Malthus was dead.
Like, "credits rolling" dead.
The big bad, the red bastard, the horned hemorrhoid of my destiny — gone.
I killed the guy.
Easily.
Too easily.
Like deleting an app I should've uninstalled five years ago.
And for once in my life, being overpowered didn't feel empty.
It felt earned.
I was overpowered with purpose.
That's the difference between a tyrant and a legend: both talk big, but only one delivers with style.
The Supreme Man — bald, glowing, and freshly resurrected like a divine lightbulb with emotional baggage — stood nearby, smiling like a proud teacher watching his dumbest student finally pass remedial algebra.
But I wasn't looking at him.
I wasn't even looking at Malthus' corpse — which, by the way, was already being judged by every mosquito in the vicinity.
No.
My eyes went past the god, because there… behind him… I saw something that made my soul do backflips.
The Supreme Man noticed.
