Shojiro stood above it, chest heaving, blood and gore dripping from every limb. His eyes still burned crimson. Every muscle trembled with wrath and adrenaline.
The city was silent — except for the wet, horrifying sounds of the battlefield.
And somewhere beneath it all, his father's sacrifice had not been forgotten.
Shojiro's body screamed in agony. Every joint was shattered, knuckles crushed, wrists twisted, shoulders useless, knee sockets popped — his limbs refused to obey. The street beneath him felt impossibly hard, unforgiving, as he crawled, dragging his ruined frame toward his father.
Tetsuro's battered form lay amidst the debris, barely breathing, ribs crushed, blood soaked into the asphalt around him. Shojiro's fingers reached out, trembling, desperate.
"Dad… please…"
A wet, unholy sound made him freeze.
He glanced back.
The Berserker — the monster he had just shredded — was regenerating. Tendons knit, bones reformed, molten ichor crawling back into its form like living nightmare. Its head lifted, glowing veins pulsing with renewed life.
Before Shojiro could even react, faster than thought, the monster swung its arm like a battering ram.
The movement was a blur.
Pain beyond imagination erupted as the claw thrust through his abdomen, slicing front to back. Blood gushed like a fountain, intestines twisting along the metal-like appendage. He screamed — a sound of rage, agony, and disbelief all at once.
Shojiro's vision darkened at the edges. The world slowed, every heartbeat pounding in deafening clarity. Pain radiated up his spine, searing into every shattered joint. Yet… he was still alive. Barely.
Through the haze of agony, one thought ignited:
This isn't over.
Shojiro hung on the Berserker's claw, impaled, blood cascading down his torso, limbs trembling with shattered joints and broken bones. Pain screamed through every nerve, yet something deeper, darker, and primal ignited within him.
His eyes burned crimson.
"I don't care what pit you crawled out of…
If I die…
I'm dragging you back down with me."
Every muscle, tendon, and shattered bone surged with raw, unholy strength. With a roar that tore through his throat and into the ruined city around him, Shojiro twisted, rending the demon's massive arm from its socket mid-impalement.
The sound was sickening — flesh, sinew, and molten-black ichor ripping apart in a spray of death. Blood and viscera coated him and the street, but he didn't stop.
With a savage, lightning-fast movement, he drove the torn arm straight through the Berserker's skull. Bone shattered, ichor erupted, and the monstrous body spasmed violently before going still. Its gurgles were choked by its own shattered skull.
Shojiro collapsed beside the corpse, chest heaving, blood dripping from every wound. Every joint screamed in protest. Every nerve burned.
But the Berserker was dead.
The world went dim.
Shojiro's vision blurred until the blood, the ground, even his father's face dissolved into gray. His lungs convulsed with one last gasp, a wet rattle escaping his throat as warmth left his fingertips.
Then—
A tear split the heavens.
A column of golden light crashed through the black clouds, shaking the ruins like an earthquake. It wasn't sunlight. It was something else—something older than creation, radiating a power so heavy the air itself screamed.
Within the rift, a massive halo hovered — an ancient mechanism of divine gears, sigils, and living roots — The Cradle.
Ten silhouettes stood upon it, half-shrouded in light. Their voices echoed like thunder layered over whispers — incomprehensible, but unified.
"The first flame falters."
"A mortal of defiance."
"He is ready."
A beam of radiance extended downward, enveloping Shojiro's corpse.
His lifeless body rose from the dirt, limp, blood trailing in slow motion as if gravity had forgotten its duty. The beam pulled him upward, higher, until he disappeared into the rift.
The light vanished instantly. Silence followed.
Inside the Cradle, the space was not heaven — but a forge.
Roots of Yggdrasil coiled like veins through molten light, pulsing with divine sap. Every sound was a heartbeat, every breath a thunderclap of creation itself.
Then one of the ten figures stepped forward.
He was colossal — built from golden sinew and ash-black stone, eyes burning like dying suns.
His presence bent the air.
Kaiser.
The Primordial of Strength.
He knelt beside Shojiro's ruined body, studying it with something close to… admiration.
"So fragile… yet you bit back at despair."
"You tore wrath from pain — and that, mortal, is strength."
Kaiser extended his hand — and ripped Shojiro's soul free.
It screamed, a lightless wisp trembling between his fingers, struggling against a god's grip.
"Fear not. This is the price of power. The body fails; the soul endures."
He turned to the roots of Yggdrasil. They parted like flesh. Kaiser pushed the soul deep into the glowing core — binding it to eternity.
"Be one with the World Tree.
From its roots, you will draw unending will.
From its sap, I will craft your vessel."
Kaiser raised his other hand. A droplet of golden sap fell onto Shojiro's chest — and the reconstruction began.
His corpse melted — bones liquefied, muscle fibers unspooled like molten threads. Every nerve was recast in divine steel. The sap crawled across the remains, rebuilding him piece by piece — shaping a body capable of housing godhood.
He wasn't breathing yet. But he was burning.
Every cell screamed to exist.
Then, from the heart of Yggdrasil, a voice echoed — faint, almost human:
"Shojiro Momo…
Reborn of Strength.
Rise… and bear my mark."
Kaiser pressed his hand against the newborn vessel's chest — and the mark of the Primordial flared: a golden sigil, blazing through his heart.
Shojiro's eyes snapped open — now radiant gold, glowing with the fury of a sun caged in human flesh. He gasped violently, exhaling steam and divine light.
The Cradle roared. The other nine figures stirred.
The first of the Damned Ten had risen.