alistair Cain pushed the cart forward, his eyes burning with blue light. The penance could wait. The war was back.