The goblin nest still smoldered.
The fire hissed and spat as greasy smoke curled upward, carrying with it the stench of burned flesh and charred wood. The once-lively clearing was now a graveyard: broken huts slumped like corpses, sharpened stakes leaned crookedly in the earth, and bodies lay sprawled in grotesque heaps.
Ernest Aldery stood in the center of it all.
Blood clung to his pale skin, splattered across his small hands and clothes. His breathing was ragged, his chest rising and falling as sweat rolled down his brow. At four years old, his body was frail, exhausted beyond its limits. Yet his eyes burned with a cold fire as they swept across the carnage.
This had not been slaughter. It had been an experiment.
And experiments required conclusions.
Wolves broke easily. Beasts have weak wills.Goblins resisted. Their willpower forced me to sharpen my intent, but their minds fractured once my words were layered correctly.Commands must be precise. Absolute. Anything less wastes mana and invites failure.
His lips curled faintly as he reviewed the night's lessons, his mind sharper than ever despite his trembling body.
He could still hear the goblins screaming—Sleep. Kill him. Feed on each other.—and see their bloodied claws tearing at their kin in a frenzy orchestrated by his Voice.
The Voice of God.
His gift. His weapon. His destiny.
And yet, as the adrenaline faded, Ernest felt the weight of his flaws pressing against him.
He had overextended. His chest still burned from forcing the hobgoblin to kneel. His mind still throbbed from pouring mana recklessly into mass commands. Endless mana meant nothing if his control was sloppy. If he faced an enemy with true will, true power, his clumsy domination would crumble.
I am strong, yes. But not yet enough.
His eyes narrowed. The gods ruled this world. Nobles bowed to priests, armies marched under divine banners, and kings dared not move against the will of the heavens. If he could not refine his command enough to control a mere hobgoblin without faltering, how could he hope to command a god?
The thought made his blood run cold.
Then the air shifted.
The fire guttered low, sparks hissing. The forest fell silent, unnaturally so. The wind died. Even the insects stilled.
A weight pressed down on him.
Ernest stiffened, his breath catching as something vast and alien brushed against his existence. It wasn't sight. It wasn't sound. It was something deeper, something that gripped his very soul and looked.
The sky seemed to bend. The stars dimmed.
Ernest's knees buckled. His chest convulsed as if crushed beneath an invisible mountain. Mana within him surged wildly, spiraling out of control.
A strangled sound escaped his lips. His small hands clutched at his chest, nails digging into flesh as his veins burned like fire.
Blood spilled from the corner of his mouth.
And then he understood.
A god was watching.
Not metaphor. Not symbolism. Not the hollow prayers of priests. This was real. A divine gaze sweeping across the world, locking onto him, pinning him like an insect beneath a magnifying glass.
His heart thundered. Terror clawed at him. His body screamed to collapse, to beg, to shatter under the weight.
But Ernest Aldery did not bow.
Not on Earth. Not here. Not to anyone.
Through gritted teeth, blood staining his lips, he whispered hoarsely, "So… you do exist."
The gaze pressed harder. His vision blurred. He saw stars burning in the void, infinite and merciless. His soul quaked under the weight of eternity. He was a child, a speck, a nothing.
And yet—he smiled.
They see me. They noticed me.
In his first life, he had lived as a ghost—adrift, unseen, unvalued. No matter how sharp his mind, no matter how cold his detachment, the world had ignored him until the day it crushed him beneath steel and rubber.
But here, in this new world, his power had already drawn the gaze of the divine.
Fear mixed with exhilaration. His body trembled, his lungs screamed, but inside, something exulted.
I matter. Even the gods see me.
His small fists clenched, nails digging deep. Blood dripped onto the dirt.
"You…" His voice cracked but did not falter. "You look down on me like I'm an insect. But one day, I'll return the gaze. And when I do…"
His eyes flared cold and merciless, a predator's gleam in the body of a child.
"…you will kneel."
The pressure peaked, his bones threatening to splinter. Then—his Endless Veil surged.
Like a shroud, it wrapped around him, swallowing his presence. His mana, wild and exposed, collapsed inward, hidden beneath an impenetrable cloak.
The weight lessened. The fire crackled faintly.
And the gaze slipped past.
Gone.
Ernest collapsed to his knees, coughing violently. Blood splattered the dirt. His body shook, drenched in sweat. Every breath was agony, but he was alive.
He wiped his lips with the back of his trembling hand, his face pale but his eyes blazing.
Endless Veil.
That was his shield. Not only infinite mana, but concealment from divine eyes. Without it, the god's attention would have burned him to ash.
But even as relief flickered, Ernest's jaw clenched.
It was too close. If he had faltered, even for a second, he would have died.
I cannot risk that again. Not until I am ready. Not until I can command them outright.
His lips curved into a bloody smile.
"They think themselves eternal. Untouchable. But eternity bends when commanded. And I…" His whisper was hoarse, feverish. "I am the Voice that will command it."
He forced himself to stand. His body swayed, but his will anchored him. He stepped over the broken corpses of goblins, past the fire that still hissed in the pit.
Then he saw them.
At the edge of the clearing stood crude wooden totems, painted with blood and ash. Faces carved in mockery of divinity. Fetishes of worship. The goblins had prayed to a god, offered blood and fire at these symbols.
And he had slaughtered them all.
Ernest paused, staring at the grotesque idols. His lips parted in a quiet laugh, sharp and cruel.
"Your worshippers are gone," he whispered to the night, to the unseen deity whose gaze had brushed him. His voice dripped with venom and triumph. "One day, so will you be."
The fire popped. The smoke curled. The totems seemed to leer back at him.
Ernest turned, his small silhouette vanishing into the shadows of the forest, leaving only corpses and silence behind.
And though he was but a child, the presence he carried into the night was enough to make even the darkness itself hesitate.