Thud!
Andrew's body slammed heavily into the floor. He grunted instinctively in pain—yet, to his surprise, the agony he expected never came.
Frowning, he pushed himself up, patting his arms and chest in confusion.
"What the…?"
Then, a cold, shadowy voice echoed suddenly—coming not from the room, but from inside him.
"Stop doing such foolish things."
Andrew froze. His heart clenched tight, eyes darting around the room.
"Who's there? Come out! I can see you!"
He edged toward the table, reaching slowly for a fruit knife lying on top.
"Idiot," the voice snapped again, scorn dripping from every syllable.
"You just received my power. Did you already forget?"
Andrew's mind jolted—then widened in terror.
"The black stone…!" he gasped. "You mean—the power came from that black crystal? You're the one from that battle—the demon that fought the god?!"
"God? Demon?" The voice chuckled darkly, almost mocking.
"What a ridiculous world… what laughable ignorance."
"I am no demon, boy. And that so-called 'god' you saw was no god either."
"I serve my Lord, the Dark God Hodr. As for the one you saw, he was merely the Apostle of the God of Light, Balder."
Andrew muttered, confused, "The Dark God Hodr… and the God of Light, Balder?"
He had heard of neither. Most people only knew a handful of Norse deities—Thor, Loki, Odin—the ones from pop culture and comic films.
Still, there was one thing he understood clearly:
He now carried something divine.
"So," he said, excitement creeping into his tone, "if I've inherited your power, does that make me… a follower of a god?"
Before, he'd been desperate enough to swear himself to any being—demon or not—for strength. But if he could serve a god rather than a monster, that was even better.
"Foolish mortal," the voice hissed. "Only mortals speak of gods as good or evil. The divine transcends such childish notions."
Andrew's mouth twitched. Even if his IQ wasn't high, he could tell from that line alone that this "Dark God" wasn't exactly a benevolent one.
Still, he wasn't the type to care. Power was power—and he had it now. That was all that mattered.
"Enough talk, boy," the cold voice continued, every word pressing into his mind. "I was sent by my Lord with two purposes. Now that you bear my legacy, you will fulfill them."
Before Andrew could respond, the voice pressed on:
"You have two choices—Slaughter, or Corruption.
"Slaughter—kill every living being you encounter.
"Corruption—guide the darkness in their hearts, draw it out, and let them fall into depravity."
Andrew went silent. After a long pause, he asked quietly, "There's… no third option?"
"There is," the voice said almost pleasantly.
Andrew perked up—only for that hope to die instantly.
"You die. I chose three vessels to receive my legacy. If one refuses, I simply move on to the next. When you're dead, your share of my power will pass to the other two. Someone will complete my task."
Andrew's lips twitched. Die? Not a chance.
Now that he had this, there was no way he'd give it up.
After a few seconds of silence, he inhaled deeply and said, "I'll do it. I'll carry out your mission."
The voice sounded pleased.
"Good. Then go—kill, or corrupt.
"And one more thing—those other two I mentioned? They still carry fragments of my power. Kill them, absorb their strength, and you'll become even stronger."
Andrew's eyes darkened.
"Fine."
Just then—Bang! Bang!
Someone outside kicked the door open. A slurred voice cursed harshly as heavy footsteps stumbled inside.
A middle-aged man reeking of alcohol staggered into view—his eyes bloodshot, his clothes filthy. His expression twisted when he saw Andrew.
"So it's you, you worthless little—"
The insult cut short mid-sentence.
Because the man suddenly saw Andrew's eyes—now black as ink, glowing faintly with an inhuman gleam.
"Y-you…"
Andrew raised his hand slowly, palm facing the air.
The drunkard's body jerked upward—his feet dangling helplessly as an invisible force clamped around his throat.
The same cold voice whispered again, though now it was Andrew's own voice that carried it:
"Never… hurt me again."
Crack!
The man's neck snapped like a twig.
For a moment, silence filled the room.
Andrew stood over the corpse, breathing slowly. His pulse didn't quicken. His stomach didn't twist.
Instead—he felt a rush. A thrill.
Power surged through his veins, pure and intoxicating.
"This… this is power," he whispered, trembling in awe. "The power that means I'll never be bullied again."
He tilted his head back, laughing quietly. "If this is what it means to fall into darkness… maybe it's not such a bad thing after all."
In the next instant, his body shot upward—crashing through the ceiling and soaring into the night sky.
With his arms outstretched, the wind tearing at his clothes, Andrew floated against the stars—his face filled with rapture.
For the first time, he felt like a god.
"No… not enough," he murmured, eyes burning black. "I can become even stronger."
Then, in a streak of shadow, he flew off toward the horizon.
Moments later, a team of armed operatives entered the shattered house.
Ivanka walked in behind them, her sharp gaze sweeping the room.
Her eyes paused briefly on the torn ceiling, then on the corpse of the man with the broken neck. Her expression hardened.
"Less than a day… and he's already capable of flight?" she muttered.
Her gaze lingered on the corpse again.
Not only had he awakened his powers fast—he'd already killed.
A beast that's tasted blood is never the same again.
"That thing can't be taken down with conventional weapons anymore," she said grimly.
Then she pulled out her phone and spoke in a voice of absolute authority.
"Father, I need heavier weapons support."
Her tone wasn't a request—it was a command.
One second later, her phone buzzed with a single-word reply.
"Approved."